The Devil's Disciples (45 page)

‘It is also used in rituals that attract Satan,’ countered Heltisle. ‘Younge told me.’

‘Well, there is a reliable source of information,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Is that why you charged Isnard with being a necromancer
this morning? Because he is keen to procure some dung?’

‘And the fact that he has a penchant for dozing in cemeteries,’ Heltisle mumbled. But the bargeman had just offered to do
him a considerable favour, so he shot him an ingratiating smile. ‘It was nothing personal, and it transpires that I may have
acted on inaccurate intelligence. You must forgive me.’

‘All right,’ agreed Isnard cheerfully. ‘But
you
must remember that without dung there would be no crops, no vegetables in the garden—’

‘Do not talk to me about gardens,’ muttered Heltisle, ushering the bargeman inside his College. Isnard paused just long enough
to ensure Michael was watching.

‘Perhaps I will let him back in the choir,’ said the monk with a sigh. ‘I do not think I can stomach much more of this obsequiousness.’

He turned to make his way back to Michaelhouse, and Bartholomew followed. The physician glanced at the sky and was relieved
to see the sun beginning to dip as evening approached. He was exhausted, and wanted no more than to sit in the conclave with
a cup of cool ale. It had been days since he had had an opportunity to relax with his colleagues, although he hoped William
would not be there.

‘It will be dark in a few hours,’ said Michael. ‘And whilst we have explained some of our mysteries, we are a long way from
solving the most important ones. We do not know the Sorcerer’s identity, who exhumed Thomas, Margery and Goldynham, or who
killed Carton, Thomas or Spynk.’

‘Do you think the Bishop’s men killed Spynk? They were near his body, after all.’

‘It is possible, but their presence in the garden might have been coincidence, and I would rather not challenge them until
I have solid evidence of wrongdoing.’ Michael threw up his hands in sudden despair. ‘I am at my wits’ end with this damned
business – and I am tempted to take the opportunity for a good night’s sleep, on the grounds that we will almost certainly
not have one tomorrow.’

They reached Michaelhouse, but before Bartholomew
could take more than a few steps towards the sanctuary of his room they became aware of a rumpus taking place in the conclave.
Michael grimaced.

‘I hope Langelee has not invited Osbern and Brownsley in there. I do not want them in the inner sanctum of my home – my refuge
from the world.’

They walked up the stairs, and entered the conclave. Langelee was standing by the window with a goblet in his hand. Wynewyk
was next to him, while Suttone poured wine from a small cask. The atmosphere was happy and convivial, and William was the
only Fellow not present. All attention was on a slight, dark-haired man who sat beaming affably at everyone from the Master’s
favourite chair.

‘Clippesby!’ Bartholomew exclaimed in delight, greeting the last of Michaelhouse’s Fellows with genuine affection. Seeing
him home again was the best thing that had happened all day. ‘What are you doing here? You are not supposed to be back until
September.’

‘Did you come because I am due to give an important sermon tomorrow night?’ asked Suttone, looking flattered. ‘It is to the
Guild of Corpus Christi, and I thought I might expound on the plague.’

‘Actually, I came because of Carton,’ replied the Dominican, smiling shyly when Michael grasped his shoulder to express his
own pleasure at the wanderer’s return. ‘I thought you might need me for teaching, especially when I heard Mildenale has given
his innate oddness free rein.’

‘Oddness?’ asked Michael warily. Clippesby was generally acknowledged to be insane, and had been incarcerated several times
for peculiar behaviour, so it was unsettling to hear him accusing someone else of
being strange. ‘You are not saying that just because he is a Franciscan, are you?’

Clippesby shot him a reproachful look. ‘I have never denigrated anyone for the colour of his habit. I am not William. And
I am not Mildenale, either.’

‘Yes, you have always been reasonable,’ acknowledged Langelee. ‘We are lucky to have you, because I doubt any other Dominican
would have put up with William all these years. I am just glad you have not had to endure the last month, because he has grown
much worse.’

‘He has fallen under Mildenale’s spell,’ explained Suttone, going to refill Clippesby’s goblet. ‘
Mildenalus Sanctus
has been whispering poisonous thoughts in his ear, and William is too stupid to dismiss them for the nonsense they are.’

‘Mildenale has always been extreme,’ said Wynewyk. ‘We should have tried to keep him away from William, because with hindsight,
it was obvious what was going to happen. William’s foray into more serious fanaticism is partly our fault.’

‘You would not think he needs our protection,’ said Langelee. ‘But you are probably right. Just because he has strong opinions
does not mean he has a strong mind to go with them.’

‘I knew Mildenale was dangerous,’ said Clippesby. ‘Not just to my fellow Dominicans, but to the whole town. So I applied for
a sabbatical leave of absence specifically to travel to Blackfriars in London, and warn my Prior-General about him. I intended
to come home as soon as I had delivered my message, but he kept me there. He said I needed a rest, although I cannot imagine
why. I was perfectly healthy.’

‘Does he know you are mad?’ asked Langelee bluntly. ‘That might account for it.’

‘I am not mad,’ said Clippesby mildly. ‘It is the rest of you who are lunatics. However, I did interrupt my interview with
the Prior-General to greet a hen, while his cat was a fascinating fellow. Unfortunately, not everyone appreciates the importance
of being polite to God’s smaller creatures. Including him, it would seem.’

‘Right,’ said Michael briskly, before they could go too far down a route that was sure to leave them all perplexed. Even Bartholomew
did not understand all the peculiar workings of Clippesby’s mind. ‘What did your Prior-General say when you told him about
Mildenale?’

‘That he should be monitored before any action was taken, to assess the extent of the danger he poses. I assumed he would
choose me to keep him informed, but he appointed Carton instead.’

‘Carton?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘But he is a Franciscan, and …’ He trailed off, thinking about what he knew – that Thomas had
been suspicious of Carton, because the Franciscan convent in London had been flooded on the date of his alleged ordination.
And
Carton had been party to building plans in the Dominican Priory, something a member of a rival Order should not have known.
The answer was suddenly blindingly clear. ‘Carton was a Black Friar!’

Clippesby nodded. ‘Since he was fifteen years old. But the Prior-General said the best person to obtain Mildenale’s confidence
would be another Franciscan, not a man from a different Order. Pretending to be a Grey Friar cannot have been easy for Carton,
and it was a brave thing to have done.’

‘He was uneasy, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He wore an amulet to protect him.’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Clippesby, nodding. ‘A holy-stone, which he told me was imbued with great power against the Devil and
wolves. He was a bit superstitious, but a good man, for all that.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Suttone suddenly. ‘This means we have buried him in the wrong cemetery!’

‘I do not think it matters,’ said Clippesby. ‘The Franciscans are decent men, and will not mind a Dominican among them.’ He
looked around, and saw his colleagues were not so sure. ‘But I can talk to Prior Morden and arrange a transfer, if you think
it is necessary.’

‘I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We do not want him excavated and tossed in the street when the two Orders are next at each other’s
throats. In fact, we had better retrieve him as soon as possible.’

‘Clippesby’s news explains a great deal,’ said Langelee, holding out his cup for more claret. ‘Carton was always particular
about privacy, and hated his students rifling through his belongings. It was because he really did have secrets.’

‘One secret was that he owned books popular with Dominicans,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what he had found when he had checked
the contents of the man’s personal library. ‘Some expounded the Black Friars’ stance on Blood Relics – which he probably told
Mildenale and William he was going to burn – and on the way to Barnwell Priory last week he forgot he was supposed to be a
Franciscan and started arguing the “wrong” side of the debate.’

‘He was very devout,’ said Langelee. ‘I never believed he lied about taking holy orders, despite Prior Pechem
pestering me to look at the documentation about it. And he only denounced Dominicans when pressed by one of his so-called
cronies. That must have pained him, but he would have had to do it or risk exposure. Being a spy is not easy; it takes more
skill than you imagine.’

‘What about the guide to witchery he owned?’ asked Michael of Clippesby. ‘And his enthusiasm for watching covens with Cynric?
Just how superstitious was he?’

‘The Prior-General has ordered all his friars to keep an eye on any superstitious activities they happen to come across,’
explained Clippesby, ‘so learning that Carton monitored covens comes as no surprise. Meanwhile, he probably collected this
witchery guide to burn – to “prove” to Mildenale that he was serious about stamping out heresy. Unfortunately, his more recent
letters to the Prior-General showed he thought he was losing Mildenale’s trust.’

‘You arranged for him to come here in the first place,’ recalled Langelee. ‘You wrote asking if we would make him a commoner.
Then we elected him a Fellow.’

‘That was not supposed to happen,’ said Clippesby. ‘He was able to worm his way into Mildenale’s confidence when they were
commoners together, but maintaining the friendship was difficult once he was promoted.’

‘So
that
is why the situation with Mildenale began to deteriorate,’ said Michael in understanding. ‘Carton’s control over him started
to slip. It coincides with when William fell under Mildenale’s spell, too.’

‘Precisely,’ said Clippesby. He looked sad. ‘When I read Carton’s missives to our Prior-General and realised what was happening,
I decided I had better come home. Unfortunately, I have arrived too late to save Carton’s life.’

‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Mildenale found out that one of his most trusted
allies was actually a Black Friar?’

Clippesby regarded him soberly. ‘It is possible. However, suspicions are not evidence, as Brother Michael is in the habit
of saying. You will need proof before you accuse him.’

It was still light when Bartholomew went to bed that night, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and was difficult to rouse
two hours later when Cynric came to inform him that he was needed at the castle; Tulyet had engaged in a furious skirmish
with the Huntingdon Way robbers, and two of his men had been hurt. Still not fully awake, the physician traipsed to the great
fortress in the north of the town. Darkness had fallen at last, although there was still a hint of colour in the western sky,
and bats were out in force, feasting on the insects that had proliferated in the unseasonable heat.

‘We got one,’ said Tulyet, watching him suture a wound in a soldier’s abdomen that would almost certainly prove fatal. Mercifully,
the man was unconscious, and knew nothing of what was happening or the physician would not have attempted it.

‘One what?’ asked Bartholomew, his attention more on his work than the restlessly pacing Sheriff. Tulyet walked stiffly, suggesting
he had not escaped the encounter unscathed, but he had brushed aside concerned questions.

‘One of the robbers,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘What else have
we been talking about since you arrived? They swooped down on us at Girton, not a mile from the castle, if you can believe
their audacity! They were there before we could muster our defences, and then they were gone, leaving these two injured and
Ned Archer dead. They were so fast – I have never seen anything like it.’

‘This is the first time you have fought them?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on his patient and Tulyet at the same
time. They were alone in the room, and he sensed his friend’s need to share his frustration and shock – and the importance
of not doing it in front of the men who were waiting for him to lead them out again as soon as the horses were ready.

Tulyet nodded. ‘Until now, I have only seen the aftermath of their attacks, because they are gone long before my patrols arrive.
But this was a carefully planned ambush, and we were found lacking.’

‘When you say you “got” one of the robbers, what do you mean exactly? Is he dead? Does he need medical attention?’

‘He is sitting in my prison with a smug smile on his face, assuring his guards that he will be free within a week. He says
he has powerful friends who will not let him rot in gaol.’

‘I do not suppose he has a bushy beard, does he? Or is abnormally large?’

‘No – he is a grey-headed fellow of average height. He is well-dressed, though, and asked for a psalter to pass the hours.
However, I did spot a bearded man during the ambush, and I saw one who was unusually large, too. The thought crossed my mind
that they might be the pair you say have been renting Refham’s forge. The attack was not far from the place, after all.’

‘Brownsley and Osbern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Bishop’s bailiff and hawker, respectively.’

‘De Lisle is behind all this mayhem?’ Tulyet stopped pacing to gape at him.

‘He is in Avignon,’ said Bartholomew evasively, loath to accuse a high-ranking churchman of heinous crimes to a royally appointed
official. ‘How can he know what his retinue does in his absence? However, Brownsley told Michael he is on his way to Ely,
to raise money for the Bishop’s living expenses. Perhaps this is an easier way of doing it than collecting taxes.’

Tulyet stared at him. ‘A man called Osbern le Hawker was responsible for theft and damage that cost Spynk a thousand pounds,
while one named Brownsley terrorised Danyell. And this is the pair you say you fought – twice in the house I want for Dickon,
and once when they attacked Refham?’