A Poisonous Plot

‘I shall come with you,’ said Michael. He raised a plump hand when Bartholomew started to smile startled thanks. ‘Not to protect you from that little hellion — no friendship extends that far — but to brief Dick on our investigation. Then we must return to Michaelhouse and help our colleagues with the preparations for tomorrow.’

The castle lay to the north of the town. It was a grand affair, its curtain walls studded with towers and gatehouses, and it boasted a sizeable bailey. Its function was now more administrative than military, and the Sheriff preferred to spend his budget on clerks and tax assessors than repairs, so parts of it were rather shabby. That day, however, it teemed with soldiers, some preparing to go out on patrol and others returning. All were armed to the teeth.

‘The spats between town and University are escalating,’ said Tulyet grimly, hurrying to greet his visitors. ‘And I have the sense that we are heading for some major trouble. But that is not why I summoned you here. Come this way, please, Matt, and hurry. Dickon has had an accident.’

‘What kind of accident?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘One that has injured someone else?’

Tulyet was already halfway to his office in the Great Tower, but he turned to shoot the physician a reproachful look. ‘I do not know why you hold such a miserable opinion of my son. His scrapes and adventures arise from the fact that he has an enquiring mind.’

Bartholomew knew better than to embark on that sort of argument with a doting parent. They climbed the spiral staircase in silence, but when they reached the top, where two knights were standing guard, Tulyet turned to regard him and Michael bleakly.

‘You will be stunned by what you see, so be warned.’

He opened the door and ushered the scholars in, closing it quickly to prevent his warriors from following. Bartholomew thought he heard suppressed laughter before it clicked shut.

Dickon was standing by the hearth, and there were two things that were notable about him. The first was that the child had poured himself a very large cup of wine; he held it in one hand, while the other rested on the hilt of his sword, so that he appeared like a miniature version of the beefy, hard-drinking warriors Bartholomew had encountered during his sojourn with the English army in France. The second was that his face was a bright and startling shade of scarlet.

‘God’s blood!’ gulped Michael, crossing himself. He rarely swore, so the oath was a testament to the depth of his shock.

Bartholomew simply stared, wondering if the brat had also sprouted horns or a forked tail.

‘It is your sister’s fault, Matt,’ said Tulyet, angry and defensive at the same time. ‘We had a report that she was dumping waste in the river again, and when we went to investigate … well, suffice to say that Dickon accidentally submerged his face in one of her vats.’

‘It is dye?’ breathed Michael. He crossed himself again. ‘Thank God! I thought it was …’

‘Yes, it is dye,’ said Tulyet coldly. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘You must find a way to scour it off, because I cannot have him looking like that.’

‘I like it,’ said Dickon, whose small, bright eyes looked more malevolent than ever in his crimson skin. ‘People will be more ready to obey me if I frighten them — which I will, if they think I am a denizen of Hell.’

‘You do not need a red face for them to think that,’ muttered Michael.

‘It is coming off,’ said Tulyet shortly. ‘Today. And if it hurts, that is too bad, because your poor mother will be beside herself if she sees you in such a state.’

Bartholomew advanced cautiously. Dickon had a habit of punching, biting, kicking, clawing and scratching those who went too close, and the physician would have refused to tend him had he not been friends with his father. He stopped dead in his tracks when Dickon’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.

‘Draw that, and I will never train you to be a knight — you will go to a monastery instead,’ said Tulyet sharply. It was the voice that had instilled fear into the hearts of many seasoned criminals, and even Dickon knew better than to challenge it. The hand dropped away.

Bartholomew inspected the damage, and drew the conclusion that Dickon’s ‘accidental submersion’ had been nothing of the kind: the dye had been carefully applied, neatly following his hairline and ending tidily under his chin.

‘Nothing will remove this,’ he told the horrified Sheriff. ‘Well, nothing that will not harm him. I am afraid it will have to fade naturally.’

Dickon grinned, and the sight of large slightly jagged teeth in the red face was distinctly disconcerting. ‘Good,’ he said gleefully.

Tulyet scowled at him. ‘No, not good! How can I teach you how to run a large and turbulent shire when you look like one of Satan’s imps? People will laugh at you, and you cannot command respect if you are a source of mockery.’

‘No one will laugh,’ said Dickon with a determined menace that was disturbing from a child of ten. ‘And if they try, I will spear them with my sword.’