A Poisonous Plot

‘Almoner Robert?’ demanded Bartholomew, crouching next to him. ‘Why? He is not a member of Zachary. Or was he actually inviting you to become an Austin?’

‘He has friends in Zachary — friends who support his contention that the University is corrupt and bloated. He aims to lead it to a better future, where scholars do not live in constant fear of attacks by the town, and where whores do not entice students to sin.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, too tired to argue. He stared at the wounded medicus, then decided it was as good a time as any to ask the questions that were plaguing him. ‘You prescribed medicines in Barnwell, but not here. Why?’

‘Because none of them really work,’ replied Nigellus bitterly. ‘And Prior Norton made some nasty remarks about the expense. I did not want Cambridge folk making the same accusations, so I decided only to accept healthy clients. But then the debilitas struck here as well …’

Bartholomew was surprised that Nigellus had allowed the wild words of a grieving man to wound him. He could only suppose that years of working in a small community, where his skills and training — whether adequate or not — had given him a godlike status, meant Nigellus was unused to criticism. He stood, not sure what to say to a physician who thought more of his reputation than his ability to serve the people who needed his help.

‘Robert means well,’ Nigellus went on softly. ‘But I fear he may have done terrible things to effect a solution. Irby died of natural causes, but Yerland, Segeforde and Kellawe … I think Robert might have dispatched them because they questioned his methods. I never hurt anyone, though, despite what you think.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘You are a healer, not a killer.’

Nigellus winced at the kindness in his voice, and his expression turned stricken and very guilty. ‘Yet I may have sent a man to his doom even so,’ he whispered. ‘Robert’s request was so odd … I should not have done what he ordered …’

‘Done what?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘He told me that if I were to see the Senior Proctor, I should send him to the Austin Priory. I did as he asked, but now I wonder whether I should have held my tongue. I have a bad feeling that Robert means Brother Michael harm.’

Briskly, Bartholomew ordered two passing beadles to carry Nigellus to Zachary, but he had taken no more than two or three steps towards the Austins’ domain when a huge crowd of hostel men suddenly materialised in front of him. He faltered, wondering if they would chase him if he darted down an alley. Then Tulyet strode forward, several soldiers and Dickon at his back.

‘Go home,’ the Sheriff roared. ‘Or you will answer to the King for disturbing his peace.’

The hostels jeered, careless that they were challenging a royally appointed official, and there was a moment when it seemed there would be another bloody skirmish. But then came the sound of clashing arms from the Market Square, and as one, the horde whipped around and raced off to join it.

‘Your strategist has done his work well, Matt,’ growled Tulyet. ‘So far, no scholar has listened to me, and the beadles say that no townsman will listen to them. The only way to restore order is for Michael and me to stand together.’

‘I will bring him as soon as I have rescued him from Robert,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he could reach the convent unscathed. ‘Until then, use Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘Take Dickon with you,’ said Tulyet. ‘He carries my authority and is proficient with a blade.’

‘No, thank you!’ gulped Bartholomew. Tulyet’s eyes narrowed, so he flailed around for an excuse that would be believed. ‘He is too young for-’

‘No, I am not,’ interrupted Dickon crossly. ‘I am bigger than some of our soldiers.’

It was no time to argue, and Bartholomew supposed that the sight of Dickon’s fierce scarlet face might be enough to save him from attacks en route — and may even frighten Robert into an easy surrender. ‘Very well, but only if he does what I tell him.’

‘Do you agree, Dickon?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Yes? Good. And remember what I have taught you: the appearance of a confident, well-armed soldier is often enough to bring about a peaceful solution, without recourse to violence.’

Dickon nodded dutifully, although Bartholomew doubted the homily would do much to keep the brat in check — it should have been obvious even to the most besotted of parents that Dickon was itching for battle. He grabbed a torch from the ground and set off with the boy in tow, immediately disconcerted to note how comfortable Dickon was with his armour and weapons.