The Devil's Disciples (4 page)

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.