A Poisonous Plot

Segeforde took Bartholomew to the students’ dormitory, where Yerland writhed in agony. A brief glance inside the lad’s mouth showed no evidence that he had swallowed anything caustic, but that did not mean he had not been poisoned. As the student was unable to answer questions himself, Segeforde obliged. He did so in a voice that shook with fear, and Bartholomew saw he fully expected to share Yerland’s fate.

‘It came on suddenly. Before that, he was as hale as the rest of us.’

‘Has he eaten or drunk anything different than usual?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘There must have been special Hallow-tide treats over the past three days.’

‘Of course, but they were all from common pots, and no one else is ill. He did have a lot of apple pie, though.’

‘What about you? Did you eat a lot of apple pie too?’

‘No,’ whispered Segeforde. ‘I do not like fresh fruit, so I kept to the Lombard slices. I cannot imagine what is wrong with me. Do you think it is a deadly contagion that will carry us all off?’

‘It is not a contagion.’ Bartholomew decided to be blunt. ‘Has Nigellus given you or Yerland anything to swallow? Some remedy, perhaps, which he claimed is beneficial to health?’

Segeforde would not look at him. ‘He thinks such things are a waste of money, and I was surprised when he agreed to let you prescribe a cure for Yerland. Perhaps he feels the boy is beyond his skills — just as Irby was last night.’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. He rummaged in the bag he always carried over his shoulder for wood betony and poppy juice, hoping Yerland’s pain would subside with sleep. He mixed a milder dose for Segeforde, who gulped it down eagerly. It was not long before Yerland’s breathing grew deep and regular, and the lines of agony eased from his face. The colour returned to Segeforde’s cheeks, too. Bartholomew recommended that they both confine themselves to barley broth and weak ale for a few days, and to call him if there was no further improvement. Then he went downstairs, where Michael was still grilling Nigellus.

‘What does similia similibus curantur mean to you?’ he was asking. Nigellus, Morys and Kellawe sat in a row facing him, all looking like courtiers in their gorgeous robes; even Kellawe’s habit was a princely garment, quite unlike those worn by most friars in his Order. ‘Irby wrote it shortly before he died — addressed to Matt.’

Nigellus leaned back in his chair, all arrogant confidence. ‘It means nothing — other than that his wits must have wandered as he slipped into his fatal decline.’

‘What do you think killed him?’ asked Michael.

‘Loss of appetite,’ replied Nigellus. ‘How many more times do you need to be told?’

‘No one starves to death in a few hours,’ put in Bartholomew impatiently.

‘I did not say he starved,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘I said he lost his appetite. Clearly, his lack of eating caused a fatal imbalance in his humours. However, he did not stop drinking, and he was fond of Shirwynk’s apple wine — perhaps that played a role in his demise.’

‘We will never know,’ said Michael pointedly, ‘because someone had emptied the wineskin he always carried.’

‘Irby himself, probably,’ shrugged Nigellus. ‘As I said, he had a fondness for the stuff.’

‘A lot of your patients have died recently: the Barnwell folk, Letia, Lenne, Arnold, Frenge and now Irby.’

Nigellus was unfazed by the accusation inherent in the observation. ‘It happens, as Bartholomew will tell you. Indeed, he has lost two clients himself in the last month.’

‘Three,’ corrected Kellawe. ‘I heard that the cousin of Vine the potter died an hour ago,’

‘Did she?’ Bartholomew was dismayed. He never had been summoned to see her, almost certainly because Vine objected to his association with the dyeworks, but he had intended to visit anyway. It had slipped his mind, and now it was too late.

‘Why are you concerned about these particular fatalities anyway?’ asked Morys. ‘None are people who will be missed: Letia did nothing but moan, Lenne and Frenge were troublemakers, and Arnold was too old to be useful. And as for Barnwell, well, that was weeks ago, so who cares about them now?’

‘You dispense some very odd cures, Nigellus,’ said Michael, eyeing Morys with distaste before turning back to the Junior Physician. ‘Such as telling those at Trinity Hall to stand in moonlight and wear clean undergarments.’

‘And most have recovered,’ asserted Nigellus haughtily. ‘Thanks to me.’

‘Have you heard the good news about Kellawe?’ Morys spoke even as Michael drew breath for another question. ‘He has been granted licence to absolve all scholars from acts of violence. It means we shall have the advantage in the looming crisis — we can dispense any lessons we like to aggravating townsmen, but nothing we do will count against our souls on Judgement Day.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘The University has not applied for one of those.’

‘Oh, yes, we have,’ said Morys. ‘Chancellor Tynkell obliged, at my suggestion.’