Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

They were silent for a while, Bartholomew panting hard as he tried to find his stride. He forced everything from his mind, concentrating only on reaching the town as quickly as possible.

‘God and all his saints preserve us!’ exclaimed Podiolo suddenly, grabbing the reins and hauling on them for all he was worth. The horse came to an abrupt stop, and he struggled not to fall off. Bartholomew, who had been lagging behind, collided heavily with it, making it snicker nastily. The bridge was deserted – the soldiers had apparently abandoned their duties, and were nowhere to be seen. It meant one of two things: that Tulyet had called them away because he needed them for something else, or they had gone to take part in the mischief that was unfolding. Neither possibility boded well.

‘What?’ Bartholomew asked testily, wishing he had remained on the horse and let Podiolo go on foot. The run had sapped his energy and he was not sure he had the strength to go much further.

‘Is that Goldynham?’ Podiolo leaned forward in the saddle, peering into the gathering gloom. ‘I heard his body has been wandering around the town at night.’

Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, and saw the prankster’s pale cloak and fluffy hair. ‘Not again,’ he groaned. ‘I do not have time for this now.’

Podiolo did not seem as discomfited by the notion of a walking corpse as Bartholomew felt he should have been. ‘What shall we do?’ the canon asked. ‘There is no point in killing him with my sword, because he is dead already. Perhaps we should pretend we have not noticed him – although he does seem to be looking at you rather intently.’

Bartholomew stepped out from behind the horse and saw that Podiolo was right. It was dusk, but the light was better than it had been on previous occasions, and he was able to see a pair of very wild eyes beneath the halo of white curls. And then he knew exactly who was responsible for the prank.

‘Do not play games, Spaldynge,’ he called, alarmed that the Clare man should be losing his sanity in so disturbing a manner. ‘Not tonight. Someone might decide mobile cadavers are unwelcome in Cambridge – you could be harmed.’

‘Spaldynge?’ echoed Podiolo in astonishment. He narrowed his eyes. ‘So it is!’

But Spaldynge was not ready to concede defeat. He ducked into the undergrowth, so he was less visible, and began his peculiar hissing. ‘You let me die, physician. Your medicine failed to save me.’

‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘Goldynham was not my patient – he was Rougham’s. I never went anywhere near him during his final illness, so you have picked the wrong corpse to imitate. You should have chosen Margery or Thomas.’

Podiolo dismounted, and moved towards the bushes, sword at the ready. ‘What a fraud! He is wearing unspun wool for hair, and his cloak is not gold, but old yellow linen.’

Spaldynge tried to run away, but Bartholomew moved to intercept him. With a grimace, Spaldynge ripped off the wig. ‘How did you know?’ He sounded more disgusted with the physician for seeing through his disguise than ashamed of himself for playing such a trick.

‘It was obvious,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘Each of your previous appearances occurred shortly after I had met you, or when you might have seen me pass your College. You went home, collected cloak and hair, and waited for me to come back.’

‘You have never made a secret of your dislike for medici , either,’ added Podiolo. ‘And this is the act of a bitter, spiteful man. Even so, I am surprised you would sink so low.’

‘You run an infirmary, Podiolo,’ sneered Spaldynge. ‘So of course you will take Bartholomew’s side. You are as bad as each other.’

‘Actually, I know very little about medicine,’ said Podiolo, revealing lupine fangs in a cheerful grin that caused Spaldynge to back away uneasily. ‘I am much more interested in alchemy.’

‘You are the man who whispered at me in the churchyard, too,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘Doubtless that was your original plan, but then you thought Goldynham offered better potential.’

Spaldynge laughed unpleasantly. ‘And it worked. I would have sent you mad eventually.’

‘In this climate of superstition and witchery?’ asked Podiolo, before Bartholomew could tell Spaldynge he had never been fooled by the disguise. ‘Do not be an ass! People have been reporting all manner of unearthly happenings for weeks. Look at Eyton. He saw Goldynham coming out of the ground, and it did not render him insane. Besides, you are the one who is losing his mind. Just look at yourself!’

Spaldynge regarded him with a burning dislike, and Bartholomew suspected the canon might have placed himself in line for some unpleasant remarks in the future. ‘Just stay away from me,’ the Clare man snarled, starting to move away. ‘Both of you.’

‘I am going to inform your Master about you,’ Podiolo called after him. ‘Bartholomew may be too gentlemanly to tell tales, but I am a Florentine. You will be sent away in disgrace.’

‘You would not dare,’ sneered Spaldynge, but when he glanced back at the Augustinian there was real unease in his eyes.

‘I would,’ said Podiolo. ‘However, I might keep silent if you tell us the identity of the Sorcerer.’

Spaldynge swallowed hard. ‘But I do not know it.’

Podiolo shrugged. ‘Then your Master is going to hear some interesting–’

‘No!’ cried Spaldynge, realising the canon was serious. ‘I am telling the truth. I have no idea who the Sorcerer might be – I swear it on my plague-dead kin.’

Podiolo grimaced. ‘Then we shall have to find something else for you to bribe me with. How about telling us where Mildenale is? He is missing, and Brother Michael wants a word with him.’

Spaldynge licked dry lips and looked positively furtive. ‘What makes you think I would know?’

‘Because his speeches led defenders of the Church to attack your College last night, and I doubt you were willing to overlook such an affront. You will have hunted him down, ready to exact revenge. Tell me where he is hiding, and I will keep your unsavoury piece of playacting to myself. However, if you lie, I will see you banished from Cambridge for ever.’

Spaldynge swallowed; Podiolo clearly meant what he said. ‘He is in the shops owned by Mistress Refham,’ he whispered, looking at his feet. ‘The buildings Michaelhouse wants to buy, and that have been promised to Mildenalus Sanctus as a hostel.’

The streets were busier than usual, considering it was growing dark, and Bartholomew supposed those people not waiting for the Sorcerer to make his appearance could sense the brewing change in the weather; it made them restless. As before, they gathered in knots, although they were bigger than when he had left, more like gangs. It was unusual to see scholars and townsmen in the same clusters, and he found it disconcerting. It was like a civil war, where it was not clear who was the enemy. Prior Pechem was with a group of butchers, telling them the Devil planned evil work that night, while Eyton was selling charms and gobbling honey as if there were no tomorrow. Perhaps, Bartholomew thought grimly, for some folk, there would not be. He saw Meadowman, and asked whether Michael had had any luck in uncovering the identity of the Sorcerer. The beadle’s expression was grim.

‘Not as of a few moments ago, and he is getting desperate. He has not managed to track down Mildenale, either, although the man has certainly set his fires burning.’

Podiolo sniffed the air. ‘I smell no fires.’

‘I mean the fires of heresy,’ explained Meadowman impatiently. ‘Small pockets of fanatics, all yelling that everyone will be damned unless they go to church. Father William was leading one in St Michael’s churchyard, and his followers threw stones at me when I tried to break it up.’