The Devil's Disciples (7 page)

‘Think about it logically,’ persisted Cynric. ‘All the Fellows were asleep when Margery was hauled from her grave and the
blood was left in our font – except Carton. I happened to notice his bed was empty as I walked past his room.’

‘I was not asleep then, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it was very hot last night. I am sure Carton was not the only
one who got up in search of cooler air.’

‘He was,’ declared Cynric, with absolute certainty. ‘Similarly, you were all teaching when Bene’t’s goats went missing, but
Carton was busy elsewhere – alone. And who was the only man to go out on the night Danyell died and his hand was chopped off
–
other
than you? Carton!’

‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There will be perfectly rational explanations for all this.’

‘There will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And they are that he is the Sorcerer – the man whose dark power grows stronger every day, and
who aims to seduce decent, God-fearing men away from the Church.’

‘Is that the Sorcerer’s intention, then?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the discussion. He knew from past debates
that Cynric would never accept that his ‘logic’ might be flawed, and did not want to argue with him. ‘To promote his coven
at the expense of the Church?’

The book-bearer nodded with great seriousness, then pointed to a small blemish on the palm of his hand. ‘Along with banishing
warts. I had one myself, so I bought one of his remedies, and you can see it worked. He is not all bad, I suppose.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, at a loss for words. He was beginning to wish he had made the journey alone,
and wondered whether the heatwave was responsible for some of the peculiar thinking that was afflicting his Michaelhouse cronies.

‘Here is Arblaster’s house,’ said Cynric, regarding it with disapproval. ‘It is recently painted, which tells you he has money
to squander while decent folk must eke a living in the fields.’

‘He probably paid someone to do the work,’ countered Bartholomew, getting a bit tired of the book-bearer’s flamboyant opinions.
‘Which means he provided employment for—’

‘Great wealth is all wrong,’ interrupted Cynric firmly. ‘And against God’s proper order.’

Bartholomew was tempted to point out that if Cynric felt so strongly about ‘God’s proper order’, he should not be wearing
pagan amulets around his neck. But he said nothing, and instead studied the cottage that so offended the Welshman’s sense
of social justice. It was larger than he expected, with a neat thatch and fat chickens scratching in the garden. Tall hedges
surrounded a field that released a foul smell; he supposed it was where Arblaster composted the commodity that had brought
him his fortune. Seven black goats were tethered under a tree by the river. While they waited for the door to be answered,
Cynric jabbed the physician with his elbow and pointed at them.

‘Bene’t College lost seven black goats,’ he said meaningfully.

Bartholomew rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘So Carton is the Sorcerer, and Arblaster – a respectable merchant – steals the University’s
livestock? What other tales can you concoct? That Master Langelee has a penchant for wearing our laundress’s clothes?’

‘No, but your colleague Wynewyk does,’ replied Cynric,
without the merest hint that he was jesting. ‘They are too large for him, but he makes do.’

Bartholomew was relieved when the door opened, saving him from more of Cynric’s unsettling conversation. A woman stood there,
small and pretty. She wore a red kirtle – a long gown – with a close-fitting bodice that accentuated her slender figure. Her
white-gold hair was gathered in plaits at the side of her face, held in place with an elegant silver net called a fret. Her
dark blue eyes were slightly swollen, showing she had been crying.

‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘I recognise you from the public debates in St Mary the Great. It is good
of you to come, especially as we are Doctor Rougham’s patients, not your own. I am Jodoca, Paul Arblaster’s wife.’

Bartholomew recognised her, too, because even scholars in love with women they had not seen for two years could not fail to
notice such pale loveliness. His students talked about Jodoca in reverent tones, and had voted her the town’s most attractive
lady. He nodded a friendly greeting and stepped inside, grateful to be out of the sun at last.

The house smelled of honey-scented wax, and a servant was on her knees in the hearth, polishing the stones. Silken cloths
covered the table and there were books on a shelf above the window. Bartholomew could see by the embossing on the covers that
they were philosophical tracts, indicating that someone was interested in honing his mind. The house and its contents told
him the Arblasters were wealthy folk who paid heed to the finer points of life. It told Cynric so, too, and he looked around
him disparagingly.

‘I have been so worried about Paul,’ Jodoca went on. ‘I am at my wits’ end.’

‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The flux?’

She nodded miserably, then turned to Cynric. ‘There is new ale in the pantry, and it must have been an unpleasantly hot walk
for you. My maid will show you where it is kept.’

Cynric beamed in surprise, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the book-bearer might be prepared to overlook her
disgusting wealth if polite consideration was shown to servants.

‘I have been watching for you from the upstairs window,’ said Jodoca, looking back at Bartholomew. ‘For one awful moment,
I thought you were going to see the canons at Barnwell first. I saw one of you go in, and was afraid I might have to run over
and drag you out again.’

‘That was Carton,’ provided Cynric, willing to be helpful in return for his ale. ‘Michaelhouse is selling a cottage, and he
has gone to discuss terms with the Prior. But we came straight here, because your summons sounded so urgent.’

‘It is urgent,’ said Jodoca, fighting back tears. ‘I am frightened for Paul. We are used to dung, being in the business and
all, but this flux is too horrible, even for us.’

‘I will be in the pantry, then,’ said Cynric, evidently thinking this was more detail than he needed. He had disappeared before
Jodoca could add anything else.

Bartholomew allowed Jodoca to haul him along a corridor to a pleasant chamber at the back of the house. Here, the odour was
rather less pleasant. The patient was sitting in bed, surrounded by buckets. He was
pale and feverish, but not so ill that he could not do some writing. A ledger was on his knees, and he was recording figures
in it. He smiled when Bartholomew was shown in.

‘At last! I was beginning to think you might not come. It is a long way from town, and I understand you do not own a horse.
It is a pity. Nags are good sources of dung.’

Arblaster was a large, powerful man with thick yellow hair that sprouted from his head in unruly clumps. He was a burgess,
and Bartholomew had seen him taking part in various civic ceremonies, when the hair had been carefully wetted down in an attempt
to make it lie flat. It usually popped up again as soon as it was dry, showing that attempts to tame it were a waste of time.
Bartholomew knew little about him, other than the fact that he purchased large quantities of aromatic herbs to prevent the
odour of his wares from entering his home: the apothecary claimed Arblaster was a bigger customer than all three of the town’s
physicians put together.

‘I thought he was going to Barnwell Priory first,’ said Jodoca, plumping up his pillows. ‘But that was Carton, going to discuss
house business with Prior Norton.’

‘I suppose Barnwell is interested in Sewale Cottage,’ said Arblaster. ‘Greedy devils! They will own the entire town soon.’

Bartholomew went to feel the speed of the dung-merchant’s pulse, already sure Arblaster was not as ill as his wife seemed
to think. ‘When did you first start to feel unwell?’

‘Last night. It was probably the goat we had for dinner. I told Jodoca it was off.’

‘And I told you to leave it, if you thought it was tainted,’
Jodoca replied, sitting on the bed and stroking her husband’s hair affectionately. ‘I have a summer cold, and could not taste
it.’

‘Goat manure is not as good as horse,’ said Arblaster, smiling genially at the physician. ‘Does your College own cows? If
so, I will give you a good price for their muck.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. He was not used to patients touting for dung in the middle of consultations. ‘I think we
send it to our manor in Ickleton,’ he said, to bring the discussion to an end. ‘What else did you eat yesterday?’

‘Nothing. People despise dung, but it is the stuff on which our country is built. Without it, there would be no crops, which
means no food and no people. We owe a lot to muck.’

Bartholomew did not find it easy to acquire the information he needed to make an accurate diagnosis, and by the time he had
finished, he had learned more about manure and its various properties than was pleasant. The stream of information came to
a merciful end when Arblaster was seized with a sudden need to make use of one of the buckets. The exercise left him exhausted.

‘Two inmates from Barnwell hospital died of this flux last week,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I do not want Jodoca to join them
in their graves – I have heard how fast it can pass from person to person.’

‘There is no reason she should become sick,’ said Bartholomew. He was tempted to explain his theory that rotten meat was responsible
for the illness, but the brisk walk in the searing sun and the taxing discussions with Cynric and Carton had sapped his energy;
he did not
feel like embarking on a lengthy medical debate. ‘And besides, the hospital inmates are old men. Jodoca is a young woman,
and so is less likely to succumb.’

‘You mean
I
will die, then?’ asked Arblaster in an appalled whisper. ‘Because I am a man who is approaching forty years of age?’

Bartholomew was aware that tiredness was robbing him of his wits; he should have known better than to make remarks that might
be misinterpreted. ‘Of course not. I can give you medicine that will make you feel better by morning. It contains—’

‘My sickness is the Devil’s work,’ interrupted Arblaster, fear in his eyes now. ‘I had an argument with Mother Valeria a week
ago – she tried to overcharge me for a spell and I refused to pay. She must have cursed me. That is why I lie dying.’

‘You are not dying,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And Valeria does not put curses on people.’

‘She does, boy,’ countered Cynric, who was watching from the doorway, a jug of ale in his hand. ‘She is very good at it, which
is why you should never annoy her. She likes you now, but that could change in an instant. It would be safer if you had nothing
to do with her, as I have told you before.’

‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering how Cynric came by his information. He did not have the energy for it, regardless.
He turned back to the business in hand, removing angelica and barley from his bag, and dropping them into a pot of water that
was bubbling on the hearth. ‘Mistress Jodoca, your husband needs to drink as much of this as—’

‘She is not staying,’ said Arblaster. His expression was grimly determined. ‘When I die, Mother Valeria will
come for my soul, and I do not want Jodoca here when that happens.’

‘I cannot leave you,’ protested Jodoca, aghast at the notion. ‘I am your wife!’

‘You are not going to die,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘You are strong, and this is not a serious—’

‘Please do as I ask, Jodoca,’ interrupted Arblaster. ‘Leave now, and go to stay with your brother. No woman should see her
man’s spirit ripped bloodily from his corpse.’

‘That will not happen,’ insisted Bartholomew although he could see Arblaster did not believe him. ‘And someone needs to be
here, to administer this cure. There is no need to send her—’

‘Jodoca, go,’ ordered Arblaster. ‘If you love me, you will not argue.’

Tears flowing, Jodoca backed out of the room. Her footsteps tapped along the corridor and across the yard, then all was silent
again. Bartholomew asked Cynric to fetch the maid, so she could be shown how to do the honours with the remedy, but she had
apparently overheard the discussion and fled, for she was nowhere to be found. The house was deserted.

‘We cannot leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew to his book-bearer. ‘He is not as ill as he believes, but he still needs nursing.
Will you wait here, while I walk to Barnwell and ask one of the canons to sit with him? It will not take long.’

He fully expected Cynric to refuse, knowing perfectly well that witches in search of souls was exactly the kind of tale the
book-bearer took very seriously. Therefore he was startled when Cynric nodded assent. He was not surprised for long, however.

‘Arblaster is wrong to think Valeria will come for him this afternoon,’ said Cynric, sniffing in disdain. ‘She will not do
that until he has been dead for three nights. Of course, it would not worry me if she did break with tradition and come today,
because I am wearing an amulet.’

‘What kind of amulet?’ asked Arblaster, overhearing.

Cynric fingered something brown and furry that hung around his neck. ‘A powerful one, quite able to protect us both.’

Arblaster sagged in relief. He sipped Bartholomew’s doctored water, complained that it did not taste of much, then sank into
a feverish doze. The physician gave Cynric instructions about what to do if he woke, and made for the door.

‘Do not stay in the convent too long,’ advised Cynric. ‘None of the canons are witches, but a couple turn into wolves on occasion.
Luckily, I happen to have a counter-charm against wolves.’

Bartholomew felt his head spinning, and decided he should spend as little time with Cynric as possible until the Sorcerer
had either been exposed as a fraud or had faded into oblivion, as all such prodigies were wont to do. He tried to dodge the
proffered parcel, but the book-bearer managed to press it into his hand anyway. He smiled weakly, and shoved it in his bag,
determined to throw it away later. He did not want to be caught with such an item in his possession, not after William’s accusations
regarding his association with Mother Valeria.