Chapter 1
Cambridge, the day before Pentecost (mid-June) 1357
Three scholars and a book-bearer stood in mute shock around the open grave. Margery Sewale had been hoisted from what should have been her final resting place and flung to one side like a sack of grain. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and doctor of medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, bent down and covered the sorry remains with a blanket, wondering what sort of person would stoop to such a despicable act. He glanced up at the sky. Dawn was not far off, although it was still too dark to see without a lantern, and the shadows in St Michael’s churchyard remained thick and impenetrable. He jumped when an owl hooted in a nearby tree, then spun around in alarm when something rustled in the undergrowth behind him.
‘Whoever did this is long gone,’ said Cynric, his book-bearer, watching him. ‘I imagine the villain went to work around midnight, when he knew he was least likely to be disturbed.’
Bartholomew nodded, trying to calm his jangling nerves. Cynric had told him as much when he had broken the news of his grim discovery, along with the fact that the culprit had left nothing behind to incriminate himself – no easily identifiable shovel or trademark item of clothing. Nothing, in fact, except the result of his grisly handiwork.
‘How did you come to find her?’ the physician asked, wondering what Cynric had been doing in the graveyard at such an hour in the first place.
‘You were gone a long time with the patient who summoned you earlier, and I was getting worried. Besides, it is too hot for sleeping. I was coming to find you, when I stumbled across her.’
He glanced at Margery and crossed himself. Then the same hand went to his neck, around which hung several charms against evil. The wiry Welsh ex-soldier, who had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, was deeply superstitious, and saw nothing contradictory in attending church on Sundays and consulting witches on Mondays.
‘And you saw nothing else?’ Bartholomew asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He could not recall the last time he had slept. The town was currently plagued by an outbreak of the flux – a virulent digestive ailment – and patients were clamouring for his services day and night. ‘Just Margery?’
Cynric grasped his amulet a little more tightly. ‘She was quite enough, thank you very much! Is anything missing?’
‘There is nothing to steal,’ replied Bartholomew, a little bemused by the question. ‘She left Michaelhouse all her jewellery, so none was buried with her. And her shroud is a poor quality—’
‘I do not mean ornaments, boy,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘I mean body parts.’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What a horrible notion! Why do you ask such a thing?’
‘Because it would not be the first time,’ said Cynric, a little defensive in the face of his master’s revulsion. ‘You found the corpse of that Norfolk mason on Ascension Day, and what was missing from him? A hand! We said then that it was probably stolen by witches.’
That was true, although Ascension Day was more than a week ago – a long time in the physician’s hectic life – and he had all but forgotten trudging home after visiting patients, and spotting the body in the wasteland opposite Margery’s house. The mason had probably died of natural causes, and had almost certainly been dead when someone had relieved him of his fingers. However, the incident was disturbing when viewed in conjunction with what had happened to Margery.
‘The town is full of witchery at the moment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, speaking for the first time since he had been dragged from his bed to witness what Cynric had found. He was a great, barrel-chested man, who looked more like a soldier than the philosopher he claimed to be, and most of his colleagues thought he acted like one, too. He was not noted for his intellectual contributions to University life, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were well satisfied with his just and competent rule.
Bartholomew was staring at the body. ‘And you think Margery was excavated for …’
‘For satanic rites,’ finished the third scholar Cynric had called. Brother Michael was a Benedictine monk who taught theology. He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, responsible for maintaining law and order among the hundreds of high-spirited young men who flocked to the little Fen-edge town for their education. His duties included investigating any crimes committed on University property, too, so it would be his unenviable task to track down whoever had exhumed Margery.
‘A lot of folk are refusing to attend church at the moment,’ elaborated Langelee, when he saw the physician’s blank expression. ‘And they are joining covens instead. So I suppose it is not surprising that this sort of thing is on the increase.’
‘Well?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew made no move to see whether Margery’s body had suffered the same fate as the mason’s. The physician was his official Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his job to assess anyone whose death the monk deemed suspicious. ‘Has Margery been pruned?’
Bartholomew winced at his choice of words. ‘I gave you a verdict when she died two weeks ago – of a long-term weakness of the lungs. You cannot ask me to look at her again.’
‘I can, and I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I need to know why this outrage was perpetrated. Besides, Margery was your patient and your friend. You cannot refuse her this last service.’
Bartholomew regarded the body unhappily. He had been fond of Margery, and wanted to see the maniac who had despoiled her behind bars, but he had never been comfortable inspecting corpses that had already been laid to rest. He did not mind examining fresh ones; indeed, he welcomed the opportunity, because they allowed him to further his limited knowledge of anatomy, an art that was forbidden in England. He did not even object to examining ones past their best, although he did not find it pleasant. However, when he was forced to look at bodies that had been buried, he invariably found himself overwhelmed by the unsettling notion that they were watching him with ghostly disapproval. He knew it was rank superstition, but he could not help it.
‘Hurry up,’ urged Langelee, when the physician hesitated still. ‘I need to return to the College soon, to lead the procession to morning mass.’
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Bartholomew pulled off the blanket, and counted Margery’s fingers and toes. All were present and correct, and so were her nose and ears. Her hair was matted and stained from its time in the ground, but he did not think any had been hacked off, and her shroud also seemed intact. He was aware of the others moving back as he worked, and did not blame them. The weather was unseasonably warm, even before sunrise, and Margery had been dead too long. Flies were already buzzing, and he knew she would have to be reburied her as soon as possible, lest she became a hazard to health.
‘Nothing is missing,’ he reported, sitting back on his heels and wiping his hands on the grass. It did little to clean them, and he would have to scour them in the first available bucket of water. His colleagues mocked him for his peculiar obsession with hygiene, but he considered it one of the most important lessons he had learned from the talented Arab medicus who had taught him his trade.
‘Then why was she dragged from her tomb?’ demanded Langelee.
‘Perhaps the culprit heard me coming, and fled before he could sever anything,’ suggested Cynric rather ghoulishly.
But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘If he had wanted a body part, he could have taken one when she was still in the grave – he did not have to haul her all the way out to slice pieces off.’
‘And I dug her an especially deep pit, because it has been so hot,’ said Cynric, nodding acceptance of his master’s point. ‘I did not want her bubbling out, see. It cannot have been easy to pull her all the way up.’
‘Then why?’ asked Langelee, regarding the gaping hole with worried eyes. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Perhaps it is enough that she is exhumed.’ Michael wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. ‘Some of the covens that have sprung up of late have devised some very sinister rites
. I shall have to order my beadles to pay additional attention to graveyards from now on.’
‘It must be the weather,’ said Langelee. ‘I have never known such heat in June, and it is sending folk mad – encouraging them to leave the Church, join cadres, despoil graves at midnight …’
‘What shall we do with her?’ asked Cynric, indicating Margery with a nod of his head. ‘Shall we have another grand requiem, and lay her to rest a second time?’
‘That would cost a fortune,’ said Langelee. ‘And the College cannot afford it. Besides, the fewer people who see her like this, the better. We shall rebury her now, and say a mass later. I do not suppose you know any incantations to keep her in the ground this time, do you, Brother?’
‘I do,’ said Cynric brightly. ‘Or rather, Mother Valeria does. Shall I buy one for you? She is a very powerful witch, so I hope you appreciate my courage in offering to step into her lair.’
Langelee handed him some coins, ignoring the monk’s grimace of disapproval. ‘Make sure she provides you with a good one, then. We do not want to be doing this again tomorrow.’
When Margery was back in the earth, Bartholomew followed Michael into the church, leaving Cynric to pat the grave-soil into place and Langelee to return to the College. It was still not fully light, so the building was dark and shadowy. It was also pleasantly cool, and Bartholomew breathed in deeply, relishing the familiar scent of incense, old plaster and dry rot. Then he made for the south porch, where a bucket of water was always kept. He grabbed the brush that was used for scouring flagstones, and began to scrub his hands, wondering whether they would ever feel clean again.
‘Did you notice the door was unlocked when we came in?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘How many more times must I tell everyone to be careful? Do they want our church burgled?’
‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, glancing up at him. ‘That was me. Clippesby offered to say another mass for Father Thomas, and afterwards, I must have forgotten …’
‘It is time you stopped feeling guilty about Thomas’s death,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We all make mistakes, and you cannot be expected to save every patient. He was not a—’
He stopped speaking when the door clanked, and someone walked in. It was their colleague, Father William, a burly friar with unruly brown hair that sprouted around a badly maintained tonsure, and a habit so deeply engrained with filth that his students swore it was the vilest garment in Christendom. William nodded to Michael, but ignored the physician, making the point that he was not yet ready to forgive or forget what had happened to his fellow Franciscan. He busied himself about the church, while Bartholomew finished washing his hands and Michael went to prepare for the mass. After a while, Bartholomew went outside, uncomfortable with the reproachful looks being aimed in his direction by the dour friar.
He sat on a tombstone, feeling sweat trickle down his back, and wondered why the weather had turned so hot. Did it presage another wave of the plague? He sincerely hoped not, recalling how useless traditional medicine had proved to be. There had been some survivors – himself among them – but their recovery had had nothing to do with anything he had done. His failures made him think of Thomas again, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to forgive himself for prescribing a ‘remedy’ that had killed the man. He closed his eyes, feeling weariness wash over him, but they snapped open when a howl echoed from the church.
He leapt to his feet and raced inside. William was standing over the baptismal font, pointing a finger that shook with rage and indignation. Flies buzzed in the air around him. Bartholomew ran towards him, then wrinkled his nose in disgust when he saw what had agitated the friar. There was a pool of congealing blood in the font.
Quickly, before their colleagues arrived for morning prayers, Bartholomew washed the font, while William scattered holy water around the desecrated area. The friar was livid, not just about the sacrilege, but about the fact that he had risen early to say prayers for Thomas, and resented being diverted from his original purpose. Bartholomew tuned out his diatribe, not wanting to hear yet more recriminations about the man he had killed. Fortunately, it was not long before Langelee arrived, bringing with him the remaining Fellows, a gaggle of commoners – men who were granted bed and board in exchange for light teaching duties – and the College’s students.
William gabbled through the mass at a furious lick that had the students grinning in appreciation. Their delight did not last long, however: it soon became apparent that he was rushing because he was scheduled to give the Saturday Sermon, and wanted as much time as possible in which to hold forth. Langelee had inaugurated the Saturday Sermons for two reasons. First, they provided the student-priests in his College with an opportunity to hone their preaching skills before they were assigned parishes of their own, and second, they allowed him to keep an eye on the fifty or so lively young men under his care on a day when they should have had a lot of free time.
Unfortunately, the Sermons were deeply unpopular with everyone. The students detested being cooped up inside, while the senior scholars objected to having the mumbled speeches of novices inflicted on them. And there was another problem, too. Michaelhouse had seven Fellows, five of whom were in religious Orders. The clerics also demanded a chance to pontificate in front of an audience that could not escape or interrupt, and Langelee could only refuse them for so long. And that Saturday, with the sun beginning to blaze down from a cloudless sky and the streets baked as hard as fired clay, it was William’s turn. When the mass was over, the Master stepped forward with a marked lack of enthusiasm, made a few ambiguous remarks about the quality of the day’s speaker, and indicated with a nod that William could begin.
Flattered by the Master’s introduction – although Bartholomew would not have been pleased to hear himself described as ‘a man of probable wisdom’ – William took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. His colleagues braced themselves. The Franciscan had always held strong opinions, but they had grown even more radical over the past few weeks, and he had become obsessed by the belief that the University was full of heretics – and by ‘heretic’ he meant anyone who disagreed with him. Because few scholars shared his dogmatic views, he was convinced the studium generale in the Fens was bursting at the seams with heathens, and considered it his personal duty to roust them all out.
‘Heretics,’ he boomed. The volume of his yell made several Fellows jump, which led to an outbreak of sniggering among the students. Michael silenced them with a glare; and when the Senior Proctor glared, wise lads hastened to behave themselves.
‘Not heretics again,’ groaned Langelee. ‘He ranted about them last time, too.’
‘It is all he talks about these days,’ agreed Michael. ‘And the town’s current fascination with witchery is not helping, either – it is making him worse than ever.’
‘The familiars of Satan swagger in our midst, and today I shall tell you about them,’ promised William, a little threateningly.
‘Here we go,’ sighed Langelee. He spoke loudly enough to be audible to most of the gathering, although William was too engrossed in his own tirade to notice.
‘They call themselves Dominicans,’ William declared, delivering the last word in a sibilant hiss that gave it a distinctly sinister timbre. He wagged his forefinger at the assembled scholars. ‘And do you know why we know them as Black Friars? Because black is the Devil’s favourite colour, and they wear it to honour him.’
‘I thought Satan had a penchant for red, actually,’ said Rob Deynman, newly installed as College Librarian. He was infamously slow witted and had no business holding a University post, but his father was rich and the College was prepared to overlook a great deal for money. A puzzled frown creased his normally affable face. ‘At least, he is wearing scarlet in all our wall-paintings.’
‘Yet another tirade against the poor Dominicans,’ Langelee went on wearily. ‘We are lucky they treat his remarks with the contempt they deserve, by ignoring them. They would be
perfectly within their rights to take umbrage, you know. I would, if I were a Black Friar.’
‘No one takes any notice of William’s warped theories,’ said Michael. Then his eye lit on Deynman. ‘Well, no one with sense, that is.’
‘I wish that were true.’ Langelee pointed at two scholars who wore Franciscan habits. They were not exactly nodding agreement with William’s harangue, but they were looking interested enough to encourage him to continue. ‘Mildenale and Carton are sensible men, but they are listening to him. Perhaps it is because all three belong to the same Order.’
Michael’s expression immediately became troubled. ‘I wish Mildenale had not come to live with us twelve months ago. I know he taught here for a few years before going to become a parish priest in Norfolk and he was one of Michaelhouse’s very first Fellows – so we are obliged to house him when he asks, but he worries me. Did you know our students call him Mildenalus Sanctus because of his extreme religious views?’
‘Yes, “Mildenale the Holy” indeed. It is most alarming. I do not want my College populated by fanatics.’
‘Fortunately, his converts are down to two now Thomas is dead. I understand why William thinks he is worth following – William is stupid and gullible, and has always fostered radical opinions – but I am disappointed in Carton. I thought he was more intelligent.’
‘So did I. Why do you think he does it?’
Michael shrugged. ‘It cannot be because he is a fellow Franciscan; no other Grey Friar has joined their little cabal. Personally, I think the Sorcerer is responsible for drawing Mildenale, William and Carton together. They are afraid of him, and feel there is safety in numbers.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 2
