The Devil's Disciples (6 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What other rumour?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

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

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

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

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

Bartholomew was troubled by Langelee’s contention that half the town thought he was a warlock, but was to be granted no time
to answer the accusations. A second message arrived from Arblaster, urging him to make haste. Although he would have preferred
to go alone, he found himself accompanied not only by Cynric, but by Carton, too. The newest Michaelhouse Fellow did not often
seek out the company of his colleagues – other than William and Mildenale – and the physician was surprised when Carton expressed
a desire to join him.

‘I have business at Barnwell Priory, which you will pass
en route
to Arblaster’s home,’ Carton explained. ‘As you know, they are interested in buying one of Michaelhouse’s properties, and
Langelee has asked me to clarify a few details. Do you mind me coming with you?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew warily, wondering if the friar wanted him alone so he could accuse him of heresy. Or perhaps his
intention was to persuade him to take major orders. It would not be the first time a Franciscan had tried to recruit him;
the Order was notoriously aggressive in grabbing new members. Unfortunately for
them, Bartholomew was in love with a woman called Matilde, and had not quite given up hope that she might return to Cambridge
one day and agree to become his wife. Although he had not seen her in almost two years, his feelings had not diminished, and
he could hardly marry her if he became a priest.

Carton smiled his strange smile, and gestured that the physician was to precede him through the College’s front gate. ‘Good.
This term has been so busy that we have had no time to talk.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. He thought fast, trying to come up with a subject that would discourage Carton from interrogating
him about the points William had raised in his Sermon: his association with Mother Valeria, and his willingness to consider
medical theories that had not been derived from the teachings of ancient Greeks. ‘Actually, I did not know Barnwell wanted
one of our houses. Which one?’

Carton looked amused. ‘It was the main topic of discussion at the last Statutory Fellows’ Meeting. Were you not listening?
I suppose it explains why you were so quiet.’

The conclave had been called shortly after Thomas’s death, and Bartholomew had spent the time silently agonising over what
had happened. ‘I must have been thinking about something else,’ he mumbled uncomfortably.

‘Barnwell wants the house Margery Sewale left us. There has been a lot of interest in it, and Langelee needs a complete list
of potential buyers.’

‘He cannot go himself ?’

Carton smiled again. ‘I volunteered. I like the canons – they always invite me to join their prayers when I visit. In fact,
I would rather we sold Sewale Cottage to them instead of to any of the laymen who are after it.’

Bartholomew led the way through the tangle of alleys called the Old Jewry, passing the cottage in which Matilde had lived.
He let memories of her wash over him, barely hearing Carton’s monologue on Barnwell Priory’s beautiful chapels. He remembered
her pale skin, and the scent of her hair. He was still thinking about her when they passed through the town gate, and stepped
on to the raised road known as the Barnwell Causeway. The Causeway was prone to floods during wet weather, and there were
many tales of travellers wandering off it and drowning in the adjacent bogs. That summer, however, it stood proud of the surrounding
countryside, and the marshes were bone dry. It wound ahead of them like a dusty serpent, wavering and shimmering in the heat.

As they walked, Carton began talking about a text he had read on Blood Relics, while Cynric lagged behind, bored. Bartholomew
was not gripped by the complex theology surrounding the Blood Relic debate, either, but was content to let Carton hold forth.
The Franciscan became animated as he spoke, and his eyes shone; Bartholomew was reminded yet again that he was a deeply religious
man. Then he frowned as the friar’s words sunk in.

‘You think the blood of the Passion is
not
separate from Christ’s divinity?’ he asked, unsure if he had heard correctly. ‘That is the Dominicans’ basic thesis.’

Carton looked flustered. ‘Yes, I know. I was just following a line of argument, to see where it led. I was not propounding
it as an accurate viewpoint. Of course Christ’s blood is separate from His divinity. Every decent Franciscan knows that.’

Immediately he began to talk about something else, but the excitement was lost from his voice. Bartholomew
wondered what was wrong with him. Then it occurred to him that Carton was a good scholar, clever enough to make up his own
mind about the Blood Relic debate, so perhaps he did not agree with his Order’s stance on the issues involved. Of course,
if that were true, then he was wise to keep his opinions to himself, because William and Mildenale would not approve of dissenters.

Not long after, Bartholomew looked up to see Spaldynge sauntering towards them. A servant staggered along behind him, laden
down with pots; the Clare man had gone to the priory to buy honey for his College. There was no way to avoid him on the narrow
path and, with weary resignation, Bartholomew braced himself for another barrage of accusations. Sure enough, Spaldynge opened
his mouth when he was close enough to be heard, but Carton spoke first.

‘I have been meaning to talk to you, Spaldynge,’ he said. ‘It seems we have a mutual acquaintance – Mother Kirbee and I hail
from the same village. She told me she still mourns her son.’

The blood drained from Spaldynge’s face. ‘What?’

‘Mother Kirbee,’ repeated Carton. Bartholomew glanced at him, and was unsettled to note that the expression on his face was
cold and hard. ‘Her boy was called James.’

Spaldynge stared at Carton, his jaw working soundlessly. Then he pushed past the Michaelhouse men without another word and
began striding towards the town, head lowered. He moved too fast for his servant, who abandoned his efforts to keep up when
one of the jars slipped from his hands and smashed. Spaldynge glanced around at the noise, but did not reduce his speed.

Bartholomew watched in surprise, then turned to Carton. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I do not care for him.’ Carton’s voice was icy, and there was a glint in his eye that the physician did not like. ‘He rails
against
medici
for failing to cure his family, but does not consider the possibility that
he
was to blame. Perhaps he was being punished for past sins.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. He had heard other clerics say plague victims had got what they deserved, but he had not
expected to hear it from a colleague – a man of education and reason.

‘Fifteen years ago, Spaldynge was accused of stabbing James Kirbee,’ said Carton, when he made no reply. ‘The charge was dropped
on the grounds of insufficient evidence, but that does not mean he was innocent. I suspect Spaldynge’s family paid the price
for his crime when the plague took them.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you sure? About the murder, I mean. I have never heard this tale—’

‘Of course I am sure,’ said Carton irritably. ‘How can you even ask such a question, when you saw for yourself how he took
to his heels when I confronted him with his misdeed?’

‘He did look guilty,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But—’

‘Sinners!’ interrupted Carton bitterly. ‘They brought the Death down on us the first time, and they will do it again. And
Spaldynge is one of the worst.’

Bartholomew was not sure how to respond. He was stunned – not only to learn what Spaldynge had done, but by the fact that
Carton was ready to use it against him.

‘Did you test that powder from Thomas’s room?’ Carton asked, changing the subject before the physician could take issue with
him. Bartholomew supposed it was
just as well, given that neither would be willing to concede the other’s point of view and the discussion might end up being
acrimonious. ‘Was it poison?’

‘The experiment is still running. Where did you find it again?’

‘In a chest under his bed. I thought it might explain why he died so suddenly, because I still do not believe you killed him.
No one should blame you, and it is time you stopped feeling guilty about it.’

Bartholomew blinked, baffled by the man and his whirlwind of contradictions – from spiteful bigot to sympathetic friend in
the space of a sentence. Then they arrived at Barnwell Priory, and Carton left to knock on the gate, relieving the physician
of the need to think of a response. Once he had gone, Cynric came to walk at Bartholomew’s side. The book-bearer squinted
at the sun.

‘The Devil is responsible for all this hot weather. Father William said so.’

There was something comfortingly predictable about Cynric’s superstitions – far more so than Carton’s bewildering remarks.
Bartholomew smiled, relieved to be back in more familiar territory.

‘William told me the Devil is getting ready to unleash the next bout of plague on us, too,’ he said. ‘So he must be very busy.’

Irony was lost on Cynric, who nodded sagely. ‘The Devil is powerful enough to do both
and
comb the beards of Bene’t’s goats. Carton is a strange fellow, do you not think? He is not the man he was. In fact, he has
changed so much that there is talk about him in the town.’

‘I do not want to hear it, Cynric,’ warned Bartholomew. He had never approved of gossip.

‘You should, because it affects Michaelhouse. It is his stance on sin – he condemns it too loudly.’

Bartholomew did not understand what his book-bearer was saying. ‘I should hope so. He is a priest, and that is what they are
supposed to do. If he spoke
for
it, I would be worried.’

‘You are missing my point. He condemns it
too
loudly – and it makes me think it is a ruse.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly, still not sure what he was trying to say. So much for being in familiar territory. ‘A ruse?’

‘For what he really thinks,’ elaborated Cynric. Because it is said in the town that Carton is the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew was used to his book-bearer drawing wild conclusions from half-understood facts, but this was a record, even for
him. He regarded Cynric in astonishment, not knowing how to begin disabusing him of the notion, but aware that unless the
belief was nipped in the bud fairly smartly, it would flower into something permanent.

‘No,’ he managed eventually. ‘Carton is not a heretic, and you cannot say—’

‘He has always been interested in witchery,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘We used to spy on the covens together, the ones that meet
in St John Zachary or All Saints-next-the-Castle – I have been keeping an eye on them since the Death, as you know. Then he
stopped coming, just like that. It was because he joined one, see. And he was so good at it that they made him their master.
It is true!’

‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, appalled that Cynric should have devised such a monstrous theory on such a fragile thread of
‘evidence’.