Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

Bartholomew regarded him in distaste. ‘Book-burning says you are frightened of new ideas.’

‘I am frightened of new ideas,’ said William fervently. ‘If they were any good, they would be in the Bible – and the fact that they are not means they should never be entertained by right-thinking men.’

‘But we are scholars,’ protested Bartholomew, knowing he was wasting his time but unable to stop himself. ‘We have a moral responsibility to assess novel theories, and push back the barriers of our collective knowledge.’

‘Exactly,’ said William. ‘Men like you will be pushing these barriers back to the point where any heretical notion can be aired in the debating chamber. Well, it will not happen as long as I am here.’

‘I usually fail to see the problem with most condemned texts,’ said Langelee, rummaging in the wall-cupboard for his sceptre – the ceremonial symbol of his authority, which he used to signal the beginning and end of meetings. ‘They invariably make perfect sense, but just happen to go against some doctrine cooked up by men with narrow minds. So leave Carton’s collections alone, Father. We will have no book-burning at Michaelhouse.’

William’s face fell, while Bartholomew and Michael exchanged pleased glances. Neither would have expected Langelee to take a positive stand on books, which he tended to hold in low regard unless they were valuable, in which case he agitated for them to be sold. There were always bills to be paid or some costly repair to be made to the College fabric, and the Master was a practical man.

‘But–’ began the friar.

‘That is my last word,’ said Langelee firmly.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the conclave became hotter. Michael complained bitterly that the last of the Fellows – Wynewyk and Suttone – were late, while Bartholomew felt himself grow more drowsy. Langelee and William bickered over the ethics of selling, rather than incinerating, heretical texts, and the Master won the debate when he pointed out that the proceeds could be used to buy wine. Bartholomew suspected Mildenale would not be so easily swayed from his convictions, and neither would Carton or Father Thomas have been.

It was not long before Suttone waddled into the conclave to take his customary seat. He was a Carmelite friar, and when he, Langelee and Michael were in a row, Bartholomew was reminded that his College possessed some very large men. The physician was hardly diminutive himself, because he was tall and his medical practice kept him fit, but he always felt like a waif when he was with his colleagues. The bench groaned its objection, and he looked in his medical bag to ensure he had salves for the kind of injuries that might occur if it collapsed and deposited them all on the floor.

‘Shall we discuss the weather while we wait for Wynewyk?’ suggested Langelee. ‘It is less contentious than text-burning, and we should at least start the meeting as friends.’

‘I would rather talk about the plague,’ said Suttone, one of those who was convinced that it was on its way back. ‘Sinful men have not mended their ways, and–’

Langelee cut him off with a groan. ‘I do not want to hear it. We had more than enough of that in William’s Saturday Sermon. I would prefer to be regaled with your views on the weather.’

‘Crops are dying in the fields because of the heat,’ began Michael obligingly. ‘And it is common knowledge that this harvest will be a poor one. There will be a shortage of grain for bread, and we shall all starve before the year is out.’

‘Nonsense,’ countered Suttone, thus proving that even the climate was a controversial subject when discussed by scholars. ‘There has been rain galore in the north, and they will have plenty to sell to those whose harvest has failed.’

‘But they will charge a fortune,’ said Wynewyk, as he bustled in with a sheaf of parchments under his arm. ‘And we are desperately short of cash at the moment, as I have been telling you.’

‘Perhaps so, but we still have to eat,’ said Michael, to make sure Wynewyk knew that victuals were not an optional extra.

‘Do not worry, Brother; Wynewyk will keep our bellies full,’ said Langelee, shooting the lawyer a look that said there would be trouble if he did not. ‘But winter is months away, and we should not worry about it now. Who knows what might happen in that time?’

‘True,’ said William. ‘After all, look at Carton. Worrying about food for this coming winter would have been a waste of his time, would it not?’

Bartholomew frowned, thinking it a callous remark from a man who professed to be Carton’s friend. But before he could berate him for it, Langelee banged on the table with his sceptre, and announced that the meeting was underway.

‘There are two matters to consider today,’ he said. ‘First, the status of the houses we are buying and selling. Second, this awkward business regarding the Bishop of Ely. And finally Carton.’

‘That is three matters,’ said Wynewyk pedantically. ‘Shall we discuss them in that order?’

‘Carton first,’ said Langelee. ‘I know it is a painful subject, but it is also the most important. I have just read his will, and I am happy to report that he left us everything he owned – we are his sole beneficiary. Does anyone have anything else to say about him?’

‘I do,’ said Suttone. ‘The reason I was late is because I went to visit his corpse. Margery Sewale was pulled from her grave, and I was afraid someone might defile him, too. But he was untouched.’

Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment. ‘Why would anyone attack Carton’s remains?’

Suttone shrugged. ‘Hopefully, no one will, but Carton was a member of Michaelhouse, and Margery was associated with Michaelhouse. I just wanted to be sure he was safe.’

‘Father Thomas was associated with Michaelhouse, too, because he knew me,’ said William. He shot Bartholomew an unpleasant look. ‘I miss him.’

‘We know,’ said Langelee with an exaggerated sigh, while Bartholomew stared down at the table, guilt washing over him. ‘But what is done is done, and we should try to move on.’

‘What shall we do about replacing Carton, then?’ asked William, giving the impression that he had no intention of moving anywhere. ‘I am not taking on more teaching – I have heretics to rout.’

‘None of us can carry Carton’s classes,’ said Suttone. ‘We never have a free moment to prepare future lectures as it is. I hoped to write an essay on the return of the Death this morning, to read at the meeting of the Guild of Corpus Christi next week, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.’

‘You intend to wax lyrical about the Death at a Guild meeting?’ asked Langelee in disbelief. ‘I thought those occasions were supposed to be full of merrymaking, wine and good health.’

Suttone looked crestfallen, but then brightened. ‘But the letter inviting me to give the main address stipulated no such restrictions. Besides, I would be failing in my sacred duty if I did not describe the bleak, hopeless future that lies ahead of us all.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew thought the Guild was stupid to have chosen Suttone to orate at one of their functions, given his obsession with the plague. ‘However, the Master is right – these events are supposed to be fun. Perhaps you should consider talking about something a little more … jolly.’

‘Jolly?’ echoed Suttone in distaste. ‘I do not think I can make the pestilence jolly. Of course, there were amusing incidents, such as when the last Prior of Barnwell was sewn into his shroud but then transpired to be alive. Do you recall how he managed to free an arm and grab a silver candlestick, as if he intended to take it with him?’