The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I am going to bring him down,’ vowed William. His eyes were fierce, and his jaw set in a determined line that said he meant it. ‘Mildenale and I will see this heretic—’

  ‘Item three on the agenda,’ interrupted Langelee briskly. ‘We have already dealt with Carton and the houses. All that remains is the Bishop. Have you heard from him, Brother?’

  Michael looked pained. ‘He has not written to me since he left England last year.’

  ‘I can tell you about the evil de Lisle,’ said William viciously. The Bishop was a Dominican, so naturally William did not like him. ‘He has been indicted for sixteen separate crimes, which include murder, extortion, abduction, assault and theft. But he fled overseas before the King could find him guilty and seize all his assets.’

  ‘You should learn the facts before you make that sort of statement,’ said Michael coldly. ‘My Bishop did not commit those crimes – they were perpetrated by men in his retinue, and he cannot be held responsible for what stewards, reeves and bailiffs do.’

  ‘Actually, he can,’ countered Langelee. ‘When I committed crimes for the Archbishop of York, he would have been held accountable, had I been caught. Fortunately, I never was. De Lisle, however, hires inferior men to do his work, and now he must bear the consequences.’

  His Fellows regarded him uneasily. None were comfortable when their Master confided details of his colourful former life.

  ‘Well, I am glad you did not break the law for de Lisle, Brother,’ said Suttone after a brief but awkward silence. ‘Or you might be languishing in prison, like his other spies.’

  ‘I am not his spy,’ objected Michael. ‘I am his agent. And all I do is furnish him with news about the University. It is part of his See, so of course he should be kept informed of what is happening.’

  ‘Well, whatever the truth, we do not need to worry about him any more,’ said Langelee. ‘I have it on good authority that he will never come home. The King is too angry with him, and his fellow bishops do not want him as their friend. He is an outcast.’

  Suttone was shocked. ‘But what will happen to his See?’

  ‘He has able deputies for that,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Priests – not the reeves and bailiffs who race around setting houses alight and stealing cattle. There is nothing wrong with the way he manages the episcopal side of things – he is just a bit of a brute when it comes to secular business.’

  Michael sighed wearily. ‘De Lisle is not a criminal—’

  ‘You should keep that opinion to yourself,’ advised Langelee. ‘It is unwise to side with a man who is ostracised by the King. Futile, too, because de Lisle will never be in a position to reciprocate.’

  ‘The Master is right,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Remember how the Bishop was accused of murdering one of Lady Blanche de Wake’s servants some years back? Well, Blanche is the King’s cousin, and His Majesty still holds the incident against him.’

  ‘Lord!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, regarding the monk in alarm. ‘I had forgotten all about that. You asked him openly about his involvement in the killing, but he never did give you a straight answer.’

  ‘That does not mean he is guilty,’ persisted Michael stubbornly.

  ‘Dozens of people have presented the King with evidence of de Lisle’s misdeeds,’ said Wynewyk. ‘And while I appreciate that some may have done it out of spite, they cannot all be lying. Incidentally, did you know that Spynk is one of them? So was Danyell.’

  Langelee shook his head in disgust. ‘Prelates are always short of money, and it is common practice to raise revenues by theft, extortion, blackmail and abduction. But the real crime here is that de Lisle let himself be caught. The man is a damned fool! I only hope it does not result in other high-ranking churchmen being forced to answer for their actions.’

  ‘The things you say, Master,’ said Suttone, regarding Langelee with round eyes. Bartholomew suspected he expressed what all the Fellows were thinking, even William. Everyone was relieved when a knock on the door brought a merciful end to the discussion. It was Cynric, with Beadle Meadowman at his heels; Meadowman was one of the army of men Michael employed to help him keep order among the scholars. The beadle pushed past Cynric, and made directly for Michael, bending to whisper in his ear. Bartholomew’s heart sank. He could tell from the man’s pale face and agitated manner that he had something unpleasant to report.

  ‘There has been another one,’ said Michael in a low voice, looking sombrely at his colleagues. ‘I am summoned by Master Heltisle and Eyton the vicar. A second corpse has been removed from its grave, this time in St Bene’t’s churchyard.’

  Bartholomew knew he was dragging his heels as he followed Michael and Cynric along the High Street towards St Bene’t’s Church, but he could not help it. Images of Margery Sewale’s body kept flashing in his mind, and he did not want to see another like it. As the University’s Corpse Examiner, he had seen more than his share of the dead, and had grown inured to such sights over the years. But there was something about exhumations that bothered him profoundly.

  ‘Superstition,’ said Michael dismissively, when the physician tried to explain his misgivings – his sense that he was being watched by the disapproving dead. ‘I am surprised at you, Matt. You are a man of learning, and your scientific mind should reject such notions for the rubbish they are. Of course the souls of these poor cadavers will not be paying attention to you; they will be in Heaven, Hell or Purgatory, depending on how they fared when they were weighed.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, realising he should not have expected the monk to understand. ‘But that does not stop me feeling uneasy about it. And seeing Margery like that …’

  ‘Margery was your patient, and you had known her for years,’ said Michael, his voice a little kinder. ‘Of course you disliked seeing her out of her grave. But none of your patients are buried in St Bene’t’s churchyard, so you are unlikely to know the victim this time.’

  ‘That cemetery is used by the scholars of Bene’t College, members of the Guild of Corpus Christi, and the people who live nearby. I have a lot of patients buried there.’

  ‘Lower your voice,’ advised Michael dryly. ‘That is not a good thing for a physician to be yelling – it may make your surviving clients nervous.’

  ‘It is not a joke, Michael,’ snapped Bartholomew, beginning to wishing he had not started the discussion.

  ‘It is, if you start thinking these ravaged corpses might take umbrage at you for doing your job. You sound like Cynric, man. Pull yourself together!’

  Bartholomew glanced behind him, to where his book-bearer was walking with Meadowman. There was no real need for Cynric to have accompanied them, but the Welshman enjoyed being out at night and had insisted on coming. Bartholomew was glad he had, and found comfort in the knowledge that Cynric’s sword was to hand, should there be trouble. He tried to ignore his sense of foreboding, and think about the monk’s investigations instead.

  ‘I did not have time to give you this earlier,’ he said, removing the talisman from his bag. ‘It was found in Barnwell’s chapel. Norton says it belongs either to Carton or his killer.’

  Michael took it from him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A holy-stone that is supposed to defend its wearer against wolves, apparently. Arderne sold them in the spring, regardless of the fact that wolves tend not to frequent Cambridge these days.’

  ‘Perhaps one of the canons bought it to protect himself from Podiolo,’ said Michael. ‘There is definitely something lupine about that man.’

  ‘Now who is being irrational? That sounds like something Cynric might say.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘Yes, but in this case Cynric would have a point. Have you never noticed Podiolo’s yellow eyes and pointed teeth? Of course, everyone at Barnwell is strange, as far as I am concerned. All those fat, balding canons who look identical, Norton’s bulging eyes, Fencotes the walking corpse …’

  ‘They probably say the same about Michaelhouse: William’s fanaticism, Langelee’s c
riminal past, Wynewyk’s penchant for Agatha’s clothes, Clippesby’s lunacy, Suttone’s obsession with plague …’

  Michael sniggered. ‘Did you hear about the shambles surrounding Suttone’s address to the Guild of Corpus Christi? The invitation was meant for Roger Suttone of Peterhouse, who is famous for amusing speeches. As head of the Guild, Heltisle wrote the letter but his porters did not listen to his instructions and took it to the wrong Suttone.’

  Bartholomew smiled. ‘There will be nothing amusing about any homily our Suttone will deliver. Will they admit their mistake, and un-invite him?’

  ‘It is too late – our Suttone has accepted.’

  Bartholomew watched Michael swinging the holy-stone around on its thong. ‘Your Junior Proctor seemed certain that was not Carton’s.’

  ‘Can we conclude the killer dropped it, then? Who is on our list of suspects?’

  ‘Norton claimed his brethren would never own such a thing, on the grounds that none of them are afraid of wolves. He did not explain why.’

  ‘Perhaps he trusts Podiolo to keep them all at bay,’ suggested Michael. ‘However, I do not accept Norton’s reasoning, so the canons can remain on the list. Not all of them – just Podiolo, Fencotes and Norton himself, who are the three without alibis.’

  ‘Then there is Spaldynge, said Bartholomew, thinking of the man who bore him such unjust animosity. ‘He was friends with Arderne, and might have bought one of his amulets. And being reminded of that ancient murder – James Kirbee – is a reason for him wanting Carton dead.’

  ‘They are the obvious culprits,’ said Michael. He sighed heavily. ‘But then we have all the folk who objected to Carton’s uncompromising sermons, and about sixty insulted Dominicans.’

  ‘Arblaster said something odd today. He told me Carton asked whether dung was poisonous. Carton seemed preoccupied with poison – he found that powder among Thomas’s possessions and insisted I test it for him.’

  Michael’s agitation showed in the way he whipped the talisman around on its string. ‘Will you ask Mother Valeria whether she knows who owns this amulet? I had better not do it; the Senior Proctor cannot be seen fraternising with witches, especially a frightening and unpopular one.’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I doubt she will be able to help. Arderne alone sold dozens of the things, and—’ He ducked quickly when the thong broke and the holy-stone flew past his ear.

  ‘Damn!’ cried Michael, diving after it. ‘The wretched thing has a will of its own!’

  ‘You should watch yourself at St Bene’t’s, boy,’ whispered Cynric, taking the opportunity to speak to the physician alone, while Michael scrabbled about in the grass at the side of the road. ‘The Sorcerer will be behind this excavated corpse, just as he was behind what happened to Margery.’

  ‘How can he be? You told me Carton was the Sorcerer.’

  ‘The Sorcerer would not have let himself be murdered, so Carton is innocent.’ Cynric was never shy about abandoning one theory and adopting another. ‘But these bodies are being hauled from hallowed ground on the orders of the Devil. You had better take this.’

  Bartholomew accepted the proffered bundle cautiously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bat-eyes,’ replied the book-bearer, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘In a pouch. If you hang it around your neck it will render you invisible to Satan.’

  ‘Hang it round your neck, then,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pass it back to him. If William caught him wearing such an object there would be trouble for certain.

  ‘I already have one. Shove it in your purse if you do not want it at your throat, but do not refuse it. It cost me a groat.’

  So as not to hurt Cynric’s feelings – and not to prolong the debate – Bartholomew slipped the pouch in his bag, intending to toss it in the midden when he went home.

  ‘I learned recently that June is a great month for witchery,’ Cynric went on conversationally. ‘The stars and moon are right, see. It explains why the Sorcerer is suddenly so powerful.’

  ‘I do not suppose you gleaned this from the witches’ manual in Langelee’s office, did you?’ asked Bartholomew coolly. ‘One of the tomes that Carton had collected for burning?’

  Cynric looked furtive. ‘It fell into my hands when I was dusting, and it seemed a pity not to hone my reading skills on it. You are always saying I need to practise.’

  ‘Put it back,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘William will have you dismissed if he catches you enjoying something like that. I am serious, Cynric. Put it back and promise you will not touch it again.’

  Cynric pulled a disagreeable face, but nodded assent. He bent down and retrieved something from the ground. It was the amulet, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had known it was there all along – that he had delayed telling the monk because he wanted to give his master the bat-eyes.

  Michael took it from him. ‘Good. And now we had better hurry, or Heltisle and Eyton will think we are never coming.’

  ‘Who has been laid to rest in St Bene’t’s recently?’ asked Meadowman as they walked. The beadle looked nervous, steeling himself for what was to come.

  ‘Sir John Goldynham was buried on Ascension Day,’ said Michael. ‘He was Rougham’s patient, one of his wealthiest. Then there were two Bene’t scholars and Mistress Refham the month before.’

  Bartholomew had known both Goldynham and Mistress Refham, and did not want to see them excavated. He faltered. ‘Are you sure you need me, Brother? The culprit left no clues when he exhumed Margery, so why should this be any different?’

  The monk grabbed his arm and pulled him on. ‘I am hoping he has been more careless tonight.’

  St Bene’t’s was an ancient church with a sturdy tower that was said to pre-date the coming of the Normans. Bartholomew liked it, because its thick walls muffled the clamour of the streets, so it was always peaceful. Its churchyard was overgrown and leafy, a tiny haven of stillness next to a road that was full of taverns, shops and the houses of tradesmen. It was not quiet that evening, however, for a crowd had gathered. Bartholomew recognised scholars from Bene’t College, the taverner from the Eagle, and members of the Guild of Corpus Christi; some carried pitch torches, which threw an unsteady light through the trees. The Guild had helped found Bene’t College some five years earlier and was a rare example of University–town co-operation.

  At the centre of the spectators was Eyton. The priest had a pot of honey under his arm and seemed to be anointing people with it, because a number of folk had sticky foreheads. Others wore charms, and Bartholomew recognised them as the ones Eyton had been selling outside All Saints. He could only suppose there had been a run on amulets after the discovery of a second exhumed corpse, so the priest was obliged to improvise in order to meet the demand for mystical protection. Watching him, not altogether approvingly, was Master Heltisle.

  Not everyone had clustered around Eyton. Isnard was clinging to a nearby tree, clearly having come straight from the Eagle. Bartholomew smiled when he saw him, knowing perfectly well that the bargeman was hanging back because he did not want Michael to see him drunk, lest it damaged his chances of being readmitted to the choir. Behind Isnard, deep in the undergrowth, were the pair Bartholomew had seen lurking near the Great Bridge the previous night. One was identifiable by his enormous size, and the other by his bushy beard. He started to point them out to Michael, but the monk’s attention was elsewhere.

  ‘Damn!’ Michael muttered. ‘We could have done without an audience. And we could do without Eyton smearing everyone with honey on the pretext of repelling witches, too. The fact that a vicar believes there is a danger will send the rumour-mongers into a frenzy.’

  ‘Brother Michael, you are here at last,’ said Heltisle, striding forward imperiously. ‘We were beginning to think you might not come. And who can blame you? I do not appreciate being summoned to witness this sort of thing, either.’

  ‘Once men are in their graves, they should stay there,’ agreed Eyton with a cheerful grin, as
if he were talking about the weather. ‘They should not be walking around the town.’

  ‘Walking around the town?’ echoed Michael uneasily. ‘Meadowman told me the body had been excavated by some evildoer, as happened to Margery Sewale. He said nothing about walking—’

  ‘Then he did not tell you the whole story,’ said Eyton. ‘Goldynham clawed his way out of his tomb, and was heading for his favourite tavern when I stopped him with a splash of holy water.’

  Michael gaped at him. ‘But that is—’

  ‘Impossible?’ interrupted Eyton. ‘I would have said so, too, had I not seen it with my own eyes. The Devil imbued Goldynham’s corpse with sinister strength, and who knows where it might have wandered, had I not stopped it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What did you see, exactly?’

  Eyton was enjoying the attention. He stood a little straighter, and beamed at his listeners. ‘I had just finished saying compline, and was about to go home when I heard odd sounds coming from the graveyard. I grabbed a phial of holy water and set off to investigate.’

  ‘Why holy water?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking a cudgel might have been a more appropriate choice. It was not unknown for the graves of wealthy citizens to be plundered by robbers, and such degenerates were unlikely to be deterred by religious regalia.

  ‘Because it is an effective weapon against the denizens of Hell,’ replied Eyton matter-of-factly. He turned back to Michael. ‘I moved towards the source of the noise, and saw a shadow. It was Goldynham, rising from his grave. So I raced at him and sprinkled the water on his unholy form, shouting in nomine Patris, et filii et Spiritus Sancti as I did so.’

  There was an awed gasp from the crowd. Amulets were clutched, and fingers touched honey-drizzled foreheads. One or two traditionalists even crossed themselves.

  ‘Then there was a great puff of smoke and he fell backwards,’ Eyton went on, brandishing his spoon for effect. ‘When the mist cleared, he was dead again – good had triumphed over the Devil.’