The next day, Bartholomew was overwhelmed with demands from patients, and it was late afternoon by the time he had finished with them. His stomach was rumbling, and he realised he had not eaten since breakfast. He went to the Michaelhouse kitchens, where Agatha slouched in her great wicker throne, pulled from its usual place next to the hearth and put near the door, in the hope of catching a breeze. She was fanning herself with the lid of a pot, legs splayed in front of her. She was not alone; Cynric, Mildenale and Langelee sat at the table, a jug of ale in front of them. It was an unusual combination, because Cynric did not usually deign to socialise with scholars, and Mildenale was abstemious in his habits. Langelee, on the other hand, was willing to drink with anyone.
‘I noticed the damn thing was missing this afternoon,’ Langelee was saying. ‘Sometimes, I hate being Master, because as soon as you solve one problem there is another to take its place.’
‘There will be a problem if you do not give me some of that ale,’ growled Agatha. ‘I am parched.’
Mildenale took it to her. She drank noisily, then handed it back. The friar filled it from the barrel that stood at the top of the cellar steps and handed it to Cynric, who thanked him with a nod before passing it to Langelee. Bartholomew looked around for food, but there was none that he could see, and he was not so foolish as to hunt for some while Agatha and the Master were watching. Fellows were expected to buy their own snacks – called ‘commons’ – and were not supposed to raid the kitchens every time they were peckish. Michael declined to let these rules interfere with his gastronomic requirements, but Bartholomew was not Michael, and he was too hot to engage in the kind of skulduggery it would take to acquire a meal while laundress and Master were nearby. He settled for ale, and was pleasantly surprised to find it sweet and cool.
‘What is missing?’ he asked of Langelee, as he sat on the bench next to Cynric.
‘That guide to witchery you found in Carton’s room,’ replied the Master. ‘He had been planning to burn it, along with other heretical texts – the ones you put in the College library after his death.’
‘Those were all religious or philosophical books that have been on the curriculum for decades,’ explained Bartholomew, seeing Mildenale’s eyes begin to widen in horror. ‘Such as Guibert of Nogent’s De Sanctis.’
‘I would never use Guibert in my lectures,’ said Mildenale in distaste. ‘He was a Benedictine, for a start. And he hailed from Nogent.’ He pursed his lips disapprovingly.
Bartholomew had never understood why a scholar’s ideas should be dismissed because of the Order to which he belonged, or because he came from a different country. ‘Even if you disapprove of his theology, you must admire the precision of his grammar,’ he told the friar reproachfully.
Mildenale thought about it. ‘He does use longer sentences than anyone else,’ he conceded eventually. ‘However, I am disappointed to learn Carton included him among his collection of heretical texts. I was under the impression he had gathered some really devilish works – such as this manual for witches.’
‘He considered anything written by non-Franciscans anathema,’ said Langelee. ‘Except, for some unaccountable reason, books by Greeks on law. Still, I suppose we all have our foibles.’
Mildenale was crestfallen. ‘This is a blow! I was hoping he had gathered a chest full of heresy, so we could have a decent pyre in the Market Square – and Guibert, for all his flaws, does not deserve the flames. Unfortunately, now this manual on sorcery has disappeared, I cannot even set fire to that.’ He clasped his hands together, and his eyes drifted heavenwards as his lips began to move in prayer, presumably asking to be supplied with something suitably flammable.
‘I do not have it,’ objected Cynric, when the physician looked at him. ‘I handed it back this morning, just as you ordered, although that was a mistake. It would not be missing, if I still had it.’
‘He is telling the truth,’ said Langelee, seeing Bartholomew’s sceptical expression. ‘He gave it to me in person.’
‘It is no great loss,’ said Cynric, refilling the jug and prudently offering Agatha the first mouthful. Her mouth was evidently larger than he imagined, because when she handed it back he was obliged to make another trip to the barrel. ‘It contained new snippets but most of it was basic general knowledge.’
Langelee took the jug from him. ‘It is a pity it has gone missing now, because it might have been a useful source of information for those of us who are not intimately acquainted with witches and their habits. For example, telling us what the Sorcerer might do on Trinity Eve. Mother Valeria was going on about his predicted début when I went to purchase a charm the other day.’
‘You did what?’ cried Mildenale in horror, while even Bartholomew was taken aback.
Langelee shrugged, clearly thinking the friar was overreacting. ‘I wanted a spell that would make Refham relent over selling us his mother’s shops. But it transpired to be rather pricey, and required me to break into his house at night and bury a dead rat under his hearth. I decided not to bother.’
‘I would have dealt with the dead rat,’ said Cynric helpfully.
‘Actually, it was the cost that put me off,’ confided Langelee. ‘I could have managed the rat with no trouble myself, although I appreciate your offer.’
Bartholomew found himself exchanging a shocked look with Mildenale, although the Franciscan’s disquiet derived from the fact that Langelee was willing to resort to magic; the physician was uneasy with the fact that the Master had just confessed to being a competent burglar.
‘Are you sure this guide has not found its way back to you, Cynric?’ asked Langelee, after a short interval during which he and the book-bearer speculated on the best way to gain access to Refham’s hearth. Agatha joined in, adding that she had already purchased such a charm on the College’s behalf, although hers was from Eyton, who was considerably cheaper, and the rat under the hearth was replaced by chanting three Pater Nosters beneath the nearest churchyard elm.
‘I wish it had,’ said Cynric. ‘Now it might be in the hands of someone dangerous.’
Mildenale gaped at him. ‘I would say that anyone who takes an interest in such tomes is dangerous.’
‘That is not true, because I am interested in them,’ said Cynric guilelessly. ‘And I cannot imagine who else in College might want the guide, especially now the students have gone. They are curious about forbidden texts, but the Fellows are not – or they have read them all already.’
‘The porters are less vigilant now the place is virtually empty,’ said Langelee. ‘So someone must have come in from outside and taken it.’
‘How would a stranger know where to look?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You kept it on the top shelf in your chambers, which is not the most obvious place to search for valuables.’
Langelee looked sheepish. ‘Actually, it was in the garden. Cynric handed it to me when I was supervising the digging of the new latrines. I set it down and forgot to bring it in when I came back.’
‘So the labourers have it,’ said Mildenale, looking as though he was ready to go and demand it back there and then. His expression became angry. ‘Have you interrogated them?’
‘I questioned them,’ replied Langelee. ‘But none can read, and I doubt they are the—’
‘Books are valuable,’ snapped Mildenale. ‘They do not need to be able to read in order to sell one.’
Langelee regarded him coolly, not liking his tone. ‘I told them it was a dangerous text on witchery, and that anyone hawking it was likely to be cursed. I know how to intimidate labourers, and I am certain none of them is the thief, so please do not accuse them. It is not easy to get men to work in this heat, and I shall be furious if they walk out on us.’
Mildenale sniffed disapprovingly, and turned to another topic. ‘The Church does not sanction the use of charms and curses, and for you to visit a witch in order to procure one—’
‘I did not procure one,’ argued Langelee pedantically. ‘I told you – it w
as too expensive.’
‘And do not rail at me, either,’ growled Agatha, when the Franciscan inadvertently glanced in her direction. She seemed hotter and crosser than ever, and the ale had done nothing to cool her temper. Bartholomew thought she looked dangerous, and began to edge towards the door. ‘My beliefs are my own business, and I do not allow mere priests to tamper with them.’
‘But it is my duty to tamper,’ declared Mildenale indignantly. ‘I am supposed to save people from the burning fires of Hell.’
Agatha glared at the sun, then at the friar. ‘So, it is your fault we are all roasting alive down here, is it? Your duty is to save us from the fires of Hell, but the fires of Hell are here, spoiling meat and ale.’
‘That is not what I—’ began Mildenale.
‘This vile weather has gone on quite long enough,’ she growled, rising to her feet. ‘I should have known the Church was responsible. You lot preach and pray, but none of you know what you are talking about. Well, let me tell you, something, Mildenalus Sanctus. If I ever have reason to—’
Bartholomew reached the door and shot through it. Cynric and Langelee were close behind him, neither willing to linger when Agatha was on the warpath. Mildenale was left alone with her.
‘You know, boy,’ whispered Cynric, ‘there are times when I wonder whether she is the Sorcerer.’
Once Bartholomew had escaped from the kitchens, he went to look at the experiment he had been running in his storeroom. He was pleasantly surprised to find it had worked, and he was left with two piles of powder. He had managed to separate the compounds, and now all he had to do was identify them. Ignoring Deynman’s advice, which entailed mixing them with fish-giblet soup and feeding it to William, he performed a number of tests. Eventually, he sat back, knowing he had his answer.
‘What Carton found in Thomas’s room was not poison,’ he told Deynman. The librarian was not particularly interested in what Bartholomew was doing, but he was lonely and bored without the students, and craved company. With Michael still at St Mary the Great, and the other Fellows in the conclave, where mere librarians were not permitted to tread, the physician was the only choice left.
‘So your sedative was responsible for Thomas’s death, after all,’ said Deynman, rather baldly. ‘Carton was hoping this powder would be the culprit, so you would be exonerated. He told me he disliked the way Father William keeps taunting you about it.’
‘Did I hear my name?’ came a booming voice from the doorway. Bartholomew sighed. He did not have the energy for a verbal spat with William.
‘Doctor Bartholomew has just learned that it was definitely him who killed Thomas,’ said Deynman, ever helpful. It was not the way the physician would have summarised his findings, but he supposed it was accurate enough.
‘The powder Carton found was a remedy against quinsy,’ Bartholomew elaborated. ‘I thought as much when he handed it to me.’
‘Thomas did worry about quinsy,’ said William. ‘He told me so himself, after Goldynham died of it. Well, you had better make your peace with God, Matthew. It cannot be easy, having a man’s death on your conscience. And Thomas was a fellow prepared to fight against the Sorcerer, too, unlike most of the town. Either they are actively supporting him, or they are standing well back to see what will happen when he makes his play for power. There are not many true Soldiers of God left.’
‘There are plenty,’ objected Deynman. ‘Isnard, Eyton and even Yolande de Blaston have pledged to side with the Church. And there are lots of scholars, too. In fact, the only College that has not condemned the Sorcerer is Bene’t – and that is only because its Fellows are afraid of their porters.’
‘Younge and his friends are members of the All Saints coven,’ said William, nodding. ‘But they will learn they have chosen the wrong side when Satan devours them all on Saturday night.’
‘I wonder if he will devour those who use bits of cheese as bookmarks, too,’ mused Deynman pointedly. ‘I imagine so, because I cannot think of a worse crime for a scholar to commit.’
They began to bicker, and Bartholomew was grateful when Cynric came with a summons from a patient, although his relief evaporated when he learned it was Dickon Tulyet who needed his services. Few encounters with the Sheriff ’s hellion son were pleasant.
Dickon – large enough to verge on the fat and with eyes that were remarkably calculating for a boy his age – had cut himself while attempting to relieve another child of a toy. When Bartholomew arrived, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, but the physician was sure frustration at the failed theft was the cause of the racket, not pain from the relatively minor wound. Dickon’s parents fussed and cooed, showering him with sweetmeats and other rich treats that were likely to make him sick. With a resigned sigh, Bartholomew took salve and bandages, and prepared to do battle.
‘I am sorry he bit you, Matt,’ said Tulyet, for at least the fourth time, as the physician took his leave. ‘But the kick was not his fault. I should have held him more tightly, but I was afraid of hurting him.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, not liking the way he was always tempted to be rougher than usual when he was obliged to deal with Dickon. It was unworthy of him as a physician, and as a man. However, it was hard to feel too sorry when his hand burned from its encounter with Dickon’s sharp teeth, and when his ribs ached from the flailing boots. The next time, he decided, he would ask Michael to sit on the brat. That would keep him under control.
‘You are right to buy Sewale Cottage,’ he said, flexing his fingers carefully. The wound hurt. ‘It will not be many more years before living with him becomes too perilous for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Tulyet, stung. ‘He is a good boy. You cannot blame him for taking exception to painful cures. Of course he will fight – I have trained him to look after himself.’
Bartholomew nodded a goodnight, refusing the offer of wine. Dickon had a habit of joining his father in his office, and the physician did not want a resumption of hostilities that night. He was eager to go home and sleep, but Cynric was waiting outside, to say Mother Valeria wanted to see him.
‘Can it not wait until morning?’ he asked weakly. The skirmish with Dickon had drained him, and all he wanted was to lie down.
‘She said not,’ replied Cynric disapprovingly. ‘However, if you decide not to go, please do not ask me to tell her you are not coming. I do not want to be turned into a toad.’
Wearily, Bartholomew trudged up the hill. Cynric accompanied him part of the way, then disappeared into the Lilypot tavern. Bartholomew had not been alone for more than a moment when he saw a shadow – one that was exceptionally large and that loitered near Sewale Cottage. When a second shadow joined it, Bartholomew was sure they were the giant and Beard. Keeping to the darker side of the street, he crept towards them, intending to do what Cynric had done, and watch to see what they were doing.
But when he reached the spot, they had gone. He pressed his ear to the door, but there was no sound from within and he was sure they had not broken in a second time. He looked down one or two alleys, but the two men had disappeared into the darkness of the sultry summer night, almost as though they had never been there at all.
Chapter 8
It was late by the time Bartholomew reached Mother Valeria’s little house, but tallow candles burned in gourds outside, lighting the path through the nettles. As he trudged along the well-worn track, he met two people walking in the opposite direction. He could not see their faces, but both greeted him by name as they passed. One held an amulet, and he supposed the witch was still open for business. He tapped on the door frame and battled his way through the leather hanging.
‘There you are,’ said the old woman sourly. ‘You took your time.’
‘Dickon Tulyet,’ explained Bartholomew, sitting on the stool she prodded towards him with her foot. ‘He screeched like a hellion, and I am surprised you did not hear him. I imagine the Bishop could, and he is in Avignon.’
‘I heard he was tryi
ng to steal a toy from a lad twice his size,’ said Valeria. ‘He will be a fierce warrior one day.’
‘He is a fierce warrior now,’ said Bartholomew. It occurred to him that he should refuse to answer the next summons. But Dickon was a child, when all was said and done, and Tulyet was a friend.
‘Bite him back,’ recommended Valeria, looking at the livid mark on the physician’s hand. ‘That will teach him not to do it again.’
Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘It might teach him to do it harder, to incapacitate me.’
‘Then wear gloves. They will protect you from sly fangs.’
Her mention of gloves reminded him of the one William had found in St Michael’s Church when the blood had been left in the font. He told her about it, then waited to see if she would admit to it being hers. Unfortunately, the hut was far too dim for identifying subtle variations in facial expressions, so he had no idea whether she was surprised by the tale or not.
‘If Father William can distinguish human blood from animal, then he is a better witch than me,’ was all she said as she stoked up her fire. Several pots were bubbling over it.
‘The glove was not yours?’ he asked, deciding to be blunt.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think I am the kind of woman who leaves blood in holy places?’
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, not sure how to answer such a question and reverting to medical matters before he said anything that might offend her. Whilst he did not believe he could be turned into a toad, the late hour and the shadows that danced around the fire were playing havoc with his imagination nonetheless. ‘Is your knee paining you? It will not get better if you do not rest it.’
‘I am obliged to be out more now the Sorcerer is preparing to make his stand. I cannot stay here, skulking while he accrues power. He is a great magician, and I must find ways to protect myself.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 24