‘I have business at Barnwell Priory, which you will pass en route to Arblaster’s home,’ Carton explained. ‘As you know, they are interested in buying one of Michaelhouse’s properties, and Langelee has asked me to clarify a few details. Do you mind me coming with you?’
‘No,’ replied Bartholomew warily, wondering if the friar wanted him alone so he could accuse him of heresy. Or perhaps his intention was to persuade him to take major orders. It would not be the first time a Franciscan had tried to recruit him; the Order was notoriously aggressive in grabbing new members. Unfortunately for them, Bartholomew was in love with a woman called Matilde, and had not quite given up hope that she might return to Cambridge one day and agree to become his wife. Although he had not seen her in almost two years, his feelings had not diminished, and he could hardly marry her if he became a priest.
Carton smiled his strange smile, and gestured that the physician was to precede him through the College’s front gate. ‘Good. This term has been so busy that we have had no time to talk.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. He thought fast, trying to come up with a subject that would discourage Carton from interrogating him about the points William had raised in his Sermon: his association with Mother Valeria, and his willingness to consider medical theories that had not been derived from the teachings of ancient Greeks. ‘Actually, I did not know Barnwell wanted one of our houses. Which one?’
Carton looked amused. ‘It was the main topic of discussion at the last Statutory Fellows’ Meeting. Were you not listening? I suppose it explains why you were so quiet.’
The conclave had been called shortly after Thomas’s death, and Bartholomew had spent the time silently agonising over what had happened. ‘I must have been thinking about something else,’ he mumbled uncomfortably.
‘Barnwell wants the house Margery Sewale left us. There has been a lot of interest in it, and Langelee needs a complete list of potential buyers.’
‘He cannot go himself ?’
Carton smiled again. ‘I volunteered. I like the canons – they always invite me to join their prayers when I visit. In fact, I would rather we sold Sewale Cottage to them instead of to any of the laymen who are after it.’
Bartholomew led the way through the tangle of alleys called the Old Jewry, passing the cottage in which Matilde had lived. He let memories of her wash over him, barely hearing Carton’s monologue on Barnwell Priory’s beautiful chapels. He remembered her pale skin, and the scent of her hair. He was still thinking about her when they passed through the town gate, and stepped on to the raised road known as the Barnwell Causeway. The Causeway was prone to floods during wet weather, and there were many tales of travellers wandering off it and drowning in the adjacent bogs. That summer, however, it stood proud of the surrounding countryside, and the marshes were bone dry. It wound ahead of them like a dusty serpent, wavering and shimmering in the heat.
As they walked, Carton began talking about a text he had read on Blood Relics, while Cynric lagged behind, bored. Bartholomew was not gripped by the complex theology surrounding the Blood Relic debate, either, but was content to let Carton hold forth. The Franciscan became animated as he spoke, and his eyes shone; Bartholomew was reminded yet again that he was a deeply religious man. Then he frowned as the friar’s words sunk in.
‘You think the blood of the Passion is not separate from Christ’s divinity?’ he asked, unsure if he had heard correctly. ‘That is the Dominicans’ basic thesis.’
Carton looked flustered. ‘Yes, I know. I was just following a line of argument, to see where it led. I was not propounding it as an accurate viewpoint. Of course Christ’s blood is separate from His divinity. Every decent Franciscan knows that.’
Immediately he began to talk about something else, but the excitement was lost from his voice. Bartholomew wondered what was wrong with him. Then it occurred to him that Carton was a good scholar, clever enough to make up his own mind about the Blood Relic debate, so perhaps he did not agree with his Order’s stance on the issues involved. Of course, if that were true, then he was wise to keep his opinions to himself, because William and Mildenale would not approve of dissenters.
Not long after, Bartholomew looked up to see Spaldynge sauntering towards them. A servant staggered along behind him, laden down with pots; the Clare man had gone to the priory to buy honey for his College. There was no way to avoid him on the narrow path and, with weary resignation, Bartholomew braced himself for another barrage of accusations. Sure enough, Spaldynge opened his mouth when he was close enough to be heard, but Carton spoke first.
‘I have been meaning to talk to you, Spaldynge,’ he said. ‘It seems we have a mutual acquaintance – Mother Kirbee and I hail from the same village. She told me she still mourns her son.’
The blood drained from Spaldynge’s face. ‘What?’
‘Mother Kirbee,’ repeated Carton. Bartholomew glanced at him, and was unsettled to note that the expression on his face was cold and hard. ‘Her boy was called James.’
Spaldynge stared at Carton, his jaw working soundlessly. Then he pushed past the Michaelhouse men without another word and began striding towards the town, head lowered. He moved too fast for his servant, who abandoned his efforts to keep up when one of the jars slipped from his hands and smashed. Spaldynge glanced around at the noise, but did not reduce his speed.
Bartholomew watched in surprise, then turned to Carton. ‘What was all that about?’
‘I do not care for him.’ Carton’s voice was icy, and there was a glint in his eye that the physician did not like. ‘He rails against medici for failing to cure his family, but does not consider the possibility that he was to blame. Perhaps he was being punished for past sins.’
Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. He had heard other clerics say plague victims had got what they deserved, but he had not expected to hear it from a colleague – a man of education and reason.
‘Fifteen years ago, Spaldynge was accused of stabbing James Kirbee,’ said Carton, when he made no reply. ‘The charge was dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence, but that does not mean he was innocent. I suspect Spaldynge’s family paid the price for his crime when the plague took them.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you sure? About the murder, I mean. I have never heard this tale—’
‘Of course I am sure,’ said Carton irritably. ‘How can you even ask such a question, when you saw for yourself how he took to his heels when I confronted him with his misdeed?’
‘He did look guilty,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But—’
‘Sinners!’ interrupted Carton bitterly. ‘They brought the Death down on us the first time, and they will do it again. And Spaldynge is one of the worst.’
Bartholomew was not sure how to respond. He was stunned – not only to learn what Spaldynge had done, but by the fact that Carton was ready to use it against him.
‘Did you test that powder from Thomas’s room?’ Carton asked, changing the subject before the physician could take issue with him. Bartholomew supposed it was just as well, given that neither would be willing to concede the other’s point of view and the discussion might end up being acrimonious. ‘Was it poison?’
‘The experiment is still running. Where did you find it again?’
‘In a chest under his bed. I thought it might explain why he died so suddenly, because I still do not believe you killed him. No one should blame you, and it is time you stopped feeling guilty about it.’
Bartholomew blinked, baffled by the man and his whirlwind of contradictions – from spiteful bigot to sympathetic friend in the space of a sentence. Then they arrived at Barnwell Priory, and Carton left to knock on the gate, relieving the physician of the need to think of a response. Once he had gone, Cynric came to walk at Bartholomew’s side. The book-bearer squinted at the sun.
‘The Devil is responsible for all this hot weather. Father William said so.’
There was something comfortingly predictable about Cynric
’s superstitions – far more so than Carton’s bewildering remarks. Bartholomew smiled, relieved to be back in more familiar territory.
‘William told me the Devil is getting ready to unleash the next bout of plague on us, too,’ he said. ‘So he must be very busy.’
Irony was lost on Cynric, who nodded sagely. ‘The Devil is powerful enough to do both and comb the beards of Bene’t’s goats. Carton is a strange fellow, do you not think? He is not the man he was. In fact, he has changed so much that there is talk about him in the town.’
‘I do not want to hear it, Cynric,’ warned Bartholomew. He had never approved of gossip.
‘You should, because it affects Michaelhouse. It is his stance on sin – he condemns it too loudly.’
Bartholomew did not understand what his book-bearer was saying. ‘I should hope so. He is a priest, and that is what they are supposed to do. If he spoke for it, I would be worried.’
‘You are missing my point. He condemns it too loudly – and it makes me think it is a ruse.’
Bartholomew regarded him blankly, still not sure what he was trying to say. So much for being in familiar territory. ‘A ruse?’
‘For what he really thinks,’ elaborated Cynric. Because it is said in the town that Carton is the Sorcerer.’
Bartholomew was used to his book-bearer drawing wild conclusions from half-understood facts, but this was a record, even for him. He regarded Cynric in astonishment, not knowing how to begin disabusing him of the notion, but aware that unless the belief was nipped in the bud fairly smartly, it would flower into something permanent.
‘No,’ he managed eventually. ‘Carton is not a heretic, and you cannot say—’
‘He has always been interested in witchery,’ interrupted Cynric. ‘We used to spy on the covens together, the ones that meet in St John Zachary or All Saints-next-the-Castle – I have been keeping an eye on them since the Death, as you know. Then he stopped coming, just like that. It was because he joined one, see. And he was so good at it that they made him their master. It is true!’
‘It is not,’ said Bartholomew, appalled that Cynric should have devised such a monstrous theory on such a fragile thread of ‘evidence’.
‘Think about it logically,’ persisted Cynric. ‘All the Fellows were asleep when Margery was hauled from her grave and the blood was left in our font – except Carton. I happened to notice his bed was empty as I walked past his room.’
‘I was not asleep then, either,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And it was very hot last night. I am sure Carton was not the only one who got up in search of cooler air.’
‘He was,’ declared Cynric, with absolute certainty. ‘Similarly, you were all teaching when Bene’t’s goats went missing, but Carton was busy elsewhere – alone. And who was the only man to go out on the night Danyell died and his hand was chopped off – other than you? Carton!’
‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There will be perfectly rational explanations for all this.’
‘There will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And they are that he is the Sorcerer – the man whose dark power grows stronger every day, and who aims to seduce decent, God-fearing men away from the Church.’
‘Is that the Sorcerer’s intention, then?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the discussion. He knew from past debates that Cynric would never accept that his ‘logic’ might be flawed, and did not want to argue with him. ‘To promote his coven at the expense of the Church?’
The book-bearer nodded with great seriousness, then pointed to a small blemish on the palm of his hand. ‘Along with banishing warts. I had one myself, so I bought one of his remedies, and you can see it worked. He is not all bad, I suppose.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, at a loss for words. He was beginning to wish he had made the journey alone, and wondered whether the heatwave was responsible for some of the peculiar thinking that was afflicting his Michaelhouse cronies.
‘Here is Arblaster’s house,’ said Cynric, regarding it with disapproval. ‘It is recently painted, which tells you he has money to squander while decent folk must eke a living in the fields.’
‘He probably paid someone to do the work,’ countered Bartholomew, getting a bit tired of the book-bearer’s flamboyant opinions. ‘Which means he provided employment for—’
‘Great wealth is all wrong,’ interrupted Cynric firmly. ‘And against God’s proper order.’
Bartholomew was tempted to point out that if Cynric felt so strongly about ‘God’s proper order’, he should not be wearing pagan amulets around his neck. But he said nothing, and instead studied the cottage that so offended the Welshman’s sense of social justice. It was larger than he expected, with a neat thatch and fat chickens scratching in the garden. Tall hedges surrounded a field that released a foul smell; he supposed it was where Arblaster composted the commodity that had brought him his fortune. Seven black goats were tethered under a tree by the river. While they waited for the door to be answered, Cynric jabbed the physician with his elbow and pointed at them.
‘Bene’t College lost seven black goats,’ he said meaningfully.
Bartholomew rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘So Carton is the Sorcerer, and Arblaster – a respectable merchant – steals the University’s livestock? What other tales can you concoct? That Master Langelee has a penchant for wearing our laundress’s clothes?’
‘No, but your colleague Wynewyk does,’ replied Cynric, without the merest hint that he was jesting. ‘They are too large for him, but he makes do.’
Bartholomew was relieved when the door opened, saving him from more of Cynric’s unsettling conversation. A woman stood there, small and pretty. She wore a red kirtle – a long gown – with a close-fitting bodice that accentuated her slender figure. Her white-gold hair was gathered in plaits at the side of her face, held in place with an elegant silver net called a fret. Her dark blue eyes were slightly swollen, showing she had been crying.
‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘I recognise you from the public debates in St Mary the Great. It is good of you to come, especially as we are Doctor Rougham’s patients, not your own. I am Jodoca, Paul Arblaster’s wife.’
Bartholomew recognised her, too, because even scholars in love with women they had not seen for two years could not fail to notice such pale loveliness. His students talked about Jodoca in reverent tones, and had voted her the town’s most attractive lady. He nodded a friendly greeting and stepped inside, grateful to be out of the sun at last.
The house smelled of honey-scented wax, and a servant was on her knees in the hearth, polishing the stones. Silken cloths covered the table and there were books on a shelf above the window. Bartholomew could see by the embossing on the covers that they were philosophical tracts, indicating that someone was interested in honing his mind. The house and its contents told him the Arblasters were wealthy folk who paid heed to the finer points of life. It told Cynric so, too, and he looked around him disparagingly.
‘I have been so worried about Paul,’ Jodoca went on. ‘I am at my wits’ end.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The flux?’
She nodded miserably, then turned to Cynric. ‘There is new ale in the pantry, and it must have been an unpleasantly hot walk for you. My maid will show you where it is kept.’
Cynric beamed in surprise, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the book-bearer might be prepared to overlook her disgusting wealth if polite consideration was shown to servants.
‘I have been watching for you from the upstairs window,’ said Jodoca, looking back at Bartholomew. ‘For one awful moment, I thought you were going to see the canons at Barnwell first. I saw one of you go in, and was afraid I might have to run over and drag you out again.’
‘That was Carton,’ provided Cynric, willing to be helpful in return for his ale. ‘Michaelhouse is selling a cottage, and he has gone to discuss terms with the Prior. But we came straight here, because your summons sounded so urgent.’<
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‘It is urgent,’ said Jodoca, fighting back tears. ‘I am frightened for Paul. We are used to dung, being in the business and all, but this flux is too horrible, even for us.’
‘I will be in the pantry, then,’ said Cynric, evidently thinking this was more detail than he needed. He had disappeared before Jodoca could add anything else.
Bartholomew allowed Jodoca to haul him along a corridor to a pleasant chamber at the back of the house. Here, the odour was rather less pleasant. The patient was sitting in bed, surrounded by buckets. He was pale and feverish, but not so ill that he could not do some writing. A ledger was on his knees, and he was recording figures in it. He smiled when Bartholomew was shown in.
‘At last! I was beginning to think you might not come. It is a long way from town, and I understand you do not own a horse. It is a pity. Nags are good sources of dung.’
Arblaster was a large, powerful man with thick yellow hair that sprouted from his head in unruly clumps. He was a burgess, and Bartholomew had seen him taking part in various civic ceremonies, when the hair had been carefully wetted down in an attempt to make it lie flat. It usually popped up again as soon as it was dry, showing that attempts to tame it were a waste of time. Bartholomew knew little about him, other than the fact that he purchased large quantities of aromatic herbs to prevent the odour of his wares from entering his home: the apothecary claimed Arblaster was a bigger customer than all three of the town’s physicians put together.
‘I thought he was going to Barnwell Priory first,’ said Jodoca, plumping up his pillows. ‘But that was Carton, going to discuss house business with Prior Norton.’
‘I suppose Barnwell is interested in Sewale Cottage,’ said Arblaster. ‘Greedy devils! They will own the entire town soon.’
Bartholomew went to feel the speed of the dung-merchant’s pulse, already sure Arblaster was not as ill as his wife seemed to think. ‘When did you first start to feel unwell?’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 5