‘But two people do not die in their sleep at the same time.’
‘Why not? Rougham said it was possible.’
‘It is possible, but so improbable …’ ‘Rougham gave me a written statement saying his verdict was natural death, and although I spent a week asking questions, nothing surfaced to make me think he was wrong. In the end, I was forced to concede that the improbable had happened, and one followed the other into death. They were fond of each other, so perhaps love caused them to breathe their last at the same time.’
‘In tales of romance, perhaps, but not in real life.’
Michael looked accusing. ‘Then it is a pity you elected to race off to France and Spain last year instead of remaining here, doing your duty.’
Bartholomew was used to recriminatory remarks about how he had ‘abandoned’ Michael, and had learned to ignore them. ‘I would ask Rougham about it, but he has gone to Norfolk.’
‘Fled from the rumours that say he stole Danyell’s hand,’ said Michael, adding uncharitably, ‘Or perhaps he is afraid of catching the flux. Several of his patients have died from it already, although Cynric tells me you have only lost two.’
‘You may be about to lose a few more, though,’ said Cynric, appearing suddenly behind them. ‘You are needed at Bene’t College, where three students are said to be in great distress.’
Bartholomew ensured he had enough barley and angelica in his bag, and headed for the stairs. ‘You will have to talk to William on your own, Brother. Three patients may take some time.’
‘I would rather wait. For all his faults, I do not want William implicated in this nasty business, and I want you with me when I interview him. Two minds are better than one.’
Bartholomew had been right to predict that he might be at Bene’t College for some time. He had been summoned early enough to help two of the ailing scholars, but the third was rapidly sliding towards death, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. It was not the first time Bene’t had waited too long before calling him, but when he remonstrated with Master Heltisle he learned that the porters had been ordered to fetch him the previous day, but had apparently forgotten.
‘Their faulty memories have cost this student his life,’ snapped Bartholomew. He tried to control his temper, but it was difficult when a youngster was dying in his arms.
Heltisle was a tall, haughty man with the easy confidence of someone born to power and wealth. He had been a clerk on the King’s Bench before he had forsaken law for academia, and such a lofty personage did not appreciate being railed at by a physician. His expression was a little dangerous.
‘I will speak to them about it,’ he said tightly, warning in his voice.
Bartholomew turned back to his patient, suspecting he would do no such thing. Bene’t’s servants were the surliest men in Cambridge, and it was common knowledge that even the Master was nervous of them. The head porter was a lout called Younge, and when his minions retired or died in office – the latter being more common, given their propensity for violence – he possessed a knack for appointing replacements worse than the originals.
It was late afternoon when the student died, but Bartholomew lingered at Bene’t, wanting to be sure the other two would not follow suit. He was used to fevers claiming lives, but losing young patients still distressed him, and he was in a dark mood by the time he had satisfied himself that the others were out of danger. He headed for the gate, and it was unfortunate that Younge happened to be lounging in the porters’ lodge as he passed.
‘The next time your Master issues you with an order to summon me, you would do well to follow it immediately,’ he snarled, itching to punch the insolent grin from the man’s face.
‘And who is going to make me?’ asked Younge, rising to his feet menacingly. Although he was shorter than the physician, he was considerably broader. ‘You?’
‘The Senior Proctor,’ snapped Bartholomew, far too angry to be intimidated.
‘We shall see about that,’ sneered Younge. ‘Master Heltisle will protect me.’
‘I imagine he would rather protect his students,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘They pay him to be here.’
Younge made no reply, so Bartholomew began to trudge back to Michaelhouse. He felt drained of energy, partly from sitting helplessly while a child died, but also because the heat remained oppressive. And, of course, there was the fact that he could not recall the last time he had had a full night’s sleep. The previous one had been no exception, although he had at least managed to snatch a couple of hours before he had been called out.
When he reached the College, he found his chamber a frenzy of activity as his room-mates packed for their enforced vacation. They were all going to Waltham Abbey, where one had a post when he was not at his studies and had decided to leave that afternoon rather than wait until morning. When their horses arrived, they bade him a hasty farewell and were gone in a flurry of hoofs. The place felt oddly empty without them, and he did not stay there long before going in search of Michael. Together they went to see William.
‘William’s students were the first to go,’ said Michael, as they walked across the yard. ‘They are relieved to be away from him, and one even asked if he might share with you when he comes back. They are all Franciscans, but they are uncomfortable with the stance he has taken towards the Dominicans.’
‘He has always held those views. He has not changed.’
‘But he was always a lone voice before. Now he has Mildenale – and Thomas, when he was alive – and their support has made him more extreme. He is much worse than he was.’
They knocked on William’s door, and found the friar on a small prayer-stool that had been set up in one corner. When Bartholomew heard the words ‘Dominican’ and ‘Satan’ murmured in the same breath, he almost walked away, wondering what sort of god William thought was listening.
‘I am sorry about Carton,’ said Michael once he was comfortably seated with a cup of the friar’s cheap wine. Bartholomew was not offered any – not that he would have accepted anyway; William’s brews tended to give most people a headache. ‘You were friends, and his death must be a shock.’
William nodded, and his heavy features creased into an expression of grief. ‘I shall miss him, just as I miss Thomas, but Mildenale will recruit others to our cause. Do you have any idea who might have killed Carton? If not, I have a theory you might like to hear.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Michael cautiously.
William folded his arms. ‘The Dominicans hated the way Carton denounced Satan, who is their master. So they bashed out his brains with one of the sinful books he was gathering for his pyre.’
Bartholomew exchanged a glance with Michael, hoping it was significant that the friar did not appear to know how Carton had been killed.
‘That is an intriguing notion, but impossible,’ said Michael evenly. He did not want to antagonise William by dismissing his opinions quite so early in the interview. ‘I visited the Dominican friary this afternoon, and learned that the entire convent was at a lecture in Merton Hall when Carton was murdered. Prior Morden can vouch for every one of them, and so can several other scholars, including the Chancellor. The Black Friars are innocent.’
William’s jaw dropped in disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ replied Michael, although Bartholomew knew him well enough to see he was not. However, the claim might serve to muzzle William. ‘And now you can tell me where you were.’
‘Surely, you cannot suspect me?’ cried William, shocked. ‘I am your colleague and your friend.’
‘Are you?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Then why do you accuse Matt of witchcraft? You know perfectly well he would never apprentice himself to Mother Valeria or steal hands from corpses.’
William scowled at the physician. ‘I know nothing of the kind. And I might not have voiced my concerns aloud had he not given Thomas the medicine that took his life.’
‘It is time you stopped these vile accusations,�
� snapped Michael, while Bartholomew winced. ‘Or does the fact that you quarrelled with Thomas the night before he died still prey on your conscience?’
William sniffed. ‘I admit I wish the encounter had been less acrimonious, but he said I was stupid, and no man should accept that without voicing his objections. So I called him a Dominican.’ He sat back with a satisfied expression, obviously thinking he had won the insults contest.
‘Where were you yesterday afternoon?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew thought the dispute between the two friars was not as serious as he had been led to believe. Then he realised it was: to men like Thomas and William, being accused of belonging to the Order they so despised was one of the gravest slurs imaginable.
‘I was out,’ William replied, looking decidedly furtive. ‘Investigating things.’
‘What things?’ demanded Michael, eyes narrowing.
William looked as though he might prevaricate, but then sighed his resignation. ‘I was conducting my own enquiry, if you must know. I was trying to find out who put blood in our font, who took Bene’t’s goats, and who purloined Danyell’s hand.’
‘I see. And did you discover anything of relevance?’
‘Not really. The goats have disappeared without a trace, no one has been hawking severed hands to the town’s witches, and there have been no other incidents of blood left in holy places. Unfortunately, I know for a fact that the Dominicans had nothing to do with Danyell’s fingers, because they were all taking part in a satanic coven at the time.’
‘It was a holy vigil,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘They prayed in their chapel the whole night before Ascension Day. I went there twice, to tend Prior Morden’s aching back.’
‘Call it what you will,’ said William unpleasantly. ‘I know the truth.’
The sun pouring through the windows had transformed Bartholomew’s room into a furnace, and it was far too hot for sleep. He tried, for he desperately needed rest, but tossed and turned in sweltering discomfort, even when he lay on the stone floor. He missed his room-mates, and awoke from several uneasy dozes with a start, dreaming that they had the flux and he was forced to watch them die. In the end, he decided to go for a walk, hoping exercise would calm his troubled thoughts.
It was almost dark, but the sun still bathed the western sky with shades of red and purple. A blackbird sang in a parched tree, and the town was noisier than usual, because everyone had their windows open. He could hear snatches of conversation, snoring and music as he left the College and began to walk along Milne Street. He took a deep breath, smelling scorched soil, the muddy ooze of the river, and a blocked sewer. He could detect something even more rank, too: the butchers’ stalls in the market and their festering produce. Insects whined in his ears, bats swooped and a dog barked frantically at a cat that sat just out of its reach and washed itself.
He was not the only person who thought an evening stroll might help him relax; a number of people were out, many of whom he knew. His patients nodded and smiled at him; some stopped to exchange pleasantries about the weather or, more usually, to confide some aspect of their health they thought he should know. One or two colleagues told him they had enjoyed the disputation he had conducted the previous week in St Mary the Great, and Eyton, the affable vicar of St Bene’t’s, informed him that he should make sure he was indoors by midnight, because the town’s witches intended to hold a celebration.
‘A celebration of what?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.
Eyton cocked a merry eyebrow. ‘A celebration of evil. What else? So if you go to see Mother Valeria, you will find she is not in.’
Bartholomew surmised that the priest had been talking to William. ‘I see.’
‘Of course,’ Eyton went on with a confidential wink, ‘tonight’s revelries will be nothing compared to what is scheduled for the witching hour next Saturday. It will be the night before Trinity Sunday, you see, which is a very holy occasion for warlocks.’
‘How do you know that?’
Eyton seemed surprised he should need to ask. ‘The Sorcerer’s disciples have been talking about it for weeks, buying in supplies of sulphur and pitch in anticipation. I shall have to make sure I have plenty of honey to hand.’
Bartholomew regarded him blankly. It was too late in the day for obscure allusions. ‘Honey?’
‘To keep these witches at bay,’ explained Eyton. ‘We discussed this yesterday, if you recall. I do not mind a few warlocks, but I am nervous of such a very large gathering. You never know what they might achieve when they mass in great numbers.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew weakly.
‘And let us hope we have no more incidents like the one involving Margery Sewale,’ added Eyton fervently. ‘She was dragged from her grave for the purpose of black magic, and I do not want it to happen again. I am afraid that there will be so many Satan-lovers gathering in All Saints-next-the-Castle on Saturday that the Sorcerer may not be able to control them all.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘All Saints?’
Eyton chuckled inappropriately. ‘The biggest and most influential of the Cambridge covens meets there, because it was deconsecrated after its entire congregation died of the plague. It is a perfect place for such gatherings – remote, ruinous and sinister. It is the Sorcerer’s church, and he has invited all disciples of the Devil to join him there for the Trinity Eve celebrations.’
‘I will tell Michael,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His beadles will put a stop to it.’
Eyton’s smile faded to alarm. ‘No, do not do that! People will not like it. The point I am trying to make is that the occasion will be the Sorcerer’s début – his first appearance in front of all these different cadres. If you do not follow their ways, you would be wise to stay home in bed.’
‘Then I shall do as you suggest,’ said Bartholomew, purely to end the discussion. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are welcome,’ said Eyton jovially. ‘And now I had better go to guard the body of that student you failed to save today. We do not want anyone stealing his corpse.’
Eyton’s babble was unsettling, and Bartholomew knew it would be a while before he was able to sleep. What he needed was something – or someone – to take his mind off his worries, and he wished Matilde was still in Cambridge. She would know how to distract him from dark thoughts, and he felt loneliness stab at him as he walked. Then he realised he was outside the grand building owned by his brother-in-law. Although Oswald Stanmore spent his leisure hours at his manor in the nearby village of Trumpington and used the Cambridge house mostly for business, he sometimes worked late. Bartholomew knocked on the door, hoping that night might be one of those times, and was pleased when it was answered by the merchant himself.
Stanmore, a handsome man with a neat grey beard, ushered him in and offered him wine, which he served in the garden. His apprentices were being entertained by a juggler he had hired, and their laughter rippled across the yard. Bartholomew’s thoughts immediately returned to Matilde, because she had loved jugglers. He had planned to marry her, but, mistakenly believing he would never propose, she had left Cambridge one spring day. He had spent more than a year looking for her – his sabbatical leave had seen little time spent in foreign universities, despite what his colleagues believed – but she had disappeared like mist in sunlight. If she was not coming back, he liked to think of her happily settled with a man who would give her the kind of life she deserved. He certainly refused to contemplate what his friends thought: that a lone woman in a cart full of possessions had been too great a temptation for the murderous robbers who infested the King’s highways.
‘I like sitting out here in the summer,’ said Stanmore, taking an appreciative sip of his wine. ‘And if you look through that grille on the wall you can see right down the road, but no one can see you.’
‘So you can,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was an odd thing to point out. ‘Do you spend much time peering down Milne Street, then?’
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br /> ‘A fair amount, especially when your sister is not here. I find it takes my mind off her.’
‘Trumpington is only two miles distant. If you miss her that much, go home.’
‘She is not in Trumpington, she is in London,’ said Stanmore rather testily. ‘I told you she was going, and so did she – several times, although I had a feeling our words were not sinking in. You are always preoccupied with your own concerns these days, and ours do not seem to matter to you.’
Bartholomew was dismayed by the accusation. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Our son,’ said Stanmore. He scowled, as if the physician had done something wrong. ‘You arranged for him to meet your former student Sam Gray, who secured him a post with the Earl of Suffolk. Richard is now a valued member of the Earl’s household.’
‘That is good,’ said Bartholomew. But Stanmore was still glaring at him. ‘Is it not?’
‘It would have been, had he not fallen in love with the Earl’s daughter. And the Earl has rather a different match in mind than the son of a merchant. Edith has gone to talk some sense into him.’
‘Into the Earl?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Into Richard,’ snapped Stanmore impatiently. ‘We have already explained all this to you.’ ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, remembering that they had done so the night after Thomas died, when he had been too full of self-recrimination to concentrate. ‘You have.’
Stanmore poured him more wine. ‘You are working too hard – more students than you can manage, and too many patients. Then there was that nasty business with Magister Arderne. He questioned your competence, and his remarks are still having an effect.’
‘My patients trust me. If they did not, I would not have so many of them.’
‘They trust you to help them, but a good number think your success comes from the pact you have made with the Devil. Your controversial methods are to blame. If you were more traditional, like Paxtone and Rougham, no one would give you a second thought.’
Bartholomew sighed, thinking he was far more orthodox than he had been when he was younger, forced into conforming by relentless pressure from all sides. It was galling to be told he was unconventional, when he tried so hard to avoid controversy.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 10