‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘We are both to blame for that. But that is not what I wanted to speak to you about. I am more interested in the fact that you have been looking into Carton’s ordination.’
‘Yes, I have. Thomas said Carton lied about the date. Apparently, Greyfriars in London was flooded when he claimed to have taken his vows.’
‘Did you believe him?’ asked Bartholomew, fighting to keep his pony from stealing hay from a passing wagon. The horse won handily, and emerged with a sizeable snack. ‘Thomas, I mean.’
Pechem thought about it. ‘I believe there was a flood on the day in question – Thomas was a fussy, pedantic sort of man, and would not have made a mistake over something like that. But do I accept his claim that Carton was not one of us? No, I do not.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.
Pechem regarded him in surprise. ‘You ask me this question, when he was a member of your own College? You only had to spend a few moments in his company to appreciate his deeply held convictions – and his detailed knowledge of a friar’s duties.’
‘Do you think he was defrocked at some stage in his career, then?’ asked Michael. ‘And he invented a new date for his ordination, so no one would discover that his name had been scrubbed out? Perhaps he was banished for giving overzealous sermons.’
Pechem almost cracked a smile. ‘We Franciscans do not expel members for preaching radical messages. William would have been gone years ago if that were the case. On the contrary, our Minister-General likes a bit of fanaticism. He says it grabs the laity’s attention.’
‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘William and Mildenale have certainly done well with the attention-grabbing side of things.’
‘But only since the Sorcerer became popular,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Before that, everyone ignored William for the fool he is. And Mildenale was preoccupied with organising his new hostel.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Thomas was not a particularly remarkable preacher until a few weeks ago, either. Oh, he railed about sin immediately after the plague, and was quite eloquent at first. But when people began to forget its horrors, some of the fire went out of him. After that, he just paid lip service to his message. That only changed when the Sorcerer arrived and he joined forces with Mildenale.’
‘Thomas was a good man,’ argued Pechem. ‘He often reminded us of how he went among the sick during the Death, and he put his survival down to the fact that he was godly.’
‘You went among the sick, too,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how hard Pechem had worked in those bleak days, with no heed for his own safety. ‘Does that make you godly, as well?’
Pechem looked flustered; he was a modest man. ‘I would not presume to say.’
‘Unlike Thomas,’ muttered Michael. He pulled the holy-stone from his purse. ‘Did you ever see Carton wearing this?’
Pechem made no move to take it from him. ‘I most certainly did not! Those sorts of things are not permitted in my Order, and anyone caught wearing one can expect to be reprimanded most severely. Incidentally, Thomas insisted I write a letter to London, asking for confirmation of Carton’s ordination. I am expecting a reply any day now.’
‘So you do suspect Carton of misleading you,’ pounced Michael. ‘Or you would not have done as Thomas demanded.’
‘Actually, I did it because it was the only way to stop him from pestering me. Personally, I suspect the flood meant the ceremony was held elsewhere, and Thomas’s suspicions were groundless.’
‘I thought Carton and Thomas liked each other,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They spent a lot of time together.’
‘Yes, they did, but I think it was a case of fanatics laying aside their differences to fight for a common cause. I doubt there was much real affection between them.’ Pechem shuddered. ‘I do deplore zealots! Look at the trouble they bring, even after they are dead.’
The ride to Barnwell was no more pleasant on horseback than it had been on foot, because the sun still beat down relentlessly and there was the additional nuisance that ponies attracted flies. Michael flapped furiously at the dark cloud that buzzed around his head, while Bartholomew ignored them, in an experiment to see which tactic worked best. Michael’s frenzied arm-waving attracted more insects, but he was considerably less bitten. When they finally reached the priory, both were out of sorts.
‘I had better come with you to see the dung-merchant,’ said Michael, red-faced from his exertions. ‘I do not want you accepting a bribe that makes us look cheap.’
‘I said I would plead Isnard’s case to you again,’ said Bartholomew as he dismounted, the mention of manure reminding him of his promise to the bargeman. ‘Let him rejoin the choir, Brother. He heard it was you who argued against him having our latrines, and he is very upset about it – especially as he planned to sell the dung to Ely Abbey, no doubt because it is your Mother house.’
‘I am glad he is dismayed,’ said Michael venomously. ‘However, I would sooner he had it than Arblaster. Arblaster collects the lion’s share of muck these days, and I disapprove of monopolies. Are those goats?’
Bartholomew looked into the field he had seen on previous visits, where a number of the animals were tethered under the shade of a tree. ‘Yes. I understand they can often be found in the countryside.’
Michael glowered, his temper raw from heat and flying insects. ‘Well, there are seven of these, which is the same number that were stolen from Bene’t College. And they are black – Satan’s favourite colour, according to William, although Deynman says he prefers red.’
‘So, Arblaster is the Sorcerer now? And he is keeping seven goats for a demonic special occasion?’
‘Why not? He has made a fortune from dung, which you would not think was a lucrative trade.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He bought spells to increase his profits. Perhaps they worked.’
He knocked on Arblaster’s door and waited to be admitted, recalling that the last time he had burst in unannounced, anticipating a medical emergency, and had taken the occupants by surprise. The door was opened by Jodoca, who was wearing a kirtle of pale yellow that made her look cool and fresh. She ushered them in and provided them with ale, which was cold, sweet and clear. Michael’s eyes gleamed when she produced a plate of Lombard slices, his favourite cakes.
‘I would offer you chicken,’ she said, smothering a smile at the rate at which the monk devoured the refreshments, ‘but I am not sure it is still good, even though it was only cooked this morning.’
‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Bartholomew approvingly. ‘I have noticed flies alighting on meat – cooked and raw – which I believe accelerates the rate at which it spoils. It is–’
‘Ignore him, madam,’ said Michael. She had won his heart with her hospitality. ‘He does not usually regale people with accounts of insects and rotting food. Sometimes he can be quite erudite.’
‘I am sure he can,’ said Jodoca, eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘My husband is out with his muck heaps at the moment, but I have sent the servant to fetch him. He should not be long.’
‘I thought he was ill,’ said Bartholomew, although not with much rancour. It was simply too hot to be annoyed. ‘Or has he summoned me a second time for no good reason?’
‘Oh, I have good reason,’ said Arblaster, bustling in on a waft of fertiliser. He was thinner than he had been, and there was a gauntness in his face that had not been there a few days ago, but he was clearly recovered from his flux. ‘It is just not a medical one. I see you have brought a colleague to hear my offer this time. That is good.’