Free The Devil's Disciples by Susanna Gregory

dozen old
     men who were living out their lives at the priory’s expense. They summoned Bartholomew not infrequently, because the infirmarian
     was not very good at his job, and tended to shy away from anything more complex than cuts and bruises. As a result, the physician
     should have known the canons reasonably well, but because they were mainly middle-aged, portly men who weregoing bald, he found it difficult to tell them apart. The infirmarian and his assistant were distinctive, but the rest were
     indistinguishable as far as Bartholomew was concerned, and he was glad Norton possessed a pair of unusually protuberant eyes,
     or he would have been hard pressed to identify him, too.
    He was surprised when his rap was answered not by a lay-brother, but by Norton himself. The Prior’s expression was one of
     extreme agitation, and the thought went through Bartholomew’s mind that if he opened his eyes any wider, they might drop out.
    ‘Why have you arrived so quickly?’ Norton demanded, uncharacteristically brusque. ‘We have only just sent for you.’
    ‘Is something wrong?’ Bartholomew was concerned. Arblaster had mentioned two men dead of the flux, and it occurred to him
     that the priory might be suffering from a more virulent outbreak than the one in the town.
    ‘Yes,’ replied Norton shortly. He turned, and Bartholomew saw his brethren ranged behind him, an uneasy cluster in their light-coloured
     robes. They murmured greetings, and some sketched benedictions. Bartholomew nodded back, noting they were as nervous and unhappy
     as their head.
    Henry Fencotes, the infirmarian’s assistant, stepped forward. Unlike his fellows, he possessed a full head of white hair,
     and he was thin. His skin was as pale as parchment, so his veins showed blue through it. He had consulted Bartholomew on several
     occasions because his hands and feet were always cold, even in the height of summer. Older than the others, he had come late
     to the priesthood, and it was said that he had lived a very wild life before his vows.
    ‘Where is Brother Michael?’ Fencotes asked, grabbing the physician’s arm. His hand felt icy, like that of a corpse. ‘We asked
     him to come, too. Did you leave him behind, because he is too fat to run? Will he be here soon?’
    ‘I have no idea,’ replied Bartholomew, growing steadily more uneasy. ‘Is someone ill?’
    ‘You could say that,’ said Norton. ‘Will you see Carton now, or wait until Michael arrives?’
    Bartholomew felt alarm grip his stomach. ‘Carton? What is wrong with him?’
    ‘We told you in the message we sent.’ Norton’s face was grim. ‘He has been murdered.’
    Carton was in one of the convent’s chapels, a handsome building with a lead roof. It was a peaceful, silent place, with thick
     stone walls and tiny lancet windows that made it dark and intimate. It was also cool, and Bartholomew welcomed the respite
     from the heat. He tried to ask Norton what had happened as he was ushered into the porch, but the goggle-eyed Augustinian
     was not of a mind to answer questions, preferring to give a detailed explanation of why he believed this was the first unlawful
     killing ever to take place in the convent he ruled.
    Bartholomew bit back his impatience. ‘A hundred and fifty murder-free years is an impressive record, Father Prior, but where
     is Carton?’
    ‘In the chancel,’ replied Fencotes. ‘Podiolo is with him. Come, I will show you.’
    ‘Podiolo came the moment I discovered …’ Norton trailed off uncomfortably, gesticulating with his hand. ‘But he said there
     was nothing he could do.’
    Matteo di Podiolo was the infirmarian, and hailed from Florence. He had yellow eyes, a pointed nose and a mouthfull of long, sharp teeth; Cynric had once told Bartholomew that his mother was a wolf. He knew virtually nothing about medicine,
     and did not seem inclined to learn, either, preferring to concentrate on his life’s ambition: to turn base metal into gold.
     He