When Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse, the shadows were lengthening. The sun was transforming the College’s pale stone
into burnished gold, darkening the thatch on the outhouses, and turning the tiles on the hall into a deep russet red. He stopped
for a moment to admire it, thinking how lucky he was to live in a place that was so lovely.
‘Arblaster tried to bribe me,’ he said to Langelee as they walked towards the hall together, to resume the Fellows’ meeting.
‘He wants the contents of our latrines, and said he would offer eleven marks for Sewale Cottage. Then the canons of Barnwell
offered twelve.’
‘Excellent!’ declared Langelee, rubbing his hands. ‘I cannot imagine why Arblaster should want Sewale Cottage, though. It
is nice, but very small. What was the bribe?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew, slightly offended that the Master should think he might have accepted it. ‘I did not let
the discussion go that far.’
‘You mean you agreed to be his advocate for nothing?’ Langelee shot the physician a look of abject disgust. ‘Please do not
do it again. It will make folk think we are an easy mark.’
Bartholomew removed the talisman from his bag as a means of changing the subject. Discussions with Langelee could often be
wearing. ‘Did you ever see Carton wearing this?’
Langelee took it from him, and turned it over in his
thick fingers. ‘A holy-stone! I have not seen one of these in years. The Archbishop of York gave me one once, to protect me
from wolves, but I lost it. It was Carton’s, you say? That surprises me – I thought he disapproved of pagan regalia.’
‘Unlike the Archbishop of York, apparently,’ muttered Bartholomew. He spoke a little louder as the Master handed the trinket
back. ‘It might belong to Carton’s killer.’
‘Folk tend to wear such items under their clothes, given that they are deeply personal, so I doubt you will have much luck
asking if anyone recognises it. Still, it is worth a try, I suppose.’
‘I have been told there is no record of Carton’s ordination. Do you know where he is supposed to have taken his vows?’
Langelee frowned. ‘The certificate he showed me said it was Greyfriars in London – one of the largest Franciscan houses in
the country. I suppose it might have been forged, but I think it unlikely. The Franciscans accept anyone, so there is no need
to pretend to be a Grey Friar when they would recruit you in an instant anyway. They are always after me to join them.’
‘They are always after me, too.’
Langelee gripped his arm in a soldierly fashion. ‘Then we must unite against them. If you feel yourself weakening, come to
me and I shall slap some sense into you. You can do the same for me. Major holy orders would be a massive encumbrance; I do
not want to spend half the night doing penance every time I have a whore.’
‘It would be inconvenient,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how many other Fellows were subject to such
confidences by their Master. ‘Did you make any further checks on Carton’s credentials?’
Langelee shook his head. ‘I did not feel there was any need, since his application was supported by Clippesby. I suspect the
record of his ordination has just been misplaced. Carton was a friar to his core – you only had to hear his sermons on sin
to know that.’
‘Clippesby,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He is a Dominican, yet he sponsored a Franciscan.’
‘You have spent too much time with William,’ said Langelee with a grimace. ‘Not all friars detest other Orders, and Clippesby
has always been gracious in that respect – he has had to be, given the rubbish William hurls at him. Of course, Clippesby
is insane, which probably helps. He is too mad to know he should be offended. However, that said, I do not think he would
have asked us to elect Carton, had there been anything shady about him.’
Bartholomew smiled. He liked Clippesby, and knew the man was not as deranged as everyone liked to think. Clippesby was also
a better judge of character than some of his colleagues, and Bartholomew agreed with the Master that he was unlikely to have
supported the application of anyone who might harm the College. ‘Perhaps my source was mistaken about what was heard.’
‘There is William,’ said Langelee. He raised his voice as if addressing half of Cambridge. ‘Hey, Father! Do you think Carton’s
ordination was genuine?’
William’s expression was pained. ‘Have you been talking to Prior Pechem? He asked me the same question, and said Thomas had
been agitating about it. Carton took his vows in London, but Thomas said the river was flooded that day, so the ceremony was
cancelled.
He virtually called Carton a liar, and Carton was deeply offended. It was one of the things Thomas and I quarrelled about
the night before he died: I told him he should apologise, but he refused.’
‘Trouble in the ranks,’ mused Bartholomew, regarding him thoughtfully.
‘It was because he was not a
Michaelhouse
Franciscan,’ explained William. ‘I never quarrel with Mildenale and Carton, and any dissent was always of Thomas’s making.
I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but he was dreadfully argumentative.’
‘How is Arblaster?’ asked Michael, catching them up as they crossed the hall. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, reminding them
again that their College was deserted.
‘Perfectly well,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Other than an unnatural desire to be at the contents of our latrines.’
‘Arblaster meddles in the dark arts,’ claimed William, opening the conclave door and nodding a greeting to Suttone and Wynewyk,
who were already there.
‘Is that so?’ said Michael without much interest. William thought most people meddled in the dark arts, and so could not be
taken seriously when he made such assertions.
‘It is, actually,’ replied Langelee. ‘I heard he sent to Mother Valeria for a cure for his flux, but she declined to provide
him with one.’
‘I heard that, too,’ said Suttone. ‘Apparently, he had refused to pay for a spell she had cast for him earlier, and she said
she would not make him a remedy until he made good on the debt. He objected, so she threatened to snatch his soul instead.
So, you saved him, did you, Matt?’
‘Personally, I suspect Arblaster is the Sorcerer,’ said
Wynewyk, watching the others take their places at the table. ‘He is the right height and size, and I know he is a coven member.’
‘How?’ demanded Michael. ‘I hope
you
have not attended any of these unsavoury gatherings.’
Wynewyk pursed his lips. ‘Of course not, Brother! I have a friend in the castle – a soldier – and he was escorting me home
one night when we saw lights in All Saints. He insisted on investigating, but we both thought better of ousting the trespassers
once it became clear the Sorcerer was in charge.’
‘You did not try to obstruct their wicked ceremonies?’ asked William accusingly.
‘Did the two of us storm the church and attempt to tackle fifty cloaked satanists? No, Father, we did not. They were not doing
anything terrible, anyway – just chanting spells they hoped would cure Margery Sewale. It was all rather sad, actually; most
were in tears. She was a popular lady.’
‘But you saw the Sorcerer?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not really.’ Wynewyk looked apologetic. ‘He kept his face hidden. He was taller than average, and looked bulky, although
that could have been because of his cloak. And his Latin was dismal.’
‘I am going to bring him down,’ vowed William. His eyes were fierce, and his jaw set in a determined line that said he meant
it. ‘Mildenale and I will see this heretic—’
‘Item three on the agenda,’ interrupted Langelee briskly. ‘We have already dealt with Carton and the houses. All that remains
is the Bishop. Have you heard from him, Brother?’
Michael looked pained. ‘He has not written to me since he left England last year.’
‘
I
can tell you about the evil de Lisle,’ said William viciously. The Bishop was a Dominican, so naturally William did not like
him. ‘He has been indicted for sixteen separate crimes, which include murder, extortion, abduction, assault and theft. But
he fled overseas before the King could find him guilty and seize all his assets.’
‘You should learn the facts before you make that sort of statement,’ said Michael coldly. ‘My Bishop did
not
commit those crimes – they were perpetrated by men in his retinue, and he cannot be held responsible for what stewards, reeves
and bailiffs do.’
‘Actually, he can,’ countered Langelee. ‘When I committed crimes for the Archbishop of York, he would have been held accountable,
had I been caught. Fortunately, I never was. De Lisle, however, hires inferior men to do his work, and now he must bear the
consequences.’
His Fellows regarded him uneasily. None were comfortable when their Master confided details of his colourful former life.
‘Well, I am glad you did not break the law for de Lisle, Brother,’ said Suttone after a brief but awkward silence. ‘Or you
might be languishing in prison, like his other spies.’
‘I am not his
spy
,’ objected Michael. ‘I am his agent. And all I do is furnish him with news about the University. It is part of his See, so
of course he should be kept informed of what is happening.’
‘Well, whatever the truth, we do not need to worry about him any more,’ said Langelee. ‘I have it on good authority that he
will never come home. The King is too
angry with him, and his fellow bishops do not want him as their friend. He is an outcast.’
Suttone was shocked. ‘But what will happen to his See?’
‘He has able deputies for that,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Priests – not the reeves and bailiffs who race around setting houses alight
and stealing cattle. There is nothing wrong with the way he manages the episcopal side of things – he is just a bit of a brute
when it comes to secular business.’
Michael sighed wearily. ‘De Lisle is
not
a criminal—’
‘You should keep that opinion to yourself,’ advised Langelee. ‘It is unwise to side with a man who is ostracised by the King.
Futile, too, because de Lisle will never be in a position to reciprocate.’
‘The Master is right,’ said Wynewyk. ‘Remember how the Bishop was accused of murdering one of Lady Blanche de Wake’s servants
some years back? Well, Blanche is the King’s cousin, and His Majesty still holds the incident against him.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, regarding the monk in alarm. ‘I had forgotten all about that. You asked him openly about his
involvement in the killing, but he never did give you a straight answer.’
‘That does not mean he is guilty,’ persisted Michael stubbornly.
‘Dozens of people have presented the King with evidence of de Lisle’s misdeeds,’ said Wynewyk. ‘And while I appreciate that
some may have done it out of spite, they cannot all be lying. Incidentally, did you know that Spynk is one of them? So was
Danyell.’
Langelee shook his head in disgust. ‘Prelates are always short of money, and it is common practice to raise
revenues by theft, extortion, blackmail and abduction. But the real crime here is that de Lisle let himself be caught. The
man is a damned fool! I only hope it does not result in other high-ranking churchmen being forced to answer for their actions.’
‘The things you say, Master,’ said Suttone, regarding Langelee with round eyes. Bartholomew suspected he expressed what all
the Fellows were thinking, even William. Everyone was relieved when a knock on the door brought a merciful end to the discussion.
It was Cynric, with Beadle Meadowman at his heels; Meadowman was one of the army of men Michael employed to help him keep
order among the scholars. The beadle pushed past Cynric, and made directly for Michael, bending to whisper in his ear. Bartholomew’s
heart sank. He could tell from the man’s pale face and agitated manner that he had something unpleasant to report.
‘There has been another one,’ said Michael in a low voice, looking sombrely at his colleagues. ‘I am summoned by Master Heltisle
and Eyton the vicar. A second corpse has been removed from its grave, this time in St Bene’t’s churchyard.’
Bartholomew knew he was dragging his heels as he followed Michael and Cynric along the High Street towards St Bene’t’s Church,
but he could not help it. Images of Margery Sewale’s body kept flashing in his mind, and he did not want to see another like
it. As the University’s Corpse Examiner, he had seen more than his share of the dead, and had grown inured to such sights
over the years. But there was something about exhumations that bothered him profoundly.
‘Superstition,’ said Michael dismissively, when the physician tried to explain his misgivings – his sense that he was being
watched by the disapproving dead. ‘I am surprised at you, Matt. You are a man of learning, and your scientific mind should
reject such notions for the rubbish they are. Of course the souls of these poor cadavers will not be paying attention to you;
they will be in Heaven, Hell or Purgatory, depending on how they fared when they were weighed.’
‘I know,’ said Bartholomew tiredly, realising he should not have expected the monk to understand. ‘But that does not stop
me feeling uneasy about it. And seeing Margery like that …’
‘Margery was your patient, and you had known her for years,’ said Michael, his voice a little kinder. ‘Of course you disliked
seeing her out of her grave. But none of your patients are buried in St Bene’t’s churchyard, so you are unlikely to know the
victim this time.’
‘That cemetery is used by the scholars of Bene’t College, members of the Guild of Corpus Christi,
and
the people who live nearby. I have a lot of patients buried there.’
‘Lower your voice,’ advised Michael dryly. ‘That is not a good thing for a physician to be yelling – it may make your surviving
clients nervous.’
‘It is not a joke, Michael,’ snapped Bartholomew, beginning to wishing he had not started the discussion.
‘It is, if you start thinking these ravaged corpses might take umbrage at you for doing your job. You sound like Cynric, man.
Pull yourself together!’