The Devil's Disciples (11 page)

‘Why not?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Is it because you have nowhere else to go?’

‘I have dozens of folk clamouring for my company,’ snapped William, although smirks from his students suggested Langelee’s
brutal enquiry was probably near the truth. ‘But I do not choose to see them at the moment. Besides, the College is at a crucial
stage in the buying and selling of properties, and you cannot make those sorts of decisions without the Fellowship. You need
us here.’

‘That is true,’ acknowledged Langelee with a grimace. ‘Very well, the Fellows can stay.’

‘What about me?’ asked Mildenale. His eyes drifted heavenwards. ‘God came to me in a vision at Easter, and ordered me to found
a new hostel. I am on the brink of
doing so, and it would be inconvenient to leave now. I should stay, too, working for the greater glory of God.’

‘All right,’ agreed Langelee tiredly, aware that to refuse would almost certainly result in accusations that he was taking
the Devil’s side. ‘But everyone else must begin packing immediately.’

‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, as the Master stepped down from the dais and the students swooped towards him, full of questions
and objections. ‘He handled that badly. Now rumours will start that Michaelhouse has been targeted by a vengeful killer, and
the other Colleges and hostels will assume we have done something to warrant the attack.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Cynric, appearing suddenly at Bartholomew’s side. ‘Carton’s murder is more likely to be seen as part
of the battle between the Church and the Sorcerer. Unusually for Cambridge, it is not a town –University division this time,
because there are scholars and laymen in both factions. Unfortunately, it means no one knows who is on whose side. Like a
civil war.’

‘He can be a gloomy fellow sometimes,’ said Michael, watching him walk away to help the other servants move the tables. ‘I
wonder you put up with him, Matt.’

‘He has saved my life – and yours – more times than I care to remember.’

‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But which side will he choose in this looming battle between good
and evil?’

‘It is not a battle between good and evil,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is a battle between two belief systems, each with its own
merits and failings. The Sorcerer will not see himself as wicked, but as someone who offers a viable alternative to the Church.’

‘Wynewyk is right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the monk was about to take issue. ‘And the Church can be repressive and dogmatic,
so choosing between them may not be as simple as you think. It has adherents like William and Mildenale for a start, which
does not render it attractive.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘That is a contentious stance; perhaps William is right to say you dance too closely
with heresy. However, while I might –
might
– concede your point, please do not express that opinion to anyone else. I do not want to see you on a pyre in the Market
Square.’

Langelee had barely quit the dais before William was in full preaching mode, declaring loudly that no one would die if he
put his trust in God and stayed away from Dominicans. Mildenale stood behind him, whispering in his ear, and Bartholomew noted
unhappily that William’s booming voice and Mildenale’s sharp intelligence were a formidable combination. Michael watched in
horror as the students began to be swayed by the tirade and, not wanting the Black Friars banging on the gate and demanding
apologies for such undeserved slander, he stepped forward hastily.

‘You interrupted the Master before he had time to explain himself!’ he shouted, banging on the high table with a pewter plate
in order to still the clamour and make himself heard. ‘The reason you are being asked to leave has nothing to do with Carton,
and nothing to do with Dominicans being in league with the Sorcerer, either. It is because of the latrines.’

A startled silence met his claim. Langelee tried to look as though he knew what the monk was talking about,
but failed dismally. Fortunately, everyone else was too intent on gaping at Michael to notice the Master’s feeble attempt
to appear knowledgeable.

‘What about them?’ asked William eventually.

‘The trenches are almost full, and Matt thinks the miasma that hangs around them in this ungodly heat will give everyone the
flux,’ elaborated Michael. It was the physician’s turn to conceal his surprise, although he hoped he managed it better than
Langelee. ‘New ones will be dug, but until they are ready, it is safer for you all to go home.’

‘But the Fellows will be here,’ said Deynman the librarian. ‘They still need to—’

‘We will use the smaller pit by the stables,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘It can cope with Fellows, but not with students and
commoners, too, which is why you must all disappear for a week.’

‘Why did the Master not say this straight away?’ asked Mildenale, not unreasonably.

‘Because heads of Colleges do not air such unsavoury topics in public,’ supplied Deynman before Michael could think of a reply
that Mildenale would believe. ‘It is undignified, and they leave that sort of thing to senior proctors, who are less refined.’

‘Thank you, Deynman,’ said Michael, a pained expression on his face. ‘Now, unless the Master has any more to add, I suggest
you all go and make ready for an early departure tomorrow.’

Bartholomew was obliged to field a welter of enquiries about the relationship between latrines and miasmas, and it was difficult
to answer without contradicting what the monk had said. While he believed that dirty latrines could and did harbour diseases,
he was becoming increasingly
convinced that the current flux had its origins in heat-spoiled meat. However, he supposed some good would come out of Michael’s
lie, because Langelee would have no choice but to order new pits dug now, which was something the physician had been requesting
for months.

‘They were more interested in your theories about hygiene than distressed over Carton,’ observed Michael, coming to talk to
him when most of the students had left and only the Fellows and commoners remained. ‘What an indictment of his popularity.’

‘I am sorry he is dead,’ said Deynman, coming to stand with them while they waited for Mildenale and William to finish talking
to the Master. ‘He always returned his library books on time, which cannot be said for everyone. You two, for example.’

Bartholomew smiled sheepishly. ‘Bradwardine’s
Proportiones Breves
. I will bring it tomorrow.’

‘You said that yesterday,’ replied Deynman, unappeased.

‘Is that the only tribute you can pay Carton?’ asked Michael, hoping to sidetrack him. He was still using Lombard’s
Sentences
, and did not want to give it back. ‘That he was good at remembering when his library books were due?’

Deynman frowned, and Bartholomew could see him desperately trying to think of something nice to say. A naturally affable,
positive soul, Deynman was always willing to look for the good in people, even when there was not much to find, and the fact
that he was struggling said a lot about Carton. The Fellow had not been unpleasant, surly or rude; he had just not been very
friendly, and had done little to make his colleagues like him.

‘He donated three medical books to the library,’ said Deynman eventually, looking pleased with himself for having thought
of something. Then his face fell. ‘Damn! I was not supposed to tell you about those. He said they are heretical and should
be burned, but could not bring himself to do it, so he gave them to me to look after instead. The only condition was that
I never let you or your students read them, lest you become infected with the poisonous theories they propound.’

‘What books?’ demanded Bartholomew keenly. Texts were hideously expensive, and the College did not own many, especially on
medicine. The notion of three more was an exciting prospect.

Deynman opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again when he realised he could not remember. So he led them to his
‘library’ – a corner of the hall with shelves, two chests and a table. Michaelhouse’s precious tomes were either locked in
the boxes or chained to the walls, depending on their value and popularity.

‘Brother Michael can inspect them,’ he said, kneeling to unlock the larger and stronger of the two chests. ‘But not you, Doctor
Bartholomew. Carton made me promise.’

He presented three rather tatty items to Michael, who opened them and shrugged. ‘You are already familiar with these, Matt.
They are by Arab practitioners, and Carton was a bit of a bigot regarding foreign learning. However, I doubt Ibn Sina’s
Canon
will set the world on fire.’

‘I hope not,’ replied Bartholomew dryly. ‘It has been an established part of the curriculum for decades.’ He saw the librarian’s
blank look, and wondered if any of the lectures the lad had attended over the last five years had stuck in his ponderous mind.
‘Ibn Sina is more
commonly known as Avicenna, Deynman. You should know that, even if Carton did not, because you attended a whole series of
debates on his writings last year.’

Deynman frowned, then shrugged carelessly. ‘Did I? I do not recall. Incidentally, Mildenale told me Carton had collected a
lot of texts on witchery, and said he was keeping them for a massive bonfire. He was going to have it in the Market Square,
so everyone could enjoy it.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. Book-burning was deeply repellent to most scholars, regardless of what
the tomes might contain, and the fact that Bartholomew was only learning now that Carton was the kind of person to do it underlined
yet again how little he had known the man. The discovery did not make him wish he had made more of an effort.

‘Because he thought people should be aware of the huge volume of material that contains dangerous ideas, or is written by
infidels,’ explained Deynman. He brightened. ‘Now he is dead, can I have them for the library? We do not own any books on
the occult.’

‘I am glad to hear it – and I think we had better keep it that way,’ said Michael, amused. ‘However, Matt and I will sort
through his belongings today, and the library shall have anything appropriate. I happen to know the College is the sole beneficiary
of his will, so they will come to us anyway.’

‘Good,’ said Deynman. ‘But make sure you get to them before
Mildenalus Sanctus
does. He disapproved of Carton’s collection. I heard them arguing about it several times. He thought Carton should give them
to him for destruction, but Carton refused. A couple of the rows were quite heated.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, exchanging a significant glance with Bartholomew. ‘This is interesting. We shall have to ask him about
it.’

‘He will probably deny it,’ said Deynman. ‘He and Carton pretended they were the best of friends when I asked them to squabble
somewhere other than around my books, but I know what I heard. But I am a busy man, and have no time to waste chatting. I
want my books back today, and if you forget, I shall fine you. I can, because I am
librarian
.’ He turned on his heel and swaggered away.

‘Sometimes, I think promoting him to that post was not a very good idea,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘He has turned into
a despot.’

While Michael lingered, waiting to catch Mildenale and William as they left the hall, Bartholomew went to Carton’s room in
search of the books. Normally, he would have been uneasy rifling through a colleague’s possessions, especially one so recently
dead, but the fact that Carton had owned medical texts – albeit ones with which he was already familiar – made him hope that
the Franciscan might have a few even more interesting items secreted away.

But he was to be disappointed. There was indeed a collection of texts locked in a chest at the bottom of Carton’s bed – his
students showed him where he hid the key – but it contained nothing to excite the curiosity of a
medicus
. There were several essays on Blood Relics, all of which supported the Dominican side of the debate, and a series of tracts
scribed by Jewish and Arabic philosophers that the Franciscan had evidently deemed unfit for English eyes. Then there were
three scrolls that told their
readers how to make magic charms, while a large, heavy book, carefully wrapped in black cloth, proudly declared itself to
be a practical manual for witches.

‘He was going to burn them,’ said one of Carton’s room-mates, watching Bartholomew flick through the manual. It was not comfortable
reading, even for a man who had encountered similar texts at the universities of Padua and Montpellier. ‘And he kept them
locked away in the meantime, so no one would inadvertently see one and become contaminated.’

‘But you knew where he kept the key,’ Bartholomew pointed out, knowing that locked chests in Colleges were regarded as challenges,
not barriers, and room-mates expected to be familiar with their friends’ intimate possessions. ‘You could have read these
texts any time he was not here.’

‘We would not have dared,’ replied the student grimly. ‘He would have known, and we did not want to annoy him. He took his
privacy far more seriously than you other Fellows.’

Bartholomew carried the theological and philosophical texts to Deynman, and handed the ones on the occult to Langelee. The
Master started to peruse the guide to witchcraft, but soon became bored with its arcane language and secret symbols. He shoved
it on a high shelf in his office, where Bartholomew imagined it would languish until it was forgotten.

The physician returned to the hall, to find Michael had been talking to Agatha the laundress. Agatha had exempted herself
from the rule that no women were allowed inside University buildings, and ran the domestic side of the College with a fierce
efficiency; scholars crossed her at their peril. She was, however, a valuable
source of information, and Bartholomew was not surprised the monk had picked her brains about the various matters he was obliged
to investigate.

‘So, I know nothing about any of it,’ she was saying. She sounded sorry; she liked to help the monk with his investigations,
because it made her feel powerful. ‘Not about Carton, the desecration of Margery and Danyell, the blood in the font, or Bene’t’s
missing goats. However, I can tell you one thing you should know: the meat is spoiled for tonight’s supper, and I only bought
it yesterday.’