A Deadly Brew

by Susanna GREGORY

  Perhaps some of the lay sisters had their menfolk into the kitchens to give them food, he thought, for even in the Fens, where fish and fowl were more abundant than elsewhere, food was still scarce and hideously expensive for the honest labourer. Or perhaps the explanation was less innocent, and some of the lay sisters, or even nuns, entertained men under cover of darkness. But regardless, Julianna’s suspicions were scarcely something with which to bother the Sheriff.

  ‘The wisest course of action for you to take would be to tell your aunt of your concerns and observations, and let her decide what to do about it,’ he said eventually.

  ‘You are worthless!’ shouted Julianna with sudden vehemence, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I should have known better than to trust you.’

  Her furious words woke Dame Pelagia, who blinked in confusion at the scene in front of her. Julianna shoved Bartholomew away and fled from the room.

  ‘And you should not be there!’ he heard her yell, presumably to the person who had been trying to listen outside the door. He went to look, but there was no one to be seen.

  ‘What ails Julianna?’ asked Dame Pelagia, standing unsteadily. Her eyes widened accusingly. ‘You did not seduce her while I was dozing?’

  ‘Of course I did not!’ said Bartholomew half indignant and half startled by the old nun’s forthrightness. ‘She is angry because she did not like the advice I gave her.’

  He helped the old lady down the stairs and they entered the Abbess’s solar again. She and Michael were positioned most decorously, she standing at the window, and he still sitting in the chair by the fire. He stood as Bartholomew entered with Dame Pelagia and offered her the chair.

  ‘Have you worked out a course of treatment for my niece’s ailment?’ asked the Abbess. ‘Or will I need to ask Thomas Deschalers to house her until I find her another convent in a more healthy part of the country? I was alarmed when she told me of her condition yesterday. It is not good for a person so young to have such complaints.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said Bartholomew. He was saved from having to answer further by the sound of the bell ringing to call the nuns to sext. The Abbess moved from the window and offered her hand to Michael, who hastened to take it in his.

  ‘Thank you for your company, Brother,’ she said. ‘You have been most charming and entertaining. You are welcome to join us for sext, if you like.’

  Michael caught Bartholomew’s look that he wanted to talk and said, with some reluctance, that he would say his offices at the prie-dieu in the guesthall. With a gracious smile, the Abbess took her leave, followed by Dame Pelagia, while the lay sister conducted Bartholomew and Michael out of the convent proper and back to their lodgings.

  ‘Are you still in one piece?’ asked Cynric anxiously, looking up from the fire in front of which he had been drowsing. ‘I thought those women intended some serious mischief.’

  ‘Some of them did,’ said Michael slyly, looking at Bartholomew out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Not to the same extent as you,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘Your lecherous attentions had that poor Abbess in a terrible quandary.’

  ‘Matthew, Matthew!’ said Michael in hurt tones. ‘What do you think I am? I have sworn a vow of chastity.’ The gleam in his green eyes was anything but chaste.

  ‘Really?’ said Bartholomew. ‘And how well do you keep it?’

  ‘That, my dear physician, is none of your business,’ said Michael with a smug smile. ‘But I can assure you I was nothing but decorous and gallant with that noble lady, the Abbess.’

  Bartholomew looked at him sharply, but was unable to determine whether he was telling the truth. Michael’s eyes shone with something other than their usual salaciousness, and Bartholomew hoped the monk did not imagine himself in love. If he did, the situation was bound to end in tragedy for Michael, if not for the Abbess.

  Briefly, he told Michael what Julianna had said, but the monk dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Silly girl! The nuns ought to warn her about her behaviour. She was lucky it was you she enticed up into her secluded chambers, and not some lout who would have taken advantage of her.’

  ‘What about what she says she overheard last night?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘You were right to have misgivings: she probably made it up to force you to take her to Cambridge. It is a clever tactic – what better way to make someone do what you want than to prey on his fears? You have just been viciously attacked and almost killed in the Fens, and so she warns you that it might happen again. Most men would be gone already!’

  ‘Then we should go,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘There is a remote chance she is telling the truth and I want to return to Michaelhouse anyway.’

  ‘Your leg needs more rest,’ said Michael, after a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘It does not!’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the feebleness of the excuse to stay.

  ‘It is too late,’ said Michael, studying the sky through the open shutters. ‘If we set off now, it will be dark by the time we reach Cambridge and it would be dangerous to be on the road then.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are at least four hours of daylight left and we can easily walk the eight miles to Cambridge before dusk.’

  ‘Walk?’ squawked Michael in horror. ‘I cannot walk eight miles!’

  ‘It will do you good, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing Michael’s substantial girth critically. ‘You need some exercise.’

  ‘I still feel weak from my experiences in the Fens,’ said Michael, putting a flabby hand to his forehead. ‘And I think I might have twisted my ankle.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘I am good with twisted ankles.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Just one more night, Matt!’ he pleaded. ‘One more! And then I will return to Cambridge with you. I will even walk if you so demand. But let us stay here one more night!’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Do you have a tryst with the Abbess? I would advise against it if you do, Brother. No good can come of such an affair.’

  ‘You sully that good lady’s name,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Of course I have no tryst with her. She is a holy, decent woman.’ He turned abruptly on his heel, and went to sit in one of the window seats at the opposite end of the hall, staring morosely out at the misty marshes.

  Bartholomew exchanged a look of incomprehension with Cynric, who had watched the scene with considerable interest.

  ‘Is he in love with this Abbess?’ whispered Cynric, looking at Michael uncertainly.

  ‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew. He sighed and paced restlessly. ‘We are wasting time here, Cynric. If Gray fails his disputation a second time, he will have to repeat an entire year of studying. And that is something neither of us wants!’

  ‘You work too hard, boy,’ said Cynric. He gestured to the fire. ‘Where is there a welcoming hearth like this in Michaelhouse? Just draw up a stool and enjoy it while you can.’

  Reluctantly, Bartholomew saw Cynric was right. Michael clearly had no intention of leaving Denny that day – although what could be keeping him except the possibility of an encounter with the Abbess, Bartholomew could not imagine – and he could not leave the fat monk behind. He perched on a stool and poked at the fire with a stick, watching sparks fly up the chimney. He realised there was a residual stiffness in his limbs from his night in the Fens and the rest would do him good – then they would be able to make better time on the road to Cambridge at first light the next morning.

  The lay sister tapped tentatively on the door and entered, bearing a tray that was so heavily laden with food that Bartholomew, not anticipating such weight, almost dropped it when he hurried forward to help. Michael smacked his lips appreciatively at the large game pie, while Bartholomew ate the excellent bread, baked that day in the convent’s own kitchens. Fresh bread was a rare commodity in Michaelhouse, where stale flour was usually used because it was cheaper. There was also some firm yellow cheese, a pat of creamy
butter, a little dish of something covered by a linen cloth, and three oranges. Bartholomew picked up one of the fruits and turned it over in his hand.

  ‘I have not seen one of these for years,’ he said. It was wizened and hard after its long journey from Spain or Italy, and probably long past its best. But to see an orange at all in the Fens in winter was remarkable.

  Cynric eyed it with suspicion. ‘I heard those things poisoned Master Mortimer the baker.’

  ‘That was lemons,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Oranges should not poison anyone. Try some.’

  Cynric shook his head quickly and turned his attention back to his bread and cheese. Michael poked suspiciously at the green and lumpy substance in the small dish covered by the linen.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked with some disgust. ‘It looks like something terrible has been done to a vegetable – and you know how I feel about vegetables.’

  ‘Pickled eels and samphire,’ said Bartholomew, recalling Stanmore bringing some as a gift for Edith many years before. His sister had eaten it only because she wanted to please her husband, and had paid for her courtesy by spending most of the night being sick. The next time Stanmore had presented some to her she had shown the good sense to feed it to the cat. ‘It is considered a great delicacy and is very expensive. We should be honoured the abbey is sharing such a dish with us.’

  ‘You eat it, then,’ said Michael, pushing it towards Bartholomew after a brief and decisive sniff. ‘It smells rank.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Brother. It tastes a good deal worse than it smells. That is why it is produced in such small quantities: like most delicacies, if it were common, no one would eat it. Oswald told me the King has a liking for pickled eels and samphire, and so, of course, it can be found in the houses of most people who consider themselves fashionable.’

  Michael offered it to Cynric, who speared a piece of eel with his dagger and put it in his mouth. He spat it out again immediately, and pulled a face of such utter disgust that Michael and Bartholomew began to laugh.

  ‘That is quite horrible,’ said the Welshman, after he had taken a healthy swig of ale to wash away the flavour. ‘It tastes like bitter medicine! Far from being honoured, I would say the abbey is trying to get rid of us! You can keep your local delicacies, boy. We Welsh know how to cook seaweed better than that.’

  ‘Seaweed?’ whispered Michael, aghast. ‘They have given us seaweed?’

  ‘A particular type,’ said Bartholomew, feeling guilty that they were being uncharitable over the nuns’ generous attempt to provide them with extravagant foods. ‘It is not just any old weed picked up from the shores.’

  ‘That makes no difference, Matt,’ said Michael sagely, placing the dish as far away from him as possible. ‘Seaweed is seaweed and we should not eat it. It is not natural. We are not crabs!’

  Bartholomew smiled and went back to poking the fire while the others finished their dinner. Despite Michael’s recovered humour, Bartholomew remained apprehensive about his determination that they stay in Denny for another night. He was certain that whatever it was that made him so insistent had nothing to do with the poisoned wine, or the attempt on their lives. Michael, thought Bartholomew, would not win his much-desired promotion from the Bishop if he indulged in a love affair with the Abbess of Denny!

  Bartholomew awoke with a start to find a hand clamped firmly over his mouth. He was about to struggle when he saw Cynric’s profile etched in the faint light from the embers of the fire. He relaxed and the hand was removed. When he had grown bored with sitting by the fire, he had fallen asleep on his bed and the room was now quite dark. He wondered what time it could be: he could hear no sounds coming from the convent and the guesthall was totally silent. He sat up on the bed and watched Cynric buckling his dagger to his belt.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

  Cynric edged nearer so that his voice would not carry. ‘Michael has gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’ Bartholomew stood up and went towards Michael’s bed, a pointless action since Cynric had just informed him that Michael was no longer there. He rubbed his eyes and tried to force himself to be more alert.

  ‘Shh! I do not know. He went out a few moments ago. Should I follow him?’ He drew his cloak around his shoulders in anticipation.

  ‘We both will,’ whispered Bartholomew, after a moment of indecision. He could sense Cynric’s disapproval, but the Welshman kept his thoughts to himself. Bartholomew knew Cynric had a low opinion of his abilities to creep around undetected in the dark, but it was only Michael they were following and, if anything, Michael was even worse at stealth than was Bartholomew.

  Absently slipping his medicines bag over his shoulder, he followed Cynric through the door.

  ‘Why are you bringing that?’ hissed Cynric, pulling at it in the dark. ‘It will be in the way.’

  Bartholomew shrugged: taking his bag was so instinctive, he had not even realised he had done it. His teacher, Ibn Ibrahim at the University in Paris, had taught him he should never be without it, not even in the bath. Bath! All very well in the civilised countries to the east, but Bartholomew had only ever seen one bath-house in England, and that was in the former villa of a Roman nobleman and had fallen into ruin many centuries before. It was all Bartholomew could do to persuade people to give their hands the most cursory of rinses before eating, despite the fact that he was sure it would prevent a veritable host of intestinal disorders if they did.

  He forced his mind away from the perennial problems of medicine and back to Cynric’s silent shadow moving ahead of him. Michael was nowhere to be seen, but Cynric led the way unhesitatingly around the side of the guesthall and into the gardens behind the church. An empty snail shell crunched loudly under Bartholomew’s foot, making Cynric glance back at him with a weary look of warning to take more care.

  The temperature had fallen dramatically with the coming of clearer weather, and the ground underfoot was crisp with rime. For the first time in many weeks, the stars could be seen glittering between the occasional drifting cloud and Bartholomew paused to gaze upwards before an impatient tug on his sleeve set him following Cynric through the fruit trees and rows of kitchen vegetables. Bartholomew shivered in the cold, and wished he had brought his cloak.

  At first, he thought Cynric’s instincts must have been wrong and that Michael had traipsed off elsewhere in the darkness. But then he saw a movement and there was Michael, all but invisible in his black habit. He appeared to be waiting for someone, because he paced back and forth with an agitation Bartholomew had seldom seen in the sardonic monk. Bartholomew began to have serious misgivings over spying on his friend, for it was apparent from his demeanour that Michael was not meeting just anybody: he was anxious and tense and Bartholomew had attended enough nocturnal meetings with Michael to know he was not easily unsettled from his habitual complacency.

  ‘Come on,’ said the physician softly, pulling at Cynric’s sleeve. ‘This is not right. We should not be spying on Michael and his lady-love.’

  Wordlessly, Cynric led the way out of the garden and back towards the guesthall. When he stopped, it was so sudden that Bartholomew bumped into him from behind. Cynric raised his hand to warn him not to speak, but Bartholomew had already seen the dark shadow flitting along the side of the guesthall. The nun looked around carefully, before moving soundlessly through the fruit trees to where Michael waited. Cynric drew Bartholomew into the shadows until she had passed, and then led the way back to the guesthall door. He fiddled with the handle.

  ‘Hurry up!’ said Bartholomew, shivering. ‘It is cold out here. It is all very well for you – you have your cloak, but I do not.’

  ‘It is locked,’ muttered Cynric. He stood back and studied the handle, perplexed.

  ‘It cannot be,’ whispered Bartholomew impatiently. ‘Let me try.’

  He fumbled around with the handle, and pushed and pulled at the door, but Cynric was right: someone had locked it.

  ‘How very odd,’ he said
, looking at Cynric’s silhouette in the darkness. ‘Do you think someone broke in to search our belongings?’

  ‘If it were me, I would not lock the door while I was inside,’ answered Cynric softly. ‘It might interfere with a hasty escape.’

  Puzzled, Bartholomew followed Cynric around to the side of the building to assess the chances of climbing through a window – they could hardly knock on the abbey door in the depths of night and say they had locked themselves out.

  Cynric froze suddenly, motioning for Bartholomew not to move. There were two people kneeling at the foot of the wall below the window in the guesthall. Bartholomew peered into the darkness, trying to see what they were doing, but all he could see was their bent backs and something dark on the floor. Then there was a blaze of light and the two figures leapt to their feet. Both held a flaring torch in each hand. Bewildered, Bartholomew watched as one stood back and hurled the flaming missile upwards and towards the window. Leaving a trail of light behind it, the torch dipped and disappeared with a tinkle of breaking glass. The first torch was followed by a second and then a third. The fourth missed, and had to be retrieved and thrown again.

  Cynric eased Bartholomew further back into the shadows as the two figures darted towards them, and watched them run out of the nunnery grounds through the gate next to the vegetable garden. Bartholomew was unable to take his eyes from the flames licking up inside the guesthall.

  ‘Damn!’ he whispered. ‘My cloak is in there, and so are my new gloves. Just when I was beginning to like them!’

  ‘I have your gloves here,’ said Cynric, pushing them into Bartholomew’s hand. ‘I borrowed them yesterday when I went to look for Egil.’

  Numbly, Bartholomew put them on. He jumped and ducked as one of the windows blew out suddenly in a roar of flames, sending glass showering onto the ground below.

  ‘We are meant to be in there,’ Cynric whispered, stating the obvious. ‘That door was locked so that we could not get out.’

  ‘But we could still have jumped through the windows,’ said Bartholomew.