There was silence, as his colleagues tried to fathom the logic behind his claims. Eventually, seeing there was none and that
he was just giving rumours his own unique interpretation, they resumed their discussion as though he had not spoken.
‘What about the property we want to
get
?’ asked Langelee. ‘The Refham houses.’
Wynewyk sighed. ‘As you know, Mistress Refham said on her deathbed that we should have them at a reduced cost. Unfortunately,
her son and his wife are being difficult, and they have put them on the market.’
‘How dare they!’ exclaimed William angrily. ‘She promised us first refusal.’
‘But it was a spoken agreement and nothing was written,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Refham is determined to make himself rich from his
mother’s inheritance, so we are in for a battle, I am afraid.’
‘Do we really want them?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Yes we do, because of their location,’ explained Wynewyk. ‘We own the properties on either side of them, and they will allow
us to expand in the future. If we do not buy them now, we might never have another chance. We will not use them in the short
term – we shall rent them to Mildenale, so he can found his hostel – but their long-term importance cannot be overemphasised.’
‘Why Mildenale?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘We discussed this last time,’ said Langelee curtly. ‘Take notes, if you cannot remember from one meeting to the next. However,
I shall repeat myself this once: it is because we are all a bit tired of his noisy religious opinions and it is a good way
to be rid of him.’
‘I
like
his noisy religious opinions,’ objected William. ‘He is a man after my own heart and—’
‘And in recognition of his service to the College,’ added Suttone, more charitable than the Master. ‘He was a founding Fellow,
and one of our very first teachers. I know he left Cambridge shortly afterwards, and spent the next three decades as a parish
priest in Norfolk, but he has often sent us gifts of money and books through the years. He has been good to us.’
‘To summarise, we have two parties currently interested in buying Sewale Cottage,’ said Wynewyk, bringing the discussion back
on track. ‘Namely Spynk and Barnwell. Meanwhile, I am trying to persuade Refham to honour his mother’s dying wish, but I suspect
we will end up paying more than we want.’
‘Damn,’ said Langelee. ‘The last item is the Bishop. Have you heard from him, Brother?’
Before Michael could reply, there was a knock on the door, and Cynric came in.
‘Arblaster the dung-merchant is ailing again,’ said the book-bearer quietly to Bartholomew. The physician was alarmed to see
the guide to witchcraft under his arm. ‘He needs you immediately. And Junior Proctor Bukenham reminds you to see him on the
way home, too.’
‘Go,’ ordered Langelee, standing abruptly and making for the door. ‘It is time for a break anyway, and I am hungry. We shall
finish our business when you return.’
Bartholomew was hungry, too, but the summons sounded urgent, and he did not want Arblaster to share the Bene’t student’s fate.
He set off towards the Barnwell Causeway at a rapid clip and Michael, who had offered to accompany him part of the way, did
not keep up for long. The
monk disappeared into an alehouse in the Old Jewry, near where Matilde had lived, claiming it was the haunt of men who might
be able to answer questions about the blood in the font.
The sun scorched the Fens so fiercely that even birds seemed oppressed by the heat, and the countryside was both still and
silent as Bartholomew walked. Usually, there were some sounds, even if only the whisper of wind or a dog barking, but that
day there was nothing. It felt unnatural.
He was soon drenched in sweat, and dust adhered to his wet skin and clothes. He forced himself on, wiping his face with the
sleeve of his shirt. He had dispensed with his tabard the moment he had left the town – partly because it was an additional
layer he did not need, but also because it was not wise for lone scholars to flaunt themselves outside the comparative safety
of the town. The University was an unpopular institution, and academics made for tempting targets.
He tapped on Arblaster’s door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer, desperate to be out of the sun. It took a
moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light, but when they did, he was astonished to see the dung-master sitting
at a table with his ledgers, while Jodoca sewed by the window. He regarded them uncertainly, wondering whether someone had
made him the butt of a practical joke. Arblaster did not look as though he had taken a turn for the worse. On the contrary,
there was colour in his cheeks, and the fact that he was out of bed showed he had made a good recovery. Furthermore, Jodoca’s
presence suggested he was no longer afraid of dying and having Mother Valeria come to snatch his soul.
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, beginning to back out in embarrassment. ‘There has been a misunderstanding. Cynric said you
needed me urgently.’
‘I do need you urgently,’ replied Arblaster. ‘Although it has nothing to do with my health. At least, not yet. If things do
not work out, I may suffer an imbalance of humours from the annoyance of it all. But the medicine you gave me worked admirably,
and I am much better.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Bartholomew, nonplussed. ‘So what do you want with me?’
Arblaster gestured to the bench. ‘Sit down, and I shall explain. Would you like some ale? Jodoca brewed it herself, and it
is excellent – cool, fresh and sweet.’
Bartholomew did want some ale, but sensed he was about to be told something he would not like, and was reluctant to accept
overtures of friendship until he knew what. He waited where he was, ignoring both the seat Arblaster patted enticingly and
the goblet Jodoca held out to him.
‘There are two matters I want to discuss,’ said Arblaster, coming to close the door. Bartholomew was not sure whether it was
to keep out the heat, to stop the conversation from being overheard, or to prevent his reluctant visitor from escaping. ‘First,
and most important, dung.’
‘Dung?’ echoed Bartholomew in disbelief. The dash along the sweltering Causeway had left him slightly lightheaded, and he
was not sure he was up for another of Arblaster’s expositions.
‘I hear Michaelhouse is digging new latrines. That means the contents of the old ones are available, and I would like to make
you an offer for them. There is nothing like well-aged manure for spring beans, and I am very keen to get my hands on yours.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Bartholomew, gazing at him in disbelief.
‘Isnard the bargeman will be after you for the same reason,’ Arblaster went on. ‘But he will ship it outside the town on one
of his boats, and will sell it to the abbey in Ely, whereas
I
will make sure it benefits the citizens of Cambridge. Ask your Master not to agree to Isnard’s terms until he has spoken
to me.’
‘All right,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to be angry about the fact that he had exhausted himself for such a peculiar matter.
‘What is your second concern?’
‘Sewale Cottage. I would like to buy it, and I want you and your colleagues to look favourably on my application. Tell them
I will pay eleven marks, which is one mark more than the price offered by the Prior of Barnwell, and two more than Spynk.’
Bartholomew was not inclined to look favourably on anything connected with Arblaster at that precise moment. ‘You made me
run all the way here to discuss manure and houses?’
Arblaster nodded earnestly. ‘We are willing to pay handsomely for your help.
Very
handsomely.’
‘I do not want your money,’ said Bartholomew stiffly, turning towards the door. He could not see how it opened, so failed
to make the dignified exit he had intended. He sighed his resignation when it became clear that he would not escape without
help, and turned back to them. ‘Talk to Langelee. He will make the final choice.’
‘Not so. Michaelhouse is a democracy, where Master and Fellows make decisions together. However, I understand how these things
work, and one eloquent man can sway his colleagues. I know
you
are eloquent because I heard your public lecture last term. Do as I say and—’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, struggling to keep his irritation in check. ‘Speak to Langelee. And do not summon me again unless
you need urgent medical attention. I have other patients, and coming all the way out here for no reason might have put them
in danger. Please do not do it again.’
Jodoca came over to rest a hand on his arm. ‘Do not be angry, Doctor. We did not mean to upset you, but we were not sure how
else to proceed. We spoke to Carton about Sewale Cottage, but he must have forgotten to do as we asked, because Langelee is
not including us in his negotiations.’
Bartholomew regarded her thoughtfully. ‘When did you speak to Carton?’
‘Last week. We knew he was conferring with Barnwell, so we collared him one night. He stayed here for ages, talking and drinking
my ale. He was a pleasant, friendly man and I am sorry he died.’
Bartholomew could not imagine Carton spending a sociable evening with anyone who did not share his dogmatic religious convictions.
He was also surprised to hear Carton described as pleasant and friendly. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘Dung,’ replied Arblaster. ‘Dominicans. Sorcery. Poison. You know the sort of thing.’
It seemed an odd collection of topics to Bartholomew. ‘What about them, exactly?’
Jodoca clearly wanted to be helpful, and to give an accurate account of the occasion. She screwed up her face, and thought
hard. ‘First, he agreed that fresh manure produces poor parsnips. Second, he said the Dominicans are thinking of raising a
new chapel, but thought the Sorcerer might object to more houses of
God, who is his rival. And third, he asked if dung could be poisonous.’
Despite her efforts, Bartholomew was not much enlightened. As a Franciscan, Carton was unlikely to be privy to the Black Friars’
building plans, and nor should he have known what the Sorcerer might make of them. And why should he ask about poisons? Bartholomew
thought about the packet Carton had found in Thomas’s room. Had Carton developed an interest in toxic substances because he
believed he had lost a colleague to one?
‘There is a rumour that Carton was the Sorcerer,’ said Jodoca to her husband, when Bartholomew said nothing. ‘But I do not
think it can be true.’
‘Of course it is not true,’ replied Arblaster. ‘The Sorcerer presided over his coven last night. But Carton is dead, so clearly
he and the Sorcerer are two different people.’
‘Unless he rose from the grave,’ suggested Jodoca. ‘Warlocks are good at that sort of thing.’
Bartholomew retraced his steps along the Barnwell Causeway, deeply resenting the fact that the Arblasters had chosen the hottest
time of day to summon him. Why could they not have waited until evening, when there might have been a breeze? He was staggered
by their audacity, and tried to imagine Carton relaxing enough to be sociable with them. Had the Franciscan been fishing for
information, perhaps pertaining to Thomas’s death, because he had been conducting his own investigation? Or had he merely
taken the opportunity to enjoy the company of people who did not know him, and who did not expect him to hold forth about
lofty academic matters? Bartholomew certainly appreciated the mundane conversation of men like Isnard on occasion, when his
colleagues were in overly argumentative frames of mind.
His throat was dry and sore, and he wished he had not stalked out of the Arblasters’ house quite so frostily – that he tasted
Jodoca’s ale first. After all, he deserved some recompense for his frantic dash along the baking Causeway. Then he saw the
red roofs of Barnwell Priory, and smiled. The canons would give him something to drink.
He knocked on the gate, and was admitted by Fencotes, who laid a corpse-cold hand on the physician’s head in blessing. Norton
was passing, and beckoned Bartholomew towards the infirmary, which he said was the second-coolest place in the convent; the
first was the chapel, but he was wary of inviting scholars from Michaelhouse into that, given what had happened the last time
he had done it. As they walked, Norton and Fencotes chatted knowledgeably about the buildings that were for sale in the town
and the prices they were likely to fetch. They even knew about the Refham shops, and how Michaelhouse should have been allowed
to purchase them for a pittance, but was likely to end up paying a lot more.
‘Everyone is interested in property these days,’ Norton explained, when Bartholomew asked why the canons were so well informed.
‘Ever since the plague. First, house prices dropped, because there was no one to live in the houses. Now the cost of desirable
properties is rising, because
they
are in good repair, while the uninhabited ones have fallen into ruin. It is all very exciting.’
‘Even for men sworn to poverty?’ asked Bartholomew, failing to see why such a subject should seize anyone’s
interest, but particularly those who had vowed to eschew worldly vices.
‘I have no wish to own houses myself,’ said Fencotes, a little reproachfully. ‘However, I have always been interested in homes,
and bought and sold more than my share before I took the cowl.’
‘He was a secular most of his life,’ explained Norton, adding mysteriously, ‘In Norfolk.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not sure how else to respond.
Fencotes drew his cloak more closely around his skeletal shoulders and shivered. ‘Is it my imagination, or has the temperature
dropped? It feels as cold as the grave out here.’
‘It is your imagination.’ Norton’s eyes bulged as an idea occurred to him. ‘But you can have a hot tisane, while we enjoy
some of the ale you keep in your crypt.’
‘His
crypt
?’ asked Bartholomew, regarding Fencotes askance.
‘The one under the infirmary,’ explained Fencotes, gesturing with one of his corpse-pale hands. ‘It was stuffed full of coffins
when I first arrived, which did not seem appropriate, given all the old men living out their last days in the chamber above
it, so Podiolo helped me clear it out. It is a horribly frigid place, which is why we store ale there.’