A Poisonous Plot (43 page)

He was acutely aware of movements in the shadows nearby, as people slunk this way and that, but it was too dark to see whether they were friendly or hostile. All he could do was keep working and hope they would realise that he was not a ‘damned butcher’ as Nigellus was shrieking, and that his aim was to mend, not torture, the injured.

By the time he had finished with Nigellus, the other casualties had either staggered away by themselves or been carried home by friends – only two corpses remained. He was as taut as a bowstring, wondering how he was going to tote Nigellus to safety on his own. He was relieved when Tulyet, Dickon and a band of soldiers arrived.

‘The whole town is running mad,’ the Sheriff reported tersely. ‘We are a hair’s breadth from a riot such as we have never seen.’

Dickon covered the faces of the dead with their cloaks, and Tulyet nodded silent approval – although a cold shiver ran down Bartholomew’s spine when he read not compassion in the eerie red face, but ghoulish fascination. More sounds of violence were carried on the wind, and Tulyet issued a stream of orders to his men that had them scurrying off in all directions.

‘I should have stayed in Barnwell,’ Nigellus was muttering. His face was ashen, and Bartholomew wondered if he would survive the shock of the wound and what had been necessary to treat it. ‘I had a good life there, but Robert said I was wasted, and should become a scholar …’

‘
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.

They reached the Austin Priory without incident, at which point Bartholomew faltered. Now what? He might endanger Michael if he just charged in. And what if Robert had persuaded his brethren to his way of thinking? Bartholomew could not tackle an entire convent alone – or even with Dickon. He jumped when there was a chorus of ear-piercing cheers from the Market Square: one side had scored a victory, although there was no way to know who, or how many casualties might have resulted from the clash.

‘Hurry up,’ hissed Dickon irritably. ‘Or you will make me miss the next fight, too.’

Bartholomew crept forward, where the torch revealed that the gate’s shattered remains had been replaced by a refectory table, which had been upended and jammed into the gap. He pushed it, tentatively at first but then with growing urgency. It did not budge.

He stared at it. Did it mean that Michael had not been able to get in either, and had given up and gone elsewhere? Or had the opening been secured once the monk was inside – that he had already been ‘dealt with’ and Robert was in control?

Then Bartholomew felt himself shoved out of the way. Dickon took his sword, inserted it between table and gatepost, and levered furiously until a gap appeared.

‘That is no way to treat your weapon,’ remarked Bartholomew, stepping forward to lend his greater strength to the task – an easy one now that the table was loose.

‘It is still sharp enough for what we need it to do,’ replied Dickon with cool pragmatism. Then he grinned, small eyes glittering. ‘Besides, my father will get me another if this one breaks, and I want a bigger blade anyway.’

Bartholomew was sure he did. He hauled him back by the scruff of his neck when the lad started to enter the priory first, earning himself a venomous look in the process.

‘Robert might be armed,’ he explained.

Dickon grinned again. ‘Good. Then I will kill him.’

‘Stay behind me, and do as I say,’ ordered Bartholomew, heartily wishing it was the father, not the son, who was with him.

He doused the torch in a trough of water – there was no point in advertising their arrival – and stepped through the gate, heart thudding so loudly that he was sure Dickon would be able to hear it. The convent was pitch black inside, and the only lamps were in the chapel.

‘We had better put the table back as we found it,’ he whispered. ‘Leaving the entrance unsecured might encourage looters inside.’

‘They will not find much in here,’ muttered Dickon disparagingly. ‘The Austins live like paupers, and some only have one pair of boots. I have six.’

Bartholomew ignored the lad’s self-important bragging, and shoved the table back into place. As an added precaution, he placed a thick plank across it, sliding the ends into two conveniently placed recesses in the doorway to either side. It would now be impossible to break in without some serious pounding.

‘It is a good thing Robert did not do that,’ remarked Dickon. ‘Or I could have levered all night and not got in.’

‘Perhaps he is not here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I doubt his brethren have much experience with this sort of thing.’

‘No,’ agreed Dickon. ‘Priests are nearly all useless at warfare.’

He spat, to indicate his disdain for such an unpardonable failing, making Bartholomew wonder afresh whether he wanted the boy at his side that night. Then came the sound of voices: the friars were chanting a psalm. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief – they would not be performing their religious devotions if they were helping Robert with his grand designs. Or if they had just helped him to murder Michael, for that matter. He crept towards the chapel, and spent several moments peering through a crack in the door, trying to assess whether the almoner was in there with them.

‘They are in the chancel,’ reported Dickon, and Bartholomew saw that he had climbed on to a tombstone and prised open a window shutter, again using his trusty sword. ‘But Robert and your fat friend are not among them.’

Bartholomew tried to open the door, aiming to ask if they knew where the almoner might be, but it was locked. Then he remembered Michael telling Joliet and his flock to retreat to the building and shut everyone inside. He hammered hard.

‘Who is it?’ came Joliet’s voice. ‘Robert?’

‘No, it is Dickon Tulyet and Doctor Bartholomew,’ piped the boy. ‘Open up in the name of the law.’ He smirked at the physician and added
sotto voce
, ‘I have always wanted to say that.’

‘We cannot,’ replied Joliet. ‘Robert has the key, but he is not here. What is happening out there? We keep hearing terrible battle cries.’

‘Your almoner is the villain who has been killing everyone and setting the University against our town,’ explained Dickon bluntly.

Bartholomew shot him a withering glance. Joliet would have plenty to say about such a claim, and arguing would waste time – time Michael might not have. There was a brief silence from behind the door, followed by a clamour of objections and queries. Joliet’s voice rose above it.

‘You are wrong, as I told you earlier. However, something odd is happening, or Robert would not have trapped us in here. Let us out and we shall work together to find the truth. Hurry!’

‘Is there another key?’ called Bartholomew urgently, after a quick inspection told him that the chapel door was rather more robust than the gate and was unlikely to fall to pieces if he charged at it. ‘Think quickly! We need your help to search the grounds.’

‘For Robert?’ asked Joliet doubtfully. ‘You think he is here?’

‘I think he may have taken Michael prisoner.’ Bartholomew’s voice cracked with tension. ‘And the Senior Proctor is desperately needed if we are to avert a riot. Please – the key!’

‘Robert has the only one.’ There was a brief pause before Joliet asked in an uncertain voice, ‘Have you seen Wauter today?’

‘No, why?’

‘Because he sent me his
Martilogium
to mind an hour ago, which means he is back in town. But why give us his work to look after? Do you think he has an inkling that Michaelhouse might be destroyed in these riots? But how would he know such a thing, unless …’

Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. So Wauter was involved after all. He turned frantic attention to the lock, but he had no idea how to pick one, so it was no surprise when he failed. Dickon jabbed at it frenziedly with his sword, but met with no more success than the physician.

‘Climb through the windows, Father,’ called Bartholomew. ‘Or is there another door?’

‘Just this one,’ replied Joliet. ‘And the windows are too narrow.’

‘We will have to smash the door down,’ said Dickon, eyes gleaming. ‘With a battering ram.’

‘Then fetch one,’ snapped Joliet. ‘Quickly! I am sure your father has one at the castle.’

‘We should find Michael first,’ replied Dickon, loath to be sent on an errand that would take time and might mean missing more fun. ‘Where would Robert take him?’

Joliet ignored him. ‘Please, Matthew! Time trickles away with this jabbering. Go to the castle and fetch the battering ram. But do not ask anyone for help. It is impossible to tell friend from foe at the moment, and we do not want someone deciding that an entire convent of trapped friars would make for an interesting pyre.’

‘Which it would,’ declared Dickon gleefully. ‘And what a sight it would be!’

As Joliet and his brethren were in no immediate danger, Bartholomew thought that freeing them was far less urgent than rescuing Michael. He began to search the priory himself, Dickon at his side, but it did not take him long to ascertain that the dormitory, refectory and outbuildings were empty. He stood in the grounds, trying to quell the panicky roiling of his stomach – the fear that Michael was already dead, and that if so, nothing would stop the town from erupting into violence from which it might never recover.

‘Go back to the main entrance and waylay some soldiers,’ he told Dickon, racking his brain for other places where Robert might be. ‘I am sure they can break down the chapel door without resorting to war machines.’

‘The back gate,’ whispered Dickon, ignoring the order. ‘The one that opens on to the King’s Ditch. Robert got away with murder there once, so he will think he can do it again.
That
is where he will have taken the fat monk.’