A Poisonous Plot

‘Almoner Robert has been granted a licence to take his place,’ announced Nigellus, although Bartholomew was sure it could not be true — there had not been enough time to make such arrangements with the Bishop. ‘So you will burn alone.’

‘Take your students home, Nigellus,’ begged Bartholomew, seeing the hostels take courage from his words and square up for a brawl. ‘You are a physician. You cannot want a battle that-’

The rest of his sentence was lost as the Colleges surged forward with a baying roar, and for a moment, all was a blur of flailing weapons, screams and curses. Those who had been holding torches dropped them in order to fight, with the result that the street was suddenly plunged into darkness, making it all but impossible to tell friend from foe. A few torches continued to flicker on the ground, but rather than illuminating what was happening, they posed a fire hazard, and more than one combatant backed away to slap at burning clothing.

Fortunately, the skirmish did not last long, and Bartholomew had done no more than haul out his childbirth forceps to defend himself before he sensed some of the belligerents running away. The trickle quickly became a rout, and then the street was full of the rattle of fleeing footsteps and the cheers of the victors. The dropped torches were snatched up to show that the hostels had won the encounter, thanks to a timely influx of reinforcements from the foundations along Water Lane.

‘That showed the rogues!’ howled Gilby, his voice only just audible over the triumphant yells. ‘Now we shall hunt down more of those College vermin and show them what-’

‘No, you will not,’ bellowed Michael furiously. Bartholomew was relieved to see him unharmed. ‘Take your recruits and go — and do not show your face here again.’

‘Not until I have trounced King’s Hall,’ countered Gilby, and before Michael could stop him, he had dashed away, his torch acting as a bobbing beacon to his followers.

Soon all that remained were the injured, a dozen or so scattered across the street, moaning or crying for help. Bartholomew grabbed a light and went to see what might be done for them.

‘Does anyone need last rites, Matt?’ asked Michael urgently. ‘Or may I go?’

‘No one from Zachary needs a priest,’ came a familiar voice. It was Nigellus, one hand clasped to his hip. His voice was gloating even in his pain. ‘Almoner Robert has already absolved us for anything we might do tonight. But come here, Brother. I have something to tell you.’

Michael knelt next to him, but Bartholomew’s attention was snagged by the student who lay groaning at his feet, and he did not hear what Nigellus whispered to the monk. He glanced up several minutes later to see Michael disappearing into the darkness, leaving him alone with the casualties of the encounter, all of whom pleaded with him to tend them first. For the second time that evening, he found himself thinking of Poitiers — of the battle’s aftermath, when he had been similarly inundated with piteous calls for help.

He moved from one to the next, determining quickly who could be saved and who was a lost cause. He stemmed bleeding from five serious wounds, reset a broken arm and reduced a dislocated shoulder before reaching Nigellus, who had a crossbow bolt lodged in his hip. It was not easy to remove, and Nigellus howled so loudly that Bartholomew feared the screams would bring back the hostel men, who would almost certainly assume he was being deliberately heavy-handed.

He was acutely aware of movements in the shadows nearby, as people slunk this way and that, but it was too dark to see whether they were friendly or hostile. All he could do was keep working and hope they would realise that he was not a ‘damned butcher’ as Nigellus was shrieking, and that his aim was to mend, not torture, the injured.

By the time he had finished with Nigellus, the other casualties had either staggered away by themselves or been carried home by friends — only two corpses remained. He was as taut as a bowstring, wondering how he was going to tote Nigellus to safety on his own. He was relieved when Tulyet, Dickon and a band of soldiers arrived.

‘The whole town is running mad,’ the Sheriff reported tersely. ‘We are a hair’s breadth from a riot such as we have never seen.’

Dickon covered the faces of the dead with their cloaks, and Tulyet nodded silent approval — although a cold shiver ran down Bartholomew’s spine when he read not compassion in the eerie red face, but ghoulish fascination. More sounds of violence were carried on the wind, and Tulyet issued a stream of orders to his men that had them scurrying off in all directions.

‘I should have stayed in Barnwell,’ Nigellus was muttering. His face was ashen, and Bartholomew wondered if he would survive the shock of the wound and what had been necessary to treat it. ‘I had a good life there, but Robert said I was wasted, and should become a scholar …’