‘Last night. It was probably the goat we had for dinner. I told Jodoca it was off.’
‘And I told you to leave it, if you thought it was tainted,’ Jodoca replied, sitting on the bed and stroking her husband’s hair affectionately. ‘I have a summer cold, and could not taste it.’
‘Goat manure is not as good as horse,’ said Arblaster, smiling genially at the physician. ‘Does your College own cows? If so, I will give you a good price for their muck.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. He was not used to patients touting for dung in the middle of consultations. ‘I think we send it to our manor in Ickleton,’ he said, to bring the discussion to an end. ‘What else did you eat yesterday?’
‘Nothing. People despise dung, but it is the stuff on which our country is built. Without it, there would be no crops, which means no food and no people. We owe a lot to muck.’
Bartholomew did not find it easy to acquire the information he needed to make an accurate diagnosis, and by the time he had finished, he had learned more about manure and its various properties than was pleasant. The stream of information came to a merciful end when Arblaster was seized with a sudden need to make use of one of the buckets. The exercise left him exhausted.
‘Two inmates from Barnwell hospital died of this flux last week,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I do not want Jodoca to join them in their graves – I have heard how fast it can pass from person to person.’
‘There is no reason she should become sick,’ said Bartholomew. He was tempted to explain his theory that rotten meat was responsible for the illness, but the brisk walk in the searing sun and the taxing discussions with Cynric and Carton had sapped his energy; he did not feel like embarking on a lengthy medical debate. ‘And besides, the hospital inmates are old men. Jodoca is a young woman, and so is less likely to succumb.’
‘You mean I will die, then?’ asked Arblaster in an appalled whisper. ‘Because I am a man who is approaching forty years of age?’
Bartholomew was aware that tiredness was robbing him of his wits; he should have known better than to make remarks that might be misinterpreted. ‘Of course not. I can give you medicine that will make you feel better by morning. It contains—’
‘My sickness is the Devil’s work,’ interrupted Arblaster, fear in his eyes now. ‘I had an argument with Mother Valeria a week ago – she tried to overcharge me for a spell and I refused to pay. She must have cursed me. That is why I lie dying.’
‘You are not dying,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And Valeria does not put curses on people.’
‘She does, boy,’ countered Cynric, who was watching from the doorway, a jug of ale in his hand. ‘She is very good at it, which is why you should never annoy her. She likes you now, but that could change in an instant. It would be safer if you had nothing to do with her, as I have told you before.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering how Cynric came by his information. He did not have the energy for it, regardless. He turned back to the business in hand, removing angelica and barley from his bag, and dropping them into a pot of water that was bubbling on the hearth. ‘Mistress Jodoca, your husband needs to drink as much of this as—’
‘She is not staying,’ said Arblaster. His expression was grimly determined. ‘When I die, Mother Valeria will come for my soul, and I do not want Jodoca here when that happens.’
‘I cannot leave you,’ protested Jodoca, aghast at the notion. ‘I am your wife!’
‘You are not going to die,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘You are strong, and this is not a serious—’
‘Please do as I ask, Jodoca,’ interrupted Arblaster. ‘Leave now, and go to stay with your brother. No woman should see her man’s spirit ripped bloodily from his corpse.’
‘That will not happen,’ insisted Bartholomew although he could see Arblaster did not believe him. ‘And someone needs to be here, to administer this cure. There is no need to send her—’
‘Jodoca, go,’ ordered Arblaster. ‘If you love me, you will not argue.’
Tears flowing, Jodoca backed out of the room. Her footsteps tapped along the corridor and across the yard, then all was silent again. Bartholomew asked Cynric to fetch the maid, so she could be shown how to do the honours with the remedy, but she had apparently overheard the discussion and fled, for she was nowhere to be found. The house was deserted.
‘We cannot leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew to his book-bearer. ‘He is not as ill as he believes, but he still needs nursing. Will you wait here, while I walk to Barnwell and ask one of the canons to sit with him? It will not take long.’
He fully expected Cynric to refuse, knowing perfectly well that witches in search of souls was exactly the kind of tale the book-bearer took very seriously. Therefore he was startled when Cynric nodded assent. He was not surprised for long, however.
‘Arblaster is wrong to think Valeria will come for him this afternoon,’ said Cynric, sniffing in disdain. ‘She will not do that until he has been dead for three nights. Of course, it would not worry me if she did break with tradition and come today, because I am wearing an amulet.’
‘What kind of amulet?’ asked Arblaster, overhearing.
Cynric fingered something brown and furry that hung around his neck. ‘A powerful one, quite able to protect us both.’
Arblaster sagged in relief. He sipped Bartholomew’s doctored water, complained that it did not taste of much, then sank into a feverish doze. The physician gave Cynric instructions about what to do if he woke, and made for the door.
‘Do not stay in the convent too long,’ advised Cynric. ‘None of the canons are witches, but a couple turn into wolves on occasion. Luckily, I happen to have a counter-charm against wolves.’
Bartholomew felt his head spinning, and decided he should spend as little time with Cynric as possible until the Sorcerer had either been exposed as a fraud or had faded into oblivion, as all such prodigies were wont to do. He tried to dodge the proffered parcel, but the book-bearer managed to press it into his hand anyway. He smiled weakly, and shoved it in his bag, determined to throw it away later. He did not want to be caught with such an item in his possession, not after William’s accusations regarding his association with Mother Valeria.
It was not far to Barnwell Priory, but seemed further because the road was so fiercely hot. Bartholomew felt the energy drain from him at every step. His senses swam, and he wondered if he was in line for a bout of the flux himself. He hoped not, because it would leave Paxtone alone to physic the entire town. After what seemed an age, he arrived at Barnwell’s sturdy front gate. He leaned against the gatepost for a moment, standing in its shade and squinting against the sun’s brightness.
The convent was owned by the Augustinian Order, and comprised a refectory, guest hall, infirmary, almonry, brewery, granary, stables and bake-house, all surrounded by protective walls and gates. In addition, there was a church and three chapels – one for the infirmary, one attached to the almonry and the other dedicated to St Lucy and St Edmund. As Arblaster had mentioned, the convent also owned a substantial amount of property in the town: houses, shops, churches and manors. Bartholomew could not imagine why Prior Norton should want to purchase yet more of it in the form of Sewale Cottage. Not being an acquisitive man himself, he failed to understand the bent in others, and was grateful Langelee had not given him the task of negotiating details with Prior Norton.
He knocked on the gate, thinking about what he knew of the Augustinians. Despite the convent’s opulence, Norton had just twenty canons. There was, however, an army of servants and labourers who performed the menial tasks the brethren liked to avoid. The canons’ lives were not all meals and prayers, however. They ran a school for boys, and the infirmary housed a dozen old men who were living out their lives at the priory’s expense. They summoned Bartholomew not infrequently, because the infirmarian was not very good at his job, and tended to shy away from anything more complex than cuts and bruises. As a result, the physician should have k
nown the canons reasonably well, but because they were mainly middle-aged, portly men who were going bald, he found it difficult to tell them apart. The infirmarian and his assistant were distinctive, but the rest were indistinguishable as far as Bartholomew was concerned, and he was glad Norton possessed a pair of unusually protuberant eyes, or he would have been hard pressed to identify him, too.
He was surprised when his rap was answered not by a lay-brother, but by Norton himself. The Prior’s expression was one of extreme agitation, and the thought went through Bartholomew’s mind that if he opened his eyes any wider, they might drop out.
‘Why have you arrived so quickly?’ Norton demanded, uncharacteristically brusque. ‘We have only just sent for you.’
‘Is something wrong?’ Bartholomew was concerned. Arblaster had mentioned two men dead of the flux, and it occurred to him that the priory might be suffering from a more virulent outbreak than the one in the town.
‘Yes,’ replied Norton shortly. He turned, and Bartholomew saw his brethren ranged behind him, an uneasy cluster in their light-coloured robes. They murmured greetings, and some sketched benedictions. Bartholomew nodded back, noting they were as nervous and unhappy as their head.
Henry Fencotes, the infirmarian’s assistant, stepped forward. Unlike his fellows, he possessed a full head of white hair, and he was thin. His skin was as pale as parchment, so his veins showed blue through it. He had consulted Bartholomew on several occasions because his hands and feet were always cold, even in the height of summer. Older than the others, he had come late to the priesthood, and it was said that he had lived a very wild life before his vows.
‘Where is Brother Michael?’ Fencotes asked, grabbing the physician’s arm. His hand felt icy, like that of a corpse. ‘We asked him to come, too. Did you leave him behind, because he is too fat to run? Will he be here soon?’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew, growing steadily more uneasy. ‘Is someone ill?’
‘You could say that,’ said Norton. ‘Will you see Carton now, or wait until Michael arrives?’
Bartholomew felt alarm grip his stomach. ‘Carton? What is wrong with him?’
‘We told you in the message we sent.’ Norton’s face was grim. ‘He has been murdered.’
Carton was in one of the convent’s chapels, a handsome building with a lead roof. It was a peaceful, silent place, with thick stone walls and tiny lancet windows that made it dark and intimate. It was also cool, and Bartholomew welcomed the respite from the heat. He tried to ask Norton what had happened as he was ushered into the porch, but the goggle-eyed Augustinian was not of a mind to answer questions, preferring to give a detailed explanation of why he believed this was the first unlawful killing ever to take place in the convent he ruled.
Bartholomew bit back his impatience. ‘A hundred and fifty murder-free years is an impressive record, Father Prior, but where is Carton?’
‘In the chancel,’ replied Fencotes. ‘Podiolo is with him. Come, I will show you.’
‘Podiolo came the moment I discovered …’ Norton trailed off uncomfortably, gesticulating with his hand. ‘But he said there was nothing he could do.’
Matteo di Podiolo was the infirmarian, and hailed from Florence. He had yellow eyes, a pointed nose and a mouth full of long, sharp teeth; Cynric had once told Bartholomew that his mother was a wolf. He knew virtually nothing about medicine, and did not seem inclined to learn, either, preferring to concentrate on his life’s ambition: to turn base metal into gold. He had built a laboratory in the infirmary chapel, and spent far more time there than ministering to his elderly charges. Perhaps, Bartholomew thought uncharitably, his lack of dedication was why two of them had died of flux.
‘There was nothing anyone could do,’ Podiolo said, emerging suddenly from the gloom of the nave and making them all jump. His curious amber eyes gleamed in the semi-darkness.
Bartholomew ducked around him and hurried after Fencotes, but the abrupt plunge from bright sunlight had rendered him blind, and he could not see where he was going. He could not even see Fencotes, although he could hear his footsteps a short distance ahead. He slowed, recalling that the flagstones in that particular chapel were treacherously uneven. Unfortunately, Podiolo was too close behind him, and failed to adjust his speed. He collided with the physician then stumbled into one of the plump, balding canons, who gave a shriek as he lost his balance and fell. Something clattered to the floor with him, and there was a collective gasp of horror.
‘The stoup!’ cried Fencotes, dropping to his knees with his hands clasped in front of him. ‘You have spilled the holy water!’
The other canons began to babble their horror, and Podiolo yelled something about a bad omen. Bartholomew glanced at the chancel, itching to run to Carton’s side but loath to do so while his sunlight-dazzled eyes could not see where the holy water had splattered.
‘No one move,’ ordered Norton, his commanding voice stilling the clamour of alarm. ‘Use your hood to mop it up, Fencotes. Then we shall leave it on the altar until it dries. No harm is done – at least, as long as no one treads in it.’
With shaking hands, Fencotes dabbed at the mess, while Bartholomew started to ease around him, aiming for the chancel. It would not be the first time death had been misdiagnosed – he had no faith in Podiolo’s dubious skills – and he might yet save Carton’s life. He stopped abruptly when he became aware that the canons were regarding him with rather naked hostility. It was unsettling, and for the first time in weeks, he shivered.
‘Prior Norton instructed you to wait,’ said Podiolo coldly. ‘There is nothing you can do for your friend. He is quite dead. I may not be the best infirmarian, but I know a corpse when I see one.’
‘Please,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘Carton is my colleague, and I may be able to—’
‘He is also a devout Franciscan, who will not appreciate you defiling holy water to reach him,’ said Fencotes firmly. ‘Be still, Doctor. I am going as fast as I can.’
‘And I shall tell you what happened, to occupy your mind,’ said Norton. ‘Carton came to discuss the house your College is going to sell – Margery Sewale’s place. A number of people are interested in purchasing it, and he came to find out how much we are willing to pay. He was going to tell us what others have offered, too, so we can decide whether we want to put in a higher bid. It was good of Langelee to send him.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Podiolo. ‘It is in Michaelhouse’s interests to secure the best price, and Carton was just facilitating that process. Langelee did not send him out of the goodness of his heart.’
‘I have no love of earthly wealth,’ said Fencotes, not looking up from his duties on the floor. ‘But do not condemn Carton and Langelee for trying their best for Michaelhouse. It is not as if they are going to keep the money for themselves.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Norton. He opened his eyes further than Bartholomew would have believed possible. ‘Anyway, I invited Carton to talk here, in the chapel, because it is the coolest place in the priory, and thus the most comfortable. Given the heat, I thought he might appreciate some refreshment, too, so I left him alone for a few moments while I went to fetch a jug of wine.’
‘A few moments?’ asked Bartholomew.
Norton’s face was almost as pale as Fencotes’s. ‘Just the time it took me to hurry across the yard, tell Podiolo which claret to bring, and hurry back again. When I arrived, I found Carton …’
Bartholomew shot an agitated glance at the chancel. ‘Found Carton what?’
‘In the state he is in now,’ finished Norton unhelpfully. ‘I ran outside and yelled for Podiolo, who came to see what could be done.’
‘But nothing could,’ added Podiolo, flashing his wolfish smile, rather inappropriately.
‘You said Carton has been murdered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That means someone else must have been in here with him. Who was it?’
‘The chapel was empty when Carton and I arrived,’ replied Norton. ‘And you can see it
is too small for anyone to hide here without being spotted.’
Now Bartholomew’s eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, he could see Norton was right. The chapel comprised a nave, which was empty of anything except six round pillars, and a chancel. He could just make out a dark form lying behind the altar rail. There was no furniture of any description, and the only way in was through the door. The windows were narrow, no wider than the length of a man’s hand, and it would be impossible for anyone to squeeze through them.
‘So someone must have come in while you were away fetching the wine,’ he said to Norton.
‘Then whoever it was must have been very fast,’ said Norton. ‘I was not gone long. But it is possible, I suppose. However, I sincerely hope you do not suspect one of us of this dreadful crime.’
‘Who has access to your grounds, other than canons and lay-brethren?’ asked Bartholomew. He glanced at Fencotes, who seemed to be taking far too long with his mopping.
‘The inmates at the hospital and the boys in the school,’ replied the Prior. ‘Plus the folk who come to buy our honey. Then the lay-brothers often invite their kinsman to visit. In fact, we tend not to exclude anyone who wants to come in.’
‘You keep your gate locked,’ Bartholomew pointed out, recalling how he had knocked and waited for an answer.
‘That is to deter the casual highway robber,’ replied Podiolo. ‘But we keep a back door open for anyone who might be in need. We are not Michaelhouse, which requires tight security to avoid being burned to the ground.’
The holy water wiped away, Norton led the way to the chancel, where Carton lay on his face in front of the altar. The Franciscan’s arms were stretched to either side, and his legs were straight and pressed together in a grotesque parody of a crucifix. And in the middle of his back was a knife.
Podiolo had been right when he said there was nothing Bartholomew could do for his colleague. The dagger wound looked as though it would have been almost instantly fatal, and Carton was already beginning to cool in the chill of the church. Bartholomew inspected the body by the light of a candle, but there was nothing else to see. Carton had been in good health when he was stabbed, and there were no other injuries or inexplicable marks.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 6