Susanna GREGORY: The Devil's Disciples

‘Easy!’ whispered Isnard. ‘It is only me.’

Bartholomew sagged in relief. Isnard would help him tackle Mildenale and the Rose-Man. Then he realised that the bargeman would not be very good at climbing spiral stairs on crutches, and that the noise he made would warn the villains of their approach. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair when he saw he was still alone.

Isnard jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the main body of the church. ‘Master Suttone is giving all sorts of touching examples about the sacrifices made by friars during the plague. I did not want anyone to see me weep, so I slipped outside to compose myself. But they seem to have locked the doors, and I cannot get back in–’

‘Michael and the Sheriff are trapped in the charnel house,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Go to the castle and fetch soldiers to free them. Hurry! The lives of a great many people depend on you.’

Without waiting to see whether the bargeman would do as he was told, Bartholomew began to climb the stairs. They were uneven, and the stairwell was pitch dark. He ascended slowly, wincing each time his shoes crunched on a twig, or his groping hands caused the friable masonry to crumble. After what seemed like an age, he reached the top, trying not to breathe too hard and alert them to his presence. Mildenale and the Rose-Man were standing by the window that looked into the nave; the physician recalled how he had used it to spy himself. He could hear Suttone, still preaching the sermon he had told the Carmelite to give. A cold dread gripped him when he realised that if anything happened to Suttone, then it would be his fault.

The chamber had changed since Bartholomew had last been there. More scaffolding and winches had been erected near the window, and bowls were brimming with liquids and powders. Mildenale was busily setting some alight, while the Rose-Man stood near the ropes and pulleys, ready to lower them into the church.

‘ Venite Satanus !’ Mildenale bawled, startling Suttone into silence. Immediately, acolytes in the nave doused the lanterns, and the church was plunged into total darkness. There was a gasp of awe from the congregation. ‘Come, Satan! I conjure you, Lucifer!’

As he yelled, Mildenale touched his lamp to more of the bowls, and the Rose-Man sent them swinging into the nave on the rope pulleys. Smoke belched, black and reeking. People began to cough. One of the bowls fizzed with an orange light and released a spray of sparks on to the heads of those below. Someone screamed. Lightning jagged, illuminating a nave that was full of eerily shifting mist, and the accompanying thunderclap seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.

‘ Diabolo diaboliczo Satana shaniczo !’ yelled Mildenale. ‘ Venite Paymon, Egim and Simiel–’

‘That is enough summoning,’ murmured the Rose-Man. ‘We do not want the entire population of Hell to arrive – we might not have room to accommodate them all.’

In the nave, the onlookers were suddenly not quite so happy to be watching the Sorcerer’s arrival. There were cries that they could not breathe, and Bartholomew could hear them thumping on the door, clamouring to be let out. It would not be many moments before panic set in, and then there would be a stampede. People would be crushed as they tried to reach an exit or clamber through the windows.

Mildenale looked disappointed to be cut short. ‘Are you ready, then?’ he asked.

The Rose-Man nodded, and stepped towards a long piece of cloth that dangled from the roof. At first, Bartholomew did not understand what it was for, but then he saw it had been treated with some substance, probably a compound that would make it burn. He followed its route with his eyes, and saw it snaked towards the dead ivy that formed the roof. The dry leaves would go up like kindling, and then what remained of the rafters would follow. It was time to act. He grabbed a piece of broken wood from the floor, then burst into the chamber with no more thought than that he had to prevent the Rose-Man from touching the cloth with his flame.

‘Stop!’ he yelled.

The Rose-Man whipped around at the sudden intrusion, and Bartholomew saw his face for the first time, stark and bright in another blaze of lightning. He was the handsome fellow who had loitered on the edge of the crowds that had gathered to watch the antics of Cambridge’s various fanatics – the man who wore a rose in his hat. Yet there was something about him that scratched another part of Bartholomew’s memory, something about the eyes …

But Mildenale did not give him time to think about it. He lunged at the physician with a dagger, then fell back with a bruised arm when the physician scored a lucky jab with his length of timber.

‘Kill him!’ screamed the Rose-Man. ‘Do not dance with him!’

Hissing with pain, Mildenale advanced again. Bartholomew swung the wood a second time; it was rotten and flew into pieces on impact. But it was enough to make Mildenale jerk away, and as he did so, his foot shot through a hole in the floor. He fell awkwardly and began to shriek in agony, causing more alarm to the people milling in the nave. Then his cries were drowned out by the most violent thunderclap yet, and the lightning flickered like a spluttering lantern, almost continuous. The storm was directly overhead now.

With a sigh of exasperation, the Rose-Man drew a knife from his belt and advanced on the physician. And it was then that Bartholomew recognised the glittering eyes.

‘Mother Valeria!’

Bartholomew was not sure whether it was the shock of recognising the witch that drove him to his knees, or the fact that an explosion suddenly rocked the building. He saw surprise flash across Valeria’s face – it was not something she had planned. In the brief silence that followed, he heard people screaming that a churchyard tree had been struck by lightning; then the resulting blaze began to shed its own unsteady glow through the nave windows. Panic seized the Devil’s disciples – there were more howls of terror, and a concerted rush for the door that saw some of them trampled underfoot. Bartholomew turned his gaze back to the woman who stood in front of him.

‘Of course it is me!’ sneered Valeria, regarding him with rank disdain. ‘I am the most powerful witch in Cambridge, so who else did you imagine the Sorcerer to be? Fool!’

Bartholomew jerked away from her blade, managing not to be run through only because Valeria was forced to tread warily on the crumbling floor. He tried to rally his reeling senses. ‘You are a man?’

She looked startled, then rolled her eyes. ‘You saw me out in the town. I forgot. No, I am not a man, although I am tall enough to pass for one. No one knows that, though, because my clients only ever see me sitting, hunched over my cauldron with my false nose and false chin. Just as they expect me to be.’

‘You kept your leg covered when I wanted to examine it,’ said Bartholomew, automatically focusing on a medical matter. ‘And you always wear gloves. You are no more than thirty summers …’

‘My skin would have betrayed me as somewhat younger than the hundred years I claimed, and I could not be bothered to apply pastes and powders every time I needed a remedy from you.’ Valeria smiled, and there was pure malice in the expression.

‘There were rumours that you were growing weak–’

‘Do I look weak to you?’ she demanded.

Bartholomew glanced at Mildenale; the friar had extricated himself from the hole, and was gripping his ankle, face contorted with pain. But it would not be long before he pulled himself together and rejoined the affray. Bartholomew knew he should be concentrating on disarming Valeria before he was outnumbered, but he could not stop himself from asking questions.