The Devil's Disciples (16 page)

‘Tip it yourself,’ retorted Cecily churlishly. ‘I am not your servant.’

‘We can add honey,’ suggested Bartholomew, thinking of the priest Eyton and his penchant for the stuff. ‘That might make it
more palatable.’

Cecily brightened. ‘That is a good idea. I bought some from Barnwell Priory on Saturday afternoon – it was an excuse for me
to get inside and have a look around –
and I do not want to carry it home to Norwich. The pot might break and spoil all my new dresses.’

‘Spoon some in, then,’ ordered Spynk. ‘As much as you like. I can afford it.’

Bartholomew stopped her from adding the whole jug to the concoction, suspecting the resulting sickliness would make the merchant
feel worse then ever. Then he encouraged Spynk to swallow what he had prepared, and sent Cecily to the kitchens for more boiled
water. She sighed resentfully, but did as she was asked.

‘I understand you are a member of Michaelhouse,’ said Spynk when she had gone. ‘Is it true?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Have you visited our College?’ he asked politely.

‘Yes – last week. I went to talk to Carton about the house you are selling on Bridge Street. How much do you think you will
get for it?’

Bartholomew knew he would be swimming in dangerous waters if he attempted to meddle in College finances. ‘I have no idea.
You will have to talk to the Master or Wynewyk. They are—’

‘I will give you a horse if you tell me about any other offers you have had,’ interrupted Spynk. ‘I am
very
interested in making this particular purchase.’

‘Talk to the Master,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘I do not know about the other offers.’

Spynk glared at him, then sighed irritably. ‘Very well, but you have just lost yourself a decent nag. I am sorry about Carton,
by the way. He tried to cheat me by starting a bidding war with Barnwell, but I do not bear him a grudge. He was only doing
his duty. I understand Michaelhouse is poor, and needs all the money it can lay its grubby hands on.’

‘We are not one of the wealthier foundations,’ admitted Bartholomew cautiously.

‘I sent Cecily to Barnwell on Saturday,’ Spynk rambled on. ‘I wanted her to get a feel for the place, work out how wealthy
they are. It is always good to know your enemies. Do you not agree?’

‘I do not have many—’

Spynk released a braying laugh. ‘That is not what I hear! I am a stranger here, but even I know half the town thinks you are
a warlock. The other half believes you are a saint, but they are mostly poor, and no one listens to them. You have enemies
aplenty.’

He was going to add something else, but another bout of sickness prevented him. Afterwards, he flopped on the bed and closed
his eyes, exhausted by the ordeal. Bartholomew was grateful for the silence. Eventually, Cecily arrived with another brimming
pan, then stood nearer to him than was proper while he made a second batch of the mixture.

‘I need more hot water,’ he said, searching for an excuse to send her away until he had finished. She was so close that her
breath was hot on the back of his neck, and he kept thinking that Spynk might wake up and wonder what they were up to.

‘What for?’ she asked. ‘You have already prepared enough of this medicine to satisfy an ox. If he drinks it all, he will burst.’

‘I need to wash my hands.’

‘Your hands?’ asked Spynk, showing he had not been asleep after all. ‘God’s blood, but this is a strange town! Why should
you wash your hands? They look clean enough to me. Cecily and I only wash ours on Sundays, before we go to church.’

‘Actually, I scrub mine on Wednesdays, too,’ said Cecily with a coquettish smile. ‘I like to feel fresh. Do you want a different
pot, or would you mind giving them a rinse in that potion we have just brewed? We have not added the honey yet, so it will
not be sticky, and Richard will not mind.’

Bartholomew regarded her askance, lost for words.

‘Danyell was obsessed with cleanliness, too,’ said Spynk with a grimace of disapproval. ‘He took a bath every year, but look
how he ended up – someone stealing his fingers for God knows what purpose. He was an odd man: careful with hygiene on one
hand, but in the habit of wandering about at night on the other.’

Bartholomew’s ears pricked up. ‘What?’

Cecily’s expression was dreamy. ‘He often met me for a nocturnal stroll when everyone else was in bed. Of course, it is safe
to do it in Norfolk, where we live, but Cambridge is a rough place, seething with villains. It is not wise to roam about in
the dark here.’

‘For him, it was probably not wise to do it anywhere,’ said Spynk. ‘He had a morbidly pounding heart, and should have stayed
in. In fact, it was not very sensible to travel to London, either. I wish I had not asked him to come, because now his sons
are going to say his death is my fault.’

‘It was no one’s fault,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He had a seizure, which could have happened any—’

‘I want that in writing,’ said Spynk. ‘Will you oblige? I will give you the parchment.’

‘What time did Danyell go out on the night he died?’ asked Bartholomew. Michael had already interviewed the Spynks at length,
but there was no harm in repeating the process. They might tell him something they had
forgotten to mention earlier, or he might see something the monk had missed. After all, someone must know why Danyell had
been relieved of his hand.

‘Just after dusk,’ replied Cecily. ‘I was keen to go with him, but he said he wanted to be alone. He had pains in his chest
and arm, and thought a walk might ease them.’

‘Why did you offer him your company?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was a peculiar thing for the wife of a wealthy merchant
to do. She was right in that Cambridge could be dangerous after dark, and it was no place for a woman with only an ailing
man for protection.

Cecily shot him an odd glance. ‘I thought he might like it.’

Rather belatedly, it occurred to Bartholomew that Cecily and Danyell might have enjoyed more than pleasant conversation when
they took their late-night strolls. When he took in her deliberately provocative clothes and the salacious way she eyed him,
he was sure of it. He was not an observant man when it came to that sort of thing, and the fact that he had noticed at all
meant she must be very brazen. He shot a covert glance at Spynk, and realised the merchant was even less aware of such matters
than he was, for he seemed oblivious to his wife’s antics.

‘He said he had business to conduct,’ said Spynk. ‘And he was carrying something under his arm that looked like a stone sample.
You know he was a mason?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘When he failed to return, were you not worried?’

He had found Danyell’s body shortly after dawn, and it had been stiff around the jaws. Danyell had probably been dead most
of the night, and it had struck him as
odd at the time that his friends had not gone to look for him.

‘I was,’ said Cecily. ‘But I could hardly go to look for him myself, and Richard was asleep.’

‘I hate being woken up,’ explained Spynk. ‘And Cecily knows better than to disturb me at night.’

‘I prefer him asleep anyway,’ said Cecily meaningfully.

‘It is de Lisle’s fault,’ said Spynk, bitterly and somewhat out of the blue. ‘If he had not forced us to go to London, we
would not have stopped here to rest on our way home. And Danyell might still be alive, despite what you say about seizures,’

Bartholomew did not understand. ‘The Bishop of Ely made you travel? How? I thought he was in Avignon. And besides, you just
said it was your idea to visit London, and—’

‘We had to make a complaint about him, in front of the King,’ explained Spynk. ‘Me and Danyell, and a score of others. The
Bishop is a bully, you see. He and his men stole all my cows a few years ago, and the King wanted our accusations on record.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘De Lisle is a cattle rustler? That does not sound very likely.’

‘Then you do not know him very well,’ said Cecily. ‘I offered him a night of my company in exchange for leaving my husband
alone but he said he would rather have the livestock. He is an uncouth man, and I was delighted to detail his shortcomings
to the King.’

‘He laid violent siege to Danyell’s manor, too,’ added Spynk. ‘It must have been terrifying. De Lisle may be one of the most
powerful prelates in the country but that has not stopped him from indulging in theft, arson, extortion, assault and even
murder. He is a wicked villain.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. Cambridge was in de Lisle’s See, and such men had an uncanny habit of learning
who had been talking about them; the physician did not want to include a prelate on his list of enemies. And while the Bishop
did indeed have a reputation for being ruthless, Bartholomew was sure he was not a criminal, and thought Spynk and Cecily
were exaggerating the charges that had been laid against him.

‘How do you feel now, Master Spynk?’ he asked, to change the subject.

‘A little better,’ admitted Spynk begrudgingly. ‘It must have been the honey.’

At breakfast that morning, Langelee had announced that there would be a Statutory Fellows’ Meeting at noon, because there
was urgent business to discuss. There was not only the sad matter of Carton to debate, but the purchase and sale of various
properties, too. After he had finished with Spynk, there was an hour to go before the gathering, so Bartholomew lay on his
bed and fell into a restless doze. He woke when a clatter of hoofs announced Michael’s return from Barnwell.

‘Nothing,’ said the monk in disgust, springing from his saddle with the natural grace of the born horseman, if a rather heavy
one. ‘It was a waste of time. Norton admitted to knowing about Carton’s attempts to raise the cost of Sewale Cottage but said
everyone does it these days – that he would have been surprised had we
not
tried to manipulate a better price.’

‘Is it true?’ asked Bartholomew, stepping forward to take the horse’s bridle. It snickered at him, causing him to drop it
smartly. ‘Does everyone do it these days?’

‘Yes, apparently. So, now I am not sure whether Norton
objected to his convent being the victim of this so-called common practice, or whether he took it in his stride.’

‘You should drink some ale before the meeting,’ advised Bartholomew, thinking the monk looked unnaturally flushed under his
wide-brimmed hat.

‘I would prefer some chicken, but even the cat would not eat what was left of the ones Agatha roasted last night. Rougham
was right to leave this town. It is probably cooler in Norfolk, and meat will not spoil the moment it is ready for the table.’

Agatha was in the kitchen, sprawled in her huge wicker throne and fanning herself with what appeared to be one of the College’s
exemplars – anthologies of texts on a specific subject. Deynman hovered behind her, a tense expression on his face. When she
glanced up to watch Michael drink, he snatched it from her hand and raced from the room. A screech of outrage followed, but
the laundress was too hot to embark on a chase, and Bartholomew supposed Deynman would have to wait for the inevitable retribution.
He wrinkled his nose when he smelled what lay on the table.

‘You should throw that in the midden,’ he said in distaste. ‘I am sure bad meat is a factor in spreading the flux.’

Agatha did not reply, so he started to do it himself, thinking to save her the trouble.

‘Leave it,’ she barked. Bartholomew froze: only the foolish or suicidal ignored a direct order from Agatha. ‘I might make
Deynman eat it. How dare he deprive me of a scroll! I am a member of this College, so I am entitled to make use of the library.’

‘Yes – to read,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that she sometimes helped herself to the priceless tomes if there
was a table that wobbled or a draught that whistled under a door.

‘I do not read!’ she declared contemptuously. Clearly, she considered it beneath her. ‘Although Cynric found an interesting
book today. It was hidden on Master Langelee’s top shelf, and told us all about how the night before Trinity Sunday is a special
occasion for witches.’

‘Was this book wrapped in black cloth?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, not liking to think of Carton’s manual of witchcraft in
Cynric’s tender care. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had been wise to teach the Welshman his letters.

She nodded. ‘It contained a spell for making bad meat whole again, and I shall be testing it later. You can tell me if it
works – hopefully before I am obliged to eat any myself.’

‘Try it on William,’ suggested Michael, bundling the physician from the kitchen before he could voice his objections. He grinned
maliciously once they were outside. ‘We cannot lose, Matt! If William becomes ill, he will be confined to bed and will stop
accusing you of being in league with the Devil. And if he remains healthy, we shall all dine on meat tonight.’

Bartholomew did not bother to point out that the flux did not strike the moment bad meat passed a person’s lips. He followed
the monk up the stairs, across the hall and into the conclave, where the sun was blazing through the windows. He flopped on
to a bench and put his head in his hands, feeling a buzzing lethargy envelop him. When would the weather break? He did not
think he could stand much more of it, and hoped it would not last until the end of summer. Michael dragged the table to a
place where he would not be in direct sunlight,
although it meant everyone else would have it in their eyes, and sat with a sigh.

‘Here comes William,’ he said, cocking his head as footsteps thumped across the hall. ‘I recognise that purposeful tread anywhere.
Even his feet have the air of a fanatic about them.’

The door opened and William strode in, humming one of the more militant psalms. ‘I have had a profitable morning,’ he announced,
pleased with himself. ‘I accused Sheriff Tulyet of heresy.’

Michael’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘You did
what
?’

‘I accused Sheriff Tulyet of heresy,’ repeated William more loudly. ‘He owns a book on the occult, and I demanded that he
hand it over, so it can be added to the ones Carton collected for burning. He refused, so I called him a heretic.’