Susanna GREGORY: The Devil's Disciples

‘Why are you doing this? What have these people done to you?’

‘It is time for me to ascend to another level.’ Valeria seemed oblivious to the mounting chaos in the nave below, and to the storm raging outside. ‘No one can make curses like me, but people are stupid. They come to whine about unfaithful lovers and demand charms for making money, but they do not give me their respect. Well, they will give it to me now.’

‘Warts,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The Sorcerer is said to be good with warts. So are you.’

She smiled her malevolent smile. ‘I am better with other things – such as summoning demons to let these ridiculous people know who is in charge. But why did you become involved? I told you to stay away from me – from the Sorcerer. Why did you not listen? I would have spared you. Now I cannot. Deal with him, Mildenale. I have other business to attend.’

Without waiting for her accomplice to reply, she turned back towards the cloth and her lantern. Bartholomew hurled himself across the chamber, aiming a kick at Mildenale as he went, and wrenched her away. She yelped as she twisted her bad knee, and then they were rolling across the floor, clawing and scrabbling at each other like wildcats. She was strong, and he struggled to keep her hands away from his eyes. He discovered that her long fingernails were one thing that had been real – and that they were determined to do him harm. Then more lightning forked, so close he thought he could hear it tearing it way towards the ground, and the air was full of the stench of smoke and sulphur.

He was vaguely aware of Mildenale crawling towards the cloth, and knew he would not be able to stop him as long as he was fighting Valeria. He tried to throw her off, but she was a resourceful opponent. First she flicked powder in his face that burned his eyes and made him choke, and then she stabbed his arm with a fragment of wood. He was losing the battle, and Mildenale had almost reached the cloth. Below, the terrified screams from the nave were growing louder and Bartholomew could hear Valeria laughing at him through the thunder. She thought she had won.

Then came the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs, and he heard Michael’s distinctive pant. The monk burst into the chamber, Tulyet and Isnard behind him.

‘Enough,’ roared Michael, striding forward to haul Valeria away from the physician. ‘It is over now. Desist!’

But Valeria was not so easily dissuaded. A slash of her claws forced Michael to release her, and she raced towards the window, grabbing the lamp at the same time.

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, as she reached for the cloth.

Michael stormed towards her, but the floor was unequal to such a load. It began to disintegrate. The monk gritted his teeth and forced himself on and, just when the flame was a finger’s breadth from the cloth, he managed to seize Valeria and fling her backwards. But he was in trouble. Planks were crumbling beneath his feet, and in desperation he clutched at the tangle of cords. Bartholomew darted forward to save him, but it was too late. With a howl of alarm, the monk toppled out of the window and was left dangling high above the nave.

Jerking the ropes had set off a chain reaction. Sparks flew, and there was a burst of dazzling green light that made the people in the nave look up and howl their terror. The flames illuminated the black smoke Valeria had released earlier, and it illuminated the monk hanging above them.

‘No!’ shrieked Valeria, crawling towards the window. Her voice was all but drowned by the next thunderclap. ‘He has ruined everything! I am supposed to descend in a flurry of sights and sounds, not him!’

‘You were going to set the church on fire,’ yelled Bartholomew, desperately trying to work out which of the ropes would allow him to haul Michael to safety. ‘And incinerate–’

Valeria rounded on him with such violence that he recoiled. ‘Of course I am not going to burn the place!’ she screeched. ‘Why would I do that? I want people in awe of me, not dead.’

‘You have locked the doors,’ Bartholomew began. ‘And–’

‘So no one will be able to leave before the grand finale,’ she screamed, exasperated. ‘I have been a witch long enough to know folk are easily panicked, and I did not go to all this trouble to have them scurry out like frightened rabbits before they have seen the best parts.’

‘It was all her idea,’ said Mildenale, stabbing a finger at his accomplice. He winced when lightning lanced into his eyes. ‘I tried to stop her–’

‘Liar,’ Valeria snarled. ‘You are the one who has goaded the town into this frenzy, not me.’

‘I have seen something like this before,’ said Isnard, ignoring them both as he inspected the ropes. And before Bartholomew could stop him, he had set the lamp to the cloth. A wheel began to turn.

‘No!’ howled Valeria a second time, hurling herself at the bargeman. Tulyet intercepted her and held her in so tight a grip that she was unable to move.

Fascinated, Bartholomew watched machinery grind into action, and saw the swinging monk lowered gently to the nave floor in a fabulous display of smoke, sparks and fumes. Michael staggered slightly when he landed, then hurled the ropes away, as if he imagined he might be hauled back up again if they remained anywhere near him. And then it began to rain. First, there were just a few drops, which made small dark circles on the stone floor. Then there were more.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Suttone from the chancel, maintaining an admirable calm. ‘There you are. I was just telling everyone how you worked so tirelessly to give last rites during the Great Death.’

‘Is he the Sorcerer, then?’ asked Eyton. He looked disappointed. ‘I thought it was going to be the Sheriff.’

‘There is no Sorcerer,’ said Michael tiredly, glancing up as the rain intensified. ‘There is nothing but tricks and superstition. Go to the tower and look for yourselves. You will see the bowls and powders that were used to create this nasty little display.’

Then the heavens opened. Slowly, fear and confusion gave way to delight, as folk raised their hands to catch the precious drops, turning their faces skywards to let them be bathed in clean, cooling rain. The Chancellor and Heltisle performed a jigging dance together, and Suttone dropped to his knees to say a heartfelt prayer. Cynric did the same, although he did so while clutching one of his amulets.

‘It is true,’ said Eyton, returning a few moments later. Tulyet was with him, holding Valeria firmly by the arms, while Isnard had subdued Mildenale with the help of the Sheriff’s sword. ‘It was all a trick, said to have been put in motion by this lady, who claims to be Mother Valeria.’

‘That is not Mother Valeria,’ said Cynric with great conviction, eyeing the young woman with open disdain. ‘Mother Valeria is a real witch.’

‘I have decided to let Isnard back in the Michaelhouse Choir,’ said Michael. ‘I was impressed by the way he used his crutches as levers to rescue us from the charnel house, and I think such ingenuity should be rewarded. Do you?’

‘I do,’ said Tulyet. ‘He saved the entire town that night with his quick thinking. Had he gone to the castle to fetch soldiers, as Matt had ordered, there would have been deaths for certain.’

It was a week after the incidents that had culminated in All Saints-next-the-Castle, and the monk, Bartholomew and Tulyet were sitting in Michaelhouse’s orchard, using a fallen apple tree as a bench. The Fellows often used the place when they wanted peace and quiet, and it was pleasant that day. The searing heat had passed with the storm, leaving cloud-dappled skies and a more kindly sun.