Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

Mother Valeria lived in a shack near the back of the castle. It had once been the centre of a thriving community, albeit a poor one, but most of the houses had fallen into ruin after the plague, and were thick with weeds and brambles. The path to Valeria’s door was well trodden, though, which was a testament to the number of people who sought her out for cures, charms and advice. There was no door, and a sheet of leather covered the entrance instead. It was heavier than it looked, and had been arranged to make a stealthy approach impossible. On previous visits, Bartholomew had noticed holes in the back of the hut, and supposed they were there to facilitate a quick escape, should one ever be necessary. It was a wise precaution: folk healers often provided convenient scapegoats, to be blamed for all manner of disasters and misfortunes.

Bartholomew fought his way through the hanging and entered the dim interior. It smelled of cured meat and herbs, and dozens of jars adorned the wall-shelves. There was a hearth in the centre of the hut, with a slit in the roof above to allow smoke to escape. Valeria always had a blaze going, no matter what the weather, and there was usually something bubbling in a pot over it. That night was no exception, even though it was late, and most people – other than coven-goers – were in bed.

Valeria sat on a stool next to the fire. Bartholomew thought she was tall, but he had never seen her standing, so it was difficult to tell. She had a long nose, matching chin and several prominent warts. As the warts moved position every so often, he suspected they were there for appearance, rather than natural blemishes. He was not sure the nose and chin were genuine, either, because there were times when he was sure they were more pronounced than others. She had once confided that she went to some trouble to look the part, claiming people were more likely to have faith in her spells if she met their requirements regarding what they thought a witch should be like.

‘I was not sure you would be home,’ he said, sitting next to her. Automatically, he stretched his hands towards the flames, then realised how ridiculous that was in the middle of a heatwave. He pulled them back sheepishly. ‘There is a coven in All Saints tonight.’

She grimaced. ‘I might go later, but only because watching the antics of amateurs is so damned amusing. They are no more witches than you are, except perhaps the one they call the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘I am glad someone knows I am not a warlock.’

She spat her disgust. ‘If you had been a warlock, you would have cured more people from the plague. I saved dozens, you know.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, always eager to learn new ways of healing. ‘How?’

‘With spells and incantations. But you cannot just repeat the words by rote. You have to say them properly, using the right magic at the same time. Would you like me to teach you?’

‘No, thank you.’ She had offered to show him such tricks before, but he could tell from the impish gleam in her eye that she was playing with him; he doubted she would share her secrets, given that they were what put bread on her table. ‘Do you know the Sorcerer’s real name? Michael needs to talk to him, but it is difficult to track him down when no one knows who he is.’

‘He is elusive, and his acolytes keep the curious away. I have no idea who he might be, although he is growing in power and will soon become truly dangerous.’

For some reason, her words made Bartholomew shudder; he supposed it was the notion that she should be unnerved by the power of another witch. He changed the subject to one with which he was more comfortable. ‘Did you call me to tend your knee again?’

She presented him with the afflicted limb, although it was so heavily swathed in leggings that a physical examination was all but impossible. He had asked her to remove them on previous occasions and had been curtly informed that it would not be decent. He did not have the energy to remonstrate with her that night, and as soon as he had palpated the swollen joint – as well as he could through the thick clothing – and provided her with a pot of ointment, he took his leave. Valeria bared her stained teeth in a smile of thanks, then sketched some heathen benediction he preferred not to acknowledge.

It was pitch black by the time he started to walk home, although lamps still burned in All Saints. The night was airless and quiet, so when there was a rattle of footsteps in an alley off to one side, he heard them quite distinctly. He stopped dead and peered into the darkness, but the lane appeared to be deserted. He supposed it was a beggar, unable to sleep for the heat.

He walked on, but then heard footsteps a second time. He whipped around and stared at the road behind him, only to find it empty. When he heard the sound a third time, he ducked behind a water butt and crouched down. After a while, two figures emerged from the shadows. One was so large that Bartholomew wondered whether his eyes were playing tricks on him, while the other sported a bushy beard. Even though he could not see their faces, their silhouettes were distinctive, and he knew he would have remembered if he had seen them before – and he had not. They appeared to be reasonably well dressed, so were no common robbers, yet there was something about the stealthy way they moved that was strangely and inexplicably villainous.

They passed within an arm’s length of his hiding place, and he froze in alarm when the giant stopped and sniffed the air. Whilst there was no reason to think they were looking for him, it was clear they intended to move unseen, and they struck him as the kind of men who would object to being spied on. He held his breath until he thought his lungs would burst. Eventually, they slunk on, disappearing into the alleys near the Great Bridge, but it was some time before Bartholomew felt it was safe to leave the comforting mass of the water butt and make his own way home.

‘I hate this weather,’ grumbled Michael the next day, as he tried to make himself comfortable on the only bench that was out of the sun. He was in the conclave, a pleasant chamber that adjoined Michaelhouse’s hall and that was the accepted domain of the Fellows. ‘Agatha says the meat she bought this morning is already fly-blown. And you know what that means.’

‘More onion soup?’ Bartholomew was standing at a window, staring absently across the courtyard below. ‘Spices to disguise the taste?’

‘Worse,’ moaned Michael. ‘Reduced rations! She says some is so green she would not even give it to students. Still, the last of them left this morning, so there are fewer mouths to feed now.’

‘Who is left?’

‘The Fellows and Mildenale. Oh, and Deynman, who does not trust us to look after the library.’

‘It feels strange,’ said Bartholomew, unsettled by the silence and empty rooms. That morning, breakfast had brought back painful memories of the plague, when the scholars’ ranks had thinned because of sickness. ‘I do not like it.’

‘It is only for a week, and now we can concentrate on finding Carton’s killer – along with those responsible for digging up Margery, putting blood in our font and taking Danyell’s hand. And the thief who stole Bene’t’s goats, I suppose, as Heltisle was after me about it again today.’

‘I watched the Sorcerer’s disciples meet in All Saints last night,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Michael’s crime-solving itinerary would leave him time to complete his experiments on the powder Carton had found in Thomas’s room. It had not seemed important before, but now the physician felt he would be letting Carton down if he did not do as he had promised.