Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘He has saved my life – and yours – more times than I care to remember.’

‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But which side will he choose in this looming battle between good and evil?’

‘It is not a battle between good and evil,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is a battle between two belief systems, each with its own merits and failings. The Sorcerer will not see himself as wicked, but as someone who offers a viable alternative to the Church.’

‘Wynewyk is right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the monk was about to take issue. ‘And the Church can be repressive and dogmatic, so choosing between them may not be as simple as you think. It has adherents like William and Mildenale for a start, which does not render it attractive.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘That is a contentious stance; perhaps William is right to say you dance too closely with heresy. However, while I might – might – concede your point, please do not express that opinion to anyone else. I do not want to see you on a pyre in the Market Square.’

Langelee had barely quit the dais before William was in full preaching mode, declaring loudly that no one would die if he put his trust in God and stayed away from Dominicans. Mildenale stood behind him, whispering in his ear, and Bartholomew noted unhappily that William’s booming voice and Mildenale’s sharp intelligence were a formidable combination. Michael watched in horror as the students began to be swayed by the tirade and, not wanting the Black Friars banging on the gate and demanding apologies for such undeserved slander, he stepped forward hastily.

‘You interrupted the Master before he had time to explain himself!’ he shouted, banging on the high table with a pewter plate in order to still the clamour and make himself heard. ‘The reason you are being asked to leave has nothing to do with Carton, and nothing to do with Dominicans being in league with the Sorcerer, either. It is because of the latrines.’

A startled silence met his claim. Langelee tried to look as though he knew what the monk was talking about, but failed dismally. Fortunately, everyone else was too intent on gaping at Michael to notice the Master’s feeble attempt to appear knowledgeable.

‘What about them?’ asked William eventually.

‘The trenches are almost full, and Matt thinks the miasma that hangs around them in this ungodly heat will give everyone the flux,’ elaborated Michael. It was the physician’s turn to conceal his surprise, although he hoped he managed it better than Langelee. ‘New ones will be dug, but until they are ready, it is safer for you all to go home.’

‘But the Fellows will be here,’ said Deynman the librarian. ‘They still need to–’

‘We will use the smaller pit by the stables,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘It can cope with Fellows, but not with students and commoners, too, which is why you must all disappear for a week.’

‘Why did the Master not say this straight away?’ asked Mildenale, not unreasonably.

‘Because heads of Colleges do not air such unsavoury topics in public,’ supplied Deynman before Michael could think of a reply that Mildenale would believe. ‘It is undignified, and they leave that sort of thing to senior proctors, who are less refined.’

‘Thank you, Deynman,’ said Michael, a pained expression on his face. ‘Now, unless the Master has any more to add, I suggest you all go and make ready for an early departure tomorrow.’

Bartholomew was obliged to field a welter of enquiries about the relationship between latrines and miasmas, and it was difficult to answer without contradicting what the monk had said. While he believed that dirty latrines could and did harbour diseases, he was becoming increasingly convinced that the current flux had its origins in heat-spoiled meat. However, he supposed some good would come out of Michael’s lie, because Langelee would have no choice but to order new pits dug now, which was something the physician had been requesting for months.

‘They were more interested in your theories about hygiene than distressed over Carton,’ observed Michael, coming to talk to him when most of the students had left and only the Fellows and commoners remained. ‘What an indictment of his popularity.’

‘I am sorry he is dead,’ said Deynman, coming to stand with them while they waited for Mildenale and William to finish talking to the Master. ‘He always returned his library books on time, which cannot be said for everyone. You two, for example.’

Bartholomew smiled sheepishly. ‘Bradwardine’s Proportiones Breves . I will bring it tomorrow.’

‘You said that yesterday,’ replied Deynman, unappeased.

‘Is that the only tribute you can pay Carton?’ asked Michael, hoping to sidetrack him. He was still using Lombard’s Sentences , and did not want to give it back. ‘That he was good at remembering when his library books were due?’

Deynman frowned, and Bartholomew could see him desperately trying to think of something nice to say. A naturally affable, positive soul, Deynman was always willing to look for the good in people, even when there was not much to find, and the fact that he was struggling said a lot about Carton. The Fellow had not been unpleasant, surly or rude; he had just not been very friendly, and had done little to make his colleagues like him.

‘He donated three medical books to the library,’ said Deynman eventually, looking pleased with himself for having thought of something. Then his face fell. ‘Damn! I was not supposed to tell you about those. He said they are heretical and should be burned, but could not bring himself to do it, so he gave them to me to look after instead. The only condition was that I never let you or your students read them, lest you become infected with the poisonous theories they propound.’

‘What books?’ demanded Bartholomew keenly. Texts were hideously expensive, and the College did not own many, especially on medicine. The notion of three more was an exciting prospect.

Deynman opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again when he realised he could not remember. So he led them to his ‘library’ – a corner of the hall with shelves, two chests and a table. Michaelhouse’s precious tomes were either locked in the boxes or chained to the walls, depending on their value and popularity.

‘Brother Michael can inspect them,’ he said, kneeling to unlock the larger and stronger of the two chests. ‘But not you, Doctor Bartholomew. Carton made me promise.’

He presented three rather tatty items to Michael, who opened them and shrugged. ‘You are already familiar with these, Matt. They are by Arab practitioners, and Carton was a bit of a bigot regarding foreign learning. However, I doubt Ibn Sina’s Canon will set the world on fire.’

‘I hope not,’ replied Bartholomew dryly. ‘It has been an established part of the curriculum for decades.’ He saw the librarian’s blank look, and wondered if any of the lectures the lad had attended over the last five years had stuck in his ponderous mind. ‘Ibn Sina is more commonly known as Avicenna, Deynman. You should know that, even if Carton did not, because you attended a whole series of debates on his writings last year.’

Deynman frowned, then shrugged carelessly. ‘Did I? I do not recall. Incidentally, Mildenale told me Carton had collected a lot of texts on witchery, and said he was keeping them for a massive bonfire. He was going to have it in the Market Square, so everyone could enjoy it.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. Book-burning was deeply repellent to most scholars, regardless of what the tomes might contain, and the fact that Bartholomew was only learning now that Carton was the kind of person to do it underlined yet again how little he had known the man. The discovery did not make him wish he had made more of an effort.