us both to get wet. Go back to bed.’
Cynric swung the woollen garment round his shoulders. ‘The streets are far from safe for a single man. You will do better with me along.’
There was no disputing that. Since the plague, the price of food had risen dramatically and was beyond the means of many people. Bands of men simply defied the law, realising they could fare better by theft and robbery than by honest labour. Added to these were veterans from King Edward’s temporarily suspended wars with France, heroes who expected more from their country than a return to virtual slavery in the fields. Travelling had always been dangerous, but since the onset of winter the outlaws had become bolder and had started to attack the town itself, darting in from the Fens to take what they wanted and disappearing again before the Sheriff’s men could catch them. Cynric spoke the truth when he said the streets were unsafe for a single man and, although he was too tactful to say so, especially one with Bartholomew’s inferior fighting skills.
Bartholomew set off across the muddy yard with Cynric and Michael behind him. He made a brief detour to lock the four bottles of wine in the little storeroom where he kept his medicines, after which he secured the door carefully and tied the key onto his belt. As he left, he saw Michael give the door a surreptitious rattle to satisfy himself that it was firmly locked. They exchanged a glance: Michael was right to be cautious with the deadly brew and, once again, Bartholomew wondered who could have a reason to unleash such a hideous potion on the University’s scholars.
Outside, the rain was falling in great sheets, and Walter grumbled and cursed as he hauled the bar from the wicket gate to let them out. Fortunately, Philius’s room at Gonville Hall was a mere stone’s throw from Michaelhouse, but even as they walked the short distance, Bartholomew thought he saw a shadow move in the bushes to the side of the road. He drew one of the surgical knives he carried in his medicine bag and saw that Cynric already held his dagger.
‘They thought better of it when they saw we were armed,’ said Cynric after a moment, glancing behind him.
‘They?’ queried Bartholomew. ‘I only saw one.’
‘There were three of them,’ said Cynric confidently. ‘They must be desperate because they will be lucky to catch anyone abroad on such a foul night, except the Sheriff’s men.’
Cynric had been born and bred in the mountains of north Wales, and prided himself on his clandestine skills – especially prowling undetected in the dark. Indeed, he had saved Bartholomew’s life on more than one occasion, and the physician sensed Cynric was enjoying the nocturnal expedition, in spite of the rain.
He hammered on the gates of Gonville, and was admitted almost immediately by a servant who was clearly expecting him. Bartholomew had visited Father Philius in his room on several occasions – physicians in Cambridge were not so abundant that they could afford to shun each other’s company completely, even when they were as diametrically opposed as were Bartholomew and Philius. He declined the porter’s offer to guide him, and made his own way to the chamber on the ground floor in which Philius lived.
Unlike Bartholomew with his spartan room, Philius resided in considerable comfort. There was a fire crackling merrily in the hearth and the stone-flagged floor was littered with thick woollen rugs. The bed stood against the wall farthest from the window – well away from the night airs Philius considered so dangerous – while another wall boasted a line of hooks on which hung the physician’s impressive array of robes and a selection of elegant crucifixes. A lamp had pride of place on the table in the middle of the room, a luxury virtually unknown at Michaelhouse, except in the sumptuous quarters occupied by Alcote.
Bartholomew left Cynric to close the door while he went to Philius. The Franciscan was lying on his side, curled up like a child, while his own book-bearer, Isaac, fluttered about him helplessly. Philius’s breathing was not laboured, but it was strained, and sounded loud in the quiet room. Bartholomew led Isaac away from the bed.
‘How long has he been ill?’
‘All day,’ Isaac whispered back. ‘He is growing worse, and the purges he has prescribed for himself seem to be doing no good at all. He cannot even speak now.’
‘Has he eaten anything today?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Lemons, perhaps?’
Isaac looked at him askance. ‘Not that I know of. He had a goblet of watered wine this morning before mass, as is his wont, but nothing since.’
‘Where is this wine?’
Isaac gave him another curious look, but fetched the bottle obligingly. It was of dark green glass and was virtually empty, suggesting that, unless Philius’s goblet was astonishingly large, most of the wine had been consumed earlier with no ill-effects. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief. Two cases of poisoning had led him to be overly suspicious.
He knelt next to the bed and gently eased Philius onto his back so that he could examine him properly. Philius’s eyes flickered open as he was moved, but he said nothing as Bartholomew’s hands moved across his stomach. As he worked, Bartholomew glanced at Philius’s face, and saw a thin tendril of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. Isaac hastened to wipe it away, but Bartholomew stopped him and motioned for Cynric to bring the lamp closer.
Philius winced as the light came nearer and closed his eyes. On his lips were small white blisters – not as many as Bartholomew had observed on Armel and Grene, but similar in appearance. Bartholomew told Philius to open his mouth and looked inside. It was bleeding and more of the blisters were on his tongue and gums – again, not to the same extent as those he had seen in Armel and Grene, but enough to tell Bartholomew the cause of Philius’s discomfort.
By now, Philius was alert and watching him intently, fear and pain written clearly on his face.
‘What else has he swallowed today?’ Bartholomew asked of Isaac.
‘Nothing else. Just the wine.’
‘But you said he had taken purges,’ said Bartholomew.
‘Nothing other than the medicines,’ said Isaac with exaggerated tolerance. ‘Look, can you tell what is wrong with him or not? If you cannot, I think he might be better left to rest.’
‘What purges has he taken?’ snapped Bartholomew, irritated by the man’s presumption. If Bartholomew’s diagnosis was correct, leaving Philius as he was might mean leaving him to die. ‘Do you have them here?’
‘Obviously not, since he has swallowed them,’ said Isaac insolently. ‘It is not the purges that are making him ill–’
‘When did he take these purges exactly?’
Isaac sighed heavily. ‘He takes a purge every Saturday to cleanse his body from impurities. He drank the potion after he returned from mass – around dawn.’
‘And he became ill after he took it?’
Isaac thought. ‘Well, I suppose he did. He woke hale and hearty enough. He took the purge and complained that it tasted strong. He became ill shortly afterwards and has been growing steadily worse all day.’
‘Who made these purges? Jonas the Apothecary?’
‘I made them,’ said Isaac. ‘I make all of Father Philius’s medicines when I can. It is cheaper.’
‘But you are not qualified,’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘You are not an apothecary!’
‘I do not need to be an apothecary,’ said Isaac, growing angry. ‘I only need to follow Father Philius’s instructions about quantities and–’
‘I suppose one of these purges contained wine,’ interrupted Bartholomew sharply, not wishing to embark on a discussion of the ethics of Isaac’s actions while there was a chance of saving Philius if he acted quickly.
‘Well, yes. The wine helps to take away the unpleasant taste of the herbs.’
‘And did you use this wine to make the purges that Philius drank?’ asked Bartholomew, holding up the green bottle.
‘Of course not! I do not put best Italian wine in medicines. It would be wasteful. I used some cheap stuff.’
‘Where is it?’ asked Bartholomew, his patience beginning to fray. He glanced at Philius, who was listening intently to the exchange, his face white with fright.
‘In the medicine room. I–’
‘Fetch it, please. But use a cloth to pick it up. Do not touch it with your hands.’
Isaac made as if to demur, but Bartholomew turned his attention back to Philius again, and the book-bearer
