A Poisonous Plot

The monk disappeared into the pantries in search of food, but his foray was unsuccessful, and it fell to Cynric, who made them both jump by materialising suddenly out of the gloom, to reveal where Agatha had hidden the last remnants of the feast. There were sweet cakes, some dry-cured meat, bread that was beginning to turn mouldy, and some of Shirwynk’s apple wine.

Cynric was more friend than servant, and had been Bartholomew’s book-bearer for years, although as the physician was unable to pay him, the title was more honorary than a description of his duties. He divided his time between helping in Michaelhouse’s kitchens and working at Edith’s cloth business on Milne Street — he was married to one of the seamstresses there. Bartholomew was glad he was not involved with the dyeworks, although the Welshman was by far the most able warrior in the town, and well able to take care of himself.

When he heard what Michael and Bartholomew intended to do at the witching hour, he offered to accompany them, eyes agleam at the prospect of creeping undetected through dark streets and breaking into a locked building. They were discussing details of the plan when they became aware that someone was listening in the shadows by the door. It was Wauter, wearing not his Austin habit but secular attire.

‘I could not sleep,’ the friar explained. ‘I tried working on my Martilogium, but I cannot concentrate. I dressed — in clothes that will not expose me as a scholar, which would be reckless after nightfall — and was about to go for a walk when I saw lights in the kitchen.’

‘Why are you restless?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew wondered why Wauter should risk going out at all when a stroll could be taken in the safety of the College’s grounds.

‘I keep thinking about the University’s move to the Fens,’ replied the Austin. ‘It is a major decision, not one that should be taken lightly. However, the one thing that makes me feel we should go is the dyeworks. I am sure they are dangerous.’

‘The University has been in Cambridge for a hundred and fifty years,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We cannot abandon all we have built over a few bad smells. We will reach some accommodation with Edith, never fear. She is a reasonable lady.’

Wauter stared at him for a moment, then continued. ‘And while I hate to cast aspersions, I am worried about Nigellus. He lost six patients at Barnwell: two Augustinian canons, the reeve’s wife and uncle, and two priory servants. From what I understand, they died of the debilitas.’

‘The debilitas!’ spat Bartholomew. ‘There is no such disease. Nigellus only coined the term to make his wealthy clients feel special — to pander to their desire not to have the same ailments that afflict the poor. Moreover, the people who claim to be suffering from it display such a wide range of symptoms that they cannot possibly all have the same malady.’

‘Which is why you plan to visit St Bene’t’s tonight,’ surmised Wauter. ‘To assess Lenne’s remains with a view to determining whether Nigellus has done anything untoward. I will come with you, if you do not mind. Another pair of eyes to keep watch will not go amiss.’

‘Good,’ said Cynric, pleased. ‘There are three doors, and I cannot guard them all. But before we go, you must secrete these about your persons.’ He handed each scholar a packet.

‘What is it?’ Bartholomew opened his, and a salt-like substance poured into his hand.

‘Powder,’ replied Cynric, unhelpfully. ‘To repel restless spirits.’

Bartholomew knew better than to argue, but Michael and Wauter were in holy orders.

‘No, thank you,’ said the monk, trying to pass it back. ‘We shall put our trust in God.’

‘A lot of prayers were said for the dead over Hallow-tide,’ said Cynric, managing to make it sound sinister. ‘And it has agitated their spirits, especially the ones who were murdered. Lenne’s ghost will be abroad, looking for someone to haunt, but the sucura will protect you.’

‘This is sucura?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘How did you come by it? It is expensive.’

‘Very,’ agreed Cynric. ‘Because it comes all the way from a distant place called Tyre. But its spectre-repelling properties are well worth the cost.’

‘I thought it was a cooking ingredient.’ Wryly, Bartholomew noted that Cynric had cleverly managed to avoid saying how he had paid for it.

‘It is, but the dead cannot abide its sickliness. It will drive them away with no trouble at all, so put it in your scrips, and let us be on our way.’

‘Where did you buy it?’ Bartholomew persisted, staring down at the little packet in his hand. ‘Dick Tulyet would like to know.’

‘I am sure he would,’ retorted Cynric. ‘But I am not in the habit of betraying friends — who would not need to sell it in taverns if the King was not so greedy with his taxes. As things stand, he has forced the price so high that he is the only one who can afford it. Which is not right.’