The Devil's Disciples (29 page)

‘Her interest faded the moment you made that remark about me preferring men. Now she will concentrate her efforts on you instead.’

Michael did not seem as discomfited as the physician felt he should have been. He smiled. ‘I will be a better proposition,
anyway. You pay little attention to what transpires at Fellows’ meetings, so she was wasting her time if she expected you
to put in a useful word on her husband’s behalf.’

‘I doubt that was her intention – there is scant affection in her marriage, and I suspect she is more likely to hinder Spynk
than help him. Shall we go to see Mother Valeria, to ask if Danyell visited her the night he died?’

‘You can do that later, after dark, when hopefully no one will see you. We need to know whether she gave him a “cure” that
may – deliberately or otherwise – have hastened his end.’

Bartholomew did not like the implications of that remark. ‘She is a healer, Brother. She does not kill her clients. Besides,
I thought you had accepted my diagnosis that Danyell died of natural causes.’

‘I am inclined to keep an open mind, because nothing is as it should be at the moment. Perhaps the Sorcerer has an ability
to bring about seizures, and saw Danyell – who seems to have been a fellow heathen – as competition. Or perhaps Valeria killed
him because she wanted a dead man’s hand. You told me yourself that such items are believed to hold dark power.’

Despite the warmth of the sun, Bartholomew shuddered. ‘I will talk to her tonight.’

The monk sighed. ‘I dislike this kind of case – where we are obliged to tackle people’s religious convictions. I can tell
Eyton that Goldynham did not scratch his own way out of his grave until I am blue in the face, but there is nothing I can
do to
make
him believe me.’

‘It cannot last. Something will happen to show that all these events have perfectly logical explanations.’

‘Unfortunately, I suspect folk will be looking for supernatural ones for everything from now on, and that sort of thing is
virtually impossible to combat. For example, William used a piece of cheese to mark his place in a library book last week,
and it left a greasy stain. Deynman scattered the book with mugwort – a witch’s remedy – and this morning the blemish was
gone. He says the Sorcerer is responsible, because the book was about astrology.’

Bartholomew looked sheepish. ‘That was me. I rubbed out the mark with chalk powder, because I could not sleep after the business
with Goldynham, and it seemed a good way to pass the time.’

Michael grimaced. ‘But no one will believe you. It is much more exciting to think the Sorcerer mended the book, than a physician
with chalk and time on his hands.’

They walked in silence for a while. It was a market day, and wares were being ferried to and from the stalls behind St Mary
the Great. The heat was causing tempers to run high, and there was a fierce confrontation between Isnard and a butcher. The
butcher was incensed by the accusation that he was selling bad produce, and hurled a kidney at the bargeman. It missed and
struck a dog, which sniffed the missile, then trotted away with a whine and its tail between its legs.

‘Agatha says she will not buy any more meat until the Sorcerer has mended the weather,’ said Michael unhappily, watching the
Sheriff ’s men step in when punches began to fly. ‘According to her, he intends to chant a few spells that will bring the
heatwave to an end.’

‘And when the weather breaks of its own accord, he will say it was his doing. He cannot lose.’

Suddenly, Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Refham is over there with Blaston the carpenter. What is a decent man like Blaston doing
in such low company?’

‘I barely know Refham – his forge is out on the Huntingdon Way, so he does not spend much time in the town – but he does not
seem overly pleasant.’

‘He is sly and greedy,’ declared Michael uncompromisingly. ‘Is money changing hands between him and
Blaston? Yes, it is! And look at the furtive cant of Refham’s eyes. Joan is there, too, shielding what is happening from passers-by.
It is clear they are up to no good.’

Blaston was one of Bartholomew’s patients, along with his wife Yolande and their twelve children. He was an amiable, trusting
soul, and the physician did not like the notion that Refham might be in the process of cheating him. He started to walk towards
them. Joan saw him coming and grabbed her husband’s arm, trying to steer him down an alley, but Refham was not so easily shifted.
He freed his hand impatiently, his attention fixed on the carpenter.

‘Doctor!’ exclaimed Blaston pleasantly, when he turned to see what was causing Joan to act so strangely. ‘Do you know David
Refham? He is a blacksmith by trade, and—’

‘I have not bothered with that work for some time now,’ interrupted Refham. ‘Manual labour is not for me. I prefer making
money in other ways, such as by the sale of the properties I inherited. My aim is to buy a cottage in Luton and do nothing
but lie in the sun and drink ale.’

‘What do you want with us?’ asked Joan, regarding the two scholars with barely concealed dislike. ‘If you think you can persuade
us to lower the price on those houses, you can think again. We mean to get as much as we can, and they will be sold to the
highest bidder.’

‘Everyone hates the University, so you will not find many townsmen sympathetic to your plight,’ added Refham nastily. ‘You
will have to pay what we decide we should have.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael with quiet dignity. ‘Your mother’s decency and kindness made her a popular
lady, and lots of folk deplore the way you are flouting her last wishes.’

Refham’s expression hardened. ‘It is none of their damned business, and I shall do what I like with my inheritance. And now
you can leave us alone, because Blaston and I have business to discuss.’

‘What kind of business?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘None that is your affair,’ said Joan indignantly. ‘Go away, or I shall summon the Sheriff and tell him you are harassing
innocent citizens.’

‘There is no need for quarrelling,’ said Blaston, dismayed by the hostile remarks that were being bandied back and forth.
‘And no need for secrecy, either. I am delighted to be doing business with you, Refham, and do not see why we should keep
it secret.’ He turned to Bartholomew and smiled, genuinely pleased. ‘He has asked me to do some work for him, on those three
shops.’

‘You mean the ones we are thinking of buying?’ asked Michael uneasily. He exchanged a brief glance with Bartholomew. What
was Refham up to?

Blaston grinned happily. ‘He wants them in the best possible condition for when he makes his sale, and has asked me to replace
the old rafters in the roof. It is a big job, and I could do with extra money at the moment, because Yolande is expecting
again. This time, I think it might be twins, she is so big.’

‘I chose Blaston because I knew he needed the work,’ said Refham. His expression was unreadable and Bartholomew immediately
suspected trickery.

‘Are you being paid in advance?’ the physician asked the carpenter, suspecting he could guess exactly what Refham planned
to do.

‘I am to buy the timber myself and start work
tomorrow,’ replied Blaston airily. ‘I will be paid half when the work is finished, and the rest when the buildings are sold.’

‘That is not a good—’ began Bartholomew, appalled.

Refham spat on his hand and thrust it towards the carpenter, an indication that he wanted the transaction agreed without further
delay. Before Bartholomew could stop him, Blaston had seized it. Refham sneered at the physician. ‘The deal is made, and no
one can undo it now.’

‘I will not renege,’ said Blaston, misunderstanding him. ‘You can trust me to be honourable.’

‘I know,’ said Refham. ‘Come, Joan. Let us celebrate our good fortune with a cup of wine.’

‘Note they are going to celebrate
their
good fortune,’ said Michael to Blaston when the pair had gone. ‘And did not invite you to join them. I doubt you will benefit
from this arrangement.’

But Blaston was too gleeful to listen to doom-merchants, and Bartholomew recalled he had always been that way. It explained
why he was poor, while his fellow craftsmen earned a decent living.

‘Yolande will be delighted,’ he crowed. ‘We are desperately short of money, and have nothing put by for the winter. And as
she is with child, she cannot work.’

Yolande supplemented the family income by prostitution, and Bartholomew had long been fascinated by how many of her brood
bore likenesses to prominent burgesses and scholars. However, she could not ply her trade when she was pregnant, and the family
would find the winter hard.

‘There is not much work for skilled carpenters these days,’ Blaston went on. ‘There are too many itinerants who offer to do
the job for half the price. Of course,
their work is no good, but by the time the customer sees it, it is too late – his money has gone.’

‘Tell Refham to buy the materials you need,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the carpenter had let his wife negotiate the deal.
Yolande would not have been so gullible.

‘His money is stored at Barnwell Priory for safekeeping, and he asked me to pay for the wood so as to move matters along.’
Blaston nodded his hands together, delighted with the bargain he thought he had secured. ‘The sooner I finish, the sooner
I will be reimbursed.’

‘His family will starve,’ said Michael, watching the carpenter saunter away. ‘While Refham and Joan grow fat on the fruits
of their dishonesty. Lord, how I loathe that man!’

It was mid-afternoon, and Bartholomew thought the day was slipping away far too fast. They reached Bene’t College, where their
knock was answered by Younge. The porter lounged against the door with a stem of grass between his teeth, regarding the Senior
Proctor and his Corpse Examiner with disdain.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing I am prepared to discuss with you,’ retorted Michael coolly.

‘Then you cannot come in.’ Three of Younge’s cronies came to stand behind him. ‘I am head porter here, and no one is admitted
without my say-so. Bene’t is different from other Colleges because of its ties with the town Guild of Corpus Christi. You
do not have the same sway here as you do in the likes of Peterhouse or Clare.’

Calmly, Michael reached out, placed a hand in the middle of Younge’s chest and pushed. The porter tried to resist the monk’s
forward momentum, but Michael
put his full weight behind the manoeuvre and it was not many moments before he was through the door. Bartholomew followed
uneasily.

‘Now,’ said the monk pleasantly. ‘Go and tell Master Heltisle we are waiting.’

Younge drew his dagger, but there was uncertainty in his eyes, and the move was more to prevent a loss of face in front of
his colleagues than a serious attempt to intimidate the Senior Proctor.

‘Send him back to his Chancellor in pieces,’ suggested one, outraged by the monk’s audacity. ‘He has no right to throw his
weight around here.’

‘Especially when there is so much of it,’ quipped another.

It was the wrong thing to say to a man who was sensitive about his appearance. Michael put his hands on his hips and fixed
the joker with a stare that made the laughter die in his throat. ‘Tell Heltisle I am here,’ he ordered. His tight voice indicated
he was only just controlling his anger.

‘Bugger off, monk!’ blustered Younge. ‘You cannot tell me what to—’

Michael moved faster than Bartholomew would have thought possible for so large a man, and suddenly Younge was pinned against
a wall with the monk’s fingers around his throat. The porter promptly dropped his dagger and began scrabbling at his neck.
Bartholomew saw that his feet had almost been lifted clean off the ground and he was balanced on the very tips of his toes.

‘I could teach you some manners,’ said the monk in a voice that was low and dangerous. ‘But I am a man of God, so I try to
avoid violence if possible. So, you will conduct me to Master Heltisle, and if I have occasion to
visit Bene’t again, you will not question my orders. Do I make myself clear?’

Younge nodded hastily, and the monk released him so abruptly that he slumped to the ground. He rubbed his throat, fixing Michael
with a look of such loathing that Bartholomew was alarmed.

‘I do not think Younge will give me any more trouble now,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, after the head porter had picked himself
up and was leading the way across the courtyard. ‘Especially after I send Meadowman to collect a fine of three groats, which
is the going rate for annoying the Senior Proctor.’

‘Brother Michael,’ said Heltisle in surprise, standing as the monk strode into Bene’t’s fine hall. ‘What are you doing here?’
He glared at Younge. ‘And why did you not announce him, as I have trained you to do?’

The scholars of Bene’t had gathered to hear a sermon, which was being delivered by Eyton. Bartholomew had heard Goldynham’s
name being bellowed from the yard, and knew exactly what subject the vicar had chosen for his discourse.

‘Younge is not very good at his job,’ said Michael to the Master, shooting the porter a disparaging glance. ‘Furthermore,
he and his friends are surly, aggressive and stupid.’

‘That may be so, but they repel unwanted tradesmen and protect us during riots,’ countered Heltisle. ‘They are also loyal,
and would not hesitate to risk their lives on our behalf – unlike the staff at Michaelhouse, who would slink away at the first
sign of trouble.’

‘Cynric would not,’ said Bartholomew, offended that the likes of Younge should be considered better than his devoted book-bearer.

The look Heltisle gave him was full of dislike. ‘No, but he would arm himself with all manner of pagan charms before he joined
in any battle. He is the most superstitious man in the town.’

‘Actually, I suspect that honour goes to the Sorcerer,’ said Eyton cheerfully, coming to join them. ‘He is superstitious –
and powerful, too. Indeed, it was he who gave Goldynham the strength to dig his way out of his own grave. Is that not true,
Heltisle?’