The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 1

Cambridge, the day before Pentecost (mid-June) 1357

Three scholars and a book-bearer stood in mute shock around the open grave. Margery Sewale had been hoisted from what should have been her final resting place and flung to one side like a sack of grain. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and doctor of medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, bent down and covered the sorry remains with a blanket, wondering what sort of person would stoop to such a despicable act. He glanced up at the sky. Dawn was not far off, although it was still too dark to see without a lantern, and the shadows in St Michael’s churchyard remained thick and impenetrable. He jumped when an owl hooted in a nearby tree, then spun around in alarm when something rustled in the undergrowth behind him.

‘Whoever did this is long gone,’ said Cynric, his book-bearer, watching him. ‘I imagine the villain went to work around midnight, when he knew he was least likely to be disturbed.’

Bartholomew nodded, trying to calm his jangling nerves. Cynric had told him as much when he had broken the news of his grim discovery, along with the fact that the culprit had left nothing behind to incriminate himself – no easily identifiable shovel or trademark item of clothing. Nothing, in fact, except the result of his grisly handiwork.

‘How did you come to find her?’ the physician asked, wondering what Cynric had been doing in the graveyard at such an hour in the first place.

‘You were gone a long time with the patient who summoned you earlier, and I was getting worried. Besides, it is too hot for sleeping. I was coming to find you, when I stumbled across her.’

He glanced at Margery and crossed himself. Then the same hand went to his neck, around which hung several charms against evil. The wiry Welsh ex-soldier, who had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, was deeply superstitious, and saw nothing contradictory in attending church on Sundays and consulting witches on Mondays.

‘And you saw nothing else?’ Bartholomew asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He could not recall the last time he had slept. The town was currently plagued by an outbreak of the flux – a virulent digestive ailment – and patients were clamouring for his services day and night. ‘Just Margery?’

Cynric grasped his amulet a little more tightly. ‘She was quite enough, thank you very much! Is anything missing?’

‘There is nothing to steal,’ replied Bartholomew, a little bemused by the question. ‘She left Michaelhouse all her jewellery, so none was buried with her. And her shroud is a poor quality–’

‘I do not mean ornaments, boy,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘I mean body parts.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What a horrible notion! Why do you ask such a thing?’

‘Because it would not be the first time,’ said Cynric, a little defensive in the face of his master’s revulsion. ‘You found the corpse of that Norfolk mason on Ascension Day, and what was missing from him? A hand! We said then that it was probably stolen by witches.’

That was true, although Ascension Day was more than a week ago – a long time in the physician’s hectic life – and he had all but forgotten trudging home after visiting patients, and spotting the body in the wasteland opposite Margery’s house. The mason had probably died of natural causes, and had almost certainly been dead when someone had relieved him of his fingers. However, the incident was disturbing when viewed in conjunction with what had happened to Margery.

‘The town is full of witchery at the moment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, speaking for the first time since he had been dragged from his bed to witness what Cynric had found. He was a great, barrel-chested man, who looked more like a soldier than the philosopher he claimed to be, and most of his colleagues thought he acted like one, too. He was not noted for his intellectual contributions to University life, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were well satisfied with his just and competent rule.

Bartholomew was staring at the body. ‘And you think Margery was excavated for …’

‘For satanic rites,’ finished the third scholar Cynric had called. Brother Michael was a Benedictine monk who taught theology. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, responsible for maintaining law and order among the hundreds of high-spirited young men who flocked to the little Fen-edge town for their education. His duties included investigating any crimes committed on University property, too, so it would be his unenviable task to track down whoever had exhumed Margery.

‘A lot of folk are refusing to attend church at the moment,’ elaborated Langelee, when he saw the physician’s blank expression. ‘And they are joining covens instead. So I suppose it is not surprising that this sort of thing is on the increase.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew made no move to see whether Margery’s body had suffered the same fate as the mason’s. The physician was his official Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his job to assess anyone whose death the monk deemed suspicious. ‘Has Margery been pruned?’

Bartholomew winced at his choice of words. ‘I gave you a verdict when she died two weeks ago – of a long-term weakness of the lungs. You cannot ask me to look at her again.’

‘I can, and I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I need to know why this outrage was perpetrated. Besides, Margery was your patient and your friend. You cannot refuse her this last service.’

Bartholomew regarded the body unhappily. He had been fond of Margery, and wanted to see the maniac who had despoiled her behind bars, but he had never been comfortable inspecting corpses that had already been laid to rest. He did not mind examining fresh ones; indeed, he welcomed the opportunity, because they allowed him to further his limited knowledge of anatomy, an art that was forbidden in England. He did not even object to examining ones past their best, although he did not find it pleasant. However, when he was forced to look at bodies that had been buried, he invariably found himself overwhelmed by the unsettling notion that they were watching him with ghostly disapproval. He knew it was rank superstition, but he could not help it.

‘Hurry up,’ urged Langelee, when the physician hesitated still. ‘I need to return to the College soon, to lead the procession to morning mass.’

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Bartholomew pulled off the blanket, and counted Margery’s fingers and toes. All were present and correct, and so were her nose and ears. Her hair was matted and stained from its time in the ground, but he did not think any had been hacked off, and her shroud also seemed intact. He was aware of the others moving back as he worked, and did not blame them. The weather was unseasonably warm, even before sunrise, and Margery had been dead too long. Flies were already buzzing, and he knew she would have to be reburied her as soon as possible, lest she became a hazard to health.

‘Nothing is missing,’ he reported, sitting back on his heels and wiping his hands on the grass. It did little to clean them, and he would have to scour them in the first available bucket of water. His colleagues mocked him for his peculiar obsession with hygiene, but he considered it one of the most important lessons he had learned from the talented Arab medicus who had taught him his trade.

‘Then why was she dragged from her tomb?’ demanded Langelee.

‘Perhaps the culprit heard me coming, and fled before he could sever anything,’ suggested Cynric rather ghoulishly.

But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘If he had wanted a body part, he could have taken one when she was still in the grave – he did not have to haul her all the way out to slice pieces off.’

‘And I dug her an especially deep pit, because it has been so hot,’ said Cynric, nodding acceptance of his master’s point. ‘I did not want her bubbling out, see. It cannot have been easy to pull her all the way up.’

‘Then why?’ asked Langelee, regarding the gaping hole with worried eyes. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Perhaps it is enough that she is exhumed.’ Michael wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. ‘Some of the covens that have sprung up of late have devised some very sinister rites. I shall have to order my beadles to pay additional attention to graveyards from now on.’

‘It must be the weather,’ said Langelee. ‘I have never known such heat in June, and it is sending folk mad – encouraging them to leave the Church, join cadres, despoil graves at midnight …’

‘What shall we do with her?’ asked Cynric, indicating Margery with a nod of his head. ‘Shall we have another grand requiem, and lay her to rest a second time?’

‘That would cost a fortune,’ said Langelee. ‘And the College cannot afford it. Besides, the fewer people who see her like this, the better. We shall rebury her now, and say a mass later. I do not suppose you know any incantations to keep her in the ground this time, do you, Brother?’

‘I do,’ said Cynric brightly. ‘Or rather, Mother Valeria does. Shall I buy one for you? She is a very powerful witch, so I hope you appreciate my courage in offering to step into her lair.’

Langelee handed him some coins, ignoring the monk’s grimace of disapproval. ‘Make sure she provides you with a good one, then. We do not want to be doing this again tomorrow.’

When Margery was back in the earth, Bartholomew followed Michael into the church, leaving Cynric to pat the grave-soil into place and Langelee to return to the College. It was still not fully light, so the building was dark and shadowy. It was also pleasantly cool, and Bartholomew breathed in deeply, relishing the familiar scent of incense, old plaster and dry rot. Then he made for the south porch, where a bucket of water was always kept. He grabbed the brush that was used for scouring flagstones, and began to scrub his hands, wondering whether they would ever feel clean again.

‘Did you notice the door was unlocked when we came in?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘How many more times must I tell everyone to be careful? Do they want our church burgled?’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, glancing up at him. ‘That was me. Clippesby offered to say another mass for Father Thomas, and afterwards, I must have forgotten …’

‘It is time you stopped feeling guilty about Thomas’s death,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We all make mistakes, and you cannot be expected to save every patient. He was not a–’

He stopped speaking when the door clanked, and someone walked in. It was their colleague, Father William, a burly friar with unruly brown hair that sprouted around a badly maintained tonsure, and a habit so deeply engrained with filth that his students swore it was the vilest garment in Christendom. William nodded to Michael, but ignored the physician, making the point that he was not yet ready to forgive or forget what had happened to his fellow Franciscan. He busied himself about the church, while Bartholomew finished washing his hands and Michael went to prepare for the mass. After a while, Bartholomew went outside, uncomfortable with the reproachful looks being aimed in his direction by the dour friar.

He sat on a tombstone, feeling sweat trickle down his back, and wondered why the weather had turned so hot. Did it presage another wave of the plague? He sincerely hoped not, recalling how useless traditional medicine had proved to be. There had been some survivors – himself among them – but their recovery had had nothing to do with anything he had done. His failures made him think of Thomas again, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to forgive himself for prescribing a ‘remedy’ that had killed the man. He closed his eyes, feeling weariness wash over him, but they snapped open when a howl echoed from the church.

He leapt to his feet and raced inside. William was standing over the baptismal font, pointing a finger that shook with rage and indignation. Flies buzzed in the air around him. Bartholomew ran towards him, then wrinkled his nose in disgust when he saw what had agitated the friar. There was a pool of congealing blood in the font.

Quickly, before their colleagues arrived for morning prayers, Bartholomew washed the font, while William scattered holy water around the desecrated area. The friar was livid, not just about the sacrilege, but about the fact that he had risen early to say prayers for Thomas, and resented being diverted from his original purpose. Bartholomew tuned out his diatribe, not wanting to hear yet more recriminations about the man he had killed. Fortunately, it was not long before Langelee arrived, bringing with him the remaining Fellows, a gaggle of commoners – men who were granted bed and board in exchange for light teaching duties – and the College’s students.

William gabbled through the mass at a furious lick that had the students grinning in appreciation. Their delight did not last long, however: it soon became apparent that he was rushing because he was scheduled to give the Saturday Sermon, and wanted as much time as possible in which to hold forth. Langelee had inaugurated the Saturday Sermons for two reasons. First, they provided the student-priests in his College with an opportunity to hone their preaching skills before they were assigned parishes of their own, and second, they allowed him to keep an eye on the fifty or so lively young men under his care on a day when they should have had a lot of free time.

Unfortunately, the Sermons were deeply unpopular with everyone. The students detested being cooped up inside, while the senior scholars objected to having the mumbled speeches of novices inflicted on them. And there was another problem, too. Michaelhouse had seven Fellows, five of whom were in religious Orders. The clerics also demanded a chance to pontificate in front of an audience that could not escape or interrupt, and Langelee could only refuse them for so long. And that Saturday, with the sun beginning to blaze down from a cloudless sky and the streets baked as hard as fired clay, it was William’s turn. When the mass was over, the Master stepped forward with a marked lack of enthusiasm, made a few ambiguous remarks about the quality of the day’s speaker, and indicated with a nod that William could begin.

Flattered by the Master’s introduction – although Bartholomew would not have been pleased to hear himself described as ‘a man of probable wisdom’ – William took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. His colleagues braced themselves. The Franciscan had always held strong opinions, but they had grown even more radical over the past few weeks, and he had become obsessed by the belief that the University was full of heretics – and by ‘heretic’ he meant anyone who disagreed with him. Because few scholars shared his dogmatic views, he was convinced the studium generale in the Fens was bursting at the seams with heathens, and considered it his personal duty to roust them all out.

‘Heretics,’ he boomed. The volume of his yell made several Fellows jump, which led to an outbreak of sniggering among the students. Michael silenced them with a glare; and when the Senior Proctor glared, wise lads hastened to behave themselves.

‘Not heretics again,’ groaned Langelee. ‘He ranted about them last time, too.’

‘It is all he talks about these days,’ agreed Michael. ‘And the town’s current fascination with witchery is not helping, either – it is making him worse than ever.’

‘The familiars of Satan swagger in our midst, and today I shall tell you about them,’ promised William, a little threateningly.

‘Here we go,’ sighed Langelee. He spoke loudly enough to be audible to most of the gathering, although William was too engrossed in his own tirade to notice.

‘They call themselves Dominicans,’ William declared, delivering the last word in a sibilant hiss that gave it a distinctly sinister timbre. He wagged his forefinger at the assembled scholars. ‘And do you know why we know them as Black Friars? Because black is the Devil’s favourite colour, and they wear it to honour him.’

‘I thought Satan had a penchant for red, actually,’ said Rob Deynman, newly installed as College Librarian. He was infamously slow witted and had no business holding a University post, but his father was rich and the College was prepared to overlook a great deal for money. A puzzled frown creased his normally affable face. ‘At least, he is wearing scarlet in all our wall-paintings.’

‘Yet another tirade against the poor Dominicans,’ Langelee went on wearily. ‘We are lucky they treat his remarks with the contempt they deserve, by ignoring them. They would be perfectly within their rights to take umbrage, you know. I would, if I were a Black Friar.’

‘No one takes any notice of William’s warped theories,’ said Michael. Then his eye lit on Deynman. ‘Well, no one with sense, that is.’

‘I wish that were true.’ Langelee pointed at two scholars who wore Franciscan habits. They were not exactly nodding agreement with William’s harangue, but they were looking interested enough to encourage him to continue. ‘Mildenale and Carton are sensible men, but they are listening to him. Perhaps it is because all three belong to the same Order.’

Michael’s expression immediately became troubled. ‘I wish Mildenale had not come to live with us twelve months ago. I know he taught here for a few years before going to become a parish priest in Norfolk and he was one of Michaelhouse’s very first Fellows – so we are obliged to house him when he asks, but he worries me. Did you know our students call him Mildenalus Sanctus because of his extreme religious views?’

‘Yes, “Mildenale the Holy” indeed. It is most alarming. I do not want my College populated by fanatics.’

‘Fortunately, his converts are down to two now Thomas is dead. I understand why William thinks he is worth following – William is stupid and gullible, and has always fostered radical opinions – but I am disappointed in Carton. I thought he was more intelligent.’

‘So did I. Why do you think he does it?’

Michael shrugged. ‘It cannot be because he is a fellow Franciscan; no other Grey Friar has joined their little cabal. Personally, I think the Sorcerer is responsible for drawing Mildenale, William and Carton together. They are afraid of him, and feel there is safety in numbers.’

‘The Sorcerer?’ asked Langelee. ‘What sorcerer?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You have not heard the rumours? One of the heathen cadres that has sprung into being of late has an especially powerful leader who calls himself the Sorcerer.’

‘I doubt Mildenale will be afraid of some self-appointed diabolist,’ said Langelee doubtfully. ‘He will see him as an enemy of God, and will itch to destroy him. You know how intolerant he, William and Carton are of anything even remotely pagan.’

‘Unfortunately, the Sorcerer has a huge following, and that makes him dangerous. Father Thomas was convinced he was a Dominican, and may have persuaded Mildenale to his point of view.’

‘And is the Sorcerer a Dominican?’

‘Of course not! He will not be a friar of any description. However, I have no idea who he is.’

Langelee was thoughtful. ‘Do you think this Sorcerer has anything to do with the blood in the font? Or what happened to Margery?’

‘William certainly believes so, but I shall reserve judgement until I have more information. Unfortunately, I am not sure how to proceed. I have been trying infiltrate the Sorcerer’s coven for weeks, but to no avail.’

Langelee clapped an encouraging hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Brother. We have only just started the half-term break, so you now have eight lecture-free days to find answers.’

The monk regarded him balefully. It was true that teaching was suspended for the few days between the great festivals of Pentecost and Trinity Sunday, but Langelee did not want his students with too much time on their hands, lest they caused trouble in the town. To keep them out of mischief, he had organised a number of events, all of which the Fellows were obliged to supervise.

‘I shall not have a moment to think,’ he grumbled, ‘let alone hunt grave- and font-despoilers.’

‘You are excused, then,’ declared Langelee promptly. ‘Margery left our College all her worldly goods, so it is only right that we find out why she was desecrated.’

The monk looked crafty. ‘I shall require help. Excuse Matt his College duties, too.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘He has not been himself since he killed Father Thomas, and might be more hindrance than help.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Then it will do him good to think about something else.’

‘You should challenge William’s nasty insinuations, Matt,’ said Michael, as he and his colleagues strolled home an hour later. It was sooner than anyone had anticipated, because Langelee had grown steadily more appalled by the bigoted tirade, especially when William began to declare that Bartholomew’s medical practices were prime examples of witchery in action, and had interrupted to announce it was time for something to eat. William had been incensed, declaring he was not halfway through what he wanted to say, but everyone else had applauded the Master’s actions, even the Franciscans. ‘Your refusal to defend yourself makes it look as though he might have a point.’

Bartholomew did not reply. His ears still rang from the discourse – not only from its poisonous content, but from its sheer volume – and he could not remember a time when he had been more exhausted. If William’s voice had not been so loud, he might have fallen asleep where he stood. He took a deep breath, to clear his wits, but the air was hot and dry and not in the least bit refreshing. Next to him, Michael wiped his face with a piece of linen that was already soaked with sweat.

‘I am sure you have a perfectly legitimate reason for visiting Mother Valeria the witch,’ the monk went on. ‘But declining to tell William what it is will see you in trouble.’

‘It is none of his business,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Besides, I shall have no patients left if I bray details of their ailments to anyone who asks, and the College would not like that.’

Michaelhouse derived a good deal of kudos from the fact that its resident physician was willing to doctor the town’s poor – and that he invariably forgot to charge for his services. His absent-minded generosity meant his College was attacked far less often than other academic institutions, and the free consultations and medicines he dispensed to the needy saved it a fortune in riot damage.

‘Mother Valeria is your patient?’ asked Michael. He watched his friend grimace, disgusted at the inadvertent slip. ‘Do not worry; I will not tell anyone. But why did she come to you? She is a healer, and should know enough cures, spells and incantations to make herself better. She, of all people, should not need a physician.’

‘Well, she did this time.’

Bartholomew was not usually brusque with his friends, and the monk found it disconcerting. ‘You need an early night, my friend,’ he said. ‘Or are your dreams troubled by what happened with Thomas?’

Bartholomew winced. ‘I have not managed to sleep much since –’

‘You must put it from your mind. Dwelling on the matter will help no one.’

Bartholomew gave a rueful smile. ‘I was going to say that I have not slept much because there has been no opportunity. There are only three physicians to serve the whole town, and the hot weather seems to have precipitated this outbreak of the flux. I spend most nights with patients, so dreaming – about Thomas or anything else – has not really been possible.’

‘And napping during the day is out, because of teaching. Langelee was wrong to have enrolled so many new students last Easter, because none of us can really manage, what with Clippesby still on leave. I never thought I would miss Clippesby – he is insane, after all – but I wish he was home.’

‘I do not – not as long as Mildenale and William persist in their claims that all Dominicans are Satan-worshipping heretics. Clippesby is a Black Friar, and even his gentle temper would baulk at putting up with that kind of nonsense day after day.’

‘William has always hated Dominicans,’ said Michael. ‘And having someone else who thinks the same way must be enormously satisfying for him. He is alone in his bigotry no longer.’

‘But he has not always hated me, and I am not a Dominican, anyway. Yet these days, he attacks me at every opportunity. Is it just because of Thomas, or have I done something else to annoy him?’

‘It is just because of Thomas. They quarrelled bitterly the night before he died, and William said things of which he is now ashamed; it is easier to be angry with you than to admit he behaved badly. Of course, you are not his only target at the moment. He seems ready to condemn the religious beliefs of virtually everyone in Cambridge these days.’

‘He may have a point this time. Superstition is more rife than I have ever known it, and several of my patients say they regularly consult witches for charms and spells.’

‘It is a pity the Church’s most vocal supporter is Mildenalus Sanctus,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘He does more harm than good with his diatribes. Indeed, I feel like applying for membership of a cadre when I hear what he thinks the Church represents.’

Both scholars glanced behind them, to where the man in question was walking with Carton and William. Mildenale, a commoner, was in his late fifties, but still sported a head of lank black hair. He was in the habit of looking skywards when he spoke, as though addressing Heaven, although Bartholomew was sure the angelic hosts would not be impressed with some of the vitriol that spouted from his mouth. Like most people, the physician was uncomfortable with Mildenale’s unbending piety, and he was certainly disturbed by the man’s uncompromising views on ‘heretics’.

Carton, on the other hand, was a Fellow, and he taught law. He was short, serious and something of an enigma. Although Bartholomew liked him well enough, he found he never knew what the friar was really thinking, and there was something reserved and distant about him that would prevent them from ever becoming real friends.

‘I was just telling Langelee that I think the Sorcerer is to blame for our Franciscans joining forces,’ Michael went on. ‘He is becoming increasingly popular in the town, seducing people away from the Church. It was only when Mildenale realised how serious a threat the Sorcerer posed that he started recruiting the likes of William, Carton and Thomas.’

‘And now Thomas is dead,’ said Bartholomew, forcing himself to discuss a topic that was still painful for him. ‘When I tended his wound, he told me the Sorcerer is a Dominican.’

‘William and Mildenale agree. Of course, I have no idea what Carton thinks, given that I have never met a man more difficult to read. But the preaching of all three is a distraction I could do without. Monitoring them will impede my two investigations.’

‘What two investigations?’

Michael’s grin was rather crafty. ‘I am glad you asked, because I need your help. The first is the blood that was left in our font; we must find out who put it there, because we cannot have it happening again. The second is learning who desecrated Margery Sewale’s grave.’

Bartholomew held up his hands and began to back away. ‘I cannot, Brother. I need the half-term break to prepare next term’s teaching, or my students will not learn the–’

‘You are my Corpse Examiner,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You cannot refuse. Besides, Langelee said you can be excused College duties if you assist me.’

Bartholomew thought about the cycle of disputations and lectures Langelee had organised. The timetable was so full that there would be very little time for preparing lessons; helping Michael meant the situation might be a good deal more flexible. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But it does not set a precedent for the future.’

Michael smiled serenely, thinking a precedent had been set the first time they had ever investigated a murder together, some nine years before. Bartholomew just did not appreciate it.

Unfortunately for the monk, Bartholomew did not make it as far as the College before he received a summons from a patient. It was Isnard the bargeman, who lived in a cottage near the river. As usual, Isnard had spent his Friday night at the King’s Head tavern, and had awoken that morning to find himself with a deep cut on his foot. He could not remember how it had happened, but it was an inconvenient injury, because it was the only foot he had; Bartholomew had been forced to amputate the other after an accident two years before.

‘Someone must have done it during the night,’ declared Isnard, when Bartholomew arrived and he saw that Michael had accompanied him. The bargeman was desperate to make a good impression on the monk, and did not want to be seen as a drunkard. ‘It could not have happened at the King’s Head, not with me drinking watered ale all night.’

He adopted a pious expression, and Bartholomew laughed. ‘I heard the taverner broached a new cask of claret last night.’

Isnard’s face was all innocence. ‘Really? I did not notice. And I would not have swallowed claret anyway, because it might damage my voice. I have been keeping it honed, you see, for when I am allowed back in the Michaelhouse Choir.’

‘My choir is full at the moment,’ said Michael coldly. ‘I have all the basses I need.’

‘But none are as loud as me,’ objected Isnard. His expression was piteous. ‘Please let me rejoin, Brother. Singing in the King’s Head is not nearly as much fun as singing with you, and we do not get free bread and ale after practices, either.’

Michael was unmoved, and turned his attention to the physician. ‘Have you finished, Matt? My tenors are coming to see me this morning. We are going to discuss arrangements for the Feast of Corpus Christi, at which they will perform.’

‘Will they?’ asked Bartholomew unhappily. The choir was not the College’s greatest asset, and Isnard had summed up its abilities rather neatly when he had boasted about the loudness of his voice. What the ensemble lacked in talent it made up for in volume, and took pride in the fact that once it got going, it could be heard up to two miles away, if the wind was blowing in the right direction.

‘We are doing Tunstead’s Jubilate,’ added Michael as he sailed out, head in the air. It was a cruel thrust, because the Jubilate was one of Isnard’s favourite pieces. The bargeman made a strangled sound that might have been a sob, and Bartholomew hastened to finish his bandaging, reluctant to witness the man’s misery. Isnard caught his hand before he could leave.

‘You must help me, Doctor! I have apologised for saying rude things about you earlier this year, and you have forgiven me, so why does he continue to be offended? I cannot bear hearing the choir sing and not be allowed to join in. Please talk to him. If you do, I will give you a spade.’

‘A spade?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. It was not an item guaranteed to appeal to the acquisitive instincts of most physicians.

‘For digging up dead bodies,’ whispered Isnard, tapping his nose confidentially. ‘We all know it was a medicus who took Margery from her grave – for anatomy. And since Paxtone refuses to touch corpses, and Rougham condemns anatomy as a pagan rite, you are the only one left.’

‘I did not exhume Margery,’ cried Bartholomew, appalled that anyone should think he had.

Isnard looked sheepish. ‘I see. Well, perhaps you will accept something else as a bribe then. A jar for storing urine, perhaps. I could get you a nice one. Will you talk to Brother Michael for me?’

Bartholomew mumbled something noncommittal, still shaken to learn he was seen as the kind of man who went around digging up the graves of his patients, and headed for the door. Michael was waiting outside, and shot him a sidelong glance as they began to walk along the towpath together.

‘I suppose he asked you to put in a good word for him,’ he said coolly. ‘Well, you can save your breath. He harmed you with his accusations about your medical skills earlier this year, and it will be a long time – if ever – before people forget the lies he told. You may not bear him a grudge, but I do. I do not want him in Michaelhouse.’

‘None of your other choristers are angels,’ Bartholomew pointed out, thinking of the disreputable crowd that was attracted by the prospect of free victuals and enjoyable evenings spent bawling at the tops of their voices. ‘It is no coincidence that the Sheriff knows most of them by name.’

Michael’s expression was haughty. ‘That may well be true, but I prefer thieves and vagrants to villains who attack my Corpse Examiner with unfounded, vicious allegations.’

‘Isnard promised me a spade if I convinced you to let him back in.’ Bartholomew did not tell the monk what Isnard thought he might do with it. ‘Michaelhouse could do with some new tools.’

Michael began to laugh. ‘A spade? Is that all he could think of to offer? You should hold out for a hoe, at the very least.’ They walked in silence for a while. ‘What do you make of Carton?’

Bartholomew was taken aback by the question. ‘He is a good teacher. Why?’

‘His students would disagree. He was a better educator when he was a commoner – before we elected him a Fellow. Since then, he has grown aloof and preoccupied, and seldom gives lectures his full attention. He is a fine example of someone who has been promoted above his abilities.’

Bartholomew’s first instinct was to defend Carton, who was a colleague when all was said and done, but then it occurred to him that Michael was right. He recalled how the Franciscan had come to Michaelhouse in the first place. ‘Clippesby recommended him to us.’

‘And Clippesby is insane, so we were stupid to have accepted Carton on his word. You were the one who advocated Carton’s promotion to Fellow, though, and it is not the wisest suggestion you have ever made. I thought he was just shy at first, but now I know him better, I realise timidity has nothing to do with it. He is actually rather sinister.’

Bartholomew was uncomfortable with the conversation. ‘I would not go that far …’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘All the Fellows – except William – are wary of him. None of us like the fact that he went so suddenly from quiet nonentity to a man with strongly controversial opinions.’

‘I suppose it is odd,’ conceded Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘Perhaps he will be better when Mildenale leaves to found his hostel. That will not be long now, a few weeks at the most.’

‘I doubt that will help – they will still see enough of each other to be dangerous. I thought Thomas’s sermons were bad enough – driving listeners into the Sorcerer’s eager arms – but Carton, Mildenale and William are much worse.’ Michael grimaced when he saw the physician’s stricken expression. ‘Thomas’s death was not your fault, Matt. How many more times must I say it?’

‘Actually, it was. Thomas was fretful, so I gave him a sedative, hoping rest would speed his recovery. But it sent him into too deep a sleep – with fatal consequences. Even my rawest recruit knows never to sedate patients with serious head wounds.’

Michael frowned, puzzled. ‘Then why did you do it?’

‘Because I thought the injury was superficial; he exhibited none of the usual symptoms that indicate harm to the brain. But I was wrong. William’s anger with me is wholly justified.’

‘Why was Thomas fretful?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘He thought the Sorcerer had sent the stone flying through the air by dark magic. I do not believe in the power of curses, but he did, and I should have taken that into account. I have seen other perfectly healthy patients die because they have convinced themselves there is no hope.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘So, did Thomas die because you gave him the wrong medicine, or because he believed his time was up? You cannot have it both ways.’

‘It was probably a combination.’

Michael was dismissive. ‘You are taking too much on yourself. However, the guilt you feel should not prevent you from telling William the truth about Mother Valeria. What is the harm in saying you are treating her for an ailment, not learning how to be a witch yourself?’

‘William cannot be trusted to keep a confidence, and what would happen to Valeria once it became known that she is obliged to consult physicians? Customers would lose faith in her cures, and she would starve. Besides, he should know I would never dabble with witchcraft.’

Michael gave a short bark of laughter. ‘You might, if you thought it would help a patient. No, do not deny it. You are too open-minded for your own good where healing is concerned, and your medical colleagues are always chastising you for using unorthodox treatments.’

‘I would never resort to witchcraft,’ insisted Bartholomew firmly. ‘Never.’

‘You just said you should have listened to Thomas’s belief that he was cursed,’ Michael pounced.

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, struggling to think logically. It occurred to him that he might not have prescribed the sedative had he not been so exhausted, and knew tiredness was beginning to affect his teaching, too. Still, at least he had not fallen asleep in the middle of his own lecture, as Michael had done the previous week.

‘Lord!’ he groaned, when he saw a familiar figure striding towards them. ‘Here comes Spaldynge from Clare College. Every time he meets me, he makes some barbed remark about physicians being useless during the plague. I know we failed to cure people, but it was almost a decade ago, and I am tired of him goading me about it.’

‘Ignore him. He makes the same comments to anyone involved in medicine – physicians, surgeons, witches, and even midwives. Personally, I think he is losing his wits.’

‘Greetings, murderer,’ hissed Spaldynge, as he passed. ‘Killed any patients recently? Other than Father Thomas and Margery Sewale, that is. Her long illness should have given you plenty of time to devise a cure, but you let her die. You are inept, like all your colleagues.’

‘It is difficult to ignore him when he makes remarks like that,’ said Bartholomew, when the man had gone. ‘He knows how to hurt.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘It is Isnard’s fault. He was the one who first questioned your abilities. Now do you see why I am not keen on having him back in my choir?’

The College of Michaelhouse – or the Society of the Scholars of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and St Michael the Archangel, to give it its proper name – was located just off one of the town’s major thoroughfares. It comprised an attractive hall, two accommodation wings, and a range of stables and storerooms, all of which stood around a central yard. Sturdy walls protected it from attack – even when there was peace between the University and the town, there were disputes between rival foundations to take into account.

The yard had been baked rock hard by an unrelenting sun, so even the hardiest weeds were now withered stumps. Hens blunted their claws as they scratched for seeds, and the College cat lay under a tree, too hot to chase the sparrows that dust-bathed provocatively close. The porter’s pet peacock had been provided with a basin of water, and it sat in it disconsolately, trying to cool itself down. Cracks had appeared in the supporting timbers of the building where Bartholomew lived, and he hoped the roof would not leak all winter as a result. The vegetables planted by Agatha the laundress were ailing or dead, and none of the trees in the orchard would bear much fruit. Cambridge’s oldest inhabitants said they had never known summer to come so early and so fiercely.

‘Dinner has finished,’ said Michael in disgust, seeing scholars stream from the hall, laughing and chatting with each other. Last out were William, Mildenale and Carton. Mildenale was holding forth and William was nodding vigorously, although Carton’s face wore its usual impassive mask.

Bartholomew did not think missing a meal was much of a tragedy. The College was not noted for the quality of its cooking, and the weather was not helping. Supplies were going rancid, rotten or sour much faster than usual, and Michaelhouse scholars had been provided with some dangerously tainted foods since the heatwave had started. This was a cause for concern, because Bartholomew was sure spoiled meat was responsible for the flux that was currently raging in the town.

‘My head aches,’ complained Michael. ‘Yesterday, you said it was because I did not drink enough wine. Do you have any claret left?’

‘I said you needed more fluids, not wine,’ corrected Bartholomew, leading the way to his quarters. ‘Claret will make your head worse. Watered ale is best in this weather.’

He lived in a ground-floor room, which he shared with four students. It was a tight squeeze at night, and there was only just enough space to unroll the requisite number of mattresses. The cramped conditions had arisen because the Master had enrolled an additional twenty scholars in an effort to generate more income. Bartholomew might have objected to the resulting crush, if he had not been so busy: his days were spent struggling with classes too large for a single master to manage, while evenings and nights were given over to his many patients.

He supposed he should not grumble about the size of his practice. It was only two months since a healer named Magister Arderne had arrived in the town, declaring magical cures were better than anything physicians could provide. Arderne had left eventually, but folk had been wary of medici ever since – Bartholomew’s colleagues were still undersubscribed, because many folk now preferred to consult lay-healers, such as Mother Valeria or the Sorcerer. Bartholomew’s own practice, however, comprised mainly people who could not afford witches, and they came to him in droves. He appreciated their loyalty, and knew he should not complain when they needed him.

When he opened the door to his room, he found Cynric waiting. ‘Arblaster needs you,’ said the book-bearer, standing and stretching in a way that suggested he had been asleep.

‘Arblaster?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to place him. He was better with ailments than names, and invariably remembered people by what was wrong with them.

‘The dung-merchant who lives near Barnwell Priory,’ supplied Cynric, adding sourly, ‘Perhaps his fingers are stiff from counting all his money. Manure has made him very rich.’

He and Bartholomew had spent the previous year on a sabbatical leave of absence, and during it, Cynric had changed. He had expressed a desire to learn Latin, had grown more confident of his own abilities, and less impressed by those who ruled by dint of their birth or wealth. He had also developed a disconcerting habit of speaking his mind, and was rarely deferential.

‘He is rich,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I am told he is a decent soul, even so.’

Cynric pulled the kind of face that said he thought otherwise. ‘And when you have finished with him, Bukenham is waiting.’

‘Bukenham?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘My Junior Proctor? What is wrong with him?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew has forbidden me to talk about his patients’ problems,’ replied Cynric, shooting his master a reproachful glance for putting such an unfair restraint in place. ‘He says they expect confidentiality. But, since you ask, it is the flux.’

‘Thank you, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, too tired to remonstrate.

‘It is a long way to Barnwell,’ said Michael, sitting on a stool. ‘And then an equally long way to Bukenham’s lodgings near the Small Bridges. I am glad I do not have to race about in this heat.’

‘He has no choice,’ said Cynric, watching Bartholomew pack his medical bag with fresh supplies. ‘Everyone knows this particular flux can be deadly unless it is treated promptly. If he declined to tend Arblaster and Bukenham, they might die.’

As he gathered what he needed, Bartholomew supposed word must have spread regarding his success in combating the disease, because neither the dung-master nor the Junior Proctor had ever summoned him before. The remedy he had devised involved boiling angelica and barley in water, and making his patients drink as much of it as they could. A few had refused, on the grounds that it sounded too mild a potion to combat such a virulent illness, and they were still unwell. All the others had recovered, with the exception of two who had succumbed before he had developed the cure. They were dead.

‘You should buy a horse,’ said Cynric, not for the first time during their long association. ‘The Prince of Wales gave you a small fortune when you tended the wounded after the Battle of Poitiers last year, so you can afford it. Arriving at a patient’s house on horseback better befits your status than traipsing about on foot.’

Bartholomew did not like to tell him that the ‘small fortune’ was almost gone, and that most of it had been spent on medicines for his patients. Besides, he was not a good rider, and horses tended to know who was in charge when he was on them. And so would anyone he was trying to impress.

He went to the jug of ale that stood on the windowsill, supposing he had better follow the advice he had given to Michael and drink something before he went, then recoiled in revulsion when the smell told him it was already spoiled, even though he had only bought it the day before. He tipped it out of the window, along with some milk his students had left. He heard the milk dropping to the ground in clots, and did not like to imagine what it looked like. Cynric offered to fetch ale from the kitchen, and while he waited, Bartholomew collected powdered barley from the little room next door, where he kept his medical supplies. Michael followed, griping about how busy he was.

‘Not only do I have Margery’s disinterment and the blood in the font to investigate, but there are Bene’t College’s damned goats to consider, too.’

‘What do the goats want you to do?’

Michael glared at him, not in the mood for humour. ‘Seven of them have been stolen, and Master Heltisle asks whether I have caught the thief every time we meet. Does he think the Senior Proctor has nothing more important to do than look for missing livestock?’

‘Goats are expensive. I do not blame Heltisle for wanting them back.’

‘They will be in someone’s cook-pot by now, and I doubt we will ever know who took them. What in God’s name is that?’

He pointed to a complex piece of apparatus that stood on a bench. It comprised a series of flasks, some of which were connected by pipes. A candle burned under one. Bartholomew checked it carefully, then added water.

‘An experiment. Carton found some powder in Thomas’s room, and wants to know if it is poison.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Poison? You mean William might have been right when he claimed Thomas was dispatched by Dominicans? Lord knows, he gave them enough cause with his spiteful speeches. However, I was happier thinking you had killed him with the wrong medicine.’

Bartholomew recoiled. ‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

‘I am sorry, but it would be disastrous to learn Thomas was murdered. William, Mildenale and Carton will certainly accuse the Dominicans, and the Dominicans will object. And it will not be an easy case to solve after more than a week – Thomas was buried on Ascension Day. Do you remember Mildenale insisting he go in the ground then, because it might mean less time in Purgatory?’

‘Do you believe that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Margery did, and so did Goldynham the silversmith, because they and Thomas were all interred on the same day.’

‘Superstition and religion are often difficult to separate,’ replied Michael, a little patronisingly. ‘But I do not believe a particular day is more or less auspicious for going into the ground. It is what you do in life that counts, not when you happen to be buried. However, I am more concerned with this poison than in discussing theology. What can you tell me?’

‘That I doubt you will be adding Thomas to your list of investigations. I do not think this powder is poison. It smells of violets, which are used in cures for quinsy, and Thomas often suffered from sore throats. And even if it does transpire to be toxic, there is nothing to say Thomas swallowed it. I told you – he died because I gave him the wrong medicine. I wish it were otherwise, but it is not.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Carton does not share your beliefs, if he asked you to test this powder. He sees something suspicious in what happened to his friend.’

‘Immediately after the stone hit him, Thomas claimed the Sorcerer “poisoned” him with a curse. I suspect it was his odd choice of words that has encouraged Carton to look for alternative explanations – and the reason why he refuses to accept my culpability.’

‘Could it be true? Thomas did preach very violently against the Sorcerer.’

‘The Sorcerer may have lobbed the rock that caused the initial injury, I suppose. Thomas thought it was propelled magically, although I do not believe–’

‘So he was murdered?’ interrupted Michael uneasily.

‘Stones fall from roofs, they are flicked up by carts, they are thrown around by careless children. I doubt you will learn what really happened after all this time.’

But Michael was unwilling to let the matter lie. ‘I do not suppose you looked for evidence of poison when you inspected his body in your capacity as Corpse Examiner, did you?’

‘Rougham acted as Corpse Examiner for Thomas. It would have been unethical for me to do it, given that Mildenale and William had accused me of malpractice. But even if I had inspected him, I could not have told you whether he was poisoned. Most toxic substances are undetectable.’

Michael nodded at the experiment. ‘Then why bother with that?’

Bartholomew looked tired. ‘Because Carton said Thomas would have appreciated it. It is the least I can do.’

Bartholomew stepped out of the comparative cool of his room moments after Cynric had delivered the promised ale. The yard was a furnace, and he could feel the sun burning through his shirt and tabard. Michael started to follow, intending to visit the proctors’ office in St Mary the Great, but had second thoughts when he saw the heat rising in shimmering waves from the ground. Langelee spotted his Fellows, and beckoned them to stand with him in the meagre shade of a cherry tree.

‘Do you think William made a valid point in his Sermon?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Not about the Dominicans being responsible for desecrating Margery, obviously, but about there being fiends in our town – the Devil’s disciples? It would explain some of the odd things that have been happening: the blood in our font, Bene’t College’s disappearing goats …’

‘Stolen livestock is not odd,’ said Bartholomew, surprised Langelee should think it was. ‘Cattle go missing all the time, especially now, when meat spoils quickly. Goats are good to steal, because they are small, easily hidden, and can be butchered and eaten with a minimum of fuss.’

‘Yes, but goats also feature in satanic rites,’ said Langelee darkly. ‘Everyone knows that, and these were seven black ones. William said they are going to be sacrificed, to appease demons.’

Michael grinned. ‘Cynric told me they are only temporarily missing, and will return to Bene’t as soon as they have finished having their beards combed by the Devil. Unsurprisingly, Master Heltisle was not very happy with that particular explanation.’

Langelee winced as he looked over at the book-bearer. Cynric had been waylaid by Agatha, who was demanding to know who had been at the new ale; he was spinning her a yarn that would see William blamed for the crime. ‘Neither am I. Cynric knows far too much about that kind of thing. It makes me wonder how he comes by this intimate knowledge.’

‘Cynric is not a witch,’ stated Bartholomew firmly, keen to knock that notion on the head before it became dangerous. He ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him his book-bearer was rather more interested in unholy matters than was decent.

‘No, but he is not wholly Christian, either,’ countered Langelee. ‘He attends church, but he also retains his other beliefs. In other words, he hedges his bets, lest one side should prove lacking. Unfortunately, it does not look good for a senior member of the University to keep such a servant.’

‘I cannot be held responsible for what Cynric believes,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, he has always been superstitious, and no one has ever held it against me before.’

‘It is not just Cynric.’ Langelee began to count off points on thick fingers. ‘You killed Thomas, a vocal opponent of the Sorcerer. You make regular visits to Mother Valeria, a witch. The exhumed Margery was your patient. And it was you who discovered the mutilated body of the Norfolk mason.’

‘His name was Danyell,’ supplied Michael. ‘Fortunately, the deaths of visiting craftsmen are for the Sheriff to investigate, so at least I am spared looking into that nasty incident.’

‘Finding a body does not make me suspect,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘And it was hardly my fault Margery was excavated, either.’

Langelee regarded him uncomfortably. ‘Danyell was missing a hand. Why would anyone lay claim to such a thing, except perhaps someone interested in the evil art of anatomy?’

Bartholomew regarded him in horror. ‘You think I took it?’

Langelee studied him carefully, arms folded across his broad chest. ‘No,’ he said, after what felt like far too long. ‘You would not be so rash – not after that trouble with Magister Arderne earlier in the year. And there is the other rumour to consider, of course.’

‘What other rumour?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘The one that says Doctor Rougham made off with Danyell’s hand,’ replied Langelee. ‘He denies it, but his arrogance has made him unpopular, and people do not believe him. As a consequence, he has decided to visit his family in Norfolk before he is accused of witchery. He left you a message, asking you to mind his patients.’

Bartholomew was aghast. ‘How am I supposed to do that? I am overwhelmed already.’

‘Especially as you have promised to help me find out who pulled Margery from her tomb and put blood in our font,’ added Michael.

‘Then the sooner you catch the culprit, the sooner people will see you had nothing to do with these unsavoury incidents,’ said Langelee. ‘So, you have a vested interest in making sure Michael solves these mysteries. Do not look horrified. It is the best – perhaps the only – way to quell the rumours that are circulating about Cambridge’s dubious physicians.’