Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘William threw stones at a beadle?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. It did not sound like the kind of thing the friar would do, even in his more rabid moments.

‘Not him – his disciples. He tried to make them stop, but they called him a witch-lover. There are dozens of these little demonstrations, and Brother Michael thinks they might be more dangerous than whatever the Sorcerer is planning. We are trying to break them up, but as soon as we put down one, another springs up somewhere else.’

‘They are centred around churches?’ asked Bartholomew.

Meadowman nodded. ‘And chapels and shrines. We do not have enough men to cover them all, but he says we must try. Can I borrow your horse? It might lend me more authority.’

His face was pale with worry as he rode towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where shouting could be heard. Someone was bawling the words of a mass, although it did not sound like a very holy occasion. It was accompanied by defiant cheers and whoops.

‘Shall we tackle Mildenale ourselves?’ asked Podiolo. ‘Or find Brother Michael?’

‘Find Michael. What is Mildenale thinking, to set the town afire like this? He will drive people into the Sorcerer’s arms, not encourage them into the churches.’

‘He has encouraged enough into churches,’ said Podiolo soberly, nodding towards All Saints-in-the-Jewry as they hurried past. Lights burned within, and someone in a pulpit was wagging a finger at a far larger congregation than ever assembled on a Sunday.

Bartholomew asked passers-by for the monk’s whereabouts, but received so many different answers that it was clear Michael was dashing all over the place in his attempt to gain control of the situation.

‘We will never find him,’ he groaned, after scouring the High Street for the third time.

‘Then we must look in these shops for Mildenale ourselves,’ determined Podiolo. ‘It will save time, which is of the essence, as I am sure you will agree.’

Wearily, Bartholomew followed him back along the High Street, but skidded to a stop when someone lobbed a stone at him. It struck his medical bag, where it clanged against the childbirth forceps inside. The muted ringing was peculiar enough to make his would-be attacker turn tail and flee, screeching something about satanic regalia.

The Refham houses were dark and quiet when they arrived in St Michael’s Lane. The shutters were closed on the windows, and the doors were locked.

‘Mildenale is not here,’ said Podiolo, disgusted. ‘We have wasted yet more time.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think clearly. ‘We should look inside, to see if he really has been using one of these shops as a hideout. Or perhaps he left something here that may tell us where he has gone.’

‘Shall I kick down the door?’ asked Podiolo, brightening at the prospect of action.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the Florentine was a little less bellicose. ‘One of the back windows has a broken shutter.’

He led the way along an alley that was so narrow he was obliged to walk sideways. It led into a dirty yard, which had three windows. He stepped up to the nearest, grabbed the wood and pulled as hard as he could. It dropped off its rusty hinges and crashed to the ground. Podiolo laughed his delight.

‘This is fun! I must keep company with you more often – I have not committed burglary in years.’

Bartholomew climbed through the window, and when he paused halfway to catch his breath, Podiolo gave him a shove that sent him sprawling, then scrambled in after him. There was a lamp on a shelf, which the Florentine lit while the physician took in the chaos of scrolls, parchments and books that lay around them. There was a makeshift table and two stools, and everything suggested someone had been busy there. Bartholomew picked up one of the texts. And then another.

‘I doubt these belong to Mildenale,’ he said in confusion. ‘They are all about the occult.’

‘So they are.’ Podiolo frowned. ‘However, Carton told me he was gathering heretical texts to burn. Is this Carton’s collection, do you think?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘These are different.’

‘Here is a handbook for witches,’ said Podiolo, picking up a black tome that was wrapped in cloth and leafing through it. ‘How strange it should be here, in a place where Mildenale clearly likes to work.’

Bartholomew sat on a stool and tried to organise his tumbling thoughts. ‘That particular book was in Carton’s collection, although it went missing recently. Does that mean Mildenale took it? Or are we basing too much on Spaldynge’s intelligence? There is nothing to prove Mildenale was here.’

‘I disagree,’ said Podiolo, squinting at the manual in the dim light. ‘Here are marginal notes written in Mildenale’s hand – I would recognise that scrawl anywhere. However, it looks as though he has been studying it, not merely reading it. Furthermore, the ink has faded on some of his annotations, which suggests this book has been in his possession for a considerable length of time.’

Bartholomew picked up a text that was lying open on the table. It was entitled The Book of Secrets , and was adorned with a black pentagram. ‘Mildenale was carrying this the other day,’ he said. ‘He claimed he was going to burn it, although he was also carrying books he said he was going to put in his new hostel’s library.’

‘I think he lied to you about that,’ said Podiolo. ‘It looks to me as though he has been reading it.’

‘I do not understand any of this,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to be overwhelmed.

‘I do,’ said Podiolo grimly. He held the witches’ handbook aloft. ‘This manual belonged to Mildenale, and Carton stole it from him . And do you know why? Because Carton had a mortal terror of heretical texts, and must have thought it too dangerous a thing to leave in Mildenale’s hands.’ He grabbed another book. ‘And here is a copy of a treatise by Trotula, a woman healer Carton abhorred. It is in Mildenale’s writing.’

Bartholomew struggled to understand what the evidence was telling him. ‘Deynman heard Mildenale arguing with Carton – Carton wanted to burn these books, but was waiting until he had enough for a good blaze, while Mildenale wanted them destroyed immediately … no! Mildenale said he would destroy them immediately, and demanded that Carton hand them over. Carton refused.’

‘In other words, Mildenale wanted them first – to read them or make copies. But Mildenale is a fanatic who claims to despise everything to do with heresy. Why would he bother to replicate such tomes?’

‘For the same reason he collected those, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, pointing to a shelf on which sat an assortment of dried frogs, black candles and glass pots.

Podiolo went to inspect them. ‘I have been an alchemist long enough to recognise satanic regalia when I see it. These are items used to summon the Devil.’

‘Mildenale is a witch?’ Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But he is the Church’s most vocal supporter!’

‘He certainly gives that impression,’ said Podiolo soberly. ‘But the contents of his lair suggest otherwise.’

Bartholomew’s mind reeled. ‘I still do not understand what–’

Podiolo grabbed his arm. ‘Neither do I, but we must tell Michael as soon as possible.’

The streets were almost completely dark as Bartholomew and Podiolo left Mildenale’s lair, and people were out with torches. There was an atmosphere of expectation and excitement that reminded Bartholomew more of Christmas than of violence to come. It was eerie, and he was not sure what it meant, which was disturbing in itself. He met his brother-in-law, who was standing outside his house with his apprentices.