Susanna GREGORY: The Devil's Disciples

‘Then the sooner you catch the culprit, the sooner people will see you had nothing to do with these unsavoury incidents,’ said Langelee. ‘So, you have a vested interest in making sure Michael solves these mysteries. Do not look horrified. It is the best – perhaps the only – way to quell the rumours that are circulating about Cambridge’s dubious physicians.’

Bartholomew was troubled by Langelee’s contention that half the town thought he was a warlock, but was to be granted no time to answer the accusations. A second message arrived from Arblaster, urging him to make haste. Although he would have preferred to go alone, he found himself accompanied not only by Cynric, but by Carton, too. The newest Michaelhouse Fellow did not often seek out the company of his colleagues – other than William and Mildenale – and the physician was surprised when Carton expressed a desire to join him.

‘I have business at Barnwell Priory, which you will pass en route to Arblaster’s home,’ Carton explained. ‘As you know, they are interested in buying one of Michaelhouse’s properties, and Langelee has asked me to clarify a few details. Do you mind me coming with you?’

‘No,’ replied Bartholomew warily, wondering if the friar wanted him alone so he could accuse him of heresy. Or perhaps his intention was to persuade him to take major orders. It would not be the first time a Franciscan had tried to recruit him; the Order was notoriously aggressive in grabbing new members. Unfortunately for them, Bartholomew was in love with a woman called Matilde, and had not quite given up hope that she might return to Cambridge one day and agree to become his wife. Although he had not seen her in almost two years, his feelings had not diminished, and he could hardly marry her if he became a priest.

Carton smiled his strange smile, and gestured that the physician was to precede him through the College’s front gate. ‘Good. This term has been so busy that we have had no time to talk.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew. He thought fast, trying to come up with a subject that would discourage Carton from interrogating him about the points William had raised in his Sermon: his association with Mother Valeria, and his willingness to consider medical theories that had not been derived from the teachings of ancient Greeks. ‘Actually, I did not know Barnwell wanted one of our houses. Which one?’

Carton looked amused. ‘It was the main topic of discussion at the last Statutory Fellows’ Meeting. Were you not listening? I suppose it explains why you were so quiet.’

The conclave had been called shortly after Thomas’s death, and Bartholomew had spent the time silently agonising over what had happened. ‘I must have been thinking about something else,’ he mumbled uncomfortably.

‘Barnwell wants the house Margery Sewale left us. There has been a lot of interest in it, and Langelee needs a complete list of potential buyers.’

‘He cannot go himself?’

Carton smiled again. ‘I volunteered. I like the canons – they always invite me to join their prayers when I visit. In fact, I would rather we sold Sewale Cottage to them instead of to any of the laymen who are after it.’

Bartholomew led the way through the tangle of alleys called the Old Jewry, passing the cottage in which Matilde had lived. He let memories of her wash over him, barely hearing Carton’s monologue on Barnwell Priory’s beautiful chapels. He remembered her pale skin, and the scent of her hair. He was still thinking about her when they passed through the town gate, and stepped on to the raised road known as the Barnwell Causeway. The Causeway was prone to floods during wet weather, and there were many tales of travellers wandering off it and drowning in the adjacent bogs. That summer, however, it stood proud of the surrounding countryside, and the marshes were bone dry. It wound ahead of them like a dusty serpent, wavering and shimmering in the heat.

As they walked, Carton began talking about a text he had read on Blood Relics, while Cynric lagged behind, bored. Bartholomew was not gripped by the complex theology surrounding the Blood Relic debate, either, but was content to let Carton hold forth. The Franciscan became animated as he spoke, and his eyes shone; Bartholomew was reminded yet again that he was a deeply religious man. Then he frowned as the friar’s words sunk in.

‘You think the blood of the Passion is not separate from Christ’s divinity?’ he asked, unsure if he had heard correctly. ‘That is the Dominicans’ basic thesis.’

Carton looked flustered. ‘Yes, I know. I was just following a line of argument, to see where it led. I was not propounding it as an accurate viewpoint. Of course Christ’s blood is separate from His divinity. Every decent Franciscan knows that.’

Immediately he began to talk about something else, but the excitement was lost from his voice. Bartholomew wondered what was wrong with him. Then it occurred to him that Carton was a good scholar, clever enough to make up his own mind about the Blood Relic debate, so perhaps he did not agree with his Order’s stance on the issues involved. Of course, if that were true, then he was wise to keep his opinions to himself, because William and Mildenale would not approve of dissenters.

Not long after, Bartholomew looked up to see Spaldynge sauntering towards them. A servant staggered along behind him, laden down with pots; the Clare man had gone to the priory to buy honey for his College. There was no way to avoid him on the narrow path and, with weary resignation, Bartholomew braced himself for another barrage of accusations. Sure enough, Spaldynge opened his mouth when he was close enough to be heard, but Carton spoke first.

‘I have been meaning to talk to you, Spaldynge,’ he said. ‘It seems we have a mutual acquaintance – Mother Kirbee and I hail from the same village. She told me she still mourns her son.’

The blood drained from Spaldynge’s face. ‘What?’

‘Mother Kirbee,’ repeated Carton. Bartholomew glanced at him, and was unsettled to note that the expression on his face was cold and hard. ‘Her boy was called James.’

Spaldynge stared at Carton, his jaw working soundlessly. Then he pushed past the Michaelhouse men without another word and began striding towards the town, head lowered. He moved too fast for his servant, who abandoned his efforts to keep up when one of the jars slipped from his hands and smashed. Spaldynge glanced around at the noise, but did not reduce his speed.

Bartholomew watched in surprise, then turned to Carton. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I do not care for him.’ Carton’s voice was icy, and there was a glint in his eye that the physician did not like. ‘He rails against medici for failing to cure his family, but does not consider the possibility that he was to blame. Perhaps he was being punished for past sins.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. He had heard other clerics say plague victims had got what they deserved, but he had not expected to hear it from a colleague – a man of education and reason.

‘Fifteen years ago, Spaldynge was accused of stabbing James Kirbee,’ said Carton, when he made no reply. ‘The charge was dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence, but that does not mean he was innocent. I suspect Spaldynge’s family paid the price for his crime when the plague took them.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you sure? About the murder, I mean. I have never heard this tale–’

‘Of course I am sure,’ said Carton irritably. ‘How can you even ask such a question, when you saw for yourself how he took to his heels when I confronted him with his misdeed?’

‘He did look guilty,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But–’