Susanna GREGORY: The Devil's Disciples

‘A spade?’ echoed Bartholomew, startled. It was not an item guaranteed to appeal to the acquisitive instincts of most physicians.

‘For digging up dead bodies,’ whispered Isnard, tapping his nose confidentially. ‘We all know it was a medicus who took Margery from her grave – for anatomy. And since Paxtone refuses to touch corpses, and Rougham condemns anatomy as a pagan rite, you are the only one left.’

‘I did not exhume Margery,’ cried Bartholomew, appalled that anyone should think he had.

Isnard looked sheepish. ‘I see. Well, perhaps you will accept something else as a bribe then. A jar for storing urine, perhaps. I could get you a nice one. Will you talk to Brother Michael for me?’

Bartholomew mumbled something noncommittal, still shaken to learn he was seen as the kind of man who went around digging up the graves of his patients, and headed for the door. Michael was waiting outside, and shot him a sidelong glance as they began to walk along the towpath together.

‘I suppose he asked you to put in a good word for him,’ he said coolly. ‘Well, you can save your breath. He harmed you with his accusations about your medical skills earlier this year, and it will be a long time – if ever – before people forget the lies he told. You may not bear him a grudge, but I do. I do not want him in Michaelhouse.’

‘None of your other choristers are angels,’ Bartholomew pointed out, thinking of the disreputable crowd that was attracted by the prospect of free victuals and enjoyable evenings spent bawling at the tops of their voices. ‘It is no coincidence that the Sheriff knows most of them by name.’

Michael’s expression was haughty. ‘That may well be true, but I prefer thieves and vagrants to villains who attack my Corpse Examiner with unfounded, vicious allegations.’

‘Isnard promised me a spade if I convinced you to let him back in.’ Bartholomew did not tell the monk what Isnard thought he might do with it. ‘Michaelhouse could do with some new tools.’

Michael began to laugh. ‘A spade? Is that all he could think of to offer? You should hold out for a hoe, at the very least.’ They walked in silence for a while. ‘What do you make of Carton?’

Bartholomew was taken aback by the question. ‘He is a good teacher. Why?’

‘His students would disagree. He was a better educator when he was a commoner – before we elected him a Fellow. Since then, he has grown aloof and preoccupied, and seldom gives lectures his full attention. He is a fine example of someone who has been promoted above his abilities.’

Bartholomew’s first instinct was to defend Carton, who was a colleague when all was said and done, but then it occurred to him that Michael was right. He recalled how the Franciscan had come to Michaelhouse in the first place. ‘Clippesby recommended him to us.’

‘And Clippesby is insane, so we were stupid to have accepted Carton on his word. You were the one who advocated Carton’s promotion to Fellow, though, and it is not the wisest suggestion you have ever made. I thought he was just shy at first, but now I know him better, I realise timidity has nothing to do with it. He is actually rather sinister.’

Bartholomew was uncomfortable with the conversation. ‘I would not go that far …’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘All the Fellows – except William – are wary of him. None of us like the fact that he went so suddenly from quiet nonentity to a man with strongly controversial opinions.’

‘I suppose it is odd,’ conceded Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘Perhaps he will be better when Mildenale leaves to found his hostel. That will not be long now, a few weeks at the most.’

‘I doubt that will help – they will still see enough of each other to be dangerous. I thought Thomas’s sermons were bad enough – driving listeners into the Sorcerer’s eager arms – but Carton, Mildenale and William are much worse.’ Michael grimaced when he saw the physician’s stricken expression. ‘Thomas’s death was not your fault, Matt. How many more times must I say it?’

‘Actually, it was. Thomas was fretful, so I gave him a sedative, hoping rest would speed his recovery. But it sent him into too deep a sleep – with fatal consequences. Even my rawest recruit knows never to sedate patients with serious head wounds.’

Michael frowned, puzzled. ‘Then why did you do it?’

‘Because I thought the injury was superficial; he exhibited none of the usual symptoms that indicate harm to the brain. But I was wrong. William’s anger with me is wholly justified.’

‘Why was Thomas fretful?’ asked Michael curiously.

‘He thought the Sorcerer had sent the stone flying through the air by dark magic. I do not believe in the power of curses, but he did, and I should have taken that into account. I have seen other perfectly healthy patients die because they have convinced themselves there is no hope.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘So, did Thomas die because you gave him the wrong medicine, or because he believed his time was up? You cannot have it both ways.’

‘It was probably a combination.’

Michael was dismissive. ‘You are taking too much on yourself. However, the guilt you feel should not prevent you from telling William the truth about Mother Valeria. What is the harm in saying you are treating her for an ailment, not learning how to be a witch yourself?’

‘William cannot be trusted to keep a confidence, and what would happen to Valeria once it became known that she is obliged to consult physicians? Customers would lose faith in her cures, and she would starve. Besides, he should know I would never dabble with witchcraft.’

Michael gave a short bark of laughter. ‘You might, if you thought it would help a patient. No, do not deny it. You are too open-minded for your own good where healing is concerned, and your medical colleagues are always chastising you for using unorthodox treatments.’

‘I would never resort to witchcraft,’ insisted Bartholomew firmly. ‘Never.’

‘You just said you should have listened to Thomas’s belief that he was cursed,’ Michael pounced.

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, struggling to think logically. It occurred to him that he might not have prescribed the sedative had he not been so exhausted, and knew tiredness was beginning to affect his teaching, too. Still, at least he had not fallen asleep in the middle of his own lecture, as Michael had done the previous week.

‘Lord!’ he groaned, when he saw a familiar figure striding towards them. ‘Here comes Spaldynge from Clare College. Every time he meets me, he makes some barbed remark about physicians being useless during the plague. I know we failed to cure people, but it was almost a decade ago, and I am tired of him goading me about it.’

‘Ignore him. He makes the same comments to anyone involved in medicine – physicians, surgeons, witches, and even midwives. Personally, I think he is losing his wits.’

‘Greetings, murderer,’ hissed Spaldynge, as he passed. ‘Killed any patients recently? Other than Father Thomas and Margery Sewale, that is. Her long illness should have given you plenty of time to devise a cure, but you let her die. You are inept, like all your colleagues.’

‘It is difficult to ignore him when he makes remarks like that,’ said Bartholomew, when the man had gone. ‘He knows how to hurt.’

Michael’s expression hardened. ‘It is Isnard’s fault. He was the one who first questioned your abilities. Now do you see why I am not keen on having him back in my choir?’

The College of Michaelhouse – or the Society of the Scholars of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and St Michael the Archangel, to give it its proper name – was located just off one of the town’s major thoroughfares. It comprised an attractive hall, two accommodation wings, and a range of stables and storerooms, all of which stood around a central yard. Sturdy walls protected it from attack – even when there was peace between the University and the town, there were disputes between rival foundations to take into account.