The Devil's Disciples (5 page)

‘Lord!’ he groaned, when he saw a familiar figure striding towards them. ‘Here comes Spaldynge from Clare College. Every time
he meets me, he makes some barbed remark about physicians being useless during the plague. I know we failed to cure people,
but it was almost a decade ago, and I am tired of him goading me about it.’

‘Ignore him. He makes the same comments to anyone involved in medicine – physicians, surgeons, witches, and even midwives.
Personally, I think he is losing his wits.’

‘Greetings, murderer,’ hissed Spaldynge, as he passed. ‘Killed any patients recently? Other than Father Thomas and Margery
Sewale, that is. Her long illness should have given you plenty of time to devise a cure, but you let her die. You are inept,
like all your colleagues.’

‘It is difficult to ignore him when he makes remarks like that,’ said Bartholomew, when the man had gone. ‘He knows how to
hurt.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘It is Isnard’s fault. He was the one who first questioned your abilities. Now do you see why
I am not keen on having him back in my choir?’

The College of Michaelhouse – or the Society of the Scholars of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and
St Michael the Archangel, to give it its proper name – was located just off one of the town’s major thoroughfares. It comprised
an attractive hall, two accommodation wings, and a range of stables and storerooms, all of which stood around a central yard.
Sturdy
walls protected it from attack – even when there was peace between the University and the town, there were disputes between
rival foundations to take into account.

The yard had been baked rock hard by an unrelenting sun, so even the hardiest weeds were now withered stumps. Hens blunted
their claws as they scratched for seeds, and the College cat lay under a tree, too hot to chase the sparrows that dust-bathed
provocatively close. The porter’s pet peacock had been provided with a basin of water, and it sat in it disconsolately, trying
to cool itself down. Cracks had appeared in the supporting timbers of the building where Bartholomew lived, and he hoped the
roof would not leak all winter as a result. The vegetables planted by Agatha the laundress were ailing or dead, and none of
the trees in the orchard would bear much fruit. Cambridge’s oldest inhabitants said they had never known summer to come so
early and so fiercely.

‘Dinner has finished,’ said Michael in disgust, seeing scholars stream from the hall, laughing and chatting with each other.
Last out were William, Mildenale and Carton. Mildenale was holding forth and William was nodding vigorously, although Carton’s
face wore its usual impassive mask.

Bartholomew did not think missing a meal was much of a tragedy. The College was not noted for the quality of its cooking,
and the weather was not helping. Supplies were going rancid, rotten or sour much faster than usual, and Michaelhouse scholars
had been provided with some dangerously tainted foods since the heatwave had started. This was a cause for concern, because
Bartholomew was sure spoiled meat was responsible for the flux that was currently raging in the town.

‘My head aches,’ complained Michael. ‘Yesterday, you
said it was because I did not drink enough wine. Do you have any claret left?’

‘I said you needed more fluids, not wine,’ corrected Bartholomew, leading the way to his quarters. ‘Claret will make your
head worse. Watered ale is best in this weather.’

He lived in a ground-floor room, which he shared with four students. It was a tight squeeze at night, and there was only just
enough space to unroll the requisite number of mattresses. The cramped conditions had arisen because the Master had enrolled
an additional twenty scholars in an effort to generate more income. Bartholomew might have objected to the resulting crush,
if he had not been so busy: his days were spent struggling with classes too large for a single master to manage, while evenings
and nights were given over to his many patients.

He supposed he should not grumble about the size of his practice. It was only two months since a healer named Magister Arderne
had arrived in the town, declaring magical cures were better than anything physicians could provide. Arderne had left eventually,
but folk had been wary of
medici
ever since – Bartholomew’s colleagues were still undersubscribed, because many folk now preferred to consult lay-healers,
such as Mother Valeria or the Sorcerer. Bartholomew’s own practice, however, comprised mainly people who could not afford
witches, and they came to him in droves. He appreciated their loyalty, and knew he should not complain when they needed him.

When he opened the door to his room, he found Cynric waiting. ‘Arblaster needs you,’ said the book-bearer, standing and stretching
in a way that suggested he had been asleep.

‘Arblaster?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to place him. He was better with ailments than names, and invariably remembered people
by what was wrong with them.

‘The dung-merchant who lives near Barnwell Priory,’ supplied Cynric, adding sourly, ‘Perhaps his fingers are stiff from counting
all his money. Manure has made him very rich.’

He and Bartholomew had spent the previous year on a sabbatical leave of absence, and during it, Cynric had changed. He had
expressed a desire to learn Latin, had grown more confident of his own abilities, and less impressed by those who ruled by
dint of their birth or wealth. He had also developed a disconcerting habit of speaking his mind, and was rarely deferential.

‘He is rich,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I am told he is a decent soul, even so.’

Cynric pulled the kind of face that said he thought otherwise. ‘And when you have finished with him, Bukenham is waiting.’

‘Bukenham?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘My Junior Proctor? What is wrong with him?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew has forbidden me to talk about his patients’ problems,’ replied Cynric, shooting his master a reproachful
glance for putting such an unfair restraint in place. ‘He says they expect confidentiality. But, since you ask, it is the
flux.’

‘Thank you, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, too tired to remonstrate.

‘It is a long way to Barnwell,’ said Michael, sitting on a stool. ‘And then an equally long way to Bukenham’s lodgings near
the Small Bridges. I am glad
I
do not have to race about in this heat.’

‘He has no choice,’ said Cynric, watching Bartholomew
pack his medical bag with fresh supplies. ‘Everyone knows this particular flux can be deadly unless it is treated promptly.
If he declined to tend Arblaster and Bukenham, they might die.’

As he gathered what he needed, Bartholomew supposed word must have spread regarding his success in combating the disease,
because neither the dung-master nor the Junior Proctor had ever summoned him before. The remedy he had devised involved boiling
angelica and barley in water, and making his patients drink as much of it as they could. A few had refused, on the grounds
that it sounded too mild a potion to combat such a virulent illness, and they were still unwell. All the others had recovered,
with the exception of two who had succumbed before he had developed the cure. They were dead.

‘You should buy a horse,’ said Cynric, not for the first time during their long association. ‘The Prince of Wales gave you
a small fortune when you tended the wounded after the Battle of Poitiers last year, so you can afford it. Arriving at a patient’s
house on horseback better befits your status than traipsing about on foot.’

Bartholomew did not like to tell him that the ‘small fortune’ was almost gone, and that most of it had been spent on medicines
for his patients. Besides, he was not a good rider, and horses tended to know who was in charge when he was on them. And so
would anyone he was trying to impress.

He went to the jug of ale that stood on the windowsill, supposing he had better follow the advice he had given to Michael
and drink something before he went, then recoiled in revulsion when the smell told him it was already spoiled, even though
he had only bought it the day before. He tipped it out of the window, along with
some milk his students had left. He heard the milk dropping to the ground in clots, and did not like to imagine what it looked
like. Cynric offered to fetch ale from the kitchen, and while he waited, Bartholomew collected powdered barley from the little
room next door, where he kept his medical supplies. Michael followed, griping about how busy he was.

‘Not only do I have Margery’s disinterment and the blood in the font to investigate, but there are Bene’t College’s damned
goats to consider, too.’

‘What do the goats want you to do?’

Michael glared at him, not in the mood for humour. ‘Seven of them have been stolen, and Master Heltisle asks whether I have
caught the thief every time we meet. Does he think the Senior Proctor has nothing more important to do than look for missing
livestock?’

‘Goats are expensive. I do not blame Heltisle for wanting them back.’

‘They will be in someone’s cook-pot by now, and I doubt we will ever know who took them. What in God’s name is that?’

He pointed to a complex piece of apparatus that stood on a bench. It comprised a series of flasks, some of which were connected
by pipes. A candle burned under one. Bartholomew checked it carefully, then added water.

‘An experiment. Carton found some powder in Thomas’s room, and wants to know if it is poison.’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘Poison? You mean William might have been right when he claimed Thomas was dispatched by Dominicans?
Lord knows, he gave them enough cause with his spiteful speeches. However, I was happier thinking you had killed him with
the wrong medicine.’

Bartholomew recoiled. ‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

‘I am sorry, but it would be disastrous to learn Thomas was murdered. William, Mildenale and Carton will certainly accuse
the Dominicans, and the Dominicans will object. And it will not be an easy case to solve after more than a week – Thomas was
buried on Ascension Day. Do you remember Mildenale insisting he go in the ground then, because it might mean less time in
Purgatory?’

‘Do you believe that?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Margery did, and so did Goldynham the silversmith, because they and Thomas were
all interred on the same day.’

‘Superstition and religion are often difficult to separate,’ replied Michael, a little patronisingly. ‘But I do not believe
a particular day is more or less auspicious for going into the ground. It is what you do in life that counts, not when you
happen to be buried. However, I am more concerned with this poison than in discussing theology. What can you tell me?’

‘That I doubt you will be adding Thomas to your list of investigations. I do not think this powder is poison. It smells of
violets, which are used in cures for quinsy, and Thomas often suffered from sore throats. And even if it does transpire to
be toxic, there is nothing to say Thomas swallowed it. I told you – he died because I gave him the wrong medicine. I wish
it were otherwise, but it is not.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘Carton does not share your beliefs, if he asked you to test this powder. He sees something suspicious
in what happened to his friend.’

‘Immediately after the stone hit him, Thomas claimed the Sorcerer “poisoned” him with a curse. I suspect it
was his odd choice of words that has encouraged Carton to look for alternative explanations – and the reason why he refuses
to accept my culpability.’

‘Could it be true? Thomas did preach very violently against the Sorcerer.’

‘The Sorcerer may have lobbed the rock that caused the initial injury, I suppose. Thomas thought it was propelled magically,
although I do not believe—’

‘So he
was
murdered?’ interrupted Michael uneasily.

‘Stones fall from roofs, they are flicked up by carts, they are thrown around by careless children. I doubt you will learn
what really happened after all this time.’

But Michael was unwilling to let the matter lie. ‘I do not suppose you looked for evidence of poison when you inspected his
body in your capacity as Corpse Examiner, did you?’

‘Rougham acted as Corpse Examiner for Thomas. It would have been unethical for me to do it, given that Mildenale and William
had accused me of malpractice. But even if I had inspected him, I could not have told you whether he was poisoned. Most toxic
substances are undetectable.’

Michael nodded at the experiment. ‘Then why bother with that?’

Bartholomew looked tired. ‘Because Carton said Thomas would have appreciated it. It is the least I can do.’

Bartholomew stepped out of the comparative cool of his room moments after Cynric had delivered the promised ale. The yard
was a furnace, and he could feel the sun burning through his shirt and tabard. Michael started to follow, intending to visit
the proctors’ office in St Mary
the Great, but had second thoughts when he saw the heat rising in shimmering waves from the ground. Langelee spotted his Fellows,
and beckoned them to stand with him in the meagre shade of a cherry tree.

‘Do you think William made a valid point in his Sermon?’ he asked uneasily. ‘Not about the Dominicans being responsible for
desecrating Margery, obviously, but about there being fiends in our town – the Devil’s disciples? It would explain some of
the odd things that have been happening: the blood in our font, Bene’t College’s disappearing goats …’

‘Stolen livestock is not odd,’ said Bartholomew, surprised Langelee should think it was. ‘Cattle go missing all the time,
especially now, when meat spoils quickly. Goats are good to steal, because they are small, easily hidden, and can be butchered
and eaten with a minimum of fuss.’

‘Yes, but goats also feature in satanic rites,’ said Langelee darkly. ‘Everyone knows that, and these were seven
black
ones. William said they are going to be sacrificed, to appease demons.’

Michael grinned. ‘Cynric told me they are only temporarily missing, and will return to Bene’t as soon as they have finished
having their beards combed by the Devil. Unsurprisingly, Master Heltisle was not very happy with that particular explanation.’