Read Online The Devil's Disciples by Susanna Gregory - Free Book Online
Authors: Susanna Gregory
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the town’s most attractive
lady. He nodded a friendly greeting and stepped inside, grateful to be out of the sun at last.
The house smelled of honey-scented wax, and a servant was on her knees in the hearth, polishing the stones. Silken cloths
covered the table and there were books on a shelf above the window. Bartholomew could see by the embossing on the covers that
they were philosophical tracts, indicating that someone was interested in honing his mind. The house and its contents told
him the Arblasters were wealthy folk who paid heed to the finer points of life. It told Cynric so, too, and he looked around
him disparagingly.
‘I have been so worried about Paul,’ Jodoca went on. ‘I am at my wits’ end.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The flux?’
She nodded miserably, then turned to Cynric. ‘There is new ale in the pantry, and it must have been an unpleasantly hot walk
for you. My maid will show you where it is kept.’
Cynric beamed in surprise, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the book-bearer might be prepared to overlook her
disgusting wealth if polite consideration was shown to servants.
‘I have been watching for you from the upstairs window,’ said Jodoca, looking back at Bartholomew. ‘For one awful moment,
I thought you were going to see the canons at Barnwell first. I saw one of you go in, and was afraid I might have to run over
and drag you out again.’
‘That was Carton,’ provided Cynric, willing to be helpful in return for his ale. ‘Michaelhouse is selling a cottage, and he
has gone to discuss terms with the Prior. But we came straight here, because your summons sounded so urgent.’
‘It is urgent,’ said Jodoca, fighting back tears. ‘I am frightened for Paul. We are used to dung, being in the business and
all, but this flux is too horrible, even for us.’
‘I will be in the pantry, then,’ said Cynric, evidently thinking this was more detail than he needed. He had disappeared before
Jodoca could add anything else.
Bartholomew allowed Jodoca to haul him along a corridor to a pleasant chamber at the back of the house. Here, the odour was
rather less pleasant. The patient was sitting in bed, surrounded by buckets. He waspale and feverish, but not so ill that he could not do some writing. A ledger was on his knees, and he was recording figures
in it. He smiled when Bartholomew was shown in.
‘At last! I was beginning to think you might not come. It is a long way from town, and I understand you do not own a horse.
It is a pity. Nags are good sources of dung.’
Arblaster was a large, powerful man with thick yellow hair that sprouted from his head in unruly clumps. He was a burgess,
and Bartholomew had seen him taking part in various civic ceremonies, when the hair had been carefully wetted down in an attempt
to make it lie flat. It usually popped up again as soon as it was dry, showing that attempts to tame it were a waste of time.
Bartholomew knew little about him, other than the fact that he purchased large quantities of aromatic herbs to prevent the
odour of his wares from entering his home: the apothecary claimed Arblaster was a bigger customer than all three of the town’s
physicians put together.
‘I thought he was going to Barnwell Priory first,’ said Jodoca, plumping up his pillows. ‘But that was Carton, going to discuss
house business with Prior Norton.’
‘I suppose Barnwell is interested in Sewale Cottage,’ said Arblaster. ‘Greedy devils! They will own the entire town soon.’
Bartholomew went to feel the speed of the dung-merchant’s pulse, already sure Arblaster was not as ill as his wife seemed
to think. ‘When did you first start to feel unwell?’
‘Last night. It was probably the goat we had for dinner. I told Jodoca it was off.’
‘And I told you to leave it, if you thought it was tainted,’Jodoca replied, sitting on the bed and stroking her husband’s hair
lady. He nodded a friendly greeting and stepped inside, grateful to be out of the sun at last.
The house smelled of honey-scented wax, and a servant was on her knees in the hearth, polishing the stones. Silken cloths
covered the table and there were books on a shelf above the window. Bartholomew could see by the embossing on the covers that
they were philosophical tracts, indicating that someone was interested in honing his mind. The house and its contents told
him the Arblasters were wealthy folk who paid heed to the finer points of life. It told Cynric so, too, and he looked around
him disparagingly.
‘I have been so worried about Paul,’ Jodoca went on. ‘I am at my wits’ end.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The flux?’
She nodded miserably, then turned to Cynric. ‘There is new ale in the pantry, and it must have been an unpleasantly hot walk
for you. My maid will show you where it is kept.’
Cynric beamed in surprise, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the book-bearer might be prepared to overlook her
disgusting wealth if polite consideration was shown to servants.
‘I have been watching for you from the upstairs window,’ said Jodoca, looking back at Bartholomew. ‘For one awful moment,
I thought you were going to see the canons at Barnwell first. I saw one of you go in, and was afraid I might have to run over
and drag you out again.’
‘That was Carton,’ provided Cynric, willing to be helpful in return for his ale. ‘Michaelhouse is selling a cottage, and he
has gone to discuss terms with the Prior. But we came straight here, because your summons sounded so urgent.’
‘It is urgent,’ said Jodoca, fighting back tears. ‘I am frightened for Paul. We are used to dung, being in the business and
all, but this flux is too horrible, even for us.’
‘I will be in the pantry, then,’ said Cynric, evidently thinking this was more detail than he needed. He had disappeared before
Jodoca could add anything else.
Bartholomew allowed Jodoca to haul him along a corridor to a pleasant chamber at the back of the house. Here, the odour was
rather less pleasant. The patient was sitting in bed, surrounded by buckets. He waspale and feverish, but not so ill that he could not do some writing. A ledger was on his knees, and he was recording figures
in it. He smiled when Bartholomew was shown in.
‘At last! I was beginning to think you might not come. It is a long way from town, and I understand you do not own a horse.
It is a pity. Nags are good sources of dung.’
Arblaster was a large, powerful man with thick yellow hair that sprouted from his head in unruly clumps. He was a burgess,
and Bartholomew had seen him taking part in various civic ceremonies, when the hair had been carefully wetted down in an attempt
to make it lie flat. It usually popped up again as soon as it was dry, showing that attempts to tame it were a waste of time.
Bartholomew knew little about him, other than the fact that he purchased large quantities of aromatic herbs to prevent the
odour of his wares from entering his home: the apothecary claimed Arblaster was a bigger customer than all three of the town’s
physicians put together.
‘I thought he was going to Barnwell Priory first,’ said Jodoca, plumping up his pillows. ‘But that was Carton, going to discuss
house business with Prior Norton.’
‘I suppose Barnwell is interested in Sewale Cottage,’ said Arblaster. ‘Greedy devils! They will own the entire town soon.’
Bartholomew went to feel the speed of the dung-merchant’s pulse, already sure Arblaster was not as ill as his wife seemed
to think. ‘When did you first start to feel unwell?’
‘Last night. It was probably the goat we had for dinner. I told Jodoca it was off.’
‘And I told you to leave it, if you thought it was tainted,’Jodoca replied, sitting on the bed and stroking her husband’s hair
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