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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Pechem regarded him in surprise. ‘You ask me this question, when he was a member of your own College? You only had to spend a few moments in his company to appreciate his deeply held convictions – and his detailed knowledge of a friar’s duties.’

  ‘Do you think he was defrocked at some stage in his career, then?’ asked Michael. ‘And he invented a new date for his ordination, so no one would discover that his name had been scrubbed out? Perhaps he was banished for giving overzealous sermons.’

  Pechem almost cracked a smile. ‘We Franciscans do not expel members for preaching radical messages. William would have been gone years ago if that were the case. On the contrary, our Minister-General likes a bit of fanaticism. He says it grabs the laity’s attention.’

  ‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘William and Mildenale have certainly done well with the attention-grabbing side of things.’

  ‘But only since the Sorcerer became popular,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Before that, everyone ignored William for the fool he is. And Mildenale was preoccupied with organising his new hostel.’

  Michael was thoughtful. ‘Thomas was not a particularly remarkable preacher until a few weeks ago, either. Oh, he railed about sin immediately after the plague, and was quite eloquent at first. But when people began to forget its horrors, some of the fire went out of him. After that, he just paid lip service to his message. That only changed when the Sorcerer arrived and he joined forces with Mildenale.’

  ‘Thomas was a good man,’ argued Pechem. ‘He often reminded us of how he went among the sick during the Death, and he put his survival down to the fact that he was godly.’

  ‘You went among the sick, too,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how hard Pechem had worked in those bleak days, with no heed for his own safety. ‘Does that make you godly, as well?’

  Pechem looked flustered; he was a modest man. ‘I would not presume to say.’

  ‘Unlike Thomas,’ muttered Michael. He pulled the holy-stone from his purse. ‘Did you ever see Carton wearing this?’

  Pechem made no move to take it from him. ‘I most certainly did not! Those sorts of things are not permitted in my Order, and anyone caught wearing one can expect to be reprimanded most severely. Incidentally, Thomas insisted I write a letter to London, asking for confirmation of Carton’s ordination. I am expecting a reply any day now.’

  ‘So you do suspect Carton of misleading you,’ pounced Michael. ‘Or you would not have done as Thomas demanded.’

  ‘Actually, I did it because it was the only way to stop him from pestering me. Personally, I suspect the flood meant the ceremony was held elsewhere, and Thomas’s suspicions were groundless.’

  ‘I thought Carton and Thomas liked each other,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They spent a lot of time together.’

  ‘Yes, they did, but I think it was a case of fanatics laying aside their differences to fight for a common cause. I doubt there was much real affection between them.’ Pechem shuddered. ‘I do deplore zealots! Look at the trouble they bring, even after they are dead.’

  The ride to Barnwell was no more pleasant on horseback than it had been on foot, because the sun still beat down relentlessly and there was the additional nuisance that ponies attracted flies. Michael flapped furiously at the dark cloud that buzzed around his head, while Bartholomew ignored them, in an experiment to see which tactic worked best. Michael’s frenzied arm-waving attracted more insects, but he was considerably less bitten. When they finally reached the priory, both were out of sorts.

  ‘I had better come with you to see the dung-merchant,’ said Michael, red-faced from his exertions. ‘I do not want you accepting a bribe that makes us look cheap.’

  ‘I said I would plead Isnard’s case to you again,’ said Bartholomew as he dismounted, the mention of manure reminding him of his promise to the bargeman. ‘Let him rejoin the choir, Brother. He heard it was you who argued against him having our latrines, and he is very upset about it – especially as he planned to sell the dung to Ely Abbey, no doubt because it is your Mother house.’

  ‘I am glad he is dismayed,’ said Michael venomously. ‘However, I would sooner he had it than Arblaster. Arblaster collects the lion’s share of muck these days, and I disapprove of monopolies. Are those goats?’

  Bartholomew looked into the field he had seen on previous visits, where a number of the animals were tethered under the shade of a tree. ‘Yes. I understand they can often be found in the countryside.’

  Michael glowered, his temper raw from heat and flying insects. ‘Well, there are seven of these, which is the same number that were stolen from Bene’t College. And they are black – Satan’s favourite colour, according to William, although Deynman says he prefers red.’

  ‘So, Arblaster is the Sorcerer now? And he is keeping seven goats for a demonic special occasion?’

  ‘Why not? He has made a fortune from dung, which you would not think was a lucrative trade.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He bought spells to increase his profits. Perhaps they worked.’

  He knocked on Arblaster’s door and waited to be admitted, recalling that the last time he had burst in unannounced, anticipating a medical emergency, and had taken the occupants by surprise. The door was opened by Jodoca, who was wearing a kirtle of pale yellow that made her look cool and fresh. She ushered them in and provided them with ale, which was cold, sweet and clear. Michael’s eyes gleamed when she produced a plate of Lombard slices, his favourite cakes.

  ‘I would offer you chicken,’ she said, smothering a smile at the rate at which the monk devoured the refreshments, ‘but I am not sure it is still good, even though it was only cooked this morning.’

  ‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Bartholomew approvingly. ‘I have noticed flies alighting on meat – cooked and raw – which I believe accelerates the rate at which it spoils. It is—’

  ‘Ignore him, madam,’ said Michael. She had won his heart with her hospitality. ‘He does not usually regale people with accounts of insects and rotting food. Sometimes he can be quite erudite.’

  ‘I am sure he can,’ said Jodoca, eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘My husband is out with his muck heaps at the moment, but I have sent the servant to fetch him. He should not be long.’

  ‘I thought he was ill,’ said Bartholomew, although not with much rancour. It was simply too hot to be annoyed. ‘Or has he summoned me a second time for no good reason?’

  ‘Oh, I have good reason,’ said Arblaster, bustling in on a waft of fertiliser. He was thinner than he had been, and there was a gauntness in his face that had not been there a few days ago, but he was clearly recovered from his flux. ‘It is just not a medical one. I see you have brought a colleague to hear my offer this time. That is good.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘I asked you not to send for me unless you needed a physician.’

  ‘You said we should not send for you urgently,’ corrected Arblaster. ‘And we made sure your book-bearer understood that it was not. I want to offer fifteen marks for Sewale Cottage, and there will be a goat in it for you if you persuade Master Langelee to accept. I know you said you were not interested in personal inducements, but these are special circumstances.’

  ‘If you give him a goat, you will be left with only six,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘Not seven.’

  Arblaster shot him a puzzled smile. ‘There are plenty of goats in the world, Brother. Well, what do you say? Fifteen marks for the house and an opportunity to put in a bid on your latrines.’

  ‘We will inform the Master,’ said Michael. ‘Although, I have never been fond of goat …’

  ‘A sheep, then,’ said Arblaster immediately. ‘Or would you prefer a pig?’

  ‘I am not in the habit of bartering for livestock,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, we might be interested in a year’s supply of fertiliser for our manor in Ickleton.’

  ‘Livestock is beneath you, but manure is not?’ ask
ed Jodoca with a mischievous grin. ‘You are a man after my husband’s own heart, Brother.’

  Bartholomew laughed when the monk looked discomfited. He reached out to take the last of the Lombard slices, but Michael did not like being the butt of jokes. He staged a lightning strike on the remaining pastry, then shot his friend a smug little smirk of victory as he raised the prize to his lips.

  ‘We already have an offer of fifteen marks,’ he said, barely comprehensible through a cake-filled mouth. ‘I doubt the Master will be interested in a second.’

  ‘Sixteen, then,’ said Arblaster, without hesitation. ‘It is a good price for such a small property, especially if you count a helping of the finest dung, too. I shall make sure it contains plenty of horse, which you will know is the best. In fact, it is such a good bid that I doubt anyone will best it.’

  ‘The canons are still interested,’ said Michael, wiping his sticky hands on a piece of linen. ‘And Tulyet wants it for his son, while Spynk is also keen. Who knows whether the negotiations are over?’

  Jodoca raised her goblet in a salute to both scholars. ‘Then we shall just have to enjoy the pleasure of your company again, so we can discuss the matter further.’

  Michael was reluctant to leave the pleasant cool of the Arblaster home, despite the proximity of the dung heaps and their distinctive aroma, and made excuses to linger. Arblaster started to hold forth about silage, but Jodoca sensed such a topic was unlikely to interest scholars, and tactfully changed the subject to music. She listened to the monk confide his plans for the Michaelhouse Choir, then sang a ballad she had composed; both men sat captivated by her sweet voice, although Bartholomew thought her French left something to be desired. It put him in mind of Matilde, whose grasp of the language was perfect, and some of the pleasure went out of the situation when a pang reminded him of how much he missed her. He stood to take his leave, making the excuse that he had medical duties at Barnwell.

  When he and Michael arrived at the priory, Fencotes was resting in the infirmary. Prior Norton’s eyes bulged dangerously as he led the way across the yard.

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘He had a fall, although I am not sure how. He refuses to talk about it, but I suspect it may have been in the chapel. The paving stones are dreadfully uneven, but no canon wants to admit to taking a tumble in a church – it looks as though he is not holy enough to warrant the protection of the saints.’

  ‘Have you learned any more about the talisman you found?’ asked Michael taking the holy-stone pendant from his scrip and swinging it about on its thong. ‘We believe Carton might have been killed by the Sorcerer, which means this nasty little bauble belongs to him.’

  ‘To the Sorcerer?’ Norton was aghast, and his eyes opened so wide that Bartholomew was sure he was going to lose them for good. ‘You mean he was here? In our convent?’

  ‘It seems likely,’ replied Michael, with what Bartholomew thought was unfounded confidence. ‘After all, you have virtually no security, so anyone can come and go as he pleases. Even powerful warlocks.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas about the Sorcerer’s identity?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Norton.

  The Prior swallowed hard, still shocked by Michael’s revelations. He glanced around uneasily, as if he imagined the dark magician might suddenly appear. ‘We discuss little else at the moment. We may be removed from the town physically, but that does not mean we are unaffected by what happens in it. We are all worried about the Sorcerer.’

  ‘So tell me what these discussions have concluded,’ ordered Michael.

  Norton looked unhappy. ‘We have suspicions, but no real evidence. Arblaster founded the All Saints coven, and remains one of its most influential members. Then there is Refham the blacksmith, who started to dabble in the occult at about the time folk began to talk about the Sorcerer. Spaldynge is another – he is nasty and vicious. Then Sheriff Tulyet owns books that deal with witchery, and there are some very unpalatable priests – Eyton, for example. And Pechem.’

  Bartholomew stopped listening when it became clear Norton was reciting a list of men he did not like. He wondered how many more people were doing the same across the town, and hoped they would have the good sense to demand proof of guilt before accusing anyone openly. It occurred to him that anonymity was a cunning ploy on the Sorcerer’s part, because it added to his air of mystery – which would further impress those who admired him, and serve to unsettle those who did not.

  ‘What is wrong with Pechem?’ he asked, not seeing what there was to dislike about the head of the Cambridge Franciscans. The Prior was not a bundle of fun, but he was decent and honourable.

  Norton grimaced. ‘Some of his friars accused us of setting the Hardy house alight.’

  Bartholomew struggled to understand what he was talking about. ‘You mean the couple who died in their sleep together last year? Their empty home was incinerated a few weeks later?’

  ‘The place was said to be inhabited by their restless spirits,’ recalled Michael. ‘And Thomas said it was your canons who burned it down.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Bartholomew. He shrugged when Norton regarded him indignantly. ‘If it was haunted, then perhaps you thought it was better destroyed. It stood close to your grounds, and—’

  ‘We are not arsonists,’ objected Norton. ‘But the building was haunted – there is no doubt about it.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  ‘Because two people do not die in their sleep at the same time, and the house always had an eerie feel after they had gone. I know you investigated vigorously, Brother, and your Corpse Examiner of the time did his best, but I remain convinced that the Hardy deaths were unnatural.’

  ‘So you said at the time,’ said Michael. ‘But you were unable to say why.’

  ‘It was just a sense I had that something untoward had happened. The Hardys practised witchery, but you dismissed that as irrelevant. Perhaps you will reconsider now you understand that dark magic is actually a rather potent force.’

  Michael gave him a sharp look, not liking the notion that fellow clerics should acknowledge the power of witchcraft. ‘And did you fire their house after they died?’

  Norton shook his head, but there was an uneasiness in his eyes; he was not a good liar.

  ‘But you know who did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Who was it? It will not be Podiolo, because he would never tear himself away from his alchemy for long enough. Was it Fencotes? He is not the kind of man to tolerate a haunted house on his doorstep.’

  Norton mumbled something that sounded like a denial, but Bartholomew glanced at Michael and thought they had their answer. Norton saw the look and became testy. ‘I said it held an evil aura, Brother, but you declined to come out at midnight and experience it for yourself. So, yes, perhaps we did take matters into our own hands. And why not? We have had no trouble from it since.’

  Michael regarded him tiredly. ‘So you admit to arson. What about the Hardys, then? Did any of your canons take matters into his own hands there, too? Because they played with dark magic?’

  Norton shook his head again, this time vehemently. ‘When they were alive, we thought nothing of their religious preferences. It was only when they were dead that their house took on an … atmosphere.’

  There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew left Michael to show the talisman to the canons, while he went to tend Fencotes in the infirmary. Norton went with him, apparently afraid that he might accuse the old man of something that would upset him.

  The infirmary was blissfully cool, and Podiolo was in his office, dozing while something bubbled over a brazier. It smelled rank, and it occurred to Bartholomew that an ability to produce noxious odours was something that might benefit the Sorcerer. He shook himself, aware that he was beginning to suspect everyone for the most innocuous of reasons. Fencotes was reading in the infirmary’s chapel, but did not seem to be suffering unduly from his tumble. There were three large
splinters in the palm of one hand that Podiolo had felt unequal to removing, and a bruise on the point of his shoulder.

  ‘How did you say this happened?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘I fell,’ replied Fencotes shiftily. ‘It happens when you reach my age.’

  ‘Falls usually involve grazed knees or hands,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But yours—’

  ‘Do not question the veracity of an old man,’ chided Fencotes mildly. ‘It is not seemly. I told you I fell, and that should be enough for you.’

  Bartholomew frowned. The chapel floor was stone, so Fencotes should not have acquired splinters from it, while it was strange to suffer a bruise on the shoulder but nowhere else. It was more likely that the old man had fallen out of bed, but did not want to admit to such an embarrassing episode to his colleagues. Obligingly, the physician dropped the subject.

  ‘Your Prior tells me you dislike witches,’ he said instead. He saw Norton roll his eyes; he had not expected Bartholomew to launch into the subject with no warning.

  Fencotes nodded, unabashed. ‘I dislike anything that challenges God. I did more than my share of it when I was a secular, so now I must make amends. And yes, I did burn the Hardy house to the ground, if that is what you are really asking. Their deaths were suspicious, and I am sure the building was plagued by their restless spirits. I said prayers as the house went up in flames, and I feel they are at peace now.’

  ‘How can they be at peace if they were witches?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Surely, they will be in Hell?’

  Fencotes smiled wanly. ‘These are weighty theological questions, beyond my meagre wits. Suffice to say that I detect nothing sinister about the location now.’

  ‘How do you think they died? You clearly did not accept Rougham’s verdict.’

  ‘I think they were slain by the Devil, because they summoned him and he found them lacking. They were not truly evil folk, just misguided. Their daughters died of the plague, and that is enough to send any man into the arms of Satan.’ Fencotes’s expression was immeasurably sad, leading Bartholomew to wonder whether he had lost children to the Death, too. ‘I did what was necessary.’