The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 4

‘I hate this weather,’ grumbled Michael the next day, as he tried to make himself comfortable on the only bench that was out of the sun. He was in the conclave, a pleasant chamber that adjoined Michaelhouse’s hall and that was the accepted domain of the Fellows. ‘Agatha says the meat she bought this morning is already fly-blown. And you know what that means.’

‘More onion soup?’ Bartholomew was standing at a window, staring absently across the courtyard below. ‘Spices to disguise the taste?’

‘Worse,’ moaned Michael. ‘Reduced rations! She says some is so green she would not even give it to students. Still, the last of them left this morning, so there are fewer mouths to feed now.’

‘Who is left?’

‘The Fellows and Mildenale. Oh, and Deynman, who does not trust us to look after the library.’

‘It feels strange,’ said Bartholomew, unsettled by the silence and empty rooms. That morning, breakfast had brought back painful memories of the plague, when the scholars’ ranks had thinned because of sickness. ‘I do not like it.’

‘It is only for a week, and now we can concentrate on finding Carton’s killer – along with those responsible for digging up Margery, putting blood in our font and taking Danyell’s hand. And the thief who stole Bene’t’s goats, I suppose, as Heltisle was after me about it again today.’

‘I watched the Sorcerer’s disciples meet in All Saints last night,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Michael’s crime-solving itinerary would leave him time to complete his experiments on the powder Carton had found in Thomas’s room. It had not seemed important before, but now the physician felt he would be letting Carton down if he did not do as he had promised.

‘Then I sincerely hope no one saw you. Your reputation already leans towards the unorthodox, and being spotted in the vicinity of satanic covens will do it no good whatsoever.’

‘William and Mildenale caught me.’ Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug at Michael’s horrified expression. ‘They were doing the same thing – trying to see what might be learned in order to stop it. But I discovered nothing that might be of use to you, other than the fact that the Sorcerer has more followers than I realised.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘Please do not do it again, Matt. It might be dangerous. Besides, my beadles were there, mingling anonymously with the crowd. They know what they are doing, and they are paid for it.’

‘I was only trying to help.’

‘I would rather you helped in other ways, such as telling me what you think about the theft of Danyell’s hand. Did I tell you the poor man was only visiting Cambridge? He was passing through on his way from London to Norfolk, travelling with a friend called Richard Spynk.’

‘Spynk.’ Bartholomew had heard the name in a different context than pertaining to the hapless Danyell. ‘Carton spoke to him about buying the house Margery left us. He used Spynk to inflate the price for the canons of Barnwell.’

‘So, you do listen at Fellows’ meetings! Yes, Spynk is interested in the house. But recap what you told me about Danyell – your conclusions about his death.’

‘I am almost certain he died of natural causes. I found his corpse when I was returning home after tending Mother Valeria, and there was no sign of foul play. Except for the missing hand.’

‘You said he had probably had a seizure and the limb was removed after death, because there was no sign of a struggle or evidence that he was restrained. You then went on to explain that one cannot remove body parts from a live victim without the poor fellow doing all he can to stop you. It made me feel quite queasy.’

‘That was the heat. Did you know there is an ancient superstition that the hand of a dead man will help someone make really good butter?’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Now you are teasing me.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is an old tale, but there are some who believe it. Severed hands are also said to cure warts. I think I mentioned that before.’

Michael nodded. ‘You did. Unfortunately, you said it in front of William, which led him to accuse you of stealing the thing. You told him people tend not to consult physicians for minor ailments like warts, at which point he decided you must have purloined it as a gift for Valeria.’

‘I am surprised Spynk wants a house in Cambridge, given what happened to his friend,’ said Bartholomew, declining to waste his time dwelling on William’s wild fancies. ‘If your hand were stolen in a distant town, I would be keen to leave the place as soon as possible.’

‘He claims to have discovered a liking for Cambridge – says he wants to do business here in the future. His trade is importing luxury goods from the Low Countries, and he thinks we are a good commercial opportunity – linked to the sea via the river, and with a population able to afford such commodities. Ergo, he wants a house for his visits, and says Sewale Cottage fits the bill perfectly.’

‘It is funny you should be talking about Spynk,’ came a soft voice from the door that made both scholars jump in alarm. ‘Because he has the flux, and wants you to visit.’

‘How many times have I asked you not to slink up on me, Cynric?’ demanded Michael, hand to his chest. ‘If you do it again, my Junior Proctor may have to charge you with murder. Mine.’

When Bartholomew went to see Spynk, Michael left for Barnwell Priory. The monk wanted to ask Prior Norton why he had failed to mention Carton’s attempt to manipulate a higher price for Sewale Cottage. It was an excellent motive for murder, and meant the canons should be questioned more closely. He hired a horse to take him, not just because it had been a long and unpleasant walk the day before, but because he wanted the brethren to know his visit was an official one. He was furious they had withheld information from him, and intended to intimidate them to the point where they would not dare do it again.

Bartholomew went to the High Street, where Spynk was staying in a pleasantly airy suite of rooms overlooking the road. His windows afforded magnificent views of St Mary the Great one way, and King’s Hall’s gatehouse the other. As these were two of the finest buildings in Cambridge, the physician wondered whether they had given Spynk a false impression of its prosperity.

‘Thank God you are here,’ Spynk said when he arrived. ‘I have the flux. Make me well – immediately, if you would be so kind.’

He was a large man with wiry hair and thick, callused hands that suggested he was not averse to manual labour. When Bartholomew had gone with Michael to break the news of Danyell’s death on Ascension Day, Spynk had spent an inordinate amount of time bragging about the fact that he had personally supervised the repair of Norwich’s defensive walls. He also claimed he had paid for most of the work, and said the city had granted him lifelong exemption from certain taxes in appreciation. He gave the impression that he was a man of power and influence, although the physician had thought him vulgar, and was not sure whether to believe most of his self-aggrandising declarations.

‘There is no such thing as an instant cure for the flux,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It takes time to–’

‘I hear you have a better success rate than the other fellow – Paxtone. Meanwhile, Rougham has fled because his ineptitude was killing people. Well, that is one rumour. The other is that he stole poor Danyell’s hand for anatomy and has gone into the Fens to complete his dark business.’

‘Rougham would never entertain anatomy,’ said Bartholomew truthfully. ‘And he has gone to visit his family. It is half-term, so he is within his rights to go.’

Spynk seemed ready to argue, but was interrupted by the sudden need to dash for a bucket. While he was busy, Bartholomew inspected the sample of urine that had been provided, then asked for a pot of boiled water. It was brought by Spynk’s wife, a pretty woman with dark hair and a kirtle that revealed an impressive amount of frontage.

‘You might have decanted it into a better jug, Cecily,’ snapped Spynk, peering out through the curtain that gave him his privacy. ‘That one is chipped.’

‘They are all chipped,’ she replied sullenly. ‘Look for yourself, if you do not believe me.’

‘It is fine,’ said Bartholomew hastily, reluctant for them to embark on a domestic squabble in front of him. He added his powdered barley and angelica. ‘It is the water that matters, not the pot.’

Cecily watched him stir the mixture. ‘I hope those are powerful substances, Doctor. My husband is a strong man, and dislikes weak remedies.’

‘They are what will make him well again,’ replied Bartholomew, declining to admit that his cure contained two very innocuous ingredients. If Spynk believed the medicine was ineffectual he might decline to swallow it, and the flux was too serious an ailment for games.

‘It tastes like starch,’ objected Spynk, after a tentative sip. He thrust it back at the physician. ‘I am not drinking that. Tip it out of the window, Cecily.’

‘Tip it yourself,’ retorted Cecily churlishly. ‘I am not your servant.’

‘We can add honey,’ suggested Bartholomew, thinking of the priest Eyton and his penchant for the stuff. ‘That might make it more palatable.’

Cecily brightened. ‘That is a good idea. I bought some from Barnwell Priory on Saturday afternoon – it was an excuse for me to get inside and have a look around – and I do not want to carry it home to Norwich. The pot might break and spoil all my new dresses.’

‘Spoon some in, then,’ ordered Spynk. ‘As much as you like. I can afford it.’

Bartholomew stopped her from adding the whole jug to the concoction, suspecting the resulting sickliness would make the merchant feel worse then ever. Then he encouraged Spynk to swallow what he had prepared, and sent Cecily to the kitchens for more boiled water. She sighed resentfully, but did as she was asked.

‘I understand you are a member of Michaelhouse,’ said Spynk when she had gone. ‘Is it true?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Have you visited our College?’ he asked politely.

‘Yes – last week. I went to talk to Carton about the house you are selling on Bridge Street. How much do you think you will get for it?’

Bartholomew knew he would be swimming in dangerous waters if he attempted to meddle in College finances. ‘I have no idea. You will have to talk to the Master or Wynewyk. They are–’

‘I will give you a horse if you tell me about any other offers you have had,’ interrupted Spynk. ‘I am very interested in making this particular purchase.’

‘Talk to the Master,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘I do not know about the other offers.’

Spynk glared at him, then sighed irritably. ‘Very well, but you have just lost yourself a decent nag. I am sorry about Carton, by the way. He tried to cheat me by starting a bidding war with Barnwell, but I do not bear him a grudge. He was only doing his duty. I understand Michaelhouse is poor, and needs all the money it can lay its grubby hands on.’

‘We are not one of the wealthier foundations,’ admitted Bartholomew cautiously.

‘I sent Cecily to Barnwell on Saturday,’ Spynk rambled on. ‘I wanted her to get a feel for the place, work out how wealthy they are. It is always good to know your enemies. Do you not agree?’

‘I do not have many–’

Spynk released a braying laugh. ‘That is not what I hear! I am a stranger here, but even I know half the town thinks you are a warlock. The other half believes you are a saint, but they are mostly poor, and no one listens to them. You have enemies aplenty.’

He was going to add something else, but another bout of sickness prevented him. Afterwards, he flopped on the bed and closed his eyes, exhausted by the ordeal. Bartholomew was grateful for the silence. Eventually, Cecily arrived with another brimming pan, then stood nearer to him than was proper while he made a second batch of the mixture.

‘I need more hot water,’ he said, searching for an excuse to send her away until he had finished. She was so close that her breath was hot on the back of his neck, and he kept thinking that Spynk might wake up and wonder what they were up to.

‘What for?’ she asked. ‘You have already prepared enough of this medicine to satisfy an ox. If he drinks it all, he will burst.’

‘I need to wash my hands.’

‘Your hands?’ asked Spynk, showing he had not been asleep after all. ‘God’s blood, but this is a strange town! Why should you wash your hands? They look clean enough to me. Cecily and I only wash ours on Sundays, before we go to church.’

‘Actually, I scrub mine on Wednesdays, too,’ said Cecily with a coquettish smile. ‘I like to feel fresh. Do you want a different pot, or would you mind giving them a rinse in that potion we have just brewed? We have not added the honey yet, so it will not be sticky, and Richard will not mind.’

Bartholomew regarded her askance, lost for words.

‘Danyell was obsessed with cleanliness, too,’ said Spynk with a grimace of disapproval. ‘He took a bath every year, but look how he ended up – someone stealing his fingers for God knows what purpose. He was an odd man: careful with hygiene on one hand, but in the habit of wandering about at night on the other.’

Bartholomew’s ears pricked up. ‘What?’

Cecily’s expression was dreamy. ‘He often met me for a nocturnal stroll when everyone else was in bed. Of course, it is safe to do it in Norfolk, where we live, but Cambridge is a rough place, seething with villains. It is not wise to roam about in the dark here.’

‘For him, it was probably not wise to do it anywhere,’ said Spynk. ‘He had a morbidly pounding heart, and should have stayed in. In fact, it was not very sensible to travel to London, either. I wish I had not asked him to come, because now his sons are going to say his death is my fault.’

‘It was no one’s fault,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had a seizure, which could have happened any–’

‘I want that in writing,’ said Spynk. ‘Will you oblige? I will give you the parchment.’

‘What time did Danyell go out on the night he died?’ asked Bartholomew. Michael had already interviewed the Spynks at length, but there was no harm in repeating the process. They might tell him something they had forgotten to mention earlier, or he might see something the monk had missed. After all, someone must know why Danyell had been relieved of his hand.

‘Just after dusk,’ replied Cecily. ‘I was keen to go with him, but he said he wanted to be alone. He had pains in his chest and arm, and thought a walk might ease them.’

‘Why did you offer him your company?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was a peculiar thing for the wife of a wealthy merchant to do. She was right in that Cambridge could be dangerous after dark, and it was no place for a woman with only an ailing man for protection.

Cecily shot him an odd glance. ‘I thought he might like it.’

Rather belatedly, it occurred to Bartholomew that Cecily and Danyell might have enjoyed more than pleasant conversation when they took their late-night strolls. When he took in her deliberately provocative clothes and the salacious way she eyed him, he was sure of it. He was not an observant man when it came to that sort of thing, and the fact that he had noticed at all meant she must be very brazen. He shot a covert glance at Spynk, and realised the merchant was even less aware of such matters than he was, for he seemed oblivious to his wife’s antics.

‘He said he had business to conduct,’ said Spynk. ‘And he was carrying something under his arm that looked like a stone sample. You know he was a mason?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘When he failed to return, were you not worried?’

He had found Danyell’s body shortly after dawn, and it had been stiff around the jaws. Danyell had probably been dead most of the night, and it had struck him as odd at the time that his friends had not gone to look for him.

‘I was,’ said Cecily. ‘But I could hardly go to look for him myself, and Richard was asleep.’

‘I hate being woken up,’ explained Spynk. ‘And Cecily knows better than to disturb me at night.’

‘I prefer him asleep anyway,’ said Cecily meaningfully.

‘It is de Lisle’s fault,’ said Spynk, bitterly and somewhat out of the blue. ‘If he had not forced us to go to London, we would not have stopped here to rest on our way home. And Danyell might still be alive, despite what you say about seizures,’

Bartholomew did not understand. ‘The Bishop of Ely made you travel? How? I thought he was in Avignon. And besides, you just said it was your idea to visit London, and–’

‘We had to make a complaint about him, in front of the King,’ explained Spynk. ‘Me and Danyell, and a score of others. The Bishop is a bully, you see. He and his men stole all my cows a few years ago, and the King wanted our accusations on record.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘De Lisle is a cattle rustler? That does not sound very likely.’

‘Then you do not know him very well,’ said Cecily. ‘I offered him a night of my company in exchange for leaving my husband alone but he said he would rather have the livestock. He is an uncouth man, and I was delighted to detail his shortcomings to the King.’

‘He laid violent siege to Danyell’s manor, too,’ added Spynk. ‘It must have been terrifying. De Lisle may be one of the most powerful prelates in the country but that has not stopped him from indulging in theft, arson, extortion, assault and even murder. He is a wicked villain.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. Cambridge was in de Lisle’s See, and such men had an uncanny habit of learning who had been talking about them; the physician did not want to include a prelate on his list of enemies. And while the Bishop did indeed have a reputation for being ruthless, Bartholomew was sure he was not a criminal, and thought Spynk and Cecily were exaggerating the charges that had been laid against him.

‘How do you feel now, Master Spynk?’ he asked, to change the subject.

‘A little better,’ admitted Spynk begrudgingly. ‘It must have been the honey.’

At breakfast that morning, Langelee had announced that there would be a Statutory Fellows’ Meeting at noon, because there was urgent business to discuss. There was not only the sad matter of Carton to debate, but the purchase and sale of various properties, too. After he had finished with Spynk, there was an hour to go before the gathering, so Bartholomew lay on his bed and fell into a restless doze. He woke when a clatter of hoofs announced Michael’s return from Barnwell.

‘Nothing,’ said the monk in disgust, springing from his saddle with the natural grace of the born horseman, if a rather heavy one. ‘It was a waste of time. Norton admitted to knowing about Carton’s attempts to raise the cost of Sewale Cottage but said everyone does it these days – that he would have been surprised had we not tried to manipulate a better price.’

‘Is it true?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping forward to take the horse’s bridle. It snickered at him, causing him to drop it smartly. ‘Does everyone do it these days?’

‘Yes, apparently. So, now I am not sure whether Norton objected to his convent being the victim of this so-called common practice, or whether he took it in his stride.’

‘You should drink some ale before the meeting,’ advised Bartholomew, thinking the monk looked unnaturally flushed under his wide-brimmed hat.

‘I would prefer some chicken, but even the cat would not eat what was left of the ones Agatha roasted last night. Rougham was right to leave this town. It is probably cooler in Norfolk, and meat will not spoil the moment it is ready for the table.’

Agatha was in the kitchen, sprawled in her huge wicker throne and fanning herself with what appeared to be one of the College’s exemplars – anthologies of texts on a specific subject. Deynman hovered behind her, a tense expression on his face. When she glanced up to watch Michael drink, he snatched it from her hand and raced from the room. A screech of outrage followed, but the laundress was too hot to embark on a chase, and Bartholomew supposed Deynman would have to wait for the inevitable retribution. He wrinkled his nose when he smelled what lay on the table.

‘You should throw that in the midden,’ he said in distaste. ‘I am sure bad meat is a factor in spreading the flux.’

Agatha did not reply, so he started to do it himself, thinking to save her the trouble.

‘Leave it,’ she barked. Bartholomew froze: only the foolish or suicidal ignored a direct order from Agatha. ‘I might make Deynman eat it. How dare he deprive me of a scroll! I am a member of this College, so I am entitled to make use of the library.’

‘Yes – to read,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that she sometimes helped herself to the priceless tomes if there was a table that wobbled or a draught that whistled under a door.

‘I do not read!’ she declared contemptuously. Clearly, she considered it beneath her. ‘Although Cynric found an interesting book today. It was hidden on Master Langelee’s top shelf, and told us all about how the night before Trinity Sunday is a special occasion for witches.’

‘Was this book wrapped in black cloth?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, not liking to think of Carton’s manual of witchcraft in Cynric’s tender care. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had been wise to teach the Welshman his letters.

She nodded. ‘It contained a spell for making bad meat whole again, and I shall be testing it later. You can tell me if it works – hopefully before I am obliged to eat any myself.’

‘Try it on William,’ suggested Michael, bundling the physician from the kitchen before he could voice his objections. He grinned maliciously once they were outside. ‘We cannot lose, Matt! If William becomes ill, he will be confined to bed and will stop accusing you of being in league with the Devil. And if he remains healthy, we shall all dine on meat tonight.’

Bartholomew did not bother to point out that the flux did not strike the moment bad meat passed a person’s lips. He followed the monk up the stairs, across the hall and into the conclave, where the sun was blazing through the windows. He flopped on to a bench and put his head in his hands, feeling a buzzing lethargy envelop him. When would the weather break? He did not think he could stand much more of it, and hoped it would not last until the end of summer. Michael dragged the table to a place where he would not be in direct sunlight, although it meant everyone else would have it in their eyes, and sat with a sigh.

‘Here comes William,’ he said, cocking his head as footsteps thumped across the hall. ‘I recognise that purposeful tread anywhere. Even his feet have the air of a fanatic about them.’

The door opened and William strode in, humming one of the more militant psalms. ‘I have had a profitable morning,’ he announced, pleased with himself. ‘I accused Sheriff Tulyet of heresy.’

Michael’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘You did what?’

‘I accused Sheriff Tulyet of heresy,’ repeated William more loudly. ‘He owns a book on the occult, and I demanded that he hand it over, so it can be added to the ones Carton collected for burning. He refused, so I called him a heretic.’

‘Lord!’ murmured Bartholomew. Tulyet was a friend – to the University, as well as personally – and he did not want a valued relationship soured because of William. ‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing – he just walked away,’ replied William. ‘But he was clenching his fists at his side, so I know my words had hit home.’

‘They were clenched because they were itching to punch you,’ said Langelee, as he entered the conclave. ‘I have just come from the castle, where I was summoned to tell him why you should not be locked up. He thinks you are a danger to the King’s peace.’

‘I have rattled Satan’s familiars,’ crowed William. ‘Tulyet would not complain about me if he were innocent, would he? I shall have our town free of heretics yet. Of course, I would rather see the Dominicans leave than Tulyet. I have always liked Tulyet, to be honest.’

‘Which of Carton’s books do you plan to incinerate?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not the Avicenna?’

‘No – I plan to destroy the ones you removed from his chest and took to Deynman,’ replied William coolly. ‘When I heard you had been given the task of deciding what was profane, I knew I would have to do it myself, given your lax attitude towards blasphemy. It was not easy to prise them from Deynman, but I managed in the end.’

‘Those were theological and philosophical texts,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Including some you use on a regular basis, so they cannot be blasphemous. And if you have harmed Deynman–’

‘I waited until he was out, then broke his locks with a stone,’ interrupted William. ‘I have not inspected the tones properly yet, but I am sure there will be some that will make for a merry blaze.’

Bartholomew regarded him in distaste. ‘Book-burning says you are frightened of new ideas.’

‘I am frightened of new ideas,’ said William fervently. ‘If they were any good, they would be in the Bible – and the fact that they are not means they should never be entertained by right-thinking men.’

‘But we are scholars,’ protested Bartholomew, knowing he was wasting his time but unable to stop himself. ‘We have a moral responsibility to assess novel theories, and push back the barriers of our collective knowledge.’

‘Exactly,’ said William. ‘Men like you will be pushing these barriers back to the point where any heretical notion can be aired in the debating chamber. Well, it will not happen as long as I am here.’

‘I usually fail to see the problem with most condemned texts,’ said Langelee, rummaging in the wall-cupboard for his sceptre – the ceremonial symbol of his authority, which he used to signal the beginning and end of meetings. ‘They invariably make perfect sense, but just happen to go against some doctrine cooked up by men with narrow minds. So leave Carton’s collections alone, Father. We will have no book-burning at Michaelhouse.’

William’s face fell, while Bartholomew and Michael exchanged pleased glances. Neither would have expected Langelee to take a positive stand on books, which he tended to hold in low regard unless they were valuable, in which case he agitated for them to be sold. There were always bills to be paid or some costly repair to be made to the College fabric, and the Master was a practical man.

‘But–’ began the friar.

‘That is my last word,’ said Langelee firmly.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the conclave became hotter. Michael complained bitterly that the last of the Fellows – Wynewyk and Suttone – were late, while Bartholomew felt himself grow more drowsy. Langelee and William bickered over the ethics of selling, rather than incinerating, heretical texts, and the Master won the debate when he pointed out that the proceeds could be used to buy wine. Bartholomew suspected Mildenale would not be so easily swayed from his convictions, and neither would Carton or Father Thomas have been.

It was not long before Suttone waddled into the conclave to take his customary seat. He was a Carmelite friar, and when he, Langelee and Michael were in a row, Bartholomew was reminded that his College possessed some very large men. The physician was hardly diminutive himself, because he was tall and his medical practice kept him fit, but he always felt like a waif when he was with his colleagues. The bench groaned its objection, and he looked in his medical bag to ensure he had salves for the kind of injuries that might occur if it collapsed and deposited them all on the floor.

‘Shall we discuss the weather while we wait for Wynewyk?’ suggested Langelee. ‘It is less contentious than text-burning, and we should at least start the meeting as friends.’

‘I would rather talk about the plague,’ said Suttone, one of those who was convinced that it was on its way back. ‘Sinful men have not mended their ways, and–’

Langelee cut him off with a groan. ‘I do not want to hear it. We had more than enough of that in William’s Saturday Sermon. I would prefer to be regaled with your views on the weather.’

‘Crops are dying in the fields because of the heat,’ began Michael obligingly. ‘And it is common knowledge that this harvest will be a poor one. There will be a shortage of grain for bread, and we shall all starve before the year is out.’

‘Nonsense,’ countered Suttone, thus proving that even the climate was a controversial subject when discussed by scholars. ‘There has been rain galore in the north, and they will have plenty to sell to those whose harvest has failed.’

‘But they will charge a fortune,’ said Wynewyk, as he bustled in with a sheaf of parchments under his arm. ‘And we are desperately short of cash at the moment, as I have been telling you.’

‘Perhaps so, but we still have to eat,’ said Michael, to make sure Wynewyk knew that victuals were not an optional extra.

‘Do not worry, Brother; Wynewyk will keep our bellies full,’ said Langelee, shooting the lawyer a look that said there would be trouble if he did not. ‘But winter is months away, and we should not worry about it now. Who knows what might happen in that time?’

‘True,’ said William. ‘After all, look at Carton. Worrying about food for this coming winter would have been a waste of his time, would it not?’

Bartholomew frowned, thinking it a callous remark from a man who professed to be Carton’s friend. But before he could berate him for it, Langelee banged on the table with his sceptre, and announced that the meeting was underway.

‘There are two matters to consider today,’ he said. ‘First, the status of the houses we are buying and selling. Second, this awkward business regarding the Bishop of Ely. And finally Carton.’

‘That is three matters,’ said Wynewyk pedantically. ‘Shall we discuss them in that order?’

‘Carton first,’ said Langelee. ‘I know it is a painful subject, but it is also the most important. I have just read his will, and I am happy to report that he left us everything he owned – we are his sole beneficiary. Does anyone have anything else to say about him?’

‘I do,’ said Suttone. ‘The reason I was late is because I went to visit his corpse. Margery Sewale was pulled from her grave, and I was afraid someone might defile him, too. But he was untouched.’

Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Why would anyone attack Carton’s remains?’

Suttone shrugged. ‘Hopefully, no one will, but Carton was a member of Michaelhouse, and Margery was associated with Michaelhouse. I just wanted to be sure he was safe.’

‘Father Thomas was associated with Michaelhouse, too, because he knew me,’ said William. He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant look. ‘I miss him.’

‘We know,’ said Langelee with an exaggerated sigh, while Bartholomew stared down at the table, guilt washing over him. ‘But what is done is done, and we should try to move on.’

‘What shall we do about replacing Carton, then?’ asked William, giving the impression that he had no intention of moving anywhere. ‘I am not taking on more teaching – I have heretics to rout.’

‘None of us can carry Carton’s classes,’ said Suttone. ‘We never have a free moment to prepare future lectures as it is. I hoped to write an essay on the return of the Death this morning, to read at the meeting of the Guild of Corpus Christi next week, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.’

‘You intend to wax lyrical about the Death at a Guild meeting?’ asked Langelee in disbelief. ‘I thought those occasions were supposed to be full of merrymaking, wine and good health.’

Suttone looked crestfallen, but then brightened. ‘But the letter inviting me to give the main address stipulated no such restrictions. Besides, I would be failing in my sacred duty if I did not describe the bleak, hopeless future that lies ahead of us all.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew thought the Guild was stupid to have chosen Suttone to orate at one of their functions, given his obsession with the plague. ‘However, the Master is right – these events are supposed to be fun. Perhaps you should consider talking about something a little more … jolly.’

‘Jolly?’ echoed Suttone in distaste. ‘I do not think I can make the pestilence jolly. Of course, there were amusing incidents, such as when the last Prior of Barnwell was sewn into his shroud but then transpired to be alive. Do you recall how he managed to free an arm and grab a silver candlestick, as if he intended to take it with him?’

‘That should have the place rocking with mirth,’ said Michael. ‘However, I was thinking more along the lines of a reading, which everyone might enjoy. Perhaps a ballad or a tale of chivalry.’

‘Chivalry during the plague?’ asked Suttone, frowning.

‘No, not during the plague,’ said Michael, becoming exasperated. ‘Forget about the plague.’

‘Forget about the plague?’ Suttone was shocked. ‘I do not think any of us should do that. It–’

‘We seem to be drifting away from the agenda here,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘We are supposed to be talking about Carton. I have decided that he will be buried tomorrow, by the way.’

‘That is too soon, Master,’ objected William immediately. ‘It does not give us time to arrange an occasion that is suitably stately. He was one of our own, after all.’

‘I know,’ said Langelee. ‘But the weather is against us. Prior Pechem offered to find him a spot in the Franciscan cemetery, and I think we should accept. We shall hold a grand requiem later, when it is cooler – St Michael’s can be very stuffy when it is full. Does that meet with everyone’s approval? Good. Then let us move on to the second item. Wynewyk, tell us about these houses.’

Wynewyk put down his pen. ‘As you know, we inherited Sewale Cottage from the generous and much-lamented Margery, and at our last meeting we agreed to sell it.’

William nodded. ‘It is a pleasant place with a large garden, but it is on Bridge Street. We decided to hawk it, and use the money to acquire the Refham shops instead, which are next door to us. It is better to expand our core site, rather than to collect houses in distant parts of the town.’

‘I was cornered last week by a man interested in buying Sewale Cottage,’ said Langelee. ‘That is why I called this meeting, actually. If folk are going to approach individual Fellows, then we need to be sure we do not contradict each other by quoting different prices.’

‘Who cornered you?’ asked Michael.

‘That wealthy merchant from Norwich – Spynk.’

‘He came to me, too,’ said Wynewyk. ‘He said he plans to develop business interests in Cambridge, and a small house on Bridge Street would suit him very well.’

‘He offered me a horse today,’ said Bartholomew. ‘In return, he wanted inside information about bids made by other potential buyers.’

‘Good,’ said Langelee, pleased. ‘We could do with another nag. Next time you meet, you can report that Barnwell Priory is the most serious contender. Carton was negotiating with them.’

‘He already knows that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He sent his wife to spy there on Saturday, on the pretext of purchasing honey.’

‘That is the day Carton died,’ pounced Michael. ‘In the afternoon.’

Bartholomew had worked that out, too. He nodded. ‘She must have left before the commotion started, or she would have mentioned it.’

‘Unless she was responsible,’ said Michael pointedly.

‘She will not have stabbed Carton,’ said Langelee, with such conviction that Bartholomew glanced at him sharply, wondering why the Master felt able to make such a firm statement. ‘Seduce him, very possibly. But kill? Never! I wonder why Prior Norton wants to buy Sewale Cottage. It is too small to be used as a hostel for his novice-canons, so why is he so keen to have it?’

‘Barnwell will buy anything,’ explained Wynewyk. ‘They own more property than all the other Orders put together. And the more they buy, the richer they become, from rents.’

‘It goes against the grain to sell to another Order,’ said William. ‘Still, better Augustinians than Dominicans. I would never sell anything to a Dominican.’

‘Really,’ muttered Langelee under his breath. ‘You do surprise me.’

‘However,’ William boomed, fixing each of his colleagues with a beady glare. As one they braced themselves, knowing from experience that an announcement was about to be made, and that it was almost certain to be objectionable. ‘I have it on good authority that the canons of Barnwell want Sewale Cottage for sinister reasons.’

‘And what authority is that, pray?’ asked Michael, when the friar did not elaborate, but merely sat with his lips pursed meaningfully, as if the declaration was all the explanation that was needed.

‘I have my sources,’ replied William haughtily. ‘And they are secret. But it was Mildenale, if you must know. He says they plan to build a granary on the site.’

‘That is not sinister,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Sewale Cottage is close to wharves they already own, and the garden has plenty of room for such a structure. They will unload their barges, and store–’

‘Actually, their purpose in building the granary is to entice rats to the town,’ declared William. ‘And that is sinister. Surely, you have not forgotten how they burned the Hardy house last year?’

There was silence, as his colleagues tried to fathom the logic behind his claims. Eventually, seeing there was none and that he was just giving rumours his own unique interpretation, they resumed their discussion as though he had not spoken.

‘What about the property we want to get?’ asked Langelee. ‘The Refham houses.’

Wynewyk sighed. ‘As you know, Mistress Refham said on her deathbed that we should have them at a reduced cost. Unfortunately, her son and his wife are being difficult, and they have put them on the market.’

‘How dare they!’ exclaimed William angrily. ‘She promised us first refusal.’

‘But it was a spoken agreement and nothing was written,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Refham is determined to make himself rich from his mother’s inheritance, so we are in for a battle, I am afraid.’

‘Do we really want them?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes we do, because of their location,’ explained Wynewyk. ‘We own the properties on either side of them, and they will allow us to expand in the future. If we do not buy them now, we might never have another chance. We will not use them in the short term – we shall rent them to Mildenale, so he can found his hostel – but their long-term importance cannot be overemphasised.’

‘Why Mildenale?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘We discussed this last time,’ said Langelee curtly. ‘Take notes, if you cannot remember from one meeting to the next. However, I shall repeat myself this once: it is because we are all a bit tired of his noisy religious opinions and it is a good way to be rid of him.’

‘I like his noisy religious opinions,’ objected William. ‘He is a man after my own heart and–’

‘And in recognition of his service to the College,’ added Suttone, more charitable than the Master. ‘He was a founding Fellow, and one of our very first teachers. I know he left Cambridge shortly afterwards, and spent the next three decades as a parish priest in Norfolk, but he has often sent us gifts of money and books through the years. He has been good to us.’

‘To summarise, we have two parties currently interested in buying Sewale Cottage,’ said Wynewyk, bringing the discussion back on track. ‘Namely Spynk and Barnwell. Meanwhile, I am trying to persuade Refham to honour his mother’s dying wish, but I suspect we will end up paying more than we want.’

‘Damn,’ said Langelee. ‘The last item is the Bishop. Have you heard from him, Brother?’

Before Michael could reply, there was a knock on the door, and Cynric came in.

‘Arblaster the dung-merchant is ailing again,’ said the book-bearer quietly to Bartholomew. The physician was alarmed to see the guide to witchcraft under his arm. ‘He needs you immediately. And Junior Proctor Bukenham reminds you to see him on the way home, too.’

‘Go,’ ordered Langelee, standing abruptly and making for the door. ‘It is time for a break anyway, and I am hungry. We shall finish our business when you return.’

Bartholomew was hungry, too, but the summons sounded urgent, and he did not want Arblaster to share the Bene’t student’s fate. He set off towards the Barnwell Causeway at a rapid clip and Michael, who had offered to accompany him part of the way, did not keep up for long. The monk disappeared into an alehouse in the Old Jewry, near where Matilde had lived, claiming it was the haunt of men who might be able to answer questions about the blood in the font.

The sun scorched the Fens so fiercely that even birds seemed oppressed by the heat, and the countryside was both still and silent as Bartholomew walked. Usually, there were some sounds, even if only the whisper of wind or a dog barking, but that day there was nothing. It felt unnatural.

He was soon drenched in sweat, and dust adhered to his wet skin and clothes. He forced himself on, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He had dispensed with his tabard the moment he had left the town – partly because it was an additional layer he did not need, but also because it was not wise for lone scholars to flaunt themselves outside the comparative safety of the town. The University was an unpopular institution, and academics made for tempting targets.

He tapped on Arblaster’s door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer, desperate to be out of the sun. It took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light, but when they did, he was astonished to see the dung-master sitting at a table with his ledgers, while Jodoca sewed by the window. He regarded them uncertainly, wondering whether someone had made him the butt of a practical joke. Arblaster did not look as though he had taken a turn for the worse. On the contrary, there was colour in his cheeks, and the fact that he was out of bed showed he had made a good recovery. Furthermore, Jodoca’s presence suggested he was no longer afraid of dying and having Mother Valeria come to snatch his soul.

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to back out in embarrassment. ‘There has been a misunderstanding. Cynric said you needed me urgently.’

‘I do need you urgently,’ replied Arblaster. ‘Although it has nothing to do with my health. At least, not yet. If things do not work out, I may suffer an imbalance of humours from the annoyance of it all. But the medicine you gave me worked admirably, and I am much better.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew, nonplussed. ‘So what do you want with me?’

Arblaster gestured to the bench. ‘Sit down, and I shall explain. Would you like some ale? Jodoca brewed it herself, and it is excellent – cool, fresh and sweet.’

Bartholomew did want some ale, but sensed he was about to be told something he would not like, and was reluctant to accept overtures of friendship until he knew what. He waited where he was, ignoring both the seat Arblaster patted enticingly and the goblet Jodoca held out to him.

‘There are two matters I want to discuss,’ said Arblaster, coming to close the door. Bartholomew was not sure whether it was to keep out the heat, to stop the conversation from being overheard, or to prevent his reluctant visitor from escaping. ‘First, and most important, dung.’

‘Dung?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. The dash along the sweltering Causeway had left him slightly lightheaded, and he was not sure he was up for another of Arblaster’s expositions.

‘I hear Michaelhouse is digging new latrines. That means the contents of the old ones are available, and I would like to make you an offer for them. There is nothing like well-aged manure for spring beans, and I am very keen to get my hands on yours.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, gazing at him in disbelief.

‘Isnard the bargeman will be after you for the same reason,’ Arblaster went on. ‘But he will ship it outside the town on one of his boats, and will sell it to the abbey in Ely, whereas I will make sure it benefits the citizens of Cambridge. Ask your Master not to agree to Isnard’s terms until he has spoken to me.’

‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to be angry about the fact that he had exhausted himself for such a peculiar matter. ‘What is your second concern?’

‘Sewale Cottage. I would like to buy it, and I want you and your colleagues to look favourably on my application. Tell them I will pay eleven marks, which is one mark more than the price offered by the Prior of Barnwell, and two more than Spynk.’

Bartholomew was not inclined to look favourably on anything connected with Arblaster at that precise moment. ‘You made me run all the way here to discuss manure and houses?’

Arblaster nodded earnestly. ‘We are willing to pay handsomely for your help. Very handsomely.’

‘I do not want your money,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, turning towards the door. He could not see how it opened, so failed to make the dignified exit he had intended. He sighed his resignation when it became clear that he would not escape without help, and turned back to them. ‘Talk to Langelee. He will make the final choice.’

‘Not so. Michaelhouse is a democracy, where Master and Fellows make decisions together. However, I understand how these things work, and one eloquent man can sway his colleagues. I know you are eloquent because I heard your public lecture last term. Do as I say and–’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to keep his irritation in check. ‘Speak to Langelee. And do not summon me again unless you need urgent medical attention. I have other patients, and coming all the way out here for no reason might have put them in danger. Please do not do it again.’

Jodoca came over to rest a hand on his arm. ‘Do not be angry, Doctor. We did not mean to upset you, but we were not sure how else to proceed. We spoke to Carton about Sewale Cottage, but he must have forgotten to do as we asked, because Langelee is not including us in his negotiations.’

Bartholomew regarded her thoughtfully. ‘When did you speak to Carton?’

‘Last week. We knew he was conferring with Barnwell, so we collared him one night. He stayed here for ages, talking and drinking my ale. He was a pleasant, friendly man and I am sorry he died.’

Bartholomew could not imagine Carton spending a sociable evening with anyone who did not share his dogmatic religious convictions. He was also surprised to hear Carton described as pleasant and friendly. ‘What did you talk about?’

‘Dung,’ replied Arblaster. ‘Dominicans. Sorcery. Poison. You know the sort of thing.’

It seemed an odd collection of topics to Bartholomew. ‘What about them, exactly?’

Jodoca clearly wanted to be helpful, and to give an accurate account of the occasion. She screwed up her face, and thought hard. ‘First, he agreed that fresh manure produces poor parsnips. Second, he said the Dominicans are thinking of raising a new chapel, but thought the Sorcerer might object to more houses of God, who is his rival. And third, he asked if dung could be poisonous.’

Despite her efforts, Bartholomew was not much enlightened. As a Franciscan, Carton was unlikely to be privy to the Black Friars’ building plans, and nor should he have known what the Sorcerer might make of them. And why should he ask about poisons? Bartholomew thought about the packet Carton had found in Thomas’s room. Had Carton developed an interest in toxic substances because he believed he had lost a colleague to one?

‘There is a rumour that Carton was the Sorcerer,’ said Jodoca to her husband, when Bartholomew said nothing. ‘But I do not think it can be true.’

‘Of course it is not true,’ replied Arblaster. ‘The Sorcerer presided over his coven last night. But Carton is dead, so clearly he and the Sorcerer are two different people.’

‘Unless he rose from the grave,’ suggested Jodoca. ‘Warlocks are good at that sort of thing.’

Bartholomew retraced his steps along the Barnwell Causeway, deeply resenting the fact that the Arblasters had chosen the hottest time of day to summon him. Why could they not have waited until evening, when there might have been a breeze? He was staggered by their audacity, and tried to imagine Carton relaxing enough to be sociable with them. Had the Franciscan been fishing for information, perhaps pertaining to Thomas’s death, because he had been conducting his own investigation? Or had he merely taken the opportunity to enjoy the company of people who did not know him, and who did not expect him to hold forth about lofty academic matters? Bartholomew certainly appreciated the mundane conversation of men like Isnard on occasion, when his colleagues were in overly argumentative frames of mind.

His throat was dry and sore, and he wished he had not stalked out of the Arblasters’ house quite so frostily – that he tasted Jodoca’s ale first. After all, he deserved some recompense for his frantic dash along the baking Causeway. Then he saw the red roofs of Barnwell Priory, and smiled. The canons would give him something to drink.

He knocked on the gate, and was admitted by Fencotes, who laid a corpse-cold hand on the physician’s head in blessing. Norton was passing, and beckoned Bartholomew towards the infirmary, which he said was the second-coolest place in the convent; the first was the chapel, but he was wary of inviting scholars from Michaelhouse into that, given what had happened the last time he had done it. As they walked, Norton and Fencotes chatted knowledgeably about the buildings that were for sale in the town and the prices they were likely to fetch. They even knew about the Refham shops, and how Michaelhouse should have been allowed to purchase them for a pittance, but was likely to end up paying a lot more.

‘Everyone is interested in property these days,’ Norton explained, when Bartholomew asked why the canons were so well informed. ‘Ever since the plague. First, house prices dropped, because there was no one to live in the houses. Now the cost of desirable properties is rising, because they are in good repair, while the uninhabited ones have fallen into ruin. It is all very exciting.’

‘Even for men sworn to poverty?’ asked Bartholomew, failing to see why such a subject should seize anyone’s interest, but particularly those who had vowed to eschew worldly vices.

‘I have no wish to own houses myself,’ said Fencotes, a little reproachfully. ‘However, I have always been interested in homes, and bought and sold more than my share before I took the cowl.’

‘He was a secular most of his life,’ explained Norton, adding mysteriously, ‘In Norfolk.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.

Fencotes drew his cloak more closely around his skeletal shoulders and shivered. ‘Is it my imagination, or has the temperature dropped? It feels as cold as the grave out here.’

‘It is your imagination.’ Norton’s eyes bulged as an idea occurred to him. ‘But you can have a hot tisane, while we enjoy some of the ale you keep in your crypt.’

‘His crypt?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding Fencotes askance.

‘The one under the infirmary,’ explained Fencotes, gesturing with one of his corpse-pale hands. ‘It was stuffed full of coffins when I first arrived, which did not seem appropriate, given all the old men living out their last days in the chamber above it, so Podiolo helped me clear it out. It is a horribly frigid place, which is why we store ale there.’

‘Michael came to see us earlier today,’ said Norton unhappily, as they walked across the courtyard. ‘He wanted to know why we failed to mention Carton deceiving us about the price of Sewale Cottage. I hope he believed our explanation – that it is common practice, and we were expecting fibs. I would hate him to think we were being obstructive, when we want Carton’s killer caught more than anyone.’

‘We did not tell Michael one thing, though,’ added Fencotes. ‘That Carton was not very skilled at manipulating a price war; we knew he was lying when he said Spynk had offered nine marks.’

‘He was too wrapped up in religious matters to pay the proper attention, you see,’ elaborated Norton. ‘It takes effort and care to drive such bargains, and he was always distracted.’

‘We have an offer of eleven marks now,’ said Bartholomew, resisting the urge to point out that friars were supposed to be wrapped up in religious matters, and that the comment said more about Barnwell than Carton. ‘From Arblaster.’

Norton stopped dead in his tracks and regarded the physician intently. ‘I cannot tell if you are bluffing or not,’ he said eventually. ‘You are good.’

‘I think he is bluffing,’ said Fencotes. ‘But even if he is telling the truth, we should offer twelve. It will be worth it. That property is perfectly situated for a granary.’

‘Actually, it is not, because the ground slopes,’ argued Norton. ‘And the house is very small.’

‘The building can be extended if necessary,’ countered Fencotes. ‘Sewale Cottage will be a good, solid investment.’

They were still debating when they entered the infirmary, where Podiolo abandoned doing something odoriferous with pipes, flames and metal dishes, and came to greet them.

‘I am experimenting with sulphur today,’ he said, in response to Bartholomew’s questioning glance. ‘If I succeed in making gold from lead, it will be the culmination of my life’s work.’

‘Do your patients not object to the smell?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking an infirmary was not a good place to conduct tests that involved rank substances.

‘They are used to it. Look at Norton and Fencotes bickering over Sewale Cottage! I shall be glad when the place is sold, because I am tired of hearing about it. Will you share your cure for the flux with me? I have three men sick of it at the moment, and I lost the last two who succumbed.’

Bartholomew not only gave him the remedy, but examined the patients. Podiolo remarked that the cure was mild for such a virulent sickness, but was uninterested in hearing Bartholomew’s theory about the beneficial properties of boiled water. He silenced the physician with an impatient wave of his hand, and turned the discussion back to sulphur.

‘People keep talking about the Sorcerer,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the similarity between witchcraft and alchemy – both relied on powders, potions and a liberal sprinkling of incantations. ‘Do you have any idea who he might be?’

‘There are those who say it was Carton, because he was strange,’ replied Podiolo, grinning wolfishly. ‘There are others who claim it is I, because of my interest in making gold. I have even heard men say it is you, because you cure the flux where others have failed.’

Bartholomew was uneasy. ‘I hope you tell them it is not.’

‘I say you would not know how to cast a spell to save your life,’ said Podiolo, amusement in his yellow eyes. ‘And that if I were this great Sorcerer, I would have manufactured gold years ago.’

Bartholomew was then treated to a lengthy monologue about the advances Podiolo had made in his quest, but did not mind. It was cool in the infirmary, and Podiolo was generous with the ale. The Florentine was more interested in talking than listening, so all the physician had to do was nod occasionally. He began to relax for the first time in days. Eventually, Norton came to join them.

‘Will you pass this to Brother Michael? I meant to give it to him earlier, but his remarks about us not mentioning the bidding business were rather accusatory, and it slipped my mind.’

He held out his hand to reveal a stone with a hole it in, through which had been threaded a leather thong. Bartholomew had seen pebbles with natural cavities before, and knew they were highly prized as charms. This one was adorned with symbols that were unfamiliar. They were not Greek, Hebrew or Arabic, and he supposed they belonged to a language he had never seen written.

‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it and examining it with interest.

‘A holy-stone talisman,’ replied Norton, rather more knowledgeably than Bartholomew thought was appropriate for a man who should have known nothing of sorcery. ‘Used by folk who want to protect themselves against wolves. Obviously, it does not belong to any of us, so it must have been either Carton’s or his killer’s. Either way, it is a clue.’

‘How can you be sure it does not belong to any of you?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

Norton raised his eyebrows. ‘Because we are not afraid of wolves. Witches are another matter, but you do not wear a holy-stone to ward off witches. Any fool knows that.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who had known no such thing. He thought about Podiolo, and the rumours of his lupine ancestry. ‘Why are you not afraid of wolves, exactly?’

Norton’s eyes bulged so much that Bartholomew found himself braced to catch them when they popped out. ‘Because wolves would never invade us,’ he said, as though the answer were self-evident and Bartholomew was lacking in wits because he had been obliged to ask.

‘Where did you find it?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘Fencotes must take the credit for its discovery. He went to kneel on the spot where Carton died, to pray and cleanse the chapel after the violence that sullied it. While he was there, he saw this in a crack between the flagstones. It was near where Carton’s right hand would have been.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you saying Carton was holding it when he died?’

Norton shrugged. ‘It is possible. It is equally possible that the killer dropped it, perhaps when he was arranging the poor man’s limbs.’

‘And you are sure it was not there before Carton died? Perhaps one of your servants–’

‘They are not allowed in that chapel, which is the domain of canons alone. And, as I said, we have no need for this kind of talisman. The only explanation is that Carton or his killer must have brought it. Ergo, if you identify its owner, you may catch your murderer.’