The Devil's Disciples (43 page)

‘Did anyone hit him?’ asked Michael, jigging this way and that to see what was happening.

‘No, but not from want of trying.’

Bartholomew returned to the College, leaving Michael to discuss peace-keeping tactics with Tulyet. He was tired after his
disturbed night, and for the first time was glad of the silence that came with the absence of students. He fell asleep almost
immediately, to dream of Goldynham, Thomas and Carton. He started awake several times, sure one of them was in the room with
him.

Eventually, real voices impinged on his consciousness. He recognised Michael’s and Langelee’s, but the others were unfamiliar.
They were in the monk’s chamber on the floor above, and it sounded as though some sort of party was in progress. Men were
laughing, and he could hear the clank of goblets as toasts were made. Sun tilted through the window at an angle that told
him it was already mid-afternoon. Why had Michael let him rest so long, when there were killers to be caught and the Sorcerer
was planning some grand ceremony the following night?

He sat up to find he was not alone. Cynric was sitting at the desk in the window, working on a grammar exercise.
He was not usually so assiduous with his studies, and Bartholomew could only suppose the treasures found in the witches’ handbook
had encouraged him to hone his skills. Still, his shuffling presence explained Bartholomew’s dreams about having company in
his chamber.

‘You were asleep so long that I was beginning to think Mother Valeria had put a spell on you,’ said Cynric, rather disapprovingly.
‘She has disappeared, you know.’

‘Disappeared as in gone up in a puff of smoke? Or disappeared as in no one can find her?’

‘The latter, because all her belongings are gone, too.’ Then Cynric reconsidered, never one to pass up the opportunity to
speculate on something supernatural. ‘Although the former is still a possibility. Just because no one actually
saw
her explode does not mean she did not do it.’

‘She told me she was leaving. I do not blame her. She is no longer safe here, what with William, Mildenale and Heltisle persecuting
witches, and the Sorcerer about to challenge rivals.’

There was a gale of manly laughter from the room upstairs, but Michael’s infectious chuckle did not form part of it. Langelee’s
guffaw did, though, and Bartholomew supposed the Master had just related some tale from his past that was more suitable for
secular ears than monastic ones. The monk was no prude, but he only indulged in ribald jokes with people he knew really well.

‘You might want to rescue him,’ suggested Cynric, seeing what the physician was thinking. ‘Tell him he is needed on important
business. He is with visitors from the Bishop, and feels obliged to entertain them, although
he cannot afford the time. And I do not like the look of them, personally.’

‘Why not?’

Cynric pursed his lips. ‘You will know why when you see them.’

Bartholomew headed for the stairs, reaching Michael’s door just as another explosion of mirth issued forth. There was a strong
smell of wine, as if some had been spilled.

‘That,’ said Michael coldly, ‘is
not
amusing.’

‘It is,’ countered Langelee. His voice was inappropriately loud. ‘I laughed until my sides hurt.’

‘I am sure you did,’ said Michael venomously. ‘But that does not make it funny.’

‘Relax, Brother,’ came another voice. ‘You worry too much. The Bishop is not concerned, and that is good enough for me.’

Bartholomew pushed open the door and entered. He was startled and disconcerted to see that Michael’s guests were the giant
and his bearded friend. For a moment, he was too astonished to speak, but the room’s occupants were not very interested in
his arrival anyway. The giant glanced once in his direction, then immediately turned his attention to the wine jug, sloshing
some claret into his goblet and some on Michael’s beautifully polished floorboards. Langelee held out his cup, then toasted
the man; a red stain appeared down his chin and on his tabard. The Master was drunk. It did not happen often these days, but
when it did, it was best to avoid him, because his lively bonhomie had a habit of turning dangerous very fast.

‘Matt,’ said Michael, standing with obvious relief. ‘I expect you have come to tell me I am needed elsewhere.’ He was halfway
through the door before he remembered
his manners and gave a pained smile. ‘Have you met John Brownsley, bailiff to the Bishop, and his companion Osbern le Hawker?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the pair coolly. ‘On several occasions.’

‘I do not believe so,’ said Beard. He seemed genuinely surprised that the physician should think otherwise. ‘I would have
remembered, because the Bishop often talks about the University’s Corpse Examiner and I have been keen to make your acquaintance.
My name is Brownsley, by the way.’

The giant – Osbern – nodded a greeting, but not one that showed any recognition. He tried to scuff the spilled wine from the
floorboards with his boot, grinning conspiratorially at Langelee as he did so. Bartholomew was confused. It was clear Osbern
and Brownsley did not connect him with the encounters in Sewale Cottage or the rescue of Refham, yet he was sure they were
the same men.

‘We arrived this morning,’ Brownsley went on smoothly. ‘And neither of us has been here before. Perhaps you visited the Bishop
in Ely at some point? It is possible you may have seen us there.’

‘Have some wine,’ said Langelee, before the physician could take issue with him. ‘The Bishop sent it, and it is excellent
stuff. He is never a man to stint on such things.’

‘He is generous to his supporters,’ agreed Osbern. ‘Less generous to those who oppose him.’

‘I hear he persecutes those,’ slurred Langelee. ‘Abducts their women and demands ransoms for their return. Or he sends ruffians
to burn their homes and steal their cattle. Spynk and Danyell told me.’

‘Did they now?’ said Brownsley flatly. He was not
amused, and Bartholomew wished the Master would shut up before he said something that might induce the Bishop’s ruffians to
harm him.

‘They are both dead now,’ Langelee blustered on. He grinned, rather evilly. ‘I do not suppose the Bishop decided to still
their tongues, did he? I imagine their demise is very convenient for him.’

Bartholomew glanced at him sharply. Is that why Beard and the giant had been in Margery’s garden the previous night? Killing
one of the men who had complained about their master to the King and forced him into exile? But why had Spynk been there in
the first place?

‘De Lisle had nothing to do with those unfortunate incidents,’ said Brownsley. It was impossible to read his expression. ‘If
you do not believe me, then ask him.’

Langelee roared with laughter. ‘But I cannot find it in my heart to judge de Lisle too harshly. After all, he is only doing
what other barons do, and it is not easy to make ends meet when you have a large retinue to fund. It would not be right to
let loyal servants perish from want, would it?’

‘It would not,’ agreed Osbern jovially. ‘This cask is empty, Brother. Do you have another?’

‘No,’ said Michael shortly. ‘You will have to have ale instead.’

‘Why
are
you here, Brownsley?’ asked Langelee conversationally. ‘You have not told us yet.’

‘We have been in London, trying to protect the Bishop’s good name against liars,’ replied Brownsley. ‘Men like Spynk and Danyell,
in fact. Afterwards, we were supposed to travel to Avignon, but there was a change of plan, and we were obliged to come north
again first.’

‘What change of plan?’ asked Langelee, intrigued.

Brownsley’s smile was enigmatic. ‘He asked us to bring him some money when we visit him at the papal court. We collected all
we could, but life with the Pope is probably expensive, and we decided he might need a bit more than we had with us. So we
are on our way to Ely, to beg some from the abbey.’

‘You will have no success there,’ predicted Langelee. ‘They have that big cathedral to maintain, and have only just finished
setting a fancy wooden octagon on top of it. I doubt they have money to spare.’

‘No?’ asked Brownsley, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the conversation had been skilfully manoeuvred to this
point. ‘Then what about the University? It is in his See, and even a casual glance around shows there is money here.’

‘Michaelhouse is as poor as a church mouse,’ declared Langelee immediately. ‘A bit of cash will come our way when we sell
Sewale Cottage, but we shall have to spend it all again when we buy the Refham shops.’

Brownsley and Osbern exchanged a glance. ‘We heard Sewale Cottage was up for sale,’ said Brownsley pleasantly.

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. He smiled, to make his question sound more friendly – there was no point in deliberately antagonising
powerful men. ‘You said you have only just arrived in Cambridge.’

Brownsley grinned back, although there was no warmth in the expression. ‘We must have heard it as we rode here. But Sewale
Cottage is a nice house in a good location. I would not sell it, if I were you.’

‘Unfortunately, it is too small to be of any use to us,’ said Langelee. ‘And the Refham property will be much more valuable
in the long run. We have no choice but to hawk the place.’

‘De Lisle would rather you kept it,’ said Brownsley softly. ‘He will make it worth your while.’

Langelee’s wine-reddened face creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Are you saying the Bishop wants to buy Sewale Cottage, too? But
why? No, do not answer! It is not our business, and I was foolish to ask. Of course we will accept a bid from him. We are
up to nineteen marks at the moment.’

‘The Bishop does not want to buy it,’ said Brownsley. ‘He cannot – the King has frozen his assets. However, he wants it to
remain in University hands and will be pleased if you accede to his request.’

‘But we need the money for other things,’ objected Langelee. ‘And pleasing him is not one of our priorities, I am afraid.
He may still be Bishop, but he is not here, and I doubt he will return.’

‘Oh, yes he will,’ declared Osbern hotly. ‘And when he does, his enemies will be very sorry.’

‘De Lisle has no enemies here,’ said Michael, hastening to smooth ruffled feathers. ‘And I am sure we can come to an arrangement
that suits us all. Is that not so, Master?’

But Langelee’s good humour had evaporated. ‘We might. But then again, we might not. I do not take kindly to bullies, and anyone
who tries to intimidate me can expect to be intimidated back.’

‘I am glad you came when you did, Matt,’ said Michael, after Bartholomew had mumbled some tale about the monk being needed
at St Mary the Great, thus bringing the uncomfortable gathering to an end. ‘I have always found Brownsley and Osbern rough
company, and knew it was only a matter of time before they and Langelee fell out. They are too similar in their characters.’

‘Perhaps Spynk and Danyell were telling the truth about the way they were treated by the Bishop’s retinue. I know for a fact
that Osbern and Brownsley are guilty of criminal behaviour, because they are the pair who have been searching Sewale Cottage
– and probably digging holes in its garden, too.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘Are you sure?’

Bartholomew nodded as he led the way to his own chamber, where Cynric was still poring over his Latin. ‘So Margery had something
the Bishop wants, and because they have not found it, Brownsley and Osbern have come to order Michaelhouse not to sell the
place.’

‘But
what
does the Bishop want?’ asked Michael, frustrated. ‘There is nothing left in the house, and I cannot see him being interested
in doorknobs and hinges.’

‘It must be because Sewale Cottage is cursed,’ said Cynric helpfully. ‘Margery died in it, see.’

‘People have died in most houses, Cynric,’ said Michael reasonably. ‘And even if you are right, why should that matter to
de Lisle?’

‘Margery was a witch, and he probably thinks a bit of her magic will extricate him from his current difficulties,’ explained
Cynric. He spoke with absolute conviction. ‘I doubt
God
will come to his rescue, him being a felon and all, so he intends to secure a different kind of help.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘And how did he find out about Margery’s death when he is in Avignon? News takes weeks to travel
those sort of distances.’

Cynric pulled a face that suggested this was an irrelevancy, so he did not deign to address it. Instead, he turned to something
that lay on the table next to him. ‘I finished searching her house this morning and I found
this. I wanted to give it to you earlier, Brother, but decided to wait until the Bishop’s louts had gone.’

It was a tome. Carefully, Bartholomew opened the ancient pages, and scanned them quickly. ‘The title claims it is the
Book of Consecrations
, but it is not. I read some of that in Padua last year, and I remember the chapter titles. These are different.’

‘How different?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Its sections were ordered around curses – curses using animals, curses using stones, curses using metals, and so on. But
this is just a list of cures for chilblains and insect bites. Tulyet probably owns a copy of the real one. If you borrow it
and compare the two, you will see I am right.’

‘Where did you find it, Cynric?’ asked Michael.

‘Under a loose stair. I doubt anyone could have seen it in the dark – it was hard enough in daylight.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘You may know this is not the real
Book of Consecrations
, Matt, but that does not mean Margery did. The fact that she kept it so cunningly hidden suggests she thought she had something
worth protecting. And I do not think she could read anyway, so how would she have known what it contained?’

‘And this is what Brownsley and Osbern were after?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I do not see the Bishop being interested
in remedies for chilblains
or
a compendium of curses.’

‘He will not want the remedies,’ agreed Cynric. ‘But I imagine he might find the curses useful. Do not forget that he is in
exile, while dozens of his enemies tell tales about him to the King.’