Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘We are waiting for the Sorcerer to make himself known,’ Stanmore explained when Bartholomew shot him a questioning glance. ‘Midnight cannot be more than three hours away, and we are all keen to see who he is. Langelee tells me it is the Chancellor, but I disagree. I suspect Tulyet.’

‘Dick?’ asked Bartholomew in disbelief.

Stanmore nodded. ‘He commands authority, and the Sorcerer will not be a weakling. Are you all right, Matt? You look exhausted.’

‘I need to find Michael.’

‘I saw him waddling towards St Mary the Great a few moments ago. Did you see that smoke in the north earlier? That was Mother Valeria’s house going up in flames. Isnard says she was in it at the time, and that she died screaming some dreadful curses.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in shock, but before he could express his revulsion at such a vile, cowardly act, there was a sudden flicker of lightning that had the apprentices cooing in wonder.

‘Here it comes,’ said one, barely containing his glee. ‘The Sorcerer is readying himself for his performance, and I do not think we will be disappointed.’

‘Lightning is a natural phenomenon,’ said Bartholomew, knowing he was wasting his time but unable to stop himself. ‘It happens when there is a storm brewing.’

‘The Sorcerer said he was going to end the heatwave,’ said Stanmore. ‘Thank God he has made good on his promise. The only person who likes it is Heltisle of Bene’t College, but he has always been a little odd. However, he does have a commanding presence. Perhaps he is the Sorcerer.’

The apprentices cheered when there was a second flash of lightning, and the novices from the nearby Carmelite priory joined in. The Carmelites were known for brawling with townsmen, and Bartholomew braced himself for trouble. But there was some good-natured back-slapping, a few jockeying comments, and the friars went on their way. Once again, the physician was confused by the allegiances that seemed to be forming between groups that were usually sworn enemies.

‘This promises to be an interesting night,’ said Stanmore, rubbing his hands together with a grin. ‘Although we shall go indoors if the clerics make trouble.’

‘The senior clerics,’ corrected one of his boys. ‘The junior ones are all right – it is only old bigots like William and Mildenalus Sanctus who are making a fuss. They were preaching against the Sorcerer earlier, and some folk foolishly believed what they were saying.’

‘Mildenale has been preaching today?’ demanded Bartholomew, rounding on him. ‘Where?’

The boy took a step back, startled by the urgency in his voice. ‘I saw him this morning.’

‘Have any of you seen him tonight?’ pressed Podiolo. ‘This is important.’

As one, the apprentices shook their heads.

‘I have not seen him for hours, which is surprising,’ mused Stanmore. ‘I would have thought this would be a good time for him to spout. Of course, once he starts, the inclination of any decent man is to believe the exact opposite of what he says. He does the Church more damage than good.’

‘The same goes for Father William,’ said the boy. ‘I saw him at St Bene’t’s, about an hour ago. He was harping on about fire and brimstone, which has always been his favourite subject.’

‘I saw him, too,’ said Stanmore, ‘although I thought he spoke with less vigour than usual. He is–’

But Podiolo had grabbed Bartholomew’s arm and was tugging him towards the High Street. They kept to the shadows, so as not to be waylaid by any of the little huddles of people who were out. Most were quiet and kept to themselves, and the only loud ones tended to be led by priests. These brayed about sin and wickedness, and their followers were dour and unsmiling.

When they reached St Bene’t’s, the churchyard was full of people. A fire was burning near the still-open pit of Goldynham’s grave, and folk were singing a psalm. Bartholomew did not find the familiar words comforting, because there was something threatening about the way they were being chanted.

‘I hope they have not taken to cremation,’ said Podiolo uneasily. ‘They may believe the rumour that Goldynham wanders at night, and decide that reducing him to ashes is the best way to stop him.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew in distaste. ‘They are burning books.’

He pulled away from Podiolo and marched towards William, who was at the centre of the commotion. The friar was holding scrolls in his hands, brandishing them in the air. Others were yelling encouragement. Bartholomew recognised a few Franciscans from the friary and half a dozen Fellows from Bene’t, although Heltisle was not among them, and neither was Eyton.

‘The flames are the best place for these ideas,’ William bellowed. ‘This one says the Blood Relic at Walsingham is sacred and should be revered. Such theology is filth!’

His supporters stopped cheering and exchanged puzzled glances. ‘Actually, Father, the shrine at Walsingham belongs to our Order,’ said one. ‘So the Blood Relic there should be revered.’

‘Oh,’ said William, blinking his surprise. He stuffed the scroll in his scrip. ‘Perhaps we had better save that one, then.’

Bartholomew tugged him to one side. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered fiercely.

‘Burning books for Mildenale,’ replied William, freeing his arm imperiously. ‘I have always wanted to do it, but Michaelhouse would never let me. But why are you here? Mildenale told me you would be up at All Saints, preparing to step into power as the Sorcerer. Of course, I would not be surprised to learn he is wrong. You have never really seemed the type to–’

‘Where is Mildenale now?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘I have no idea. He told me to carry on here, and show folk that the Church is a force to be reckoned with. He ordered me to burn all these books, but I decided I had better look at them first. Unfortunately, I keep finding ones that should not be here. Such as this scroll.’

‘And this?’ demanded Bartholomew, snatching a tome from the friar’s left hand. ‘Aristotle? How can you say that is heresy? You have been using it to teach your first-years for decades.’

William grimaced, then lowered his voice. ‘Actually, I am coming to the conclusion that Mildenale is a bit of a fanatic, and I question my wisdom in following him. And, between the two of us, I find my delight at book-burning is not as great as I thought it would be. Some of these texts are rather lovely.’

‘Go home, Father,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘You do not belong here.’

There was more lightning as Bartholomew ran to St Mary the Great, Podiolo still at his side. He head a low growl of thunder, too, still in the distance, but closer than it had been. The storm was rolling nearer, and Bartholomew thought he could smell rain in the air. Or perhaps it was wishful thinking.

‘I cannot get the town’s measure tonight,’ said Podiolo. ‘It does not feel dangerous, exactly, but there is something amiss. The atmosphere is brittle. Do you know what I mean?’

Bartholomew knew all too well. People nodded at him as he passed, some appreciatively, and he hoped they did not hold him responsible for the impending change in the weather. Others scowled. He did not like either, and was relieved when he met Suttone, who neither grinned nor glared. The Carmelite was wearing his best habit, and his hair had been slicked down neatly with water.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised to see him looking so debonair.

‘To treat the Guild of Corpus Christi to a sermon about the plague,’ replied Suttone. ‘Surely you cannot have forgotten? I have been talking about it all week.’