A Deadly Brew mb-4

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew exchanged an uneasy glance with Cynric, and a chilling sense that all was not as it should be gripped at him as he followed Michael inside.

  The porter’s lodge was in darkness, and Michael’s mutterings and irritable sighs as he fumbled with a tinder were loud in the still room. As Michael’s candle finally flared into light, Bartholomew braced himself for the unpleasant sight he was sure would greet them.

  Walter lay on the floor, swathed in a blanket and bound with ropes at the feet, waist and elbows. The porter’s own hood had been rolled lengthways and tied firmly around his head to prevent him from raising the alarm. Michael stared in horror and Bartholomew had to push him out of the way so that he could begin sawing through the ropes to set Walter free.

  He was relieved when the porter started to whimper. At least he was alive. The ropes had been tied securely, and it was some time before Bartholomew was able to loosen them all sufficiently to pull the blanket away.

  Terrified eyes greeted him. Walter gazed at Bartholomew for a moment and then began to look about him wildly.

  ‘Are they still here? They said they would kill me if I moved before dawn!’

  ‘Who?’ asked Bartholomew, helping Walter to a stool. He went into the small adjoining chamber in search of the jug of stolen ale he knew he would find there. He poured some into a grimy clay goblet and handed it to Walter. The porter gulped it noisily and held out the cup for more.

  ‘The men who came,’ he said. ‘They asked me which was your room and which was Brother Michael’s, and then they trussed me up like a Michaelmas goose! They said if I tried to go for help or made a sound before dawn, they would kill me!’

  ‘Who were these men? Did you recognise them?’ asked Michael.

  Predictably, Walter shook his head. ‘I was asleep …’ he faltered, and gazed up at the scholars, aghast at his unintentional admission of guilt.

  Michael gave a snort of disgust. ‘Tell us what we do not know, not what we do.’

  ‘I was resting my eyes in the dark, and the next thing I knew was that there was a blanket over my head. I started to yell and struggle, but a man’s voice said that if I did not shut up, he would strangle me. He asked which rooms were yours and then tied me up.’ He took another hearty gulp of ale and looked about him fearfully. ‘This town is becoming too dangerous for law-abiding folk.’

  ‘And I suppose you told him where our rooms were,’ said Michael, looking down at him disdainfully, his large arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Too right I did!’ exploded Walter, puffing himself up with righteous indignation. ‘They would have killed me if I had been difficult with them. And what does it matter, anyway? Neither of you owns anything worth stealing.’

  ‘But there are potent medicines in my storeroom,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘They might be used to injure or even kill.’

  ‘And I have a great many belongings that are of considerable value,’ said Michael, offended. ‘Besides my priceless illustrated books, I have a fine collection of gold crucifixes and a pair of silver candlesticks from the Holy City.’

  ‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. ‘You have never shown them to me.’

  ‘You are not supposed to own that kind of thing!’ retorted Walter belligerently. ‘You are a monk who has taken a vow of poverty.’

  ‘You are confusing Benedictines with Franciscans,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘I have taken no such vow. And anyway, what I own is none of your affair. What is, however, is that you have failed miserably in your duty-’

  He was interrupted by Cynric, who appeared breathlessly in the doorway. ‘When Walter said the robbers asked about your rooms, I slipped off to see if they were still there,’ he began.

  ‘And were they?’ demanded Michael, angry at himself that time had been wasted with Walter when he might have caught the thieves.

  Cynric shook his head. ‘Your room is untouched,’ he said to Michael. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘But the chest in your room has been turned inside out and the lock on the medicine room forced. As far as a glance can tell, nothing has been stolen. Except the poisoned wine.’

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘All of it?’ he asked. ‘All four bottles?’

  Cynric nodded. ‘Every last one of them. They must have searched his bedchamber first and then forced the lock on the medicine store. The bottles were not hidden and so they would have been easy to steal once the thieves had gained access to it.’

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘Now we cannot prove that Armel and Grene were killed with the same substance.’

  ‘You can always compare the lesions on the corpses,’ said Michael. ‘Those little blisters you were inspecting so keenly should be proof enough. Anyway, we both had a good look at all four bottles, and they appeared to be the same. I would say that is evidence enough — our testimonies should stand in a court of law.’

  ‘This is the second time I have been attacked because of you,’ said Walter in an accusatory tone. ‘It was only a couple of years back that some other villain almost killed me in order to get to one of you two.’

  ‘And this is the second time you have failed me,’ retorted Michael, unmoved. ‘You did not protect me from the scoundrel who wanted to break into my chamber to deliver that satanic regalia two years ago, and tonight you have allowed intruders to make off with vital evidence that might help me unmask a murderer.’

  ‘But you just told Bartholomew that your spoken testimony would do, since the bottles have been stolen,’ objected Walter. ‘Do not try to browbeat me into feeling guilty!’

  ‘He is Doctor Bartholomew to you!’ barked Michael. ‘And how did these intruders enter the College anyway? The gate should have been barred from the inside.’

  Walter opened his mouth to answer, exchanged a glance with Cynric, and snapped it shut again.

  ‘It is better to be honest, Walter,’ said Cynric unsympathetically. ‘You will be found out eventually anyway.’

  ‘Thank you, Cynric,’ said Walter heavily, favouring the Welshman with a venomous glare. ‘Do I look like I need your advice?’

  ‘You did not bar the wicket-gate after we left earlier,’ said Bartholomew, frowning as he tried to remember. ‘I think I would have heard you. You left it undone, so that you would not have to get up to unlock it again when we returned.’

  Walter refused to look at him, and sat stiffly, chin jutting out and arms folded.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Michael of Cynric. ‘Was the door barred when you came back to fetch me after you found Isaac dead?’

  Cynric shook his head.

  ‘The intruders left it open after they escaped with your wine,’ said Walter with sudden inspiration. ‘You three are out to get me into trouble with the Master. It was not me who left the gate open when Cynric found it; it was the men who stole your wine!’

  ‘Lies!’ snapped Michael. ‘The intruders must have arrived after Cynric summoned me to Gonville. I am a light sleeper and would have heard someone ransacking Matt’s room — or mine. You left the wicket door open all night — from the time Matt was summoned to attend Philius, in fact!’

  ‘Oh, Walter!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, disgusted at the porter’s feeble attempts to vindicate himself. ‘You know these are dangerous times. How could you jeopardise the College and the scholars you are paid to protect when you know very well there are outlaws at large, just to avoid a few moments out in the rain.’

  ‘I do not even have a decent cloak,’ whined Walter, trying to shift the blame. ‘How can I be expected to go out on so foul a night with no proper clothing?’

  ‘Would you care to exchange yours for mine?’ asked Bartholomew sweetly, knowing that Walter had recently bought a very fine cloak that was far better than anything Bartholomew had ever owned.

  Walter leaned forward acquisitively and felt the material of Bartholomew’s cloak between thumb and forefinger. ‘No,’ he said firmly, after the most superficial of examinations. ‘I will keep mine, thank you very much.’

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nbsp; ‘All this is totally unacceptable,’ said Michael, watching the exchange in disdain. ‘You are a coward and a lazy, good-for-nothing wastrel! However, in view of your unpleasant experience, I will not recommend that the Master dismiss you. But this is your last chance, Walter. One more incident like this and I will ensure you never set foot in another College for the rest of your life. Not even in Oxford!’

  Walter glowered and did not appear in the least bit grateful for Michael’s leniency. Michael favoured him with a scowl of his own and swept out, Bartholomew and Cynric at his heels.

  ‘Lord, Matt,’ said the monk, raising his face to let the rain patter down on it. ‘What a mess! Where in heaven’s name do we go from here?’

  Michael wanted to discuss the case there and then, but Bartholomew was too tired. Ignoring the fact that his few possessions were strewn across his room, he took off his sodden cloak and best gown — now sadly stained and crumpled — and climbed wearily under the blankets clad in shirt and hose. The stone-built rooms in Michaelhouse could be miserable in winter: the constant rain had caused the roof to leak and great patches of moisture blotched the walls. Bartholomew had mould growing on some of his clothes and, worse still, he had noticed the College’s few and highly treasured books had developed water stains from the damp. Even the blankets on his bed had a chill, wet feel to them. He pulled them over his head and lay shivering until he fell into an uneasy doze.

  What seemed like moments later, he was awoken by Michael vigorously shaking his shoulder and looming over him in the darkness like a great bird of prey.

  ‘What is the matter?’ he asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He glanced to the ill-fitting window shutters, through which he could see the night sky was beginning to lighten, although dawn was still some way off.

  ‘It is Sunday, Matt,’ whispered Michael. ‘It is our turn to prepare the church for mass.’

  Bartholomew groaned and flopped back onto the bed. ‘It is still the middle of the night!’

  ‘It is almost dawn and well after the time we usually rise. You know Sunday services are later than in the rest of the week.’ He gave Bartholomew an unsympathetic prod. ‘Hurry up, or we will be fined again for failing to carry out our duties.’

  Most scholars in the University — Bartholomew among them — had taken minor orders with the Church. This meant that they came under the lenient jurisdiction of Canon, rather than secular, law. Others, like Brother Michael, had taken major orders with their accompanying vow of chastity. In return, the scholars were obliged to perform a certain number of religious duties, which included officiating at masses and giving the occasional sermon. Before the plague, these duties had been light, but the Death had had a devastating impact on the friars and monks of England and it was said that almost half their number had perished. Clergy were thus in short supply and each Fellow of Michaelhouse was obliged to take services at least twice a week.

  By the time Bartholomew had dragged himself out of bed, Michael had slipped away to the kitchen for an illicit breakfast. Bartholomew washed and shaved — unevenly and inadequately, but so did most scholars whose Colleges declined to provide them with candles, but still expected them to appear neat and tidy before dawn in church — in the cold water that always stood in a jug on the floor and pulled on some clean leggings with hands that shook from the cold. He groped around in the dark until he found his best shirt and hunted down a woollen jerkin that his sister had given him for Christmas. Finally, he pulled his black scholar’s tabard over his head, ran his fingers through his hair to pull it into some kind of order, grabbed his cloak, gloves and medicine bag, and left.

  Michael was waiting for him at the gate, his mouth still full of the oatcakes he had stolen from the kitchen. They usually had to wait for Walter to wake up and open the gate for them, but the porter had apparently not slept again after Michael’s threat, because he appeared in an instant to let them out. Bartholomew asked him how he was feeling, but received only a sullen sneer for his concern.

  Clean air wafted in from the Fens, smelling of the salt sea that lapped a few miles to the north. Bartholomew inhaled deeply. Despite his reluctance to rise, he liked early mornings when the streets were quiet and the breeze was fresh. The rain had stopped too, although the lane was still a treacherous snare of potholes, patches of slick mud and ankle-wrenching irregularities concealed under a brown film of water. He walked next to Michael in companionable silence, content to save any discussion of the events of the previous day until later.

  St Michael’s Church was a square, black mass against the dark sky, its low tower dwarfed by the more elegant St Mary’s further down the High Street. Michael unlocked the doors and waited while Bartholomew began the delicate operation of kindling the church’s single, temperamental lamp.

  ‘Hurry up!’ said Michael impatiently, after a while. ‘The others will think we overslept if the church is not ready when they arrive.’

  ‘The wick is damp,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should have brought a new one. Ah — there we are!’

  He stood back in satisfaction as the lamp spluttered into life, shedding a golden light around the porch. Michael picked it up and walked to the sanctuary, his sandalled feet slapping on the newly laid tiles. Bartholomew followed, checking the level of holy water in the stoop and emptying the buckets strategically placed to catch the drips from the leaking roof. While Michael muttered lauds, Bartholomew trimmed the altar candles and found the appropriate reading for the day in the great Bible that sat on the lectern.

  As Michael finished his prayers and laid out the sacred vessels for mass, Bartholomew scraped some of the spilled candle wax from the altar with a knife and hummed to himself.

  ‘There is a dreadful stench in here,’ said Michael, wrinkling his nose in distaste and looking around him. ‘It is worse than the King’s Ditch.’

  ‘It is Master Wilson’s tomb again,’ said Bartholomew, sweeping the pared wax off the altar and onto the floor with his hand. ‘Or rather the flowers John Runham insists on leaving on it every week. He just jams the fresh ones into the vase without bothering to change the water or throw the dead ones away.’

  Michael strolled to the side of the chancel that housed the late Master Wilson’s neat black tomb, laid a hand on it and grinned. ‘Runham was complaining yet again about this at the installation feast. He said you have done his noble cousin a terrible dishonour by providing him with such a plain grave, and claims Master Wilson was a great man who deserves a finer memorial than a crude slab of marble devoid of all decoration.’

  ‘It is decorated!’ protested Bartholomew, who had been responsible for having Wilson’s tomb built, and for transferring the mouldering bones from their temporary home in the graveyard to their final resting place near St Michael’s altar. He came to stand next to Michael, and leaned against the black stone as he trimmed the wick of a candle with his knife. ‘It has knots carved on it. And Wilson was not a great man! He was a smug and arrogant-’

  ‘At least have the decency not to sit on his grave while you malign him!’ admonished Michael, amused. ‘But last night, Runham announced his intention to rectify your insult to the saintly Wilson: he plans to mount your inadequate efforts with a gilded life-sized effigy.’

  ‘A gold statue of Wilson in our chancel?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast. He gazed at the simple, but beautiful lines of the arches and windows, and tried to imagine the dead Master’s smug features presiding over them through a mask of precious metal. It was not a pleasant vision. ‘How could he inflict such a vile thing on this lovely building!’

  ‘With a good deal of money and a total lack of taste,’ said Michael. He patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Matt. I will do all in my power to prevent this crime against architecture — even if it means buying all the gold leaf in Cambridge myself to thwart him. We must protect our town from men like him, or before we know it, some Colleges will take advantage of our tolerance, and will do something totally dreadful — like raisi
ng imitation Greek temples all along the river.’

  Bartholomew laughed, and went to empty the stinking water from the heavy pewter vase that always sat on Wilson’s grave. He tossed the rotting flowers out of the door, and scrubbed the green slime from the vessel with a handful of wet grass.

  ‘At least the rain has stopped,’ said Michael conversationally when he walked back inside, carefully laying a tiny piece of bread on the silver paten. ‘All this wet must be the cause of the winter fever among your patients who live near the river. Living near the Cam and being deluged with constant rain must have over-saturated them, and destroyed the balance of their humours.’

  Bartholomew leaned his elbows on the altar, his duties forgotten at the prospect of a discussion about medicine. ‘I think the swollen river has somehow invaded their drinking water. The people using the well in the Market Square seem unaffected, but those using the one in Water Lane are falling victim to this intestinal sickness.

  ‘Then tell them to use the market well instead,’ said Michael with a shrug.

  Bartholomew grimaced. ‘I have, Brother. But they do not see why something as simple as water should make them so ill. They show me a cup of clear river, and ask me to show them the contagion in it. When I tell them the contagion might be too small for us to see, they cross themselves like a gaggle of frightened nuns and call me a heretic.’

  ‘I do not understand why you waste your time with ingrates,’ said Michael, pouring wine into the chalice, downing it in a gulp and pouring a second measure. ‘You could be making a fortune with the wealthy merchants in the town and, instead, you choose to frequent the hovels.’

  It was not the first time he had been told this. But Bartholomew did not want to spend his days examining the urine of healthy people or working out complex astrological charts for treatments they did not need. He wanted to cure genuine diseases and treat victims with wounds who might otherwise die. He had learned his medicine from an Arab physician at the University of Paris, an unusual choice of master, which was reflected in his unorthodox treatments and diagnoses.