Susanna GREGORY: The Devil's Disciples

The yard had been baked rock hard by an unrelenting sun, so even the hardiest weeds were now withered stumps. Hens blunted their claws as they scratched for seeds, and the College cat lay under a tree, too hot to chase the sparrows that dust-bathed provocatively close. The porter’s pet peacock had been provided with a basin of water, and it sat in it disconsolately, trying to cool itself down. Cracks had appeared in the supporting timbers of the building where Bartholomew lived, and he hoped the roof would not leak all winter as a result. The vegetables planted by Agatha the laundress were ailing or dead, and none of the trees in the orchard would bear much fruit. Cambridge’s oldest inhabitants said they had never known summer to come so early and so fiercely.

‘Dinner has finished,’ said Michael in disgust, seeing scholars stream from the hall, laughing and chatting with each other. Last out were William, Mildenale and Carton. Mildenale was holding forth and William was nodding vigorously, although Carton’s face wore its usual impassive mask.

Bartholomew did not think missing a meal was much of a tragedy. The College was not noted for the quality of its cooking, and the weather was not helping. Supplies were going rancid, rotten or sour much faster than usual, and Michaelhouse scholars had been provided with some dangerously tainted foods since the heatwave had started. This was a cause for concern, because Bartholomew was sure spoiled meat was responsible for the flux that was currently raging in the town.

‘My head aches,’ complained Michael. ‘Yesterday, you said it was because I did not drink enough wine. Do you have any claret left?’

‘I said you needed more fluids, not wine,’ corrected Bartholomew, leading the way to his quarters. ‘Claret will make your head worse. Watered ale is best in this weather.’

He lived in a ground-floor room, which he shared with four students. It was a tight squeeze at night, and there was only just enough space to unroll the requisite number of mattresses. The cramped conditions had arisen because the Master had enrolled an additional twenty scholars in an effort to generate more income. Bartholomew might have objected to the resulting crush, if he had not been so busy: his days were spent struggling with classes too large for a single master to manage, while evenings and nights were given over to his many patients.

He supposed he should not grumble about the size of his practice. It was only two months since a healer named Magister Arderne had arrived in the town, declaring magical cures were better than anything physicians could provide. Arderne had left eventually, but folk had been wary of medici ever since – Bartholomew’s colleagues were still undersubscribed, because many folk now preferred to consult lay-healers, such as Mother Valeria or the Sorcerer. Bartholomew’s own practice, however, comprised mainly people who could not afford witches, and they came to him in droves. He appreciated their loyalty, and knew he should not complain when they needed him.

When he opened the door to his room, he found Cynric waiting. ‘Arblaster needs you,’ said the book-bearer, standing and stretching in a way that suggested he had been asleep.

‘Arblaster?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to place him. He was better with ailments than names, and invariably remembered people by what was wrong with them.

‘The dung-merchant who lives near Barnwell Priory,’ supplied Cynric, adding sourly, ‘Perhaps his fingers are stiff from counting all his money. Manure has made him very rich.’

He and Bartholomew had spent the previous year on a sabbatical leave of absence, and during it, Cynric had changed. He had expressed a desire to learn Latin, had grown more confident of his own abilities, and less impressed by those who ruled by dint of their birth or wealth. He had also developed a disconcerting habit of speaking his mind, and was rarely deferential.

‘He is rich,’ agreed Michael. ‘But I am told he is a decent soul, even so.’

Cynric pulled the kind of face that said he thought otherwise. ‘And when you have finished with him, Bukenham is waiting.’

‘Bukenham?’ asked Michael in alarm. ‘My Junior Proctor? What is wrong with him?’

‘Doctor Bartholomew has forbidden me to talk about his patients’ problems,’ replied Cynric, shooting his master a reproachful glance for putting such an unfair restraint in place. ‘He says they expect confidentiality. But, since you ask, it is the flux.’

‘Thank you, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, too tired to remonstrate.

‘It is a long way to Barnwell,’ said Michael, sitting on a stool. ‘And then an equally long way to Bukenham’s lodgings near the Small Bridges. I am glad I do not have to race about in this heat.’

‘He has no choice,’ said Cynric, watching Bartholomew pack his medical bag with fresh supplies. ‘Everyone knows this particular flux can be deadly unless it is treated promptly. If he declined to tend Arblaster and Bukenham, they might die.’

As he gathered what he needed, Bartholomew supposed word must have spread regarding his success in combating the disease, because neither the dung-master nor the Junior Proctor had ever summoned him before. The remedy he had devised involved boiling angelica and barley in water, and making his patients drink as much of it as they could. A few had refused, on the grounds that it sounded too mild a potion to combat such a virulent illness, and they were still unwell. All the others had recovered, with the exception of two who had succumbed before he had developed the cure. They were dead.

‘You should buy a horse,’ said Cynric, not for the first time during their long association. ‘The Prince of Wales gave you a small fortune when you tended the wounded after the Battle of Poitiers last year, so you can afford it. Arriving at a patient’s house on horseback better befits your status than traipsing about on foot.’

Bartholomew did not like to tell him that the ‘small fortune’ was almost gone, and that most of it had been spent on medicines for his patients. Besides, he was not a good rider, and horses tended to know who was in charge when he was on them. And so would anyone he was trying to impress.

He went to the jug of ale that stood on the windowsill, supposing he had better follow the advice he had given to Michael and drink something before he went, then recoiled in revulsion when the smell told him it was already spoiled, even though he had only bought it the day before. He tipped it out of the window, along with some milk his students had left. He heard the milk dropping to the ground in clots, and did not like to imagine what it looked like. Cynric offered to fetch ale from the kitchen, and while he waited, Bartholomew collected powdered barley from the little room next door, where he kept his medical supplies. Michael followed, griping about how busy he was.

‘Not only do I have Margery’s disinterment and the blood in the font to investigate, but there are Bene’t College’s damned goats to consider, too.’

‘What do the goats want you to do?’

Michael glared at him, not in the mood for humour. ‘Seven of them have been stolen, and Master Heltisle asks whether I have caught the thief every time we meet. Does he think the Senior Proctor has nothing more important to do than look for missing livestock?’

‘Goats are expensive. I do not blame Heltisle for wanting them back.’

‘They will be in someone’s cook-pot by now, and I doubt we will ever know who took them. What in God’s name is that?’

He pointed to a complex piece of apparatus that stood on a bench. It comprised a series of flasks, some of which were connected by pipes. A candle burned under one. Bartholomew checked it carefully, then added water.