Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘That will not happen,’ insisted Bartholomew although he could see Arblaster did not believe him. ‘And someone needs to be here, to administer this cure. There is no need to send her–’

‘Jodoca, go,’ ordered Arblaster. ‘If you love me, you will not argue.’

Tears flowing, Jodoca backed out of the room. Her footsteps tapped along the corridor and across the yard, then all was silent again. Bartholomew asked Cynric to fetch the maid, so she could be shown how to do the honours with the remedy, but she had apparently overheard the discussion and fled, for she was nowhere to be found. The house was deserted.

‘We cannot leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew to his book-bearer. ‘He is not as ill as he believes, but he still needs nursing. Will you wait here, while I walk to Barnwell and ask one of the canons to sit with him? It will not take long.’

He fully expected Cynric to refuse, knowing perfectly well that witches in search of souls was exactly the kind of tale the book-bearer took very seriously. Therefore he was startled when Cynric nodded assent. He was not surprised for long, however.

‘Arblaster is wrong to think Valeria will come for him this afternoon,’ said Cynric, sniffing in disdain. ‘She will not do that until he has been dead for three nights. Of course, it would not worry me if she did break with tradition and come today, because I am wearing an amulet.’

‘What kind of amulet?’ asked Arblaster, overhearing.

Cynric fingered something brown and furry that hung around his neck. ‘A powerful one, quite able to protect us both.’

Arblaster sagged in relief. He sipped Bartholomew’s doctored water, complained that it did not taste of much, then sank into a feverish doze. The physician gave Cynric instructions about what to do if he woke, and made for the door.

‘Do not stay in the convent too long,’ advised Cynric. ‘None of the canons are witches, but a couple turn into wolves on occasion. Luckily, I happen to have a counter-charm against wolves.’

Bartholomew felt his head spinning, and decided he should spend as little time with Cynric as possible until the Sorcerer had either been exposed as a fraud or had faded into oblivion, as all such prodigies were wont to do. He tried to dodge the proffered parcel, but the book-bearer managed to press it into his hand anyway. He smiled weakly, and shoved it in his bag, determined to throw it away later. He did not want to be caught with such an item in his possession, not after William’s accusations regarding his association with Mother Valeria.

It was not far to Barnwell Priory, but seemed further because the road was so fiercely hot. Bartholomew felt the energy drain from him at every step. His senses swam, and he wondered if he was in line for a bout of the flux himself. He hoped not, because it would leave Paxtone alone to physic the entire town. After what seemed an age, he arrived at Barnwell’s sturdy front gate. He leaned against the gatepost for a moment, standing in its shade and squinting against the sun’s brightness.

The convent was owned by the Augustinian Order, and comprised a refectory, guest hall, infirmary, almonry, brewery, granary, stables and bake-house, all surrounded by protective walls and gates. In addition, there was a church and three chapels – one for the infirmary, one attached to the almonry and the other dedicated to St Lucy and St Edmund. As Arblaster had mentioned, the convent also owned a substantial amount of property in the town: houses, shops, churches and manors. Bartholomew could not imagine why Prior Norton should want to purchase yet more of it in the form of Sewale Cottage. Not being an acquisitive man himself, he failed to understand the bent in others, and was grateful Langelee had not given him the task of negotiating details with Prior Norton.

He knocked on the gate, thinking about what he knew of the Augustinians. Despite the convent’s opulence, Norton had just twenty canons. There was, however, an army of servants and labourers who performed the menial tasks the brethren liked to avoid. The canons’ lives were not all meals and prayers, however. They ran a school for boys, and the infirmary housed a dozen old men who were living out their lives at the priory’s expense. They summoned Bartholomew not infrequently, because the infirmarian was not very good at his job, and tended to shy away from anything more complex than cuts and bruises. As a result, the physician should have known the canons reasonably well, but because they were mainly middle-aged, portly men who were going bald, he found it difficult to tell them apart. The infirmarian and his assistant were distinctive, but the rest were indistinguishable as far as Bartholomew was concerned, and he was glad Norton possessed a pair of unusually protuberant eyes, or he would have been hard pressed to identify him, too.

He was surprised when his rap was answered not by a lay-brother, but by Norton himself. The Prior’s expression was one of extreme agitation, and the thought went through Bartholomew’s mind that if he opened his eyes any wider, they might drop out.

‘Why have you arrived so quickly?’ Norton demanded, uncharacteristically brusque. ‘We have only just sent for you.’

‘Is something wrong?’ Bartholomew was concerned. Arblaster had mentioned two men dead of the flux, and it occurred to him that the priory might be suffering from a more virulent outbreak than the one in the town.

‘Yes,’ replied Norton shortly. He turned, and Bartholomew saw his brethren ranged behind him, an uneasy cluster in their light-coloured robes. They murmured greetings, and some sketched benedictions. Bartholomew nodded back, noting they were as nervous and unhappy as their head.

Henry Fencotes, the infirmarian’s assistant, stepped forward. Unlike his fellows, he possessed a full head of white hair, and he was thin. His skin was as pale as parchment, so his veins showed blue through it. He had consulted Bartholomew on several occasions because his hands and feet were always cold, even in the height of summer. Older than the others, he had come late to the priesthood, and it was said that he had lived a very wild life before his vows.

‘Where is Brother Michael?’ Fencotes asked, grabbing the physician’s arm. His hand felt icy, like that of a corpse. ‘We asked him to come, too. Did you leave him behind, because he is too fat to run? Will he be here soon?’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew, growing steadily more uneasy. ‘Is someone ill?’

‘You could say that,’ said Norton. ‘Will you see Carton now, or wait until Michael arrives?’

Bartholomew felt alarm grip his stomach. ‘Carton? What is wrong with him?’

‘We told you in the message we sent.’ Norton’s face was grim. ‘He has been murdered.’

Carton was in one of the convent’s chapels, a handsome building with a lead roof. It was a peaceful, silent place, with thick stone walls and tiny lancet windows that made it dark and intimate. It was also cool, and Bartholomew welcomed the respite from the heat. He tried to ask Norton what had happened as he was ushered into the porch, but the goggle-eyed Augustinian was not of a mind to answer questions, preferring to give a detailed explanation of why he believed this was the first unlawful killing ever to take place in the convent he ruled.

Bartholomew bit back his impatience. ‘A hundred and fifty murder-free years is an impressive record, Father Prior, but where is Carton?’

‘In the chancel,’ replied Fencotes. ‘Podiolo is with him. Come, I will show you.’

‘Podiolo came the moment I discovered …’ Norton trailed off uncomfortably, gesticulating with his hand. ‘But he said there was nothing he could do.’

Matteo di Podiolo was the infirmarian, and hailed from Florence. He had yellow eyes, a pointed nose and a mouth full of long, sharp teeth; Cynric had once told Bartholomew that his mother was a wolf. He knew virtually nothing about medicine, and did not seem inclined to learn, either, preferring to concentrate on his life’s ambition: to turn base metal into gold. He had built a laboratory in the infirmary chapel, and spent far more time there than ministering to his elderly charges. Perhaps, Bartholomew thought uncharitably, his lack of dedication was why two of them had died of flux.