The Devil's Disciples (47 page)

‘What is wrong?’ asked Bartholomew, taking in the man’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes.

Arblaster slumped against the wall. ‘Michaelhouse has given its latrines to Isnard, and I think the canons are going to offer
twenty-one marks for Sewale Cottage. Damn them! It was my last hope, but
they
will get it, and I shall be ruined. Jodoca has gone to talk to them. She says she has every hope of success, but Mother Valeria
has cast a spell to bring me bad luck, so I am not confident.’

Bartholomew was confused. ‘You only own twenty marks? But I thought you were rich.’

‘I
was
rich – until the heatwave struck. But I need rain and
warm
weather for composting, and this unseasonable furnace has damaged my wares.’

‘Why does Sewale Cottage represent your last hope?’ asked Bartholomew. He saw Arblaster’s head snap up sharply; the man realised
he had said something he probably should not have done. ‘We know something is secreted there, something a number of people
want. What is it?’

Arblaster gave a bitter laugh. ‘If I told you, Michaelhouse would refuse to sell it, and then even that frail hope would be
gone.’

‘We are not going to sell it anyway,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘So you may as well tell me.’

Arblaster eyed him searchingly, then drew a dagger from his belt. ‘You are the Fellow who is not in step with the others –
the one who has different views about what
is going on. Perhaps
you
have worked out that there is more to Sewale Cottage than meets the eye, but your colleagues will not have done, and you
have probably not remembered to tell them. If I kill you, I may yet be saved.’

Startled by the sudden change in the man, Bartholomew took a step away, but Arblaster moved faster, and the physician found
himself hurled against the wall. The knife was in the dung-master’s right hand, and Bartholomew used both his to try to keep
it away from his throat. Unfortunately, a life of hauling manure had rendered Arblaster hard and muscular, and the blade began
to descend.

‘All the Fellows know something is hidden,’ Bartholomew blurted, hoping he did not sound as desperate as he felt. ‘They are
searching for it as I speak.’

‘You are lying,’ said Arblaster contemptuously, as the knife moved inexorably towards the physician’s neck. ‘And you are not
even very good at it.’

‘What will they find?’ gasped Bartholomew, resisting with all his might. It was not enough. ‘Money? Jewels? Books?’

‘Something that was brought here.’ Arblaster braced himself for the fatal stroke as the blade touched bare skin. ‘You will
die not knowing, I suppose.’

Bartholomew knew he was not strong enough to prevent Arblaster from gashing him, and he also knew he was wasting valuable
energy by trying. He forced himself to release the dung-merchant’s dagger hand, and drove his fist into the man’s stomach
instead. It earned him a cut neck, but it also caused his opponent to drop the knife in shock. Unfortunately, the advantage
was only momentary, and Arblaster managed to snag the physician’s
tabard as he started to run away. Both men fell crashing to the ground. Bartholomew fought valiantly, but it was not long
before Arblaster had him pinned down. The dung-master glanced behind him, looking for the weapon, but Bartholomew managed
to kick it away with his foot. And then they were at a stalemate: Arblaster could not kill Bartholomew without his blade,
but the only way to reach it was by letting the physician go.

‘Cynric will be here soon,’ gasped Bartholomew, aware that it was hopeless to struggle, but unable to stop himself. ‘You may
as well let me up.’

‘As I said, you are a dismal liar.’ Arblaster leaned all his weight on the physician in an effort to subdue him. It worked;
Bartholomew could barely breathe. ‘But Jodoca
will
come, and then I shall kill you. Damn this sun! If it had not been so hot, I would never have tried to get Danyell’s …’

‘Danyell?’ gasped Bartholomew. Despite his predicament, answers started to come to him in a series of blinding flashes, so
clear that he wondered why he had not seen them before. Was it really necessary to be engaged in a death struggle before his
wits were sharp enough to work properly?

Arblaster watched him, a half-smile on his face. He eased himself into a more comfortable position, one that was not crushing
the life out of his captive. The physician still could not move, but at least he could breathe. ‘You do not need me to explain
– you have worked it out for yourself at last.’

‘On the night of his death, Danyell went out,’ said Bartholomew, hoping an analysis might distract Arblaster into letting
down his guard. ‘He carried something with him, which Spynk thought was a stone – a sample to
show a potential client. But it has always seemed odd to me that he should have been considering business when he probably
felt very ill. I think he had what everyone is looking for. He hid it in Sewale Cottage, and intended to see Mother Valeria
as soon as he had finished, to buy a cure from her. He died before that could happen.’

‘I saw him.’ Arblaster’s expression was distant as he remembered. ‘I was coming home from buying a spell from Valeria myself,
and I spotted movement in the shadows. I did not want to be seen in that part of the town at such an hour, so I hid. Danyell
entered the house with a box – which
may
have looked like a brick from a distance – and he left without it some time later. And then I heard a conversation between
him and those two men.’

‘What two men? Brownsley and Osbern – one huge and the other bearded?’

‘The Bishop’s louts,’ agreed Arblaster, glancing towards the door. Bartholomew suddenly realised that while he was talking
in an effort to distract Arblaster, so Arblaster was encouraging the discussion to occupy his captive until Jodoca could hand
him his dagger. ‘And we all know that anything involving de Lisle is going to be shady. So, I listened and I learned.’

‘Learned what?’

‘Despite Danyell’s obvious terror – he was on his knees, gasping for breath before they even started questioning him – he
was defying them. I could not hear everything, but I caught mention of digging holes. But then Danyell clutched his chest,
and that was that – he was dead. The Bishop’s men were furious. They dumped his body on the open ground opposite, then they
broke into Margery’s house.’

Bartholomew thought about it. Danyell had been terrorised by Brownsley in Norfolk, and meeting his tormentor in a dark street
must have been more than his failing heart could stand. Brownsley’s anger suggested Danyell had died without telling him what
he wanted to know. He had, however, surmised that the box had been hidden inside Sewale Cottage, which explained why he and
Osbern had expended so much energy searching it.

‘What is in the box?’ asked Bartholomew. Arblaster glanced at the door a second time. When Jodoca did appear, what would she
do? Help her husband commit murder? Or talk sense into him?

The dung-master looked as though he was not going to answer, but shrugged when he saw it was a way to prolong the discussion.
‘Treasure. What else can lead men to such lengths?’

‘So, you knew about it because you overheard this discussion, while Spynk would have known because Danyell confided in him
– or in Cecily, his lover. But what about the canons? How do they come to be in on the secret?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Arblaster. ‘And I do not care.’

The fact that he had some answers filled Bartholomew with hope, and he knew he needed to brief Michael as soon as possible.
He pretended to sag in defeat, encouraging Arblaster to relax his grip. The dung-merchant fell for the ploy – it was hard
work pinning a man to the ground, and he was grateful for a respite. As soon as the weight eased slightly, Bartholomew mustered
every ounce of his strength and brought his knee up sharply between his captor’s legs, following it with a punch to the side
of the head. Arblaster slumped to the ground, and Bartholomew rolled away, staggering to his feet as fast
as he could. He ran to the kitchen for rope, and quickly bound Arblaster’s hands and feet, not liking the notion of the man
regaining his senses and trying to finish what he had started. He had just tightened the last knot when Arblaster opened his
eyes.

‘Jodoca!’ he screamed, flailing furiously. ‘Help me! He is getting away!’

Suddenly, Bartholomew recalled what Arblaster had said about his wife earlier – that she had gone to ‘talk’ to the canons
at Barnwell. ‘What is she doing?’ he asked uneasily.

Arblaster struggled harder. ‘She should have persuaded the canons to withdraw their offer by now. She is rather good at it,
as Spynk can attest. She is more determined than me. I was ready to give up, but she told me to have faith. She will see us
through this.’

‘Jodoca killed Spynk?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘I do not believe you.’

‘She will get you, too,’ vowed Arblaster, writhing violently, although it was clear he was not going to escape. ‘She will
not appreciate what you have done to me. Jodoca!’

Bartholomew raced outside, climbed on the horse again and spurred it towards the convent. He realised he should have seen
days ago what had happened, because all the clues had been there. Of course Danyell had been inside Sewale Cottage – his body
had been found near it, and the cottage had been broken into that night, first by Danyell himself, and then by Brownsley and
Osbern. Danyell must have chosen the place because he had been told that its sole occupant was recently dead, and he had assumed
he would be able to conceal his box without
being disturbed. He was a mason, so rearranging stones would have been a simple matter for him.

But why had he decided to hide his treasure, when most men would have taken it home with them? The answer to that was clear,
too: Danyell had seen the Bishop’s men lurking around – or perhaps he had heard talk about the robberies on the Huntingdon
Way – and knew it would not be safe in his possession. No doubt he had also heard that Michaelhouse planned to sell the house,
and his ultimate intention was to purchase it himself – or perhaps do it with the help of Spynk and Cecily.

Bartholomew frowned as he rode. Had Jodoca really killed Spynk? He supposed she might have been in Sewale Cottage’s garden
that night. The third shadow had not been with Osbern and Brownsley, so it was possible that Spynk had been lured there with
promises of gold and found himself with a blade in his back instead. It was certainly one way of ensuring he did not make
Michaelhouse another competitive offer. He frowned more deeply. Except, of course, that Cecily was probably the driving force
behind the purchase, in which case Jodoca had taken the wrong life.

He reached the priory and flung himself out of the saddle to pound on the gate. He glanced up at the sky. It was an odd colour
– a sickly yellow-blue he had never seen before, and the marshes were eerily quiet. There was no answer from the canons, so
he hammered again, then jumped in alarm when the gate was suddenly hauled open by Podiolo. The infirmarian was carrying a
broadsword, and Bartholomew leapt away, unused to seeing clerics wield such enormous weapons.

‘We have suffered a murderous assault,’ Podiolo
shouted angrily. His amber eyes looked sinister in the evening sunlight. ‘But like Fencotes, I was not always a monastic,
and I learned swordplay when I was a goldsmith in Florence – I am ready to defend myself and my brethren, so be warned.’

‘Jodoca attacked you?’ asked Bartholomew, edging back further when Podiolo waved the weapon closer than was comfortable. He
had never seen the man so agitated.

‘Jodoca?’ echoed Podiolo, gaping at him. Then he frowned. ‘Yes, of course it was – someone small and agile, but strong, and
too short to have been a man. Jodoca! Who would have thought it?’

‘What did she do?’

‘She went after Fencotes with a dagger. Prior Norton fended her off, but she is still at large. I cannot imagine what Fencotes
has done to annoy her.’

Bartholomew followed him to the infirmary, where the canons formed a protective phalanx around their fallen comrade. Lay-brothers
clustered at the door, and Bartholomew thought that if any robber should want to attack another part of the convent and make
off with the silver, now was a perfect time. Even as the thought came into his head, he wondered whether that was Jodoca’s
intention. Arblaster said they had lost everything. Did she intend to recoup their losses? Start a new life in another town,
funded by monastic treasure, since Danyell’s property was unavailable?

‘It was Jodoca,’ Podiolo announced, as Norton came to greet them. ‘Bartholomew identified her.’

Norton’s eyes bulged in horror. ‘But she is a woman! And she was intent on murder – I could see it in her every move. She
might have killed me, too if I had not screeched for help.’

‘She was loath to tackle twenty of us, so she ran off,’ explained another canon. ‘We have no idea where she went, which is
why we are here, all crowded together. There is safety in numbers.’

‘How is Fencotes?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping towards the bed. ‘Did she harm him?’

‘He is more alarmed than hurt,’ said Norton. ‘But I am glad you are here. Podiolo is no physician.’

‘No, he is not,’ agreed Bartholomew, knowing from Fencotes’s grey, sweaty face that there was more wrong than just fright.
It should have been obvious, even to the most inexperienced practitioner, that Jodoca’s blade had struck home, and that the
old man had received a wound that was likely to be mortal. ‘Where are you hurt, Fencotes?’

The elderly canon gave Bartholomew a weak smile, but did not answer.

‘Be careful what you say,’ whispered Podiolo. ‘It took us a long time to calm him after the attack. The only way we managed
in the end was by promising to buy Sewale Cottage. At any cost.’

‘He believes Sewale Cottage will be a good investment for our future,’ added Norton. ‘And that we will benefit in the long
term, even if we pay over the odds now. Personally, I disagree, but we shall do what he says, to make him happy.’