A Grave Concern: The Twenty Second Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 22)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘I understand you met Satan in Maud’s Hostel,’ she said conversationally, as she opened her door and ushered him inside. ‘You are lucky he likes you, or he might have resented being chased down the ivy like a common felon.’

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘I hardly think—’

  ‘But he let it peel from the wall in such a way that you would not be hurt,’ she declared with conviction. ‘He appreciates everything you do for us, see.’

  ‘Please do not say that to anyone else,’ begged Bartholomew. ‘I will be dismissed from the University if my colleagues think I am one of the Devil’s favourites.’

  ‘Yes, most scholars are narrow-minded fools,’ she said sympathetically. ‘It will be our little secret then. Of course, Lucifer does not like the University.’ She spoke as though this was something he had confided personally. ‘It has too many priests for his taste.’

  ‘I am sure it does,’ muttered Bartholomew, and hastily moved to a safer subject. ‘You mentioned the last time we met that Moleyns, Lyng and Tynkell were associated in some way. Will you tell me how?’

  ‘Why, through Satan, of course,’ replied Marjory; she sounded surprised that he should need to ask. ‘All three solicited his help on occasion, but they must have angered him in some way, so he decided to make an end of them.’

  Bartholomew cursed himself for a fool. He should have known better than to expect sensible intelligence from a woman who made no bones about the fact that she was a witch.

  ‘Moleyns, perhaps,’ he said, ‘but not the other two. Lyng was a priest, for a start.’

  ‘Yes, but we never hold that against anyone,’ she replied graciously. ‘Yet I see you do not believe me, so ask yourself this: why was Master Tynkell covered in those marks?’

  ‘What marks?’ Bartholomew kept his attention on her rash, lest she read the truth in his face.

  ‘The ones inked all over his body. You know what I am talking about, Doctor, so do not play the innocent with me.’

  He looked up accusingly. ‘Did you open his coffin?’

  ‘Of course not – there are beadles minding it.’ From that response, he assumed that she would have done, had it been left unattended, and was glad he had taken precautions against such liberties. ‘I saw them on another occasion.’

  ‘How? He went to considerable trouble to keep them hidden.’

  ‘He was not always ashamed of them.’ Marjory pulled up her skirts to reveal a pale white calf, and he was startled to see a horned serpent drawn there. ‘I have one, but he had lots. We put them on ourselves as a mark of respect to darker powers. Of course, I have a cross on the other leg, as a sop to Jesus. It is reckless to put all your eggs in one basket, after all.’

  It was an uncomfortable discussion for a man who spent a lot of time in church, but Bartholomew felt obliged to persist anyway – the secret Tynkell had worked so hard to keep would likely be spread about the town if Marjory’s claim went unchallenged, so it was his duty to see it nipped in the bud. ‘Tynkell’s symbols were inked on him while he was drunk – by friends, who did it as a joke.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what he told you? Pah! These take hours to make, and the process is painful. No one could slumber through all of it, not even a man in his cups. He lied to you, Doctor, because the truth is that he wanted them there.’

  ‘Then it was a youthful mistake and he recanted,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘Which explains his determination to hide the things. Besides, Lyng and Moleyns had no such marks. I would have noticed when I examined their bodies.’

  ‘Did you inspect the soles of their feet? No? Then of course you did not see them! Go and look at Master Lyng if you do not believe me, although if you want to view Sir John Moleyns, you will have to dig him up, because he was buried today.’

  Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘But Lyng was a priest,’ he said again.

  ‘A priest who was terrified of the plague,’ she said quietly, ‘when many folk learned that God and His saints could not be trusted to save them. Master Lyng wanted to survive, so he enlisted the help of another power. I could name dozens of people who did the same. Most returned to the Church when the danger was over. Master Lyng was one of them.’

  ‘You cannot claim that Tynkell weakened during the plague, though – that was only a decade ago, and his marks are much older.’

  ‘He was a devout Christian most of the time, but he came to me when he needed extra help. The plague was one such time, and the last election for the chancellorship was another.’

  ‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what the town would make of the claim that it was Lucifer who had picked the University’s last leader.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marjory serenely. ‘But which one?’

  Bartholomew’s thoughts were reeling. So, was a shared interest in witchery – whether current or past – why Tynkell, Lyng and Moleyns met in St Mary the Great? And if so, was it significant that Cook was there, too? He asked, but Marjory’s expression turned haughty.

  ‘I never discuss the living – only the dead, to whom it no longer matters. However, your brother-in-law said the Devil could have his soul if Edith were spared. Satan was so touched that he allowed them both to live. Look on his tomb if you do not believe me. Round the back, you will see a horned serpent. It will protect him in the afterlife, should God forget.’

  Bartholomew was so unsettled by Marjory’s revelations that he was not sure where to go first – to look at Lyng or to inspect Stanmore’s tomb. In the end, he opted for Lyng, where it took but a moment to see that she had been telling the truth. He scrubbed at his face with shaking fingers. So was she right about Stanmore, too? His brother-in-law had certainly dabbled in such matters on occasion, and might well have bargained with the Devil for Edith’s life, given that she had meant the world to him.

  With a heavy tread, he turned towards St John Zachary. He saw Cook on the way, and received a furious glare. As the barber had just emerged from the home of Siffreda Sago, an old friend, Bartholomew felt obliged to knock on her door, to make sure she was still alive.

  ‘We are not ill,’ Siffreda said cheerfully, waving him inside. Her house was not very clean, and smelled of rotting cheese. ‘He came to cut our hair. He has a two-for-one offer this week, you see. But he visited my mother yesterday and gave her a potion – this cold weather plays havoc with her lungs – and she has not been very well ever since. Would you look at her?’

  Supposing Stanmore’s tomb could wait, Bartholomew allowed himself to be conducted to a hovel north of the castle, where he learned with relief that Cook’s medicine comprised nothing more sinister than nettles and arrowroot. However, the old woman needed an expectorant that worked, so he sent to the apothecary for a syrup of hyssop and horehound instead. When he had finished, he emerged to find a small crowd waiting for him.

  ‘Barber Cook said you were too busy to bother with us any more,’ explained one crone tearfully. ‘And that we must hire him instead. So we are glad you found a few moments to visit Mother Sago, because she got worse when he took over her care.’

  Bartholomew felt his temper rise – not only that Cook should dare tell his patients lies about him, but that they should be fobbed off with worthless remedies into the bargain. He prescribed better ones for the people who pressed eagerly around him, assured them that he would never abandon them to the likes of Cook, and began to stalk back down the hill, aflame with righteous indignation. Unfortunately, Cook happened to be coming up it. The barber stood still for a moment, then darted down the nearest lane. Bartholomew caught him with ease.

  ‘Stay away from my patients,’ Bartholomew snarled furiously, grabbing his arm and swinging him around. ‘You might have killed one with—’

  He only just managed to jump back when Cook swiped at him with a dagger. He stumbled, and suddenly he was pinned against the wall with Cook’s blade at his throat. Too late, he realised that he had been deliberately lured there – to a deserted place, where no one would
see what was happening. The knife began to bite.

  ‘I am tired of your arrogance,’ Cook hissed. ‘How dare you challenge my authority!’

  More angry than afraid, Bartholomew fumbled for a knife of his own, but could not reach his bag. He tried to twist to one side, and when that did not work, he kneed Cook in the groin. The barber grunted with pain, but the grip did not loosen. Bartholomew was just gathering strength for a struggle that would see him free, when Cook was suddenly hauled backwards.

  ‘Enough!’ barked Sergeant Helbye, when Cook lunged forward with murder in his eyes. ‘I do not know what is going on here, but you will scarper if you have any sense.’

  ‘He started it,’ hissed Cook between gritted teeth. ‘I am lucky to be alive.’

  Helbye glared at the barber until he slouched away, then turned crossly to Bartholomew.

  ‘I know you scholars love a scrap, but please try to control yourself. We cannot afford to lose the town’s only barber-surgeon.’

  ‘He has been foisting useless remedies on my patients,’ explained Bartholomew, loath for the sergeant to see him as a brawler.

  ‘Perhaps he has, but fighting is no way to make him stop.’ Helbye’s stern expression softened. ‘I appreciate that you long for the battlefield, Doctor. Cynric is always telling us about your prowess at Poitiers, and I like a skirmish myself. But the Sheriff will not approve of you breaking the King’s Peace, so no more of it, eh?’

  Bartholomew winced. When Matilde had left, he had embarked on a determined hunt to find her, and bad timing had put him and Cynric in the place where King Edward’s troops were preparing to take on a much larger French force. He had been pressed into service, and had comported himself adequately, although it had been in tending the injured afterwards that he had made a real difference. Cynric loved describing the clash, and his accounts had now reached the stage where he and Bartholomew had defeated the French all but single-handed.

  But Helbye was right – Bartholomew was a medicus, and chasing colleagues down dark lanes was unworthy of him. He nodded his thanks for the rescue, and went on his way.

  There was a scything wind to accompany the plummeting temperatures that afternoon, and Bartholomew walked briskly towards St John Zachary. He met Petit on the way. The mason had his apprentices at his heels, and was beaming happily.

  ‘I have just won the commission for Tynkell,’ he announced gleefully. ‘He will be buried under the bells in St Mary the Great – in the narthex – although I shall have to make his tomb very narrow, or it will be in the way of the ceremonial processions that stream past it. Still, that is no problem for a man of my talents.’

  ‘Edith will dismiss you, if you start Tynkell without finishing Oswald,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘And she will sue you for breach of contract.’

  Petit regarded him coolly. ‘We were on our way to work in St John Zachary now, as a matter of fact. In the interests of good customer relations, we have agreed to overlook our distress at being in the place where poor Lucas was murdered. Is that not so, lads?’

  There was a growl of agreement, after which he put his nose in the air and strode away, his boys at his heels. Bartholomew followed them into the High Street, where he was met by a curious sight. The men who wanted to be Chancellor had taken up station at strategic points along it, to demonstrate their oratory skills to those scholars who were walking home from the day’s general lectures.

  Hopeman had chosen the corner with Bridge Street, and was by far the loudest. He brayed about Satan, while his besotted deacons cheered his every word. Most Regent masters – those eligible to vote – were giving them a wide berth, and only those with radical opinions of their own stopped to listen.

  Thelnetham was next, and had attracted a huge group of scholars, all of whom were laughing fit to burst – the Gilbertine had the enviable talent of being able to entertain and instruct at the same time, which was why he was so popular with students. Bartholomew noted that Thelnetham had dispensed with his trademark accessories, although he had not been able to lose the mince, which was still very much in evidence as he flounced back and forth. Secretary Nicholas limped among the listeners, asking politely for their votes.

  ‘He is very clever,’ said Master Braunch of Trinity Hall, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘But there is more to being Chancellor than making us chuckle – namely having the kind of royal contacts that Godrich possesses in abundance.’

  ‘And Thelnetham needs to brush up on his geometry,’ said Tinmew of the Hall of Valence Marie. ‘A chancellor should be well-versed in the quadrivium, as well as law and theology.’

  ‘I suppose a knowledge of angles and lines might come in useful for some ceremonial occasions,’ acknowledged Braunch cautiously. ‘Although I would not say it is an essential skill.’

  From that response, Bartholomew assumed that Braunch was no geometrician himself, although he thought Tinmew’s pretext for not supporting Thelnetham was unreasonable. The Gilbertine was an excellent scholar, far better than the other candidates, so condemning him for having a poor grasp of one specialist subject was hardly fair.

  Godrich was outside King’s Hall, where he could reinforce the fact that he had the University’s biggest and most powerful College at his back – literally as well as figuratively. His discourse was arrogant and disjointed, but it did not matter, because he made up for his lack of eloquence by distributing free wine to his audience. Whittlesey was one of those who was passing a jug around.

  ‘Godrich will make an excellent leader,’ the envoy said, coming to offer Bartholomew a sip of claret. ‘There is no other choice as far as I can see.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Bartholomew, as Godrich began a sneering discourse about the shabby tabards worn by hostel men, either ignorant or uncaring of the fact that most could barely afford rent and food.

  Whittlesey smiled wryly. ‘He will learn tact in time.’

  ‘Yes, but by then his offensive opinions might have torn the University apart.’

  ‘He is more than capable of quashing riots,’ shrugged Whittlesey. ‘He is a skilled warrior, after all.’

  Bartholomew regarded him with distaste, and although Michael and Tulyet had ordered him to leave the envoy for them to interrogate, he could not help himself. ‘I understand that you talked to Lyng on the night he disappeared.’

  Whittlesey raised laconic eyebrows. ‘As did many other folk. Why do you want to know? To assess whether our conversation gave rise to me shoving a burin in his heart?’

  ‘A burin?’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Why mention one of those?’

  ‘Because Michael told me it was the implement used to kill Lyng, Tynkell and Moleyns,’ replied the Benedictine smoothly. ‘But to answer your question, Lyng and I discussed the weather, like any self-respecting Englishmen.’

  ‘Then why did you whisper?’

  Whittlesey smiled. ‘Because we were out in the street, and some residents had already retired to bed. Or would you rather we had bawled our opinions and earned complaints?’

  Bartholomew was beginning to realise that Michael and Tulyet had been right to suggest he leave the slippery-tongued envoy to them. He nodded to the jug. ‘Is it not beneath your dignity to serve wine to paupers and hostel men, especially when you should be sitting down, resting your knee?’

  ‘Yes, but Godrich asked me to do it. He is keen to keep me close at the moment – for the prestige of having a man of my elevated status among his supporters, I suppose. He is kin, so I am under an obligation to please him.’

  Bartholomew could see he would learn nothing more, so he went on his way, where he saw Suttone outside St Michael’s Church, addressing a group that comprised nothing but Michaelhouse students. Bartholomew suspected that Langelee had sent them, so the Carmelite did not end up pontificating to himself. Suttone’s discourse was rambling and uninspired, although he smiled with genuine sweetness, and was by far the nicest of the remaining candidates.

  ‘You spout arrant nonsense, man,’
came a scornful voice. ‘Thomas Aquinas did not say that human souls are made of vegetable matter – he said that we are different from plants because we have rational and immortal spirits.’

  It was Kolvyle, his voice loud and combative. As one, the students turned to scowl at him.

  ‘Aquinas said it if Master Suttone claims he did,’ shouted Mallet. ‘And it is you who spouts nonsense – you do not even know who heads the tables in the camp-ball league. I have never heard such a miserable Saturday Sermon in all my life.’

  There was a growl of agreement from the others, leading Bartholomew to surmise that the Master had deliberately picked a subject the youthful Fellow knew nothing about. Camp-ball, a rough game that involved kicking, punching and biting, was Langelee’s favourite pastime, and he often treated the College to analyses of statistics and fixtures, so the students were generally very well versed in them.

  ‘I wanted to speak about the canonical aspects of Apostolic Poverty,’ said Kolvyle sourly. ‘It would have been much more edifying, but Langelee—’

  ‘We do not discuss that sort of thing on Saturdays,’ interrupted Aungel, his voice dripping contempt. ‘You should know that – you have been a member of Michaelhouse long enough.’

  ‘He is too close to their own age to command their respect.’ Bartholomew turned to see Michael behind him. ‘That is why they challenge him so brazenly.’

  ‘He does not have their respect, because he has not earned it,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘He does not know how, and thinks that flaunting his intellect is enough. But I thought Langelee was going to keep him inside today.’

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth, when the Master himself appeared. Langelee stalked up to Kolvyle and grabbed his arm.

  ‘I told you to help Deynman in the library,’ he hissed. ‘So what are you doing out here?’

  Kolvyle tried, unsuccessfully, to free himself. ‘I am not wasting my precious afternoon in company with a dunce like him,’ he declared pettishly. ‘I refuse.’