Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

Cambridge, the day before Pentecost (mid-June) 1357

Three scholars and a book-bearer stood in mute shock around the open grave. Margery Sewale had been hoisted from what should have been her final resting place and flung to one side like a sack of grain. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and doctor of medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, bent down and covered the sorry remains with a blanket, wondering what sort of person would stoop to such a despicable act. He glanced up at the sky. Dawn was not far off, although it was still too dark to see without a lantern, and the shadows in St Michael’s churchyard remained thick and impenetrable. He jumped when an owl hooted in a nearby tree, then spun around in alarm when something rustled in the undergrowth behind him.

‘Whoever did this is long gone,’ said Cynric, his book-bearer, watching him. ‘I imagine the villain went to work around midnight, when he knew he was least likely to be disturbed.’

Bartholomew nodded, trying to calm his jangling nerves. Cynric had told him as much when he had broken the news of his grim discovery, along with the fact that the culprit had left nothing behind to incriminate himself – no easily identifiable shovel or trademark item of clothing. Nothing, in fact, except the result of his grisly handiwork.

‘How did you come to find her?’ the physician asked, wondering what Cynric had been doing in the graveyard at such an hour in the first place.

‘You were gone a long time with the patient who summoned you earlier, and I was getting worried. Besides, it is too hot for sleeping. I was coming to find you, when I stumbled across her.’

He glanced at Margery and crossed himself. Then the same hand went to his neck, around which hung several charms against evil. The wiry Welsh ex-soldier, who had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, was deeply superstitious, and saw nothing contradictory in attending church on Sundays and consulting witches on Mondays.

‘And you saw nothing else?’ Bartholomew asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He could not recall the last time he had slept. The town was currently plagued by an outbreak of the flux – a virulent digestive ailment – and patients were clamouring for his services day and night. ‘Just Margery?’

Cynric grasped his amulet a little more tightly. ‘She was quite enough, thank you very much! Is anything missing?’

‘There is nothing to steal,’ replied Bartholomew, a little bemused by the question. ‘She left Michaelhouse all her jewellery, so none was buried with her. And her shroud is a poor quality–’

‘I do not mean ornaments, boy,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘I mean body parts.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What a horrible notion! Why do you ask such a thing?’

‘Because it would not be the first time,’ said Cynric, a little defensive in the face of his master’s revulsion. ‘You found the corpse of that Norfolk mason on Ascension Day, and what was missing from him? A hand! We said then that it was probably stolen by witches.’

That was true, although Ascension Day was more than a week ago – a long time in the physician’s hectic life – and he had all but forgotten trudging home after visiting patients, and spotting the body in the wasteland opposite Margery’s house. The mason had probably died of natural causes, and had almost certainly been dead when someone had relieved him of his fingers. However, the incident was disturbing when viewed in conjunction with what had happened to Margery.

‘The town is full of witchery at the moment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, speaking for the first time since he had been dragged from his bed to witness what Cynric had found. He was a great, barrel-chested man, who looked more like a soldier than the philosopher he claimed to be, and most of his colleagues thought he acted like one, too. He was not noted for his intellectual contributions to University life, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were well satisfied with his just and competent rule.

Bartholomew was staring at the body. ‘And you think Margery was excavated for …’

‘For satanic rites,’ finished the third scholar Cynric had called. Brother Michael was a Benedictine monk who taught theology. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, responsible for maintaining law and order among the hundreds of high-spirited young men who flocked to the little Fen-edge town for their education. His duties included investigating any crimes committed on University property, too, so it would be his unenviable task to track down whoever had exhumed Margery.

‘A lot of folk are refusing to attend church at the moment,’ elaborated Langelee, when he saw the physician’s blank expression. ‘And they are joining covens instead. So I suppose it is not surprising that this sort of thing is on the increase.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew made no move to see whether Margery’s body had suffered the same fate as the mason’s. The physician was his official Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his job to assess anyone whose death the monk deemed suspicious. ‘Has Margery been pruned?’

Bartholomew winced at his choice of words. ‘I gave you a verdict when she died two weeks ago – of a long-term weakness of the lungs. You cannot ask me to look at her again.’

‘I can, and I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I need to know why this outrage was perpetrated. Besides, Margery was your patient and your friend. You cannot refuse her this last service.’

Bartholomew regarded the body unhappily. He had been fond of Margery, and wanted to see the maniac who had despoiled her behind bars, but he had never been comfortable inspecting corpses that had already been laid to rest. He did not mind examining fresh ones; indeed, he welcomed the opportunity, because they allowed him to further his limited knowledge of anatomy, an art that was forbidden in England. He did not even object to examining ones past their best, although he did not find it pleasant. However, when he was forced to look at bodies that had been buried, he invariably found himself overwhelmed by the unsettling notion that they were watching him with ghostly disapproval. He knew it was rank superstition, but he could not help it.

‘Hurry up,’ urged Langelee, when the physician hesitated still. ‘I need to return to the College soon, to lead the procession to morning mass.’

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Bartholomew pulled off the blanket, and counted Margery’s fingers and toes. All were present and correct, and so were her nose and ears. Her hair was matted and stained from its time in the ground, but he did not think any had been hacked off, and her shroud also seemed intact. He was aware of the others moving back as he worked, and did not blame them. The weather was unseasonably warm, even before sunrise, and Margery had been dead too long. Flies were already buzzing, and he knew she would have to be reburied her as soon as possible, lest she became a hazard to health.

‘Nothing is missing,’ he reported, sitting back on his heels and wiping his hands on the grass. It did little to clean them, and he would have to scour them in the first available bucket of water. His colleagues mocked him for his peculiar obsession with hygiene, but he considered it one of the most important lessons he had learned from the talented Arab medicus who had taught him his trade.

‘Then why was she dragged from her tomb?’ demanded Langelee.

‘Perhaps the culprit heard me coming, and fled before he could sever anything,’ suggested Cynric rather ghoulishly.

But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘If he had wanted a body part, he could have taken one when she was still in the grave – he did not have to haul her all the way out to slice pieces off.’