A Poisonous Plot

‘No, I do not,’ replied Rougham promptly. ‘Or rich and poor alike would be afflicted. However, the venture will claim lives eventually, because nothing can smell that bad and not be harmful. If you can persuade her to move to the marshes — or better yet, close down — you will be doing the town a great service.’

They talked a while longer, then Bartholomew stood to leave, wondering if he should claim to have the debilitas when he found himself decidedly light-headed.

‘You were pale and unhappy when you arrived,’ explained Rougham. ‘So I added poppy juice to your wine. It will give you a good night’s sleep, and restore the balance of your humours.’

‘You dosed me with soporific?’ Bartholomew was horrified.

‘Yes, and do not glower at me — it was for your own good. As the great Galen said, the body knows what it needs, so one should pay heed to it. Yours must require restorative sleep, or it would have vomited my mixture out. So go home now and rest well.’

Bartholomew did rest well, sleeping so deeply that he did not hear the bell when it rang the following morning, and nor did he stir when his students indulged in a pillow fight over his head. They left him to his slumbers, and went to assemble in the yard for church. However, he was not the only one who had failed to appear: Wauter was also absent.

‘Perhaps we need a bigger bell,’ muttered Langelee, striding towards the Austin’s room. ‘Because I cannot have my Fellows oversleeping. It sets a bad example to the students.’

Wauter was not there, although his undergraduates were, still in bed and claiming they could not rise because they had the debilitas.

‘He did not come home last night, sir,’ said one, which explained why there were several empty wineskins on the floor and all four looked decidedly seedy.

‘Where did he sleep then?’ demanded Langelee.

‘We do not know,’ replied the lad wretchedly. ‘At his old hostel, perhaps.’

Langelee’s expression was dangerous as he stalked across the yard to deal with his other missing Fellow, and it darkened further still when Michael regaled him with an account of how he had spent his evening: a throng of students from Zachary had invaded the King’s Head, a rough tavern where scholars were not welcome. Not surprisingly, there had been a fight.

‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Langelee, shaking Bartholomew’s shoulder with considerable vigour. When the physician only turned over and went back to sleep, he drew a blade — a wicked little thing that had been intended for use as a letter-opener, but that he had honed to extraordinary sharpness. It had been nowhere near a missive in years.

‘No, but someone will be if you brandish that thing around,’ said Michael in alarm. ‘What are you going to do?’

Langelee used it to prick the back of Bartholomew’s hand, and his eyebrows shot up in astonishment when the only response was a twitch. ‘I have never known that not to work before! I used to do it all the time when I was in the Archbishop of York’s employ. Of course, I usually applied my blade to the throat …’

‘No!’ snapped Michael, as the Master leaned down purposefully. He grabbed a bowl of water and splattered some on the physician’s face. Bartholomew sat up blinking.

‘Rougham gave me a soporific,’ he said defensively, surmising that it may have required some effort to wake him. He struggled to clear his muddy wits, then frowned when he saw the bead of blood on his hand and the blade that Langelee was putting away. ‘Did you stab me?’

‘No, I nicked you. You barely moved, so I should have jabbed harder.’

Bartholomew eyed him coolly. ‘You will never win wealthy benefactors if word gets out that you spear your Fellows while they sleep.’

‘On the contrary, I will probably win their approbation. They will all wish they had the courage to do the same to lazy minions. Besides, it was only a poke with a letter-opener.’

‘So that explains why I did not feel it,’ muttered Bartholomew, well aware of what the Master had done to what had once been an innocent little implement. ‘Blunt blades always hurt more than sharp ones.’

He rose and dressed quickly when the bell sounded again, and had to run to catch up with the procession, much to the delight of his students. He barely heard William’s Mass, overcome as he was with the frequent and annoying urge to yawn. As they walked home, Michael confessed that Nigellus’s arrest had done nothing to calm troubled waters.

‘Meanwhile, Anne is refusing to drop her case against Segeforde’s estate, and King’s Hall is just as stubborn about Frenge and the brewery.’

‘What about the Austins?’ asked Bartholomew, trying hard to concentrate. ‘Do they still aim to sue Hakeney for snatching Robert’s cross?’