Yolande supplemented the family income by prostitution, and Bartholomew had long been fascinated by how many of her brood bore likenesses to prominent burgesses and scholars. However, she could not ply her trade when she was pregnant, and the family would find the winter hard.
‘There is not much work for skilled carpenters these days,’ Blaston went on. ‘There are too many itinerants who offer to do the job for half the price. Of course, their work is no good, but by the time the customer sees it, it is too late – his money has gone.’
‘Tell Refham to buy the materials you need,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the carpenter had let his wife negotiate the deal. Yolande would not have been so gullible.
‘His money is stored at Barnwell Priory for safekeeping, and he asked me to pay for the wood so as to move matters along.’ Blaston nodded his hands together, delighted with the bargain he thought he had secured. ‘The sooner I finish, the sooner I will be reimbursed.’
‘His family will starve,’ said Michael, watching the carpenter saunter away. ‘While Refham and Joan grow fat on the fruits of their dishonesty. Lord, how I loathe that man!’
It was mid-afternoon, and Bartholomew thought the day was slipping away far too fast. They reached Bene’t College, where their knock was answered by Younge. The porter lounged against the door with a stem of grass between his teeth, regarding the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner with disdain.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing I am prepared to discuss with you,’ retorted Michael coolly.
‘Then you cannot come in.’ Three of Younge’s cronies came to stand behind him. ‘I am head porter here, and no one is admitted without my say-so. Bene’t is different from other Colleges because of its ties with the town Guild of Corpus Christi. You do not have the same sway here as you do in the likes of Peterhouse or Clare.’
Calmly, Michael reached out, placed a hand in the middle of Younge’s chest and pushed. The porter tried to resist the monk’s forward momentum, but Michael put his full weight behind the manoeuvre and it was not many moments before he was through the door. Bartholomew followed uneasily.
‘Now,’ said the monk pleasantly. ‘Go and tell Master Heltisle we are waiting.’
Younge drew his dagger, but there was uncertainty in his eyes, and the move was more to prevent a loss of face in front of his colleagues than a serious attempt to intimidate the Senior Proctor.
‘Send him back to his Chancellor in pieces,’ suggested one, outraged by the monk’s audacity. ‘He has no right to throw his weight around here.’
‘Especially when there is so much of it,’ quipped another.
It was the wrong thing to say to a man who was sensitive about his appearance. Michael put his hands on his hips and fixed the joker with a stare that made the laughter die in his throat. ‘Tell Heltisle I am here,’ he ordered. His tight voice indicated he was only just controlling his anger.
‘Bugger off, monk!’ blustered Younge. ‘You cannot tell me what to—’
Michael moved faster than Bartholomew would have thought possible for so large a man, and suddenly Younge was pinned against a wall with the monk’s fingers around his throat. The porter promptly dropped his dagger and began scrabbling at his neck. Bartholomew saw that his feet had almost been lifted clean off the ground and he was balanced on the very tips of his toes.
‘I could teach you some manners,’ said the monk in a voice that was low and dangerous. ‘But I am a man of God, so I try to avoid violence if possible. So, you will conduct me to Master Heltisle, and if I have occasion to visit Bene’t again, you will not question my orders. Do I make myself clear?’
Younge nodded hastily, and the monk released him so abruptly that he slumped to the ground. He rubbed his throat, fixing Michael with a look of such loathing that Bartholomew was alarmed.
‘I do not think Younge will give me any more trouble now,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, after the head porter had picked himself up and was leading the way across the courtyard. ‘Especially after I send Meadowman to collect a fine of three groats, which is the going rate for annoying the Senior Proctor.’
‘Brother Michael,’ said Heltisle in surprise, standing as the monk strode into Bene’t’s fine hall. ‘What are you doing here?’ He glared at Younge. ‘And why did you not announce him, as I have trained you to do?’
The scholars of Bene’t had gathered to hear a sermon, which was being delivered by Eyton. Bartholomew had heard Goldynham’s name being bellowed from the yard, and knew exactly what subject the vicar had chosen for his discourse.
‘Younge is not very good at his job,’ said Michael to the Master, shooting the porter a disparaging glance. ‘Furthermore, he and his friends are surly, aggressive and stupid.’
‘That may be so, but they repel unwanted tradesmen and protect us during riots,’ countered Heltisle. ‘They are also loyal, and would not hesitate to risk their lives on our behalf – unlike the staff at Michaelhouse, who would slink away at the first sign of trouble.’
‘Cynric would not,’ said Bartholomew, offended that the likes of Younge should be considered better than his devoted book-bearer.
The look Heltisle gave him was full of dislike. ‘No, but he would arm himself with all manner of pagan charms before he joined in any battle. He is the most superstitious man in the town.’
‘Actually, I suspect that honour goes to the Sorcerer,’ said Eyton cheerfully, coming to join them. ‘He is superstitious – and powerful, too. Indeed, it was he who gave Goldynham the strength to dig his way out of his own grave. Is that not true, Heltisle?’
‘Yes,’ replied Heltisle coolly, although Bartholomew could not tell whether he really agreed with the vicar. He had never been very good at reading the Master of Bene’t.
Michael sighed irritably. ‘How many more times must we go through this? I cannot imagine why you, an ordained priest, must persist in spreading these ridiculous tales.’
‘They are not tales, Brother,’ said Eyton, his expression earnest. ‘I know what I saw. The Sorcerer is gaining in power, and only a fool refuses to see it. The Church must stand firm against him.’
‘Bene’t will stand firm,’ said Heltisle. He smiled rather slyly. ‘However, just in case matters do not go according to plan, I have commissioned a special charm, which is guaranteed to keep the Sorcerer away from our portals when he assumes his mantle of power on Saturday night.’
Eyton beamed at him, then turned to the monk. ‘He commissioned it from me, and I prepared it last night with a piece of the Host, a drop of goat’s blood, a dab of honey and a clove of garlic. This time-honoured combination is highly effective in keeping demons at bay. Oh, and I soaked it in a bucket of holy water, too.’ His expression clouded. ‘Although I left the holy water in the church porch last night, and this morning I discovered someone had washed his hands in it. Can you credit such sacrilege?’
‘I will absolve you later, Matt,’ whispered Michael, seeing the physician’s stricken expression.
‘Perhaps you will continue with your lecture, vicar,’ said Heltisle to the priest. ‘I can see our students are itching to hear what else you have to say about sin and the Devil.’
The students’ rolled eyes suggested they would rather listen to what the Senior Proctor had to say to their Master, but Eyton skipped merrily back to the dais and resumed his tirade.
‘I am surprised you let him loose on your scholars,’ said Michael, after listening for a few moments. ‘His theology seems more firmly based in folklore than in religion, while his logic is seriously flawed. Why have you given him free rein to rant?’
‘Because it is an excuse to keep the students indoors,’ replied Heltisle. ‘I do not want them out when trouble is brewing. Besides, they are supposed to be keeping track of the number of doctrinal errors he makes, and there is a prize for the lad with the highest score.’
Bartholomew tried to stop himself from gaping as Eyton informed his audience that a dash of bat dung rende
red holy water ten times more powerful than the normal stuff. ‘I cannot imagine a Michaelhouse priest making that sort of claim.’
Heltisle treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘William might. His logic is just as dismal as Eyton’s, which probably explains why they are friends. Unfortunately, the Sorcerer’s rise has led them both to be more outspoken – Eyton insulted Refham last night, and I am trying to stay on the right side of him, in the hope that he will give Bene’t some of his mother’s money. But enough of my problems. What brings you to our humble abode, Brother?’
Bene’t was not humble. It comprised some of the most sumptuous dwellings in Cambridge, and was often patronised by wealthy barons. Its splendid hall boasted a beautifully polished floor, and there was a wooden gallery at one end, which allowed a choir to sing during the foundation’s many feasts. The long oaken table was generally acknowledged to be one of the finest pieces of furniture in the town, which delighted Robert de Blaston, who had made it.
‘Goldynham,’ said Michael. ‘We understand he had an interest in the dark arts.’
Heltisle raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I seriously doubt it – he always struck me as a deeply religious man. In fact, I was thinking only this morning that his death was a blessing in disguise, because I do not think he would have liked living through this business with the Sorcerer.’
‘Tell me about your missing goats,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly. Heltisle blinked at him. ‘How many did you lose again?’
‘Seven, although not all at once; they went one by one. Eyton tells me the Sorcerer has been stealing them, and thinks I should just let him have them, so as not to annoy him. But goats are expensive, and we are not made of money.’
‘Where do you keep these animals?’ asked Michael.
Heltisle went to a window and pointed. Outside was a walled garden, containing an orchard of mature fruit trees. The goats roamed freely among them. The walls were well maintained, and the only access was through a gate that stood opposite the porters’ lodge. It would not be easy to enter without being seen by Younge and his men – and even more difficult to escape with a goat.
‘The gate is always locked at night,’ Heltisle went on. ‘And my servants are vigilant. I would have thought this was one of the safest compounds in town, and I am amazed that someone has been able to break in. Eyton thinks they might have been removed magically.’
‘Perhaps Eyton is partial to goat stew,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as they took their leave. ‘Because I detect a human hand at work here.’
‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I suspect the hand is directed by a very clever mind. Heltisle is right: it will not be easy to slip past Younge, grab a goat and leave with no one noticing.’
Michael looked thoughtful, then abruptly headed for the porters’ lodge. Bartholomew held his breath as the monk marched inside. Younge was massaging his neck, but his hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger when Michael appeared.
‘I am about to look very closely into your missing goats,’ said the monk without preamble. ‘Is there anything you would like to tell me before I begin? I will not be pleased if I later learn that information has been withheld from me – and when I am not pleased, I fine people.’
‘We would never steal from Bene’t,’ said Younge, understanding perfectly what was being asked. He seemed genuinely shocked by the notion. ‘We have no idea who is taking them, but if I catch the villain, he will not live to explain himself. I will run him through.’
The sun was setting in a blaze of red gold as Bartholomew and Michael left Bene’t. The monk went to his office in St Mary the Great, to brief his beadles on the night to come. He ordered them not only to watch for students sneaking illicit cups of ale in the town’s taverns, but to be alert for any covens that might convene, too. They nodded obediently, but he suspected they would not do much about the witches; they were superstitious men and would sooner leave such matters well alone. Not for the first time, he felt he was fighting alone, and that the only ally he could trust was Bartholomew.
Meanwhile, several patients had sent summonses for the physician while he had been out, including three new cases of the flux and a crushed finger. The latter was normally the domain of the town’s surgeon, but Robin of Grantchester had also been hurt by Magister Arderne’s accusations earlier in the year. Now he confined himself to cutting hair and drawing teeth, and could not be persuaded to do anything more complicated. Bartholomew was not sure whether the situation was good or bad: on the one hand, Robin was not a skilled practitioner and lost a large number of clients, but on the other, he was better than having no surgeon at all.
He decided to deal with the finger first, because the victim was a child – one of Stanmore’s apprentices, whose hand had been squashed in a door. To reach him, Bartholomew had to walk past Clare College, and he was unfortunate in his timing, because Spaldynge happened to be coming out.
‘How many people have you killed today, physician?’ the Clare man asked unpleasantly.
‘None yet,’ said Bartholomew, hot and weary enough to be goaded into responding. ‘But that might be about to change. I am getting a bit tired of you and your accusations.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded Spaldynge, clenching his fists and looking as though he would very much like to use them.
‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ replied Bartholomew. He thought about the last time he had met Spaldynge, when Carton had been with him. ‘My colleague told me about the man you killed – James Kirbee. How can you condemn me, when you are guilty of taking a life yourself ?’
Spaldynge’s expression became dark and angry. ‘You will be sorry you mentioned that.’
‘And you will be sorry if you provoke me again,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘I was not your family’s physician during the plague, and neither were Paxtone and Rougham. Leave us alone.’
There must have been something in his voice that told the Clare man he was treading on dangerous ground, because he growled something unintelligible and slunk away. Bartholomew watched him go and wondered whether he should have applied a little aggression months ago, when Spaldynge had first started issuing his nasty challenges. But confrontation did not come readily to the physician, especially with men who might not be in command of all their faculties, and once Spaldynge was out of sight, Bartholomew felt vaguely ashamed of himself.
He treated the apprentice’s injury with a poultice of comfrey, and left him to rest, watched over by solicitous friends. He wished Edith was there, because cronies, no matter how well meaning, were no substitute for her motherly care. Stanmore escorted him to the door.
‘You seem to be in town all the time these days,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When were you last home?’
‘Not since Edith left,’ replied the merchant. ‘Trumpington is not the same without her, so I engross myself in work – which has paid off, because I have just signed an agreement with Spynk, who can find me a cheaper source of dye for my cloth. And it is advisable to be here when the town is on the verge of one of its episodes, anyway. It means I can protect my property myself, rather than leaving it to my steward.’
‘You refer to the unrest brought about by the Sorcerer? He is due to make his appearance on Trinity Eve, apparently.’
‘At midnight,’ agreed Stanmore. ‘He has people seriously rattled, because they are joining his coven in droves – no one wants to be on the losing side. Arblaster and Jodoca must be delighted – the little cadre they established in All Saints has gone from having a dozen members to being the largest in the shire, all in the space of a few weeks.’
‘Do you think Arblaster is the Sorcerer, then?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised. The dung-master had not seemed the type. Of course, he reflected wryly, Arblaster had not seemed the type to be in a Devil-worshipping cult at all, so clearly Bartholomew’s notions of what constituted a diabolist were sadly off course. ‘Michael has been struggling to learn his identity, but no one is talking.’
‘If it is Arblaster, folk will be disappointed,’ grinned Stanmore. ‘They will not like paying homage to a man who has made his fortune in muck.’
‘Hiding his identity until he has accrued a decent amount of power is clever,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is difficult to fight someone you do not know and cannot see. He is proving to be a formidable adversary.’
Stanmore nodded. ‘The Church has a lot to answer for.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that its most vocal proponents are William and Mildenale, who are not nice men – the Sorcerer is a lot more appealing. He does not tell us it is our own fault the plague took our loved ones, or that it is sinful to buy good-luck charms from witches. And he cures warts into the bargain.’
‘What about Eyton? He is a member of the Church, but his beliefs seem rather more flexible.’
‘If all Franciscans were like Eyton, the Church would be a lot more popular. But enough of religion. I hear Michaelhouse is forcing Barnwell, Arblaster, Spynk and Dick Tulyet to bid against each other for Sewale Cottage, and that you are almost certain to sell it for more than it is worth. Is it true?’
‘If Arblaster is the Sorcerer, then perhaps we should let him have it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We do not want an enraged magician after our blood.’
He had been joking, but Stanmore nodded quite seriously. ‘It is certainly something to bear in mind, although I would rather see it go to Dick, personally. He is a friend – you should show him that means something.’
Bartholomew left him, and began to walk to his next patient. He was passing the unkempt jungle of churchyard around St John Zachary when he glimpsed movement. A figure was in the shadows, but the sun was in his eyes and he could not see clearly. It looked to be wearing a long pale cloak and to have a head of thick white hair. He blinked, for his first thought was that it looked like Goldynham. But the silversmith was dead, and lay in St Bene’t’s Church. Bartholomew squinted against the light and took a step forward, but the figure had gone, and he realised his eyes must have been playing tricks. With a sigh, he went on his way.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 23