The Devil's Disciples by Susanna Gregory

Author:Susanna Gregory [Gregory, Susanna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780748124503
Google: K3M0AgAAQBAJ
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2010-12-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

It was late by the time Bartholomew reached Mother Valeria’s little house, but tallow candles burned in gourds outside, lighting the path through the nettles. As he trudged along the well-worn track, he met two people walking in the opposite direction. He could not see their faces, but both greeted him by name as they passed. One held an amulet, and he supposed the witch was still open for business. He tapped on the door frame and battled his way through the leather hanging.

‘There you are,’ said the old woman sourly. ‘You took your time.’

‘Dickon Tulyet,’ explained Bartholomew, sitting on the stool she prodded towards him with her foot. ‘He screeched like a hellion, and I am surprised you did not hear him. I imagine the Bishop could, and he is in Avignon.’

‘I heard he was trying to steal a toy from a lad twice his size,’ said Valeria. ‘He will be a fierce warrior one day.’

‘He is a fierce warrior now,’ said Bartholomew. It occurred to him that he should refuse to answer the next summons. But Dickon was a child, when all was said and done, and Tulyet was a friend.

‘Bite him back,’ recommended Valeria, looking at the livid mark on the physician’s hand. ‘That will teach him not to do it again.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘It might teach him to do it harder, to incapacitate me.’

‘Then wear gloves. They will protect you from sly fangs.’

Her mention of gloves reminded him of the one William had found in St Michael’s Church when the blood had been left in the font. He told her about it, then waited to see if she would admit to it being hers. Unfortunately, the hut was far too dim for identifying subtle variations in facial expressions, so he had no idea whether she was surprised by the tale or not.

‘If Father William can distinguish human blood from animal, then he is a better witch than me,’ was all she said as she stoked up her fire. Several pots were bubbling over it.

‘The glove was not yours?’ he asked, deciding to be blunt.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think I am the kind of woman who leaves blood in holy places?’

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, not sure how to answer such a question and reverting to medical matters before he said anything that might offend her. Whilst he did not believe he could be turned into a toad, the late hour and the shadows that danced around the fire were playing havoc with his imagination nonetheless. ‘Is your knee paining you? It will not get better if you do not rest it.’

‘I am obliged to be out more now the Sorcerer is preparing to make his stand. I cannot stay here, skulking while he accrues power. He is a great magician, and I must find ways to protect myself.’

‘You think he might try to harm you?’ said Bartholomew uneasily.

She regarded him in disdain. ‘I am competition. Of course he will try to harm me.

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