The Devil's Disciples by Susanna Gregory

read on Blood Relics, while Cynric lagged behind, bored. Bartholomew
     was not gripped by the complex theology surrounding the Blood Relic debate, either, but was content to let Carton hold forth.
     The Franciscan became animated as he spoke, and his eyes shone; Bartholomew was reminded yet again that he was a deeply religious
     man. Then he frowned as the friar’s words sunk in.
    ‘You think the blood of the Passion is
not
separate from Christ’s divinity?’ he asked, unsure if he had heard correctly. ‘That is the Dominicans’ basic thesis.’
    Carton looked flustered. ‘Yes, I know. I was just following a line of argument, to see where it led. I was not propounding
     it as an accurate viewpoint. Of course Christ’s blood is separate from His divinity. Every decent Franciscan knows that.’
    Immediately he began to talk about something else, but the excitement was lost from his voice. Bartholomewwondered what was wrong with him. Then it occurred to him that Carton was a good scholar, clever enough to make up his own
     mind about the Blood Relic debate, so perhaps he did not agree with his Order’s stance on the issues involved. Of course,
     if that were true, then he was wise to keep his opinions to himself, because William and Mildenale would not approve of dissenters.
    Not long after, Bartholomew looked up to see Spaldynge sauntering towards them. A servant staggered along behind him, laden
     down with pots; the Clare man had gone to the priory to buy honey for his College. There was no way to avoid him on the narrow
     path and, with weary resignation, Bartholomew braced himself for another barrage of accusations. Sure enough, Spaldynge opened
     his mouth when he was close enough to be heard, but Carton spoke first.
    ‘I have been meaning to talk to you, Spaldynge,’ he said. ‘It seems we have a mutual acquaintance – Mother Kirbee and I hail
     from the same village. She told me she still mourns her son.’
    The blood drained from Spaldynge’s face. ‘What?’
    ‘Mother Kirbee,’ repeated Carton. Bartholomew glanced at him, and was unsettled to note that the expression on his face was
     cold and hard. ‘Her boy was called James.’
    Spaldynge stared at Carton, his jaw working soundlessly. Then he pushed past the Michaelhouse men without another word and
     began striding towards the town, head lowered. He moved too fast for his servant, who abandoned his efforts to keep up when
     one of the jars slipped from his hands and smashed. Spaldynge glanced around at the noise, but did not reduce his speed.
    Bartholomew watched in surprise, then turned to Carton. ‘What was all that about?’
    ‘I do not care for him.’ Carton’s voice was icy, and there was a glint in his eye that the physician did not like. ‘He rails
     against
medici
for failing to cure his family, but does not consider the possibility that
he
was to blame. Perhaps he was being punished for past sins.’
    Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. He had heard other clerics say plague victims had got what they deserved, but he had not
     expected to hear it from a colleague – a man of education and reason.
    ‘Fifteen years ago, Spaldynge was accused of stabbing James Kirbee,’ said Carton, when he made no reply. ‘The charge was dropped
     on the grounds of insufficient evidence, but that does not mean he was innocent. I suspect Spaldynge’s family paid the price
     for his crime when the plague took them.’
    Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you sure? About the murder, I mean. I have never heard this tale—’
    ‘Of course I am sure,’ said Carton irritably. ‘How can you even ask such a question, when you saw for yourself how he took
     to his heels when I confronted him with his misdeed?’
    ‘He did look guilty,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But—’
    ‘Sinners!’ interrupted Carton bitterly. ‘They brought the Death down on us the first time, and they will do it again. And
     Spaldynge is one of the worst.’
    Bartholomew