Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘You think Michaelhouse is greedy?’ Bartholomew was astounded by her hypocrisy.

‘Your colleagues have no scruples whatsoever.’ She grinned suddenly, the beaming, sweet smile that had seen her voted the most attractive lady in Cambridge by his students. It was difficult to view her as a cold killer who stabbed men in the back. ‘You think I should feel remorse for taking a life in a House of God. How naïve! I am a coven member, and such places hold no meaning for me.’

‘Not all coven members feel the same way – your husband among them. Many still pray on Sundays, because they are confused by what they are being told – pulled by the Church one way and the Sorcerer the other.’

‘Weaklings,’ she said in disgust. ‘I suffer from no such indecision. When you and your book-bearer told me what Carton had come to do, I decided to put an end to it.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The convent was virtually deserted, with most of the canons in their dormitory, and you guessed Norton would take Carton to the chapel, because it is cool. When you arrived, you saw Carton lying on the floor, praying, while Norton fetched him wine.’

Jodoca’s expression was a little distant. ‘It was all so easy. And then I went home and nursed my poor husband back to health.’

‘And Spynk? I suppose you asked him to meet you in Sewale Cottage at midnight, perhaps with promises of recovering the box together.’

She smirked at him. ‘That is exactly what I did, although I had no intention of sharing, of course. Unfortunately, the Bishop’s henchmen arrived, too, and I realised my plan was not going to work. But then you appeared, and considerately created a diversion for me. While Spynk gaped at the spectacle, I stabbed him and escaped. Do you know where Danyell’s hoard came from? Originally?’

‘He brought it from London. Perhaps it came from work he had done–’

She laughed derisively. ‘How could such a massive sum belong to a mason? It is the Bishop’s money, extorted from some hapless victim, no doubt. His retainers were taking it to Avignon, but–’

‘But Brownsley and Osbern were in London at the same time as Danyell, and Danyell stole it from them.’ Bartholomew was beginning to see a lot of answers now. ‘He and Spynk fled north, and the Bishop’s men tracked them. Brownsley said they had come to raise more funds …’

‘But what he really meant was that he was in the process of retrieving what he had lost to Danyell’s sticky fingers. So, now you know why Brownsley and Osbern have been searching so assiduously. They are afraid of getting on the wrong side of that dangerous Bishop. You have been very slow in reasoning all this out, whereas I put the clues together almost immediately.’

‘Yes, but you had the benefit of knowing what Danyell said to the Bishop’s henchmen. I did not.’

Jodoca grinned at him. ‘Ride on, Doctor. We shall not meet again.’

Bartholomew declined. ‘You will not kill me as long as I am facing you. You only stab in the back.’

She tightened her grip on the knife with a careless shrug. ‘Only because it seems more humane, but we can go for a frontal shot, if that is what you prefer.’

Bartholomew braced himself. Was this where his life would end? On a dusty causeway in the marshes, stabbed by a ruthless killer? He glanced up at the sky, and wondered who would look after his patients. Somewhere off in the distance came another low growl. There would almost certainly be a storm later, and he was sorry he would not live to see cooling rain refresh the parched earth at last.

‘Praying?’ asked Jodoca. Her smile was mocking. ‘Why? Your God cannot help you now. Close your eyes – you will find it easier.’

‘There will be no more killing,’ said Podiolo, stepping out from the bushes at the side of the road and brandishing his sword. There were four lay-brothers at his heels, all armed with bows. ‘Put up your weapon, madam. Defy me and we will shoot you.’

‘You followed me?’ asked Bartholomew, as he rode back to Cambridge with Podiolo sitting behind him. The horse was not pleased by the additional weight, but the physician was grateful for the canon’s reassuring presence – and his sword. Jodoca might not be at large to harm anyone else, but he had not forgotten the mood of the town when he had left it, or the fact that people probably resented the way he had thundered across the bridge. Podiolo’s weapon might make them think twice about delaying him with remonstrations when he returned. And he was sure Podiolo could be trusted now: if the Florentine had wanted him dead, he would not have stopped Jodoca from lobbing her dagger. Or would he? Uneasily, Bartholomew began to reconsider.

‘Yes,’ replied Podiolo oblivious to the conflict about him that was raging in the physician’s mind. ‘After you had gone, it occurred to me that she might want to know whether she had been identified as Fencotes’s assailant. So I assembled a posse.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Prior Norton should have her husband in custody by now, too,’ added Podiolo. ‘Brother Michael can collect them tomorrow, after he has quelled this brewing battle between Church and Sorcerer. Do you mind going a little faster? I do not want to miss anything.’

‘You want to take part?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering which side Podiolo was going to choose. He might be a monk, but he was also an alchemist with a dubious reputation, and might go either way.

Podiolo laughed. ‘Life can be dull in a convent, and I had forgotten how much I enjoy a skirmish. I shall represent the Augustinian Order in this fight against evil.’

‘And what is evil?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘The Sorcerer with his cures for warts, or the fanaticism of men like Mildenalus Sanctus and William?’

But Podiolo only laughed a second time. Bartholomew tried to twist around to look at him, but could not see his face. He remembered what Isnard had said: that Podiolo was one of the men most strongly suspected of being the Sorcerer. Could it be true, and Bartholomew was about to aid his rise to power by giving him a ride into town? He was not sure what to think, and wished he was not so tired.

‘The weather is breaking at last,’ said Podiolo, when there was a flicker of lightning. It was bright in the dusky sky, and made Bartholomew wince. ‘Just in time for the Sorcerer’s midnight ceremony.’

Bartholomew tried to analyse his words, but could not decide whether he applauded the magician’s ability to control the climate, or whether he hoped it would rain on the fellow’s ceremonies.

‘We should hurry,’ he said, trying to make the reluctant nag move more quickly. It galloped a few steps, then settled back into the ambling pace it preferred. ‘I have been away too long already.’

‘That is what I have been trying to tell you,’ said Podiolo. ‘At this rate we will get there next week.’

When the horse stopped to eat some grass, Bartholomew slid off, grabbed its reins and hauled it towards the King’s Ditch bridge. At last, it seemed to sense the urgency of the situation and launched into an ungainly trot that forced him to run to keep up with it. Podiolo bounced inelegantly on its back, and the physician saw there was someone in Cambridge who was a worse rider than he.

‘Who is the Sorcerer?’ asked Podiolo. His words came in breathless bursts as he tried to keep his balance. ‘I have asked around, but he has kept his identity very quiet.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What about you?’

‘No, it is not me,’ said Podiolo, misunderstanding. ‘Although I understand people have been saying it is, because of my interest in alchemy. Personally, I suspect someone like Heltisle, who is strong and arrogant. Or perhaps Chancellor Tynkell, because he is tired of standing in Michael’s shadow.’