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

by Gregory, Susanna

  Epilogue

  ‘I have decided to let Isnard back in the Michaelhouse Choir,’ said Michael. ‘I was impressed by the way he used his crutches as levers to rescue us from the charnel house, and I think such ingenuity should be rewarded. Do you?’

  ‘I do,’ said Tulyet. ‘He saved the entire town that night with his quick thinking. Had he gone to the castle to fetch soldiers, as Matt had ordered, there would have been deaths for certain.’

  It was a week after the incidents that had culminated in All Saints-next-the-Castle, and the monk, Bartholomew and Tulyet were sitting in Michaelhouse’s orchard, using a fallen apple tree as a bench. The Fellows often used the place when they wanted peace and quiet, and it was pleasant that day. The searing heat had passed with the storm, leaving cloud-dappled skies and a more kindly sun.

  ‘Dickon has apologised again for biting you, Matt,’ said Tulyet after a while, although Bartholomew doubted the boy had done any such thing. ‘And to encourage him to keep his word, I have given him a proper sword.’

  ‘Christ, Dick!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, appalled. ‘Now he will stab me instead!’

  ‘I will disarm him before you arrive,’ said Tulyet stiffly. ‘Besides, it was part compensation for having taken the Book of Consecrations away from him. I read it last week, and decided it is not the sort of thing that should be in any Christian home.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. Dickon was resourceful, and might find a way to get it back again.

  ‘I gave it to Deynman,’ replied Tulyet. ‘For the Michaelhouse library. It will go some way towards restoring the books that Mildenale ordered William to burn.’

  ‘Langelee has sent William on a sabbatical leave of absence as punishment for that particular episode,’ said Michael, tactfully not mentioning that it was not the sort of tome that should be available for students. Perhaps Langelee would sell it – there were plenty of folk who would pay handsomely for such a volume, and Michaelhouse was always eager for ready cash. ‘And Prior Pechem has arranged for him to serve the time in a remote Fenland hospital. That should keep him out of mischief for a while.’

  Bartholomew turned his thoughts to what had happened on the night when everything had come to a head. ‘When you pitched out of the window on those ropes, I thought you were going to fall to your death.’ He shuddered. It was not a pleasant memory.

  Michael chuckled. ‘So did I, but it was all very stately. Once I realised I was in no particular danger, my chief concern was that someone might look up my habit.’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘We had Valeria and Mildenale trying to kill us, and you were worried about your dignity?’

  Michael adopted a prim expression. ‘A man without dignity is a man with nothing. How can I command respect if the entire town knows intimate details about my nether-garments?’

  ‘I do not think anyone was very interested in those,’ said Tulyet. ‘Most were more concerned with the fact that they had been promised the Sorcerer – a denizen of Hell, no less – and what they saw descending through the fire and smoke was the University’s Senior Proctor.’

  ‘I should have fined the lot of them,’ said Michael dourly. ‘But people are like sheep in matters of faith. They believe whichever noisy fanatic comes along and tells them what to think.’

  ‘Not all of them, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least half the crowd were just curious. Isnard, for example – he told me ages ago that he was uncomfortable with sorcery, but he went to All Saints because he did not want to be the only one who had missed out.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Tulyet. ‘Even people who had declared their support for the Church could not resist slipping in for a look – men like Heltisle, Eyton and Prior Pechem.’

  ‘Heltisle,’ said Michael with rank disapproval. ‘How I dislike that man! Did you know he has been unable to recruit any more porters? He and his Fellows are obliged to do gate duty themselves, which serves them right for giving Younge so much freedom.’

  ‘He paid in other ways, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘He lost seven goats – it would have been eight if you had not caught Younge stealing the last one – and goats are expensive.’

  ‘What will happen to Mildenale and Valeria?’ asked Bartholomew, not very interested in Bene’t College’s financial losses.

  ‘Mildenale has claimed benefit of clergy, which means he is unlikely to hang,’ replied Tulyet. ‘He says Valeria was the one who led him and Margery astray, threatening to expose their ancient dalliance unless they did as she ordered. Meanwhile, Valeria is saying the whole episode was Mildenale’s idea, and she was powerless to resist.’

  ‘How did Valeria find out what Mildenale and Margery did in their youth?’ asked Michael. ‘They were very discreet; no one I have spoken to knew anything about it.’

  ‘According to Mildenale, Margery confided in a fellow witch – a woman she thought was a friend. She misjudged Valeria.’

  ‘Poor Margery,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘Perhaps they did hasten her end, because their plans for the town’s future would have filled her with horror.’

  ‘Both Mildenale and Valeria deny intending to burn the church,’ Tulyet went on. ‘But I know a lie when I hear one. They were going to set it alight, then threaten a cowed population with a repeat performance if it showed signs of disobedience – whether people were living the kind of lives Mildenale deemed suitable, or not paying proper homage to the power-hungry Valeria.’

  ‘They were certainly going to raze the charnel house with you inside it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I heard them discussing it.’

  Tulyet’s expression was grim. ‘Even if their plan had succeeded, their partnership would not have lasted. Both wanted to be in charge, and each would have worked to undermine the other eventually – just as they are turning on each other now.’

  ‘We were wrong about so many things,’ said Michael, after another silence. ‘We thought everything was connected to the Sorcerer – the exhumed corpses, the blood in the font, the goats. But they were nothing of the kind.’

  ‘They were all quite separate incidents,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Danyell’s theft of the Bishop’s money precipitated a chain of events that drew Michaelhouse and Sewale Cottage into contact with Spynk, Arblaster and Jodoca, and the canons of Barnwell. And then with Osbern and Brownsley.’

  ‘And you,’ added Michael. ‘You wanted the house, too.’

  ‘I heard the canons paid twenty-five marks for it in the end,’ said Tulyet. ‘For that price, they are welcome to it, although I understand they have had no success in locating the treasure.’

  ‘Nor will they,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric searched the place from top to bottom before we made the sale, and he says the hoard is not there. I cannot imagine what Danyell did with it, but it will never be Barnwell’s. All Fencotes’s machinations were for nothing.’

  ‘I heard Cynric ripped up the floor in his determination to find it,’ said Tulyet. ‘And you were obliged to lay new tiles before you sold the cottage. Was that not expensive?’

  Michael smiled. ‘Refham put them in for us, free of charge, to make amends for trying to deprive us of his mother’s bequest. We have you to thank for that, Dick. Tell Matt what you did. It was announced at the last Fellows’ meeting, but he never listens to anything that happens in those, and I can see from his bemused expression that this one was no different.’

  Tulyet grinned. ‘A number of people complained that Refham had cheated them, and when I searched his house for evidence of his crimes I found his mother’s will. It was made when she was in sound mind, and was witnessed by three priests from Ely. In it, she expresses her desire that Michaelhouse should have those shops for the price of a shilling.’

  ‘A shilling?’ echoed Bartholomew in surprise.

  ‘A nominal fee,’ said Michael smugly. ‘So, we have the property we wanted, and Refham gets virtually nothing. And he was obliged to lay us a nice new floor into the bargain.’

  Bartholomew thought uncom
fortably about Mother Valeria’s spells. Had the cursed stone she had buried really brought about the blacksmith’s plunge into financial disaster? Still, at least she had not managed to kill him.

  ‘Did you hear he is dead?’ asked Tulyet.

  Bartholomew gazed at the Sheriff in shock. ‘What?’

  ‘He tried to leave the town, because Michaelhouse was not the only one after him for compensation,’ Tulyet explained. ‘He put all his worldly goods in a cart, and left for Luton after dark one night. Unfortunately, the last of the Bishop’s men were still at large, and a cart loaded with valuables was far too attractive a prize for them to ignore. He and Joan were killed during the skirmish.’

  ‘I doubt that made him happy,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘And the Bishop’s retainers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In my prison, although a few managed to escape. Perhaps they will go to Avignon, to see if de Lisle can use them there. I hope he will be sensible enough to decline their services. Will you try to raise money for him, Brother? He is in desperate need of funds, and you are one of his favourites.’

  Michael’s expression was troubled. ‘I would have done, but the antics of Brownsley and Osbern – and the testimonies of Danyell and Spynk – have unsettled me. I see now that de Lisle has used underhand tactics to amass wealth, and I dislike the strong intimidating the weak.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Tulyet. ‘He claims he knows nothing about what his retainers have been doing, but I am not so sure. They raised a lot of money from their crimes, and he is not stupid. He must have guessed it was coming from somewhere suspect.’

  Eventually Tulyet left, and Michael breathed in deeply of the scented summer air. ‘I am glad term has started. We have Clippesby back, and we are rid of William for a while, so things are improving.’

  ‘Not everything,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘I am sorry Carton is dead.’

  ‘So am I. Still, at least he lies in the right cemetery now – Clippesby arranged it yesterday. I wish he had told us what he had come do; we might have been able to help. It is a pity Jodoca killed him – and a pity Mildenale killed Thomas, too. Still, at least your conscience is eased: it was not your sedative that ended Thomas’s life. And I understand Paxtone and Rougham have changed their minds, and say you were right to have given him a potion that would calm him.’

  ‘Medicine is not an exact science, Brother. There is more magic in it than you might think.’

  John Brownsley knew he was dying, and he blamed the Bishop. He had been a loyal servant for years, but a single careless moment had seen Danyell slip into the London tavern where he was staying and steal the box of coins intended for Avignon. The hoard had contained a fortune – eighteen hundred and five silver shillings and nine gold coins, all packed into a specially made casket. The coins had been raised from revenues imposed by the Bishop, and Brownsley had collected them personally. It had not been pleasant work, because not everyone could pay – and more than one family would starve that winter because he had insisted on taking what was due.

  After the theft, Brownsley had tracked Danyell and his friend Spynk all the way to Cambridge, where he had managed to corner the man. Danyell had freely admitted to stealing the box, but had stubbornly declined to say where he had hidden it. The stupid man claimed it was his revenge on the Bishop for terrorising him in Norfolk. And then Danyell had just clutched his chest and died, although neither Brownsley nor Osbern had laid a finger on him. It had taken several searches of Sewale Cottage, but Brownsley had located the hoard in the end. It had been buried near one of the walls in a specially made recess. It was neatly and cleverly done, as he would have expected from a talented mason like Danyell.

  It was a safe place, so he had left it where it was, intending to collect it later. He knew the Bishop would be delighted, not only with the brimming box, but with the additional revenue collected by his colleagues along the Huntingdon Way, too. But then everything had turned sour: he and Osbern had been arrested, and Cambridge’s Sheriff had crushed their gang of henchmen.

  Brownsley had not been worried at first, because de Lisle had always rescued him in the past, pulling strings, passing bribes and having words in ears. But this time, the Bishop had not bothered. Castle prisons were unhealthy places, and Brownsley had caught a fever. He had seen such sicknesses before, and knew this one was going to kill him.

  His original plan had been to claim the hoard as soon as he was released, and take it to Avignon. But the Bishop had not helped Brownsley, so Brownsley did not see why he should help the Bishop. The box could stay where it was, and good luck to it. Perhaps it would bring a smile to someone’s face in the future. He wondered why the book-bearer had not seen it when he had searched. The Welshman was supposed to be observant, so why had he failed to see the clues?

  Brownsley closed his eyes, and supposed he would never know.

  Historical Note

  In October 2000, a remarkable discovery was made in Cambridge. Some 1,805 silver pennies and nine gold nobles or half-nobles were discovered near the corner of Chesterton Lane and Magdalene Street. The silver coins date from around the time of the plague (1348–1350), while the gold ones appear to have been laid on top of them by about 1355. The coins were in an iron-studded wooden chest, which had been placed in a hole near a wall. It seems that the hole was then sealed with a stone, and the room overlaid with a new clay floor. Whether the home improvements were carried out specifically to hide the money, or whether someone just took advantage of a convenient situation will probably never be known.

  The hoard would have been a fabulous amount of money in the fourteenth century – perhaps enough to pay an agricultural labourer for six years. Why it was deposited, and by whom, is not known, although it is likely that its owner had every expectation of reclaiming it, but never had the chance. Whoever hid the money probably lived in the house where it was buried, either as its owner or as a tenant. Barnwell Priory is known to have owned property in the area, and records show the building was occupied by one Margery Sewale in the 1450s. The coins and a reconstruction of the chest are on display in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge.

  The Prior of the Augustinians at Barnwell in 1357 was Ralph de Norton. The convent was wealthy and respected, and hosted kings, archbishops and high-ranking nobles. Henry Fencotes was one of its canons in the late fourteenth century, while the Italian Matteo di Podiolo was at the Cambridge convent by 1359.

  The Master of Michaelhouse in 1357 was Ralph de Langelee, and his Fellows probably included Michael de Causton, William Gotham, John de Clippesby and Thomas Suttone (who had a namesake – Roger Suttone – at Peterhouse). Edmund Mildenale was a Fellow at the College’s foundation in 1324; he was rector of East Bradenham church in Norfolk during the plague, and lived on until at least 1361. Not much is known about Roger de Carton, except that he was a Michaelhouse Fellow in 1359.

  Like most Colleges, Michaelhouse was keen on acquiring property, especially the land and buildings that adjoined it. In the 1340s or 1350s, its scholars were either given or purchased three houses (or shops) from Joan Refham. Her husband had died during the plague, and it was possible that the arrangement included the College’s priests chanting prayers for his soul. The houses stood on ground now belonging to Trinity College, and were later called St Catherine’s Hostel.

  Bene’t College (now Corpus Christi) was founded in 1352 with donations from two town guilds: St Mary and Corpus Christi. Its first Master was Thomas Heltisle (or Eltisley); Sir John Goldynham and John Hardy were among the first benefactors. William de Eyton was rector of St Bene’t’s Church in the early 1350s, and later went to South Pool in Devon.

  Prior William Pechem ruled the Cambridge Franciscans after the plague, and one of his friars was named Thomas of Irith, who was ordained as a deacon in 1354. Bukenham was a University proctor in the 1330s. Robert Spaldynge was a member of Clare College, and records show he engaged in dubious activities (a fictional account of these is given in To Kill
or Cure).

  It is almost impossible to imagine the impact of the Black Death on the medieval world, but contemporary evidence suggests people reacted very differently to the threat of its return. Some clung even more firmly to the Church, and tried to live reformed lives. Others turned to more ancient gods to protect them, and it seems there was an increase in witchcraft and paganism. Gatherings are thought to have taken place in the churches that were abandoned after the plague-deaths of their congregations; one such chapel was All Saints-next-the-Castle. However, the distinction between magic and religion was still quite blurred in the 1350s, and many people would have been perfectly happy to go to church on Sunday and visit a witch on Monday.

  The Bishop of Ely – the Dominican and papal favourite, Thomas de Lisle – was a complex and contradictory man. He was elected to his See in 1345, and almost immediately launched into a bitter feud with a merchant called Richard Spynk. Spynk plied his trade in Norwich although he owned property all across Norfolk and was one of its richest inhabitants. Spynk decided Norwich’s defensive walls needed refurbishing, and not only paid for much of the work, but gave a lot of his time to oversee the project, too. All was going well for Spynk until he met Ely’s new prelate.

  De Lisle, along with a band of henchman that included his keeper of parks at Downham (Osbern le Hawker), is said to have besieged Spynk at his various properties ‘threatening [Spynk’s] life and threatening him with mutilation of his members and capture and incarceration of his body, so that for fear of death he dared not go out’. The relentless attack is said to have cost Spynk almost £1,000 in lost cattle and other goods, as well as damage to his houses and assaults on his staff.

  This was not the only crime de Lisle was accused of committing. In the 1350s, he was charged with being complicit in at least sixteen charges of theft, extortion, receiving stolen goods, abduction, arson, cattle rustling, assault and eventually murder. One complainant was the King’s cousin, Blanche de Wake, and another was John Danyell, who claimed he was terrorised by de Lisle’s steward, John Brownsley. In the winter of 1356, alarmed by the evidence massing against him, de Lisle fled to the papal court in Avignon. He never returned to his native country and died in 1361.