‘I would never resort to witchcraft,’ insisted Bartholomew firmly. ‘Never.’
‘You just said you should have listened to Thomas’s belief that he was cursed,’ Michael pounced.
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, struggling to think logically. It occurred to him that he might not have prescribed the sedative had he not been so exhausted, and knew tiredness was beginning to affect his teaching, too. Still, at least he had not fallen asleep in the middle of his own lecture, as Michael had done the previous week.
‘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.’
Langelee winced as he looked over at the book-bearer. Cynric had been waylaid by Agatha, who was demanding to know who had been at the new ale; he was spinning her a yarn that would see William blamed for the crime. ‘Neither am I. Cynric knows far too much about that kind of thing. It makes me wonder how he comes by this intimate knowledge.’
‘Cynric is not a witch,’ stated Bartholomew firmly, keen to knock that notion on the head before it became dangerous. He ignored the nagging voice in his head that told him his book-bearer was rather more interested in unholy matters than was decent.
‘No, but he is not wholly Christian, either,’ countered Langelee. ‘He attends church, but he also retains his other beliefs. In other words, he hedges his bets, lest one side should prove lacking. Unfortunately, it does not look good for a senior member of the University to keep such a servant.’
‘I cannot be held responsible for what Cynric believes,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘Besides, he has always been superstitious, and no one has ever held it against me before.’
‘It is not just Cynric.’ Langelee began to count off points on thick fingers. ‘You killed Thomas, a vocal opponent of the Sorcerer. You make regular visits to Mother Valeria, a witch. The exhumed Margery was your patient. And it was you who discovered the mutilated body of the Norfolk mason.’
‘His name was Danyell,’ supplied Michael. ‘Fortunately, the deaths of visiting craftsmen are for the Sheriff to investigate, so at least I am spared looking into that nasty incident.’
‘Finding a body does not make me suspect,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘And it was hardly my fault Margery was excavated, either.’
Langelee regarded him uncomfortably. ‘Danyell was miss
ing a hand. Why would anyone lay claim to such a thing, except perhaps someone interested in the evil art of anatomy?’
Bartholomew regarded him in horror. ‘You think I took it?’
Langelee studied him carefully, arms folded across his broad chest. ‘No,’ he said, after what felt like far too long. ‘You would not be so rash – not after that trouble with Magister Arderne earlier in the year. And there is the other rumour to consider, of course.’
‘What other rumour?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘The one that says Doctor Rougham made off with Danyell’s hand,’ replied Langelee. ‘He denies it, but his arrogance has made him unpopular, and people do not believe him. As a consequence, he has decided to visit his family in Norfolk before he is accused of witchery. He left you a message, asking you to mind his patients.’
Bartholomew was aghast. ‘How am I supposed to do that? I am overwhelmed already.’
‘Especially as you have promised to help me find out who pulled Margery from her tomb and put blood in our font,’ added Michael.
‘Then the sooner you catch the culprit, the sooner people will see you had nothing to do with these unsavoury incidents,’ said Langelee. ‘So, you have a vested interest in making sure Michael solves these mysteries. Do not look horrified. It is the best – perhaps the only – way to quell the rumours that are circulating about Cambridge’s dubious physicians.’
Chapter 2
Bartholomew was troubled by Langelee’s contention that half the town thought he was a warlock, but was to be granted no time to answer the accusations. A second message arrived from Arblaster, urging him to make haste. Although he would have preferred to go alone, he found himself accompanied not only by Cynric, but by Carton, too. The newest Michaelhouse Fellow did not often seek out the company of his colleagues – other than William and Mildenale – and the physician was surprised when Carton expressed a desire to join him.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 4