The Devil's Disciples by Susanna Gregory Page A

was not sure how to respond. He was stunned – not only to learn what Spaldynge had done, but by the fact that
     Carton was ready to use it against him.
    ‘Did you test that powder from Thomas’s room?’ Carton asked, changing the subject before the physician could take issue with
     him. Bartholomew supposed it wasjust as well, given that neither would be willing to concede the other’s point of view and the discussion might end up being
     acrimonious. ‘Was it poison?’
    ‘The experiment is still running. Where did you find it again?’
    ‘In a chest under his bed. I thought it might explain why he died so suddenly, because I still do not believe you killed him.
     No one should blame you, and it is time you stopped feeling guilty about it.’
    Bartholomew blinked, baffled by the man and his whirlwind of contradictions – from spiteful bigot to sympathetic friend in
     the space of a sentence. Then they arrived at Barnwell Priory, and Carton left to knock on the gate, relieving the physician
     of the need to think of a response. Once he had gone, Cynric came to walk at Bartholomew’s side. The book-bearer squinted
     at the sun.
    ‘The Devil is responsible for all this hot weather. Father William said so.’
    There was something comfortingly predictable about Cynric’s superstitions – far more so than Carton’s bewildering remarks.
     Bartholomew smiled, relieved to be back in more familiar territory.
    ‘William told me the Devil is getting ready to unleash the next bout of plague on us, too,’ he said. ‘So he must be very busy.’
    Irony was lost on Cynric, who nodded sagely. ‘The Devil is powerful enough to do both
and
comb the beards of Bene’t’s goats. Carton is a strange fellow, do you not think? He is not the man he was. In fact, he has
     changed so much that there is talk about him in the town.’
    ‘I do not want to hear it, Cynric,’ warned Bartholomew. He had never approved of gossip.
    ‘You should, because it affects Michaelhouse. It is his stance on sin – he condemns it too loudly.’
    Bartholomew did not understand what his book-bearer was saying. ‘I should hope so. He is a priest, and that is what they are
     supposed to do. If he spoke
for
it, I would be worried.’
    ‘You are missing my point. He condemns it
too
loudly – and it makes me think it is a ruse.’
    Bartholomew regarded him blankly, still not sure what he was trying to say. So much for being in familiar territory. ‘A ruse?’
    ‘For what he really thinks,’ elaborated Cynric. Because it is said in the town that Carton is the Sorcerer.’
    Bartholomew was used to his book-bearer drawing wild conclusions from half-understood facts, but this was a record, even for
     him. He regarded Cynric in astonishment, not knowing how to begin disabusing him of the notion, but aware that unless the
     belief was nipped in the bud fairly smartly, it would flower into something permanent.
    ‘No,’ he managed eventually. ‘Carton is not a heretic, and you cannot say—’
    ‘He has always been interested in witchery,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘We used to spy on the covens together, the ones that meet
     in St John Zachary or All Saints-next-the-Castle – I have been keeping an eye on them since the Death, as you know. Then he
     stopped coming, just like that. It was because he joined one, see. And he was so good at it that they made him their master.
     It is true!’
    ‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, appalled that Cynric should have devised such a monstrous theory on such a fragile thread of
     ‘evidence’.
    ‘Think about it logically,’ persisted Cynric. ‘All the Fellows were asleep when Margery was hauled from her grave and the
     blood was left in our font – except Carton. I happened to notice his bed was empty as I walked past his room.’
    ‘I was not asleep then, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it was very hot last night. I am sure Carton was not the only
     one who got up in search of cooler air.’
    ‘He