A Poisonous Plot

Susanna Gregory A Poisonous Plot

PROLOGUE

Barnwell Priory, near Cambridge, September 1358

Nigellus de Thornton eyed the dying Augustinian dispassionately. What had started as a mild fever a month ago had gradually progressed to violent stomach cramps, agonising headaches and a debilitating weakness. Nigellus had been a physician for many years and he knew the signs: John Wrattlesworth would not live to see another dawn.

‘He has eaten nothing for days,’ whispered Prior Ralph de Norton, hovering anxiously on the other side of the bed. He was fond of Wrattlesworth and was distressed by his plight — Wrattlesworth had been a kindly and unassuming presence at Barnwell for nearly three quarters of a century, and Norton had not forgotten the older man’s support and guidance when he himself had first come to rule. ‘And he has drunk nothing but your medicine and our elderflower wine.’

Nigellus winced on Wrattlesworth’s behalf. The Augustinian canons were very proud of the acidic brews they fermented themselves, although few who tasted them thought they had cause to be. ‘How much elderflower wine?’

‘One or two cups a day. The vintage this year is unusually fine, and we hoped a few sips of such sweet nectar would help him rally.’

‘Christ God,’ muttered Nigellus. He cleared his throat. ‘What about the remedies I prescribed? Has he had those?’

‘Of course — every electuary, tonic, infusion and decoction. Yet still he continues to sink.’ Norton’s voice cracked as he added pleadingly, ‘Do you have nothing that works?’

Nigellus was affronted. ‘The fault does not lie with my medicines. If they have not done what was expected, it is because they have been improperly applied.’ He raised an imperious hand when the Prior began to object. ‘We shall try Gilbert Water next. However, it is costly — it contains crabs’ eyes, ambergris, ground pearls and other expensive ingredients.’

‘I care nothing for the price, not if it makes him well again. But perhaps we should summon another physician. Cambridge is less than two miles away, and Bartholomew at Michaelhouse or Rougham of Gonville Hall would-’

‘Neither will do anything that I have not already tried,’ said Nigellus shortly. He was tired of hearing about the University’s medici and their legendary skills. He had more experience than Bartholomew and Rougham put together, and considered himself by far the superior practitioner. ‘Besides, one is away and the other is far too busy to trail all the way out here.’

Unhappily, Norton watched him write more instructions for the apothecary. Nigellus exuded the arrogant confidence that was often found in members of the medical profession, but Norton was far from convinced that the man’s hubris was justified, and heartily wished one of the College men had been available instead. When Nigellus had finished, Norton escorted him to the gate.

‘I understand you will become a member of the University yourself this term,’ he said, good manners compelling him to make polite conversation, despite the apathy he felt towards the man. ‘You have been offered a post in Zachary Hostel, and will leave our village to take it up.’

‘Yes,’ said Nigellus, gratified that the Prior had heard about his good fortune. After all, what greater acknowledgement of his abilities than to be courted by one of the studium generale’s richest and most respected foundations? ‘New patients from the town will flock to me, of course, but I shall not abandon my old ones.’

‘Oh, I am so glad.’ Norton tried to inject a note of grateful enthusiasm into his voice, but did not succeed, and received a sharp glare in return.

Nigellus climbed on his horse. Although Barnwell was tiny, comprising just the priory, a few cottages and a leper hospital, he would never demean himself by making his rounds on foot. He rode to his next patient, a woman with symptoms not unlike Wrattlesworth’s. Olma Birton was the reeve’s wife, a lady who had never enjoyed robust health, and who had taken a downward turn over the past three or four weeks.

‘How is she?’ he asked as he entered the stone-built house that nestled prettily in a copse of ancient oaks. ‘Any better?’

‘Worse,’ replied Birton tersely. ‘And Egbert died last night.’

‘Egbert?’ queried Nigellus blankly.

Birton scowled at him. ‘My uncle. You came three days ago to calculate his horoscope.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Nigellus recalled an ancient person with wispy white hair and no teeth. ‘He was unable to supply me with the dates I needed for an accurate forecast, and I did warn you that any treatment I prescribed might not be effective.’

‘Well, it failed completely,’ said Birton. ‘So I hope you do better with Olma. The last time you were here, you told me that she and Egbert were suffering from different ailments, but you are wrong. They fell ill within days of each other and-’