A Deadly Brew

Chapter 2

Bartholomew told Michael about Mortimer’s lemons as they walked to St Botolph’s Church where prayers would be offered for the new Master and his College. As if to compensate for the long ceremony at Valence Marie, the College priests rattled through the mass at a speed that left the congregation bewildered, after which everyone trooped back to Valence Marie for the feast. Evidently, the servants had anticipated more time to prepare, for the hall was in disarray and students had to be commandeered into helping set up trestle tables and lay out trenchers, while the guests milled about in the courtyard in growing ill humour. By the time the steward announced that the feast would begin, most people were cold, wet and irritable.

The feast itself, however, was impressive and Bartholomew imagined that Mortimer would be sorely disappointed to learn what he had missed. As Michael had predicted, the highlight of the meal was roast boar, each animal carried on a huge platter by two servants. Bartholomew, used to simple Michaelhouse fare, ate sparingly, and did not need the example of Mortimer to warn him of the dangers of over-indulgence. Next to him, Michael ate as though it were his last meal on Earth, while, on his other side, Langelee provided impressive competition. Wine flowed freely and, as the feast progressed, the hall became hot, noisy and stuffy. The final course, produced with a flourish by Valence-Marie’s steward, was lemons stewed with cinnamon and black pepper, which once again reminded Bartholomew of Mortimer. Thomas Deschalers the grocer must have made a good deal of money from his shipment of lemons, Bartholomew thought, declining the dish as it was offered. Michael helped himself to a generous portion, but left most of it, puckering his lips and screwing his eyes tightly closed at the sourness.

As the daylight faded, braziers around the wall were lit, making the room hotter than ever. Michaelhouse possessed no such braziers and Bartholomew was envious, for the light was ample by which to read and even one such lamp would have eased the boredom of long, winter nights when darkness came early. Valence Marie possessed fine silver, too, and huge jewelled chalices were placed at regular intervals along the tables, filled with almonds and raisins – expensive commodities that were just one indication of the feast’s extravagance.

When the meal was over and the tables vaguely cleared of spilled grease, animal bones and bread trenchers, Master Bingham rose to his feet, an intimidating sheaf of parchments clutched in his hands. He cleared his throat importantly, and looked haughtily around the hall at the assembled guests who were about to be treated to that part of his painstakingly prepared discourse he had been deprived of giving earlier. Michael groaned loudly and Bartholomew felt his heart sink. But Bingham had done no more than make a preparatory rap for silence on the table with his spoon before the student minstrels in the gallery increased the volume of their singing dramatically and the Fellows on either side of their new Master reached up to pull him back into his seat. Thorpe, the previous Master of Valence Marie, would never have countenanced such an affront to his authority, thought Bartholomew, amused by Bingham’s ineffectual outrage at his colleagues’ presumption.

‘Bingham will have a hard task controlling this new College of his,’ yelled Michael, putting his sweaty face near Bartholomew’s to make himself heard over the racket. Bartholomew nodded vigorously. ‘I wonder what those two are plotting.’ Michael pointed to where the Sheriff and the Mayor sat, their heads bent together confidentially as they conversed in what seemed to be furtive whispers.

Bartholomew liked Sheriff Tulyet, a small, wiry man with a wispy fair beard and a tolerance towards the University usually absent in town officials. Tulyet saw them looking at him and raised a hand in affable acknowledgement. Even from a distance, the Sheriff looked tired and strained, and there were rings of exhaustion under his pale blue eyes. Tulyet’s position was not an easy one to hold. His garrison had been sadly depleted by the plague and it was difficult to recruit replacements when crime was by far more lucrative. Since Christmas, a band of outlaws had settled in the area, using little-known causeways and canals in the Fens to make their escape after robbing travellers on the roads, disappearing as completely and cleanly as the marsh mists in sunlight long before Tulyet’s men could catch them.

Bartholomew smiled a greeting to him, and looked around the hall. Sheriff Tulyet and the Mayor were not the only ones to be taking advantage of the installation festivities to conduct a little business. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Sir Oswald Stanmore, was engaged in an animated discussion with the Master of Gonville Hall, while Bartholomew’s sister was abandoned to entertain the morose Prior of Barnwell on her other side. The University was one of the Stanmore’s biggest customers, and he was clearly embarking on some deal or other with the Master of one of its most powerful Colleges.

At the high table at the far end of the hall, Vice-Chancellor Harling, the University’s second in command, sat between the Countess of Pembroke and a handsome woman in her middle years whom Michael had identified as the Abbess of nearby Denny Abbey, a rich community of Franciscan nuns. Harling’s jet-black hair glistened greasily in the candlelight as he inclined his head politely towards the Countess, giving every appearance of listening with rapt attention to what she was saying.

‘Why is Harling in the seat of honour?’ asked Bartholomew of Runham, who sat opposite him, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the discordant singing from the gallery and the roar of drunken voices. ‘Where is the Chancellor?’

Runham pursed his lips to indicate his disapproval. ‘With the Bishop in Ely. It is a mere seventeen miles so I do not know why Chancellor Tynkell could not have made the effort to be here. An installation is, after all, an important University occasion.’

‘Perhaps his business at Ely is more urgent than gossiping with the Countess of Pembroke and the Abbess of Denny,’ said Bartholomew.

A servant slapped a dish of sugared almonds so hard in front of him, that some of them bounced across the table to be claimed by Michael. When Bartholomew glanced up at him, the man gave a cheerful wink, and his red cheeks suggested that the guests were not the only ones to have availed themselves of Valence Marie’s endless supplies of wine.

‘Tynkell is probably too afraid to come back,’ said Runham uncharitably. ‘He knows he is not up to the task of being Chancellor and is hiding away in Ely behind the Bishop’s skirts.’

The post of Chancellor was not a position Bartholomew would have willingly held. While it granted the holder a degree of authority over the University and the town, it was also fraught with political pitfalls. The previous incumbent had held office for four years, but the constant intrigues and crafty plotting had finally worn him down, and he had retreated to his family home in the Fens in poor health.

Harling, his Vice-Chancellor, had expected to step into his shoes as was the usual practice, but in an election that had astonished many scholars almost as much as Harling, a timid nonentity called William Tynkell – who had only agreed to stand for election because he thought it might raise the profile of his hostel in the University community – had won the majority of votes. Bartholomew might have questioned the honesty of the vote-counters, had it not been for the expression of abject horror on Tynkell’s face when he was declared the winner. Harling had accepted his defeat with dignity, and had volunteered to continue as Vice-Chancellor, an offer that Tynkell had accepted gratefully, openly acknowledging his inexperience in the treacherous world of University politics.

‘Tynkell!’ muttered Runham in disgust. ‘What a dreadful choice to be the leader of our University! All I can say is that I did not vote for him.’ He gazed speculatively at Bartholomew.

‘Neither did I,’ said Bartholomew, not wanting to be blamed for the Chancellor’s absence.

Runham nodded, satisfied, and went on. ‘I am not a man to risk my good health by bathing, but I am always careful to scent my clothes with lavender, and leave my clean linen on the shelf in the latrine to kill the lice. But Tynkell does neither, and there is an odour about him I find most unpleasant.’

‘I always feel itchy after an audience with him,’ boomed Father William, whose Franciscan habit was one of the filthiest garments in Christendom, and who paid scant attention to his own personal cleanliness. To prove his point, he began to scratch, and Bartholomew was amused to see Runham and then Michael follow suit. A few moments later, Alcote started, and then Master Kenyngham. It continued until Kenyngham – somewhat out of the blue – changed the subject by asking if anyone had ever debated the question ‘Let us consider whether the edge of the universe can be touched’ and, as the discussion grew more heated, the itches were forgotten.

Listening to his colleagues with half an ear, Bartholomew watched Harling and the Countess, who, judging from the flapping of her hands, seemed to be telling him how to fly. The Vice-Chancellor reached out a beringed hand, took up his wine goblet, and drained it without taking his eyes off the Countess’s face. Immediately, a servant hurried to refill it, and a few moments later the entire process was repeated. Bartholomew had heard that, despite her generosity – and resulting popularity – the Countess was not a lady renowned for conversational sparkle. He suspected Harling knew he had a long night ahead of him, and was preparing himself by dulling his mind with as much of Valence Marie’s wine as he could stow away without losing consciousness. Perhaps Chancellor Tynkell had been wiser than all of them, with his timely absence from the town.

Harling was given a brief respite from the Countess’s monologue as Sheriff Tulyet stepped forward to make his excuses for leaving early to the august occupants at the high table. Under his cloak, he already wore a mail tunic and boiled leather leggings, in anticipation of a nocturnal foray in search of the elusive outlaws.

‘Poor Harling,’ said Michael, watching as the Countess homed in on the Vice-Chancellor again as Tulyet left. ‘I am reliably informed that the noble Marie de Valence is about as interesting a companion as stagnant ditchwater.’

‘At least stagnant ditchwater does not hog the conversation,’ bawled Runham, who had won the debate about the edge of the universe simply because he had a good deal more to say about it than anyone else. He leaned towards the monk, the flowing sleeve of his fine ceremonial gown knocking over Bartholomew’s wine, and lowered his voice a fraction. ‘She has but two interests: breeding dogs and gardening.’

‘She is a very generous woman,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘She founded this College and the abbey at Denny, and she gives alms to the poor.’

‘But gardening, Matt,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘That is for peasants!’

‘Edward the Second liked gardening and look what happened to him,’ said Runham ominously.

‘I hardly think King Edward was executed because of his love of horticulture,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘I imagine his murder had more to do with the fact that he was an abysmal ruler.’

‘Please!’ whispered Michael, glancing around him furtively. ‘Edward the Second founded King’s Hall and their Warden is looking right at us! If we are to indulge ourselves in treasonous talk, at least wait until I am too drunk to care!’

‘Gardening is a vile pastime,’ continued Runham, undeterred. ‘All that dirt and dreadful creatures like worms and slugs creeping about. Try some of this candied mint, Matthew. It is quite delicious.’

‘People who eat that sort of thing die young,’ said Michael knowledgeably, eyeing the dish of sticky leaves disdainfully. ‘It is a well-known medical fact.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, laughing. ‘And is this well-known medical fact from the same source as “green vegetables cause leprosy” and “a diet of nothing but meat and bread prevents baldness” that you mentioned to me last week?’

Michael favoured him with a withering look. ‘You read too much, Matt. You refuse to believe anything unless it has been written by one of your dull Greek or Arab physicians. The facts to which I refer stem from simple common sense. Look at Harling – there is a man who declines his vegetables and he has a magnificent thick, black mane. The fact that cunning cooks have slipped the occasional bit of cabbage or carrot into my meals accounts entirely for my thinning hair.’

There was little point in arguing with Michael over matters of diet – or pointing out that a tonsure, such as the one Michael sported, should obviate his own concern about baldness. Bartholomew let the matter drop and gazed at the hour candle, willing it to burn down to a point where it would not be deemed rude to leave. He sighed and rested his chin on one fist as he looked around the crowded, noisy, humid hall.

After a while, Deschalers the grocer and Cheney the spice merchant came towards Bartholomew with Constantine Mortimer’s eldest son, Edward. Deschalers and Cheney had donned their finest clothes in honour of the occasion – Cheney wore a tunic of a rich amber with matching leggings, while Deschalers was dressed in a short red cloak with rust-coloured shirt and scarlet hose. Bartholomew was immediately reminded of two of the four humours: Cheney was known for his short temper and aggression and his gold-coloured clothes reminded Bartholomew of the yellow bile that caused choleric behaviour; meanwhile, Deschalers was aloof and laconic, usually moods considered to be caused by an excess of blood. Bartholomew wished his students were with him, because he was sure such a visual example would burn the characters of the humours into their minds for the rest of their lives. By contrast, young Edward Mortimer might have been a scholar himself in his sober brown tunic and plain hose.

‘We heard Mortimer is dying,’ began Cheney without preamble. ‘When might the end come?’

‘Not for some years yet, with God’s grace,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Edward’s horrified intake of breath.

‘My father is dying? I was told it was nothing more serious than stomach pains!’

‘Get a grip on yourself, Edward,’ said Cheney coldly. ‘Your presence at your father’s bedside would have been quite wasted. Had you been needed, he would have sent for you. You have other duties to perform – such as representing the family business here tonight.’

‘Your father will make a full recovery,’ said Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Edward. ‘His malady was a simple case of too many lemons.’

‘Lemons?’ queried Deschalers, perching on the edge of the table and tossing back his cloak to reveal the elegant cut of his clothes. ‘The lemons I sold him?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘They are a bitter fruit unless properly prepared.’

‘Ah,’ said Deschalers as a faint smile touched his handsome features. He needed to say no more because the implication was clear: anyone of gentle birth would have known how to prepare the costly fruits and Mortimer had inadvertently exposed his humble origins by his ignorance. He exchanged a superior glance with Cheney.

‘We thought it might be a case of this winter fever that has struck at the river people,’ he said, addressing Bartholomew again. ‘One of my servants was stricken yesterday.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I feel sure this fever has something to do with the well in Water Lane. Master Mortimer’s house has its own well.’

Deschalers was patently uninterested in issues of health. ‘Then can we expect Mortimer at the meeting of the town council next week, when we discuss our building plans for the town?’ he asked.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘I do not see why not.’

‘Good,’ said Cheney. ‘We need him to help us finance the continuing construction of Bene’t’s.’

‘The College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin Mary,’ corrected Deschalers, giving Cambridge’s newest College its full and official title. Most people referred to it simply as Bene’t’s because it was attached to St Bene’t’s Church by a slender corridor, like a cloister. ‘The only University College to be founded by townspeople and paid for with town money,’ the grocer added with an odd mixture of pride and smugness.

‘It is a fine building,’ said Bartholomew politely.

‘It will be the best College in Cambridge given time,’ claimed Deschalers, ‘and will be a noble memorial to the men of the Guild of Corpus Christi and the Guild of St Mary who endowed it.’

As they had been speaking, Deschalers’s eyes had been roving around the hall, and Bartholomew had the distinct impression that the grocer was looking for someone more influential with whom to talk. Bartholomew watched as Deschalers suddenly became aware of the intense conversation between Oswald Stanmore and the Master of Gonville Hall. The grocer’s eyes narrowed. He nodded a brusque farewell to Bartholomew and was away towards them, weaving his way between the revellers and expertly avoiding slopping, wine-filled goblets and hurled pieces of food. Cheney hastened after him, but lacked his colleague’s agility, and his progress was marked by a profusion of apologies and spillages. Edward escaped from them with relief and went to talk to some of Valence Marie’s students.

‘Look at James Grene!’ exclaimed Langelee, suddenly grabbing Bartholomew’s arm with a hot, heavy hand and pointing at the high table. ‘Now there is the face of a man who believes he has been cheated out of his rightful position as Master of Valence Marie!’

Bartholomew looked to where Langelee indicated and saw what he meant. While all around him his colleagues threw themselves into the spirit of the occasion with laughter and good humour, Grene leaned back moodily in his chair on the dais. Bartholomew saw him take a hefty gulp of wine, noted the redness of his face and drew the conclusion that while Grene might not be enjoying the festivities, he was certainly availing himself of the refreshments provided by his victorious rival.

Michael roared with laughter. ‘I made a wise decision to stay away from Valence Marie, my friends!’ he shouted, raising his cup in a slopping toast. ‘Here is to Michaelhouse!’

‘Michaelhouse!’ yelled Langelee in reply, standing to crash his own brimming goblet into Brother Michael’s.

‘Have a care!’ warned Bartholomew, looking to where several other guests were eyeing them with disapproval. ‘We should not risk offending members of Valence Marie in their own hall.’

‘Where lies the risk?’ bellowed the belligerent Langelee, slamming his cup down on the table. ‘Are you so lily-livered that you will not fight for your College?’

Bartholomew regarded him coldly. ‘I should not want to set that kind of example to my students and I suggest you should not either.’

‘Example!’ sneered Langelee, leaning towards Bartholomew and wafting alcoholic fumes into his face. ‘The example you set them is one of foolishness! All this washing of hands and clean rushes on the floor.’ He spat viciously. ‘What do you think we are, mewling babes?’

Bartholomew turned to Michael. ‘This feast will end in violence soon. I am leaving.’ He stood, but Langelee grabbed the front of his gown and jolted him back down. Bartholomew felt a surge of anger, but before he could react Michael had intervened.

‘Fight him and you fight me,’ said the monk, knocking Langelee’s hand from Bartholomew’s robe. ‘And fight me, Master Langelee, and I will see you spend the next three nights in the Proctors’ gaol.’

Langelee opened his mouth to reply, but was silent when Michael’s unsmiling expression penetrated his befuddled mind. He glowered at Bartholomew briefly, before turning his back on them and beginning a discussion with Roger Alcote to his left. Fortunately, Alcote had the foolish grin on his face that told Bartholomew, familiar with the Senior Fellow’s habits, that he was drunk to the verge of insensibility and could take no offence at anything Langelee might say to him.

Bartholomew flashed Michael a grateful smile and prepared to leave. At last, other guests were beginning to depart, drifting out in twos and threes as they made their farewells to the new Master of Valence Marie. As Bartholomew stepped forward to offer his congratulations to Bingham, there was a commotion further along the high table – shouts of alarm and the sound of chairs falling as people leapt to their feet. Imagining it to be another skirmish between Fellows made argumentative with too much wine, Bartholomew ignored it and hastened towards the door. Reluctantly, he stopped as he heard people calling his name.

Turning, he saw Grene lying across the table, his face a chalky white, while his hands scrabbled at his throat. Before Bartholomew could so much as take a step towards him, Grene gave a great groan and went limp. Bartholomew elbowed his way through the scholars who surrounded him, but could already see that there was little he could do. As he reached Grene and fumbled to loosen the clothes around his neck, he recalled how the scholar’s face had been flushed deep red with drink earlier, whereas now his complexion was bloodless. Bartholomew searched for a lifebeat in the great veins of the neck and felt it pulsing weakly. As he heaved Grene on to the floor and tried in vain to restore him to consciousness, Bartholomew glanced furtively at the table. There, lying on its side, was a thin, smoked-glass bottle, its contents flooding out across the table and dribbling onto the floor.

Michael shoved himself to the front of the ring of spectators, ordering them back to give Bartholomew room to work, aided by an officious young servant wearing a blue tunic.

‘Is it a seizure?’ Michael asked, leaning over to look at the dying scholar, his voice barely audible over the excited hubbub. ‘Was the strain of watching his rival installed too much for him?’

‘I cannot be certain,’ said Bartholomew, meeting Michael’s eyes steadily, ‘but I think Master Grene may have had an aversion to the wine.’

It was not long before the feeble pulse in Grene’s neck fluttered to nothing, and Bartholomew commandeered the servant in blue to help him carry the body to St Botolph’s Church. Michael accompanied them, all traces of his earlier intoxication vanished, while behind, the Fellows of Valence Marie clustered around their new Master and waited for him to tell them what to do next. Vice-Chancellor Harling had followed them and watched with his restless black eyes.

‘Well?’ Bingham demanded of Bartholomew, his uncertainty of how to deal with the situation making him uncharacteristically abrupt. ‘I assume it was the excitement of the day that killed him?’

‘I need to conduct a more thorough investigation of the body,’ said Bartholomew cautiously. Although the symptoms of Grene’s sudden demise and Armel’s had been virtually identical, he wanted to be absolutely certain before he made his suspicions public.

Bingham appeared flustered by his reply. ‘It was a seizure, surely? You said the wine had caused it. What will be gained from a more thorough investigation of the corpse now?’

Behind him, Bingham’s Fellows were silent, but Bartholomew saw their rapidly exchanged speculative glances. He suppressed a sigh of resignation, aware that in that moment rumours had been given life: Bingham’s surly rival for the Mastership had just died most conveniently and there would be few wagging tongues in the University community that would not gain some mileage from that fact.

Harling watched the exchange with cool interest, clearly unimpressed by Bingham’s poor handling of the first crisis of his incumbency. It was no secret that Grene had been one of Harling’s most ardent supporters during his campaign to be Chancellor. Bingham had immediately announced his vote would go to Tynkell, not because he considered Tynkell a better candidate – he, like virtually every other scholar in the University, knew nothing about Tynkell – but simply because the two contenders for the Mastership of Valence Marie seemed to feel obliged to oppose everything the other said or did. It must be gratifying, Bartholomew thought, for Harling to see the man who had campaigned against him to be placed in such an awkward and delicate position.

‘Doctor Bartholomew, as the University’s most senior physician, will conduct an examination of Grene’s body,’ said Harling smoothly, smiling at the new Master with what seemed to be more vindication than reassurance. ‘Just to establish beyond all doubt what we know to be true – that Master Grene died of a simple seizure brought on by disappointment.’

The uncertainty evident in his voice did more to fan the flames of mystery about the cause of Grene’s death than anything Bartholomew could have said. The Fellows looked at each other with renewed suspicions.

‘But what if it should be found that Grene’s death was not brought on by disappointment?’ asked one of the Fellows, a tall Dominican friar whom Bartholomew recognised as Father Eligius, Valence Marie’s most celebrated scholar. There was a murmur of consternation from the others.

‘And why should such a thing be found?’ asked Harling softly, addressing Father Eligius but then shifting his eyes to Bingham, who shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Far from suppressing the rumours that would soon begin to circulate, Harling’s meaningful look and Bingham’s response seemed to suggest that the Fellows had good cause to speculate.

‘That will be for the Senior Proctor to determine,’ said Eligius. Behind him, the other Fellows muttered and gazed worriedly at Michael, concerned, no doubt, that having the Senior Proctor investigate the death of one of their number would do their College’s reputation no good, thought Bartholomew uncharitably.

‘Indeed,’ said Harling politely. ‘And Brother Michael will do a thorough job, you can be certain.’ He regarded Bingham suspiciously again, before looking at Grene’s sheeted body.

The loaded conversation, thick with inner meanings and positively dripping innuendo, was becoming too much even for Michael. He took control.

‘Go back to your guests, Master Bingham,’ he said firmly, taking the new Master’s arm and leading him away. ‘Assure them that all is well and then arrange for a vigil to be mounted over Grene.’

Bingham hesitated, but then complied, evidently grateful to be given an escape route from a situation that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Vice-Chancellor Harling and the Valence Marie Fellows followed him out of the church, leaving Bartholomew and Michael alone. Michael closed the door as the last scholar left and came to stand near Bartholomew as he stared down at the corpse. Grene’s body lay on a trestle table in the chancel, draped with a darkly stained sheet that had evidently been used to cover the victims of violent death before. At his head and feet, the servant in blue had lit thick wax candles that cast long shadows around the chapel.

‘Well?’ asked Michael, his voice echoing in the silence. ‘Was he poisoned?’

Bartholomew took one of the candles and held it close to Grene’s face, inspecting it with a care he had been unable to exercise while watched by the dead man’s colleagues. Sure enough, Grene’s lips were blemished with small blisters, like the ones Bartholomew had noticed on Brother Armel. Giving the candle to Michael, he prised Grene’s mouth open and looked inside.

‘Good God! Look at this!’

Grene’s mouth was a mass of tiny white blisters that bled and oozed even after death. Michael glanced down and moved back quickly with an exclamation of disgust. Bartholomew forced Grene’s mouth open further and tried to inspect the back of his throat.

‘I cannot see,’ he complained. ‘Hold the candle nearer.’

‘What more do you need to see?’ protested Michael, keeping his eyes averted. ‘It is clear that he has been poisoned. And we both saw that the bottle was of the same kind as the one from which Armel drank.’

Bartholomew snatched the candle from Michael impatiently and resumed his examination. ‘No wonder death was instant!’ he exclaimed after a moment. ‘This poison has burned the skin at the back of the throat and the resulting swelling has closed it completely. Even if I had been able to force something into his throat to keep it open for air, he probably would have died when the poison reached his stomach. What a foul substance!’

‘Was it the same with Armel?’ asked Michael, noting with relief that Bartholomew had finished his repellent investigation and had closed the unfortunate Grene’s mouth.

‘I did not look,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I could not with all his friends watching me – you know how people react over such things. But I can look now.’

‘Not now,’ said Michael, nodding towards the unglazed windows. ‘It is dark and the curfew bell will sound soon. I take it Armel’s condition will not change overnight?’ Bartholomew shook his head. ‘Then tomorrow will be soon enough, when you have the daylight to help you.’

‘I saw small blisters on Armel’s lips, however,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just like the ones on Grene. I have little doubt that we will also find the same damage to Armel’s mouth and throat, and that the poison that killed one also killed the other.’

Michael heaved a great sigh and leaned heavily against one of the pillars. ‘This is terrible, Matt! Two members of the University have been murdered most vilely by townspeople.’

‘You do not know that is true of Grene,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘Bingham might have killed him. There is no question that Grene would have made ruling Valence Marie very difficult for Bingham. You heard what he said – that the excitement of the day killed his rival. How convenient for him!’

‘Convenient indeed!’ came a soft voice from the darkness of the aisle. Bartholomew and Michael jumped in shock. They had believed themselves to be alone and that Bingham had taken all his scholars with him when he had left. Out of the deep shadows, Father Eligius emerged, his pallid features startlingly white above his black gown.

‘Eligius!’ exclaimed Michael, peering at the Dominican in the gloom. ‘I thought you had returned to Valence Marie with the others.’

‘I thought as much,’ said Eligius coolly, ‘or you would not have been discussing the murder of poor Grene so candidly. So, Matthew, you believe our new Master dispatched his hated rival with poison?’

‘He does not,’ intervened Michael quickly, before Bartholomew could respond. ‘He has no evidence to justify such an accusation. A student seems to have been killed with a similar potion – as you no doubt overheard – and since Master Bingham is unlikely to have a motive for murdering a Franciscan novice, it seems he is also unlikely to have killed Grene. Regardless of what Matt might speculate.’

‘Indeed,’ said Eligius, moving closer to look at the sheeted body. He lifted a corner of the cloth and gazed down at Grene’s face, eyes half open despite Bartholomew’s attempts to force them closed. An expression of remorse flickered over Eligius’s own features so quickly that Bartholomew thought he might have imagined it, before the sheet fell and Grene was covered once more.

‘I do not find Master Bingham’s guilt such an unlikely proposition,’ said the Dominican, looking at Michael.

Michael spread his hands. ‘How could Master Bingham have killed Grene at the feast?’ he reasoned. ‘There were dozens of guests present. The matter of the contest between him and Grene was public knowledge, and I am sure I was not the only person watching Grene closely to see how he was taking his defeat. Grene and Bingham did not so much as utter a word to each other all evening, let alone one give the other poison. And anyway, imagine how difficult Bingham’s position will be if there is so much as a whiff of rumour that he has harmed his rival. He would find making a success of his Mastership impossible.’

Eligius considered, watching Michael with unfathomable eyes, and tapping his pursed lips with a long forefinger. He was one of Cambridge’s leading logicians and had taken part in debates in universities all over Europe. Bartholomew had always thought the Dominican philosopher looked every bit a man of learning: he had a head that was too big for his body, an impression accentuated by the way his dark brown hair was chopped short at the forehead and sides but straggled long at the back. He was a tall man, topping Bartholomew by the length of a hand, but was unnaturally thin.

‘Master Bingham will find his Mastership difficult regardless,’ Eligius said finally. ‘Grene alive would have opposed anything he tried to do; there are still those loyal to the previous Master – Robert Thorpe – who consider his dismissal a grave miscarriage of justice; and now Grene conveniently dead will arouse suspicions regarding whether Bingham had a hand in it or not. Had Bingham used the few brains he was born with, he would have foreseen the impossible situation in which he was placing himself and declined the Mastership. Or, if he was wholly unable to resist the lure of power, he should have devised a more discreet way of dispensing with Grene’s presence.’

Michael eyed him speculatively. ‘And which of the two men did you vote for?’

Eligius’s thin lips curved into a humourless smile. ‘I was an avid supporter of neither candidate because I was impressed with the qualities of neither. But Grene had an edge over Bingham and I declined Bingham’s offer of a rise in salary to shift my allegiance.’

‘He bribed you to vote for him?’ asked Bartholomew with distaste.

‘The word “bribe” implies that he offered me something and that I took it,’ said Eligius reproachfully. ‘He might have offered, but I can assure you I took nothing. But while I was content to watch Bingham struggle to rule with Grene alive, I am certainly not prepared to see him in power with Grene murdered. You see, Grene confided to me only last night that he was in fear of his life from Bingham. Naturally, I dismissed his claim as the bitter rambling of a thwarted man. Now I am not so sure.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Bartholomew, aghast. ‘Grene claimed that Bingham might kill him? Are you certain? Could you have mistaken his meaning?’

Eligius shook his head slowly. ‘Poor Grene made his point most clearly. There is no possibility that I could have misunderstood what he was saying. And then, of course, there is the Valence Marie relic.’ He crossed himself reverently.

‘Not that again, Eligius,’ said Michael wearily. ‘The Valence Marie bones were a hoax perpetrated by an evil man. It was not the hand of a saint.’

‘Not everyone believes that to be true,’ remonstrated Eligius. ‘I saw that relic and I felt the holiness emanating from it like heat from a fire. Chancellor Tynkell has promised to reinstate it to us so that we can revere it as it deserves.’

‘Has he?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘I thought it had been destroyed.’

‘It is in the University chest in St Mary’s Church,’ explained Michael. ‘It cannot be destroyed until the question of its legal ownership has been resolved. Wretched thing!’

‘It is a gift from God,’ said Eligius, his eyes gleaming with the same fanaticism Bartholomew had seen in Father William’s from time to time. ‘And I am not the only Fellow of Valence Marie to be convinced of its authenticity – Grene believed it, too, although Bingham does not.’

‘I hope you are not suggesting Bingham murdered Grene because of the relic,’ said Michael.

Eligius said nothing.

‘But do you honestly see Bingham poisoning Grene in front of all the guests at the feast?’ asked Bartholomew, simultaneously bewildered and unconvinced by the Dominican’s suppositions. ‘You know him better than I, but it seems to me that he does not possess such presence of mind.’

Eligius sighed. ‘You are probably right,’ he said, his tone of voice making it perfectly clear he did not believe so for an instant. ‘But if Bingham did not kill Grene, who did?’

Michael and Bartholomew had no answer, and all three scholars looked down at the body lying under its dirty sheet on the table. A breath of wind gusted suddenly, making the candle flames flutter and lunge and splattering heavy drops of rain onto the stone floor to echo eerily around the otherwise silent church.

‘There is something about Father Eligius I find disconcerting,’ said Bartholomew, shivering as he watched Michael try to poke some life into the dull embers of the kitchen fire.

Michaelhouse, despite its fine buildings and formidable gateway, was not wealthy, and firewood had been expensive since the plague. Usually, Master Kenyngham allowed a fire in the hall during winter so that the scholars had some warmth for lectures, but the wet weather was mild and, at a meeting of the Fellows in December, it was mooted that a fire was an unnecessary extravagance. Bartholomew had argued that dampness was as chilling as winter snow, and that the students needed somewhere to dry their clothes. Kenyngham had wavered, since he took Bartholomew’s concerns about health seriously, but Langelee, backed by Alcote – who was sufficiently affluent to afford a fire in his own chambers anyway – argued that such luxuries were needless, and that was that. The only fire in Michaelhouse was in the kitchen; Kenyngham had been forced to declare that out of bounds when Agatha, the College laundress, had claimed so many students were vying to sit near it, that the servants could not reach it to do the cooking.

By the time Bartholomew and Michael had returned from the feast, Michaelhouse was silent. Here and there, lights flickered in windows, suggesting that there were a few scholars who could afford a candle to render the long winter nights more endurable with reading or illicit games of cards, but most were asleep, rolled up in their blankets in a vain attempt to keep the iciness of the stone-built rooms at bay. The kitchen, too, was deserted, the cook and his assistants having retired to their own quarters above the laundry for the night. Agatha often sat in her great wooden chair by the fire in the evenings, straining her eyes to sew, or holding forth about all manner of subjects to anyone who would listen. But it was late, and the barely glowing embers suggested that Agatha had long since gone to her bed.

On the table, wrapped in a piece of old blanket from the laundry, were the bottles of poisoned wine – three from the novices at St Bernard’s Hostel and the one that had killed Grene. All four were identical, so that it was clear they had come from the same source. The Valence Marie porter, back at his post with his hand swathed in a huge and inexpertly tied bandage that bore the hallmarks of Robin of Grantchester’s work, had regarded the containers fearfully, as though he imagined their contents might leap out and pour themselves down his throat. Bartholomew had tried to question him about his burned hand, but the porter declined to incriminate himself, and continued to insist that he had merely been moving them to a safer place. Exasperated, Bartholomew recommended that the wine Grene had spilled in his death throes was treated with appropriate caution, and had carried the other bottles back to Michaelhouse.

‘This is a waste of time,’ snapped Michael, glaring at the feeble glow of the fire. ‘I am the University’s Senior Proctor and one of the finest theologians in the country – do not look like that, Matt, it is true – and here I am reduced to blowing on ashes to warm my frozen feet. I have had enough of this!’

He stormed from the kitchen, leaving the startled physician alone in the chilly kitchen wondering whether he was coming back. A few moments later, Michael returned, his arms full of logs.

‘There,’ he said, setting them in the hearth and watching the flames take hold. ‘That is better. Now, all that aggravation has given me an appetite. Fetch some ale to mull, Matt, and I will see what can be salvaged from that miserable hole Agatha sees fit to call her pantry.’

He returned with several slices of fat bacon, some cheese and half a venison pie that Bartholomew knew was the personal property of Roger Alcote. The physician set the ale to mull over the now merry fire and watched Michael eat, wondering how he could, given the quantity of food he had put away at the installation feast.

‘You were giving me your impressions of Father Eligius,’ said Michael, barely understandable through a mouthful of pie. His eyes watered, and he began to cough as crumbs caught at the back of his throat from trying to eat and talk at the same time.

‘Only that I find him disconcerting,’ said Bartholomew, giving him a hefty thump on the back.

‘Father Eligius is a fine scholar,’ said Michael, swallowing the pie and jamming a sizeable chunk of bacon in his mouth. ‘He has disconcerted some of the finest minds in the western world with his logic and theories.’

‘I was not referring to his intellect,’ said Bartholomew, pulling his stool as close to the fire as possible and holding his frozen hands near the dancing flames. ‘I find his attitude to Grene’s death unsettling.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael, surprised. ‘His reaction seemed perfectly reasonable to me, given what Grene had confided the day before.’

Bartholomew pondered as he watched Michael sit in Agatha’s chair, accompanied by a medley of grunts and sighs as he settled himself comfortably. ‘I suppose it was the casual way he revealed that Grene was in fear of his life. Had you confided to me that you were afraid someone would kill you, and you were poisoned within a day, I would be a little more vocal about it.’

‘With Bingham there?’ asked Michael, stretching his sandalled feet towards the fire. ‘That probably would have caused exactly the kind of confrontation Valence Marie needs to avoid. Bingham would have denied the accusation vehemently – perhaps even violently.’

Bartholomew was silent, thinking. ‘The same kind of poisoned wine was used to kill both Armel and Grene. We know Armel bought his from a man in a tavern, but how could Bingham have acquired some – today of all days, when his every moment would have been filled with preparations for the installation? Surely Eligius, as a logician, can see that is unlikely.’

‘Your own logic is failing you, my friend,’ said Michael. ‘It is entirely possible that this wine-seller sold claret to both Bingham and Armel. Perhaps not today, but maybe yesterday or last week. Bingham might have had no idea that the stuff was poisoned and it might be mere coincidence that Grene was the victim.’

‘Do you honestly believe that Bingham bought a bottle of wine – just the one, mind you, since your own search revealed that there was not another like it in the hall – and it just happened to be poisoned and just happened to end up being consumed by his arch-enemy, Grene?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.

Michael rubbed the rough whiskers on his chin and answered with a question of his own. ‘Do you think Bingham murdered Grene? You told Eligius you did not think he had the presence of mind, despite the fact that it was your observation of the convenience of Grene’s death to Bingham that brought Eligius from the shadows in the first place.’

Bartholomew raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘All I think at the moment is that we have insufficient evidence to say whether Bingham is guilty or not. To be honest, I would not imagine he would have the audacity to kill his rival in full view of most of the town, but desire for power leads men to desperate acts, as we both know from past experience.’

‘Eligius was right when he said the taint of murder will hang about Bingham regardless of whether he is guilty or innocent,’ mused Michael. ‘Even if he is acquitted, he will be hard pushed to rule Valence Marie as Master. Quite aside from the bitter division between supporters of Grene and supporters of Bingham, there is the fact that half the scholars are convinced that horrible hand Thorpe found last year is a sacred relic, while half have the sense to see that it is a fake.’

‘I thought any faith in the relic’s authenticity would have been destroyed when we proved that the man to whom the hand was said to belong was in possession of a full complement of limbs,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Eligius must be out of his mind to continue to think the thing is genuine!’

Michael shrugged. ‘I agree. But you know how people are once they believe in something – all the evidence in the world will not shake their faith. You must have seen that gleam of fanaticism in Eligius’s eyes when he spoke about the bones.’

‘But if Bingham killed Grene because Grene believed in the authenticity of the relic, that would make Bingham a fanatic, too, and he is scarcely that. He is stuffy and pedantic, but not a zealot.’

Michael was about to reply when the door opened and a chill blast of rain-laden wind gusted into the kitchen, making the fire glow and roar. Cynric, Bartholomew’s Welsh book-bearer, entered with the nightporter behind him.

‘There you are, boy,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew. ‘Walter here has been looking for you.’

The porter pushed Cynric out of the way and strode into the kitchen. Walter’s perpetual bad temper was legendary and, during the nine years Bartholomew had been a Fellow of Michaelhouse, he had never seen Walter smile except at someone else’s misfortune.

‘You are not supposed to be in here!’ accused Walter. ‘The Master said scholars are not allowed in the kitchens any more.’

‘When Walter saw you were not in your room, he came to wake me, thinking you had gone out again,’ explained Cynric. He looked sly. ‘Although how he thought you could have left the College without being seen, I cannot imagine.’ The porter glowered. Besides his reputation for surliness, Walter was also known for sleeping on duty, and most scholars knew that they could break the curfew and slip in and out of College at will when Walter was guarding the main gates.

His morose gaze fastened on the cheerful fire. ‘Where did you get those logs?’ he demanded. He turned to Michael and pointed an accusatory finger. ‘You stole them! You stole them from Master Alcote’s personal supply in the stables!’

‘I am a man of the cloth,’ said Michael, rising to his feet in indignant outrage. ‘I do not steal!’

‘It was him, then!’ shouted Walter, spinning round to indicate Bartholomew. ‘He pinched poor Master Alcote’s logs – he is always complaining about how cold the College is, and so he decided to build himself a blaze in the middle of the night when there was no one else around to witness his crime. Master Alcote paid me a penny to protect those logs, and now he will want it back!’

‘Give it to him, then,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Matt told me you were nowhere to be seen when he borrowed the firewood from the stable. You do not deserve Alcote’s penny.’

‘What do you want, Walter?’ asked Bartholomew, standing and stretching his back. ‘It has been a long day and I am tired.’

‘You will not be enjoying your warm bed for a while yet,’ said Walter spitefully. ‘A messenger just came from Gonville Hall. Father Philius is sick and has sent for you.’ He gestured towards the door where the rain could be seen falling heavily. ‘You will get soaked,’ he added smugly.

‘Philius?’ said Bartholomew, startled. Father Philius was a physician who deplored the use of surgery and was one of Bartholomew’s most rabid critics over his unorthodox methods. The Franciscan must be ill indeed to resort to requesting Bartholomew’s help.

‘The messenger said you were to hurry,’ said Walter, putting his hand out of the door to test the strength of the rain with an expression as near to a smile as he ever came.

‘I will come with you,’ said Cynric, standing and reaching for the cloak that hung on a hook in the fireplace.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, picking up his own cloak and hunting about for his new gloves. ‘There is no need for us both to get wet. Go back to bed.’

Cynric swung the woollen garment round his shoulders. ‘The streets are far from safe for a single man. You will do better with me along.’

There was no disputing that. Since the plague, the price of food had risen dramatically and was beyond the means of many people. Bands of men simply defied the law, realising they could fare better by theft and robbery than by honest labour. Added to these were veterans from King Edward’s temporarily suspended wars with France, heroes who expected more from their country than a return to virtual slavery in the fields. Travelling had always been dangerous, but since the onset of winter the outlaws had become bolder and had started to attack the town itself, darting in from the Fens to take what they wanted and disappearing again before the Sheriff’s men could catch them. Cynric spoke the truth when he said the streets were unsafe for a single man and, although he was too tactful to say so, especially one with Bartholomew’s inferior fighting skills.

Bartholomew set off across the muddy yard with Cynric and Michael behind him. He made a brief detour to lock the four bottles of wine in the little storeroom where he kept his medicines, after which he secured the door carefully and tied the key onto his belt. As he left, he saw Michael give the door a surreptitious rattle to satisfy himself that it was firmly locked. They exchanged a glance: Michael was right to be cautious with the deadly brew and, once again, Bartholomew wondered who could have a reason to unleash such a hideous potion on the University’s scholars.

Outside, the rain was falling in great sheets, and Walter grumbled and cursed as he hauled the bar from the wicket gate to let them out. Fortunately, Philius’s room at Gonville Hall was a mere stone’s throw from Michaelhouse, but even as they walked the short distance, Bartholomew thought he saw a shadow move in the bushes to the side of the road. He drew one of the surgical knives he carried in his medicine bag and saw that Cynric already held his dagger.

‘They thought better of it when they saw we were armed,’ said Cynric after a moment, glancing behind him.

‘They?’ queried Bartholomew. ‘I only saw one.’

‘There were three of them,’ said Cynric confidently. ‘They must be desperate because they will be lucky to catch anyone abroad on such a foul night, except the Sheriff’s men.’

Cynric had been born and bred in the mountains of north Wales, and prided himself on his clandestine skills – especially prowling undetected in the dark. Indeed, he had saved Bartholomew’s life on more than one occasion, and the physician sensed Cynric was enjoying the nocturnal expedition, in spite of the rain.

He hammered on the gates of Gonville, and was admitted almost immediately by a servant who was clearly expecting him. Bartholomew had visited Father Philius in his room on several occasions – physicians in Cambridge were not so abundant that they could afford to shun each other’s company completely, even when they were as diametrically opposed as were Bartholomew and Philius. He declined the porter’s offer to guide him, and made his own way to the chamber on the ground floor in which Philius lived.

Unlike Bartholomew with his spartan room, Philius resided in considerable comfort. There was a fire crackling merrily in the hearth and the stone-flagged floor was littered with thick woollen rugs. The bed stood against the wall farthest from the window – well away from the night airs Philius considered so dangerous – while another wall boasted a line of hooks on which hung the physician’s impressive array of robes and a selection of elegant crucifixes. A lamp had pride of place on the table in the middle of the room, a luxury virtually unknown at Michaelhouse, except in the sumptuous quarters occupied by Alcote.

Bartholomew left Cynric to close the door while he went to Philius. The Franciscan was lying on his side, curled up like a child, while his own book-bearer, Isaac, fluttered about him helplessly. Philius’s breathing was not laboured, but it was strained, and sounded loud in the quiet room. Bartholomew led Isaac away from the bed.

‘How long has he been ill?’

‘All day,’ Isaac whispered back. ‘He is growing worse, and the purges he has prescribed for himself seem to be doing no good at all. He cannot even speak now.’

‘Has he eaten anything today?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Lemons, perhaps?’

Isaac looked at him askance. ‘Not that I know of. He had a goblet of watered wine this morning before mass, as is his wont, but nothing since.’

‘Where is this wine?’

Isaac gave him another curious look, but fetched the bottle obligingly. It was of dark green glass and was virtually empty, suggesting that, unless Philius’s goblet was astonishingly large, most of the wine had been consumed earlier with no ill-effects. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief. Two cases of poisoning had led him to be overly suspicious.

He knelt next to the bed and gently eased Philius onto his back so that he could examine him properly. Philius’s eyes flickered open as he was moved, but he said nothing as Bartholomew’s hands moved across his stomach. As he worked, Bartholomew glanced at Philius’s face, and saw a thin tendril of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. Isaac hastened to wipe it away, but Bartholomew stopped him and motioned for Cynric to bring the lamp closer.

Philius winced as the light came nearer and closed his eyes. On his lips were small white blisters – not as many as Bartholomew had observed on Armel and Grene, but similar in appearance. Bartholomew told Philius to open his mouth and looked inside. It was bleeding and more of the blisters were on his tongue and gums – again, not to the same extent as those he had seen in Armel and Grene, but enough to tell Bartholomew the cause of Philius’s discomfort.

By now, Philius was alert and watching him intently, fear and pain written clearly on his face.

‘What else has he swallowed today?’ Bartholomew asked of Isaac.

‘Nothing else. Just the wine.’

‘But you said he had taken purges,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Nothing other than the medicines,’ said Isaac with exaggerated tolerance. ‘Look, can you tell what is wrong with him or not? If you cannot, I think he might be better left to rest.’

‘What purges has he taken?’ snapped Bartholomew, irritated by the man’s presumption. If Bartholomew’s diagnosis was correct, leaving Philius as he was might mean leaving him to die. ‘Do you have them here?’

‘Obviously not, since he has swallowed them,’ said Isaac insolently. ‘It is not the purges that are making him ill–’

‘When did he take these purges exactly?’

Isaac sighed heavily. ‘He takes a purge every Saturday to cleanse his body from impurities. He drank the potion after he returned from mass – around dawn.’

‘And he became ill after he took it?’

Isaac thought. ‘Well, I suppose he did. He woke hale and hearty enough. He took the purge and complained that it tasted strong. He became ill shortly afterwards and has been growing steadily worse all day.’

‘Who made these purges? Jonas the Apothecary?’

‘I made them,’ said Isaac. ‘I make all of Father Philius’s medicines when I can. It is cheaper.’

‘But you are not qualified,’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘You are not an apothecary!’

‘I do not need to be an apothecary,’ said Isaac, growing angry. ‘I only need to follow Father Philius’s instructions about quantities and–’

‘I suppose one of these purges contained wine,’ interrupted Bartholomew sharply, not wishing to embark on a discussion of the ethics of Isaac’s actions while there was a chance of saving Philius if he acted quickly.

‘Well, yes. The wine helps to take away the unpleasant taste of the herbs.’

‘And did you use this wine to make the purges that Philius drank?’ asked Bartholomew, holding up the green bottle.

‘Of course not! I do not put best Italian wine in medicines. It would be wasteful. I used some cheap stuff.’

‘Where is it?’ asked Bartholomew, his patience beginning to fray. He glanced at Philius, who was listening intently to the exchange, his face white with fright.

‘In the medicine room. I–’

‘Fetch it, please. But use a cloth to pick it up. Do not touch it with your hands.’

Isaac made as if to demur, but Bartholomew turned his attention back to Philius again, and the book-bearer left reluctantly.

‘Can you hear me?’ Bartholomew asked gently, kneeling next to the Franciscan.

Philius nodded that he could.

‘Today, a student drank from a bottle of wine that contained poison. He died almost immediately. Then, at Bingham’s installation feast, James Grene died from swallowing a similar poison. I have not seen anything quite like it before. It seems to work by burning – I think it causes the throat to blister and swell and so kill the victim by asphyxiation. I think you might have swallowed some of this poison, although a very mild dose or you would not still be alive. Have you heard of any other such cases before?’

Philius’s eyes widened in horror and he nodded vehemently. Bartholomew strained to hear what he was trying to say, but speech was impossible for Philius and his breathing became ragged. Bartholomew poured some of the wine from the green bottle into a cup and helped him drink it. Eventually, the friar grew calmer, but his eyes pleaded with Bartholomew that he wanted to speak.

‘If I ask you questions, can you nod or shake your head?’

Philius nodded quickly.

‘You have seen a case like the ones I described?’

A nod.

‘Yesterday?’

A shake of the head.

‘A week ago?’

Another shake of the head.

‘A month ago?’

A vigorous nod.

‘How many cases have you seen? One?’

A nod.

‘More than one?’

Philius shook his head.

‘Do you know what poison caused this?’

A shake of the head. Philius was beginning to tire.

‘Were you able to treat it? Did you save the patient?’

Philius shook his head again and closed his eyes tightly. Bartholomew patted his shoulder.

‘Believe me, Philius, I saw Grene stricken and he died almost instantly. You must have taken a very small dose of this poison since you are alive several hours after swallowing it, and there is every chance you will recover.’ Bartholomew looked away as he spoke. Lying to his patients was not something he did well but he did not want to frighten Philius into losing hope.

He wondered what the best way to proceed would be. He considered administering an emetic to force Philius to vomit the poison out of his system, but Philius had swallowed the poison hours ago and Bartholomew was sure it was too far into his innards to be brought out. He rummaged around in his bag.

‘Since this poison seems to burn, I think the best way to balance its effects is by absorbing the acid. I prescribed something for Master Mortimer much the same. He had been eating raw lemons.’

Bartholomew talked to reassure and saw the ghost of a smile play over Philius’s blistered lips as he listened to the story about Mortimer’s lemons. Bartholomew dispatched Cynric for milk, mixed as much of the fine, white chalk powder with it as he dared, and added a small amount of laudanum and some charcoal dust. Supporting Philius in the crook of his arm, he helped him swallow the potion sip by sip, a process which took so long that by the time it was finished Bartholomew’s arms ached. Philius lay back exhausted and Bartholomew watched him anxiously. He was far from certain whether his cure would work. And even if Philius did not die soon, Bartholomew wondered whether his innards would be able to heal themselves of the poison’s lesions.

Eventually, Philius slept and Bartholomew went to sit near the fire to wait with Cynric. Neither spoke, but sat in companionable silence, staring into the flames.

‘Isaac is taking a long time,’ said Cynric eventually, in a whisper so as not to waken the sleeping Franciscan. ‘I will slip out and have a look for him.’

Bartholomew left the fire and went to check on Philius. It might have been his imagination, but he thought the Franciscan’s breathing seemed easier. Round his lips, the blisters seemed less raw where the chalky-grey milk had stained them, and Bartholomew felt his hopes rising.

Within moments, Cynric was back, his expression anxious. ‘You had better come and see this for yourself,’ he said unsteadily.

Mystified, Bartholomew followed Cynric across the yard to the cellar-like room where Philius kept his medicines. Judging from the bundles of herbs that hung from the roof and the neatly stacked sacks of flour at the far end, it seemed Philius shared his medicine room with the cook. At first, Bartholomew could not see why Cynric had dragged him away from the warm fire. And then he became aware of a regular creaking sound. Bartholomew looked upwards to the rafters where the bunches of herbs were hanging – along with the lifeless body of Isaac.