his head. He struggled violently, desperately trying to free his hands from the clinging material. Someone’s arms wrapped round him, trying to hold him still. He struggled more frantically than ever, lashing out with his feet, and then threw himself backwards with all his might and heard a heavy grunt as he crushed his attacker against the wall.
There was a loud crash and his attacker’s hold suddenly loosened.
‘Leave him!’
Bartholomew was swung round so that he lost his balance and toppled over, and then heard running footsteps. He fought himself free of the blanket and was about to follow when he saw the fire at the far end of the room. The crash had been the lamp being hurled against the wall: it lay on its side and flames were already licking at the woollen carpets on the floor. There was a crackle as they ignited and fire inched towards the bed. Bartholomew saw two figures race past the window: Isaac’s killers, and one was, perhaps, the man who had sold poisoned wine to young Armel, too. He stood immobile for an instant, itching to give chase. But the edges of Philius’s blankets were beginning to smoulder and the room was filling with a thick, choking smoke.
He swept up the blanket that had been flung over his head and beat the flames away from the bed. Philius shifted slightly, but did not wake. Bartholomew swiped again, but the dry rugs were like tinder and the fire was already touching the tapestries on the walls. With horror, he wondered whether he would be able to douse it before it took a good hold. Fire was something everyone feared in settlements where most buildings were made of timber: if Gonville burned, the flames would spread to the adjoining houses in St Michael’s Lane and the entire town might be engulfed. He redoubled his efforts, yelling at the top of his voice for help. In desperation, he hauled the bedclothes away from Philius, tumbling him to the floor, and hurled them over the burning rugs. He was looking around for something else to use when Cynric arrived with help in the form of a handful of students, Michael and John Colton of Terrington, the Master of Gonville.
Cynric and Bartholomew beat at the now blazing rugs, Michael yelled at the students to fetch water, and it was not long before the fire was under control. Leaving Cynric to ensure it did not ignite again, Bartholomew turned his attention to his misused patient. Philius stared around him in a daze as Bartholomew lifted him back onto the bed. Colton tucked him in, while Michael sent the porter with a message to his beadles to be on the lookout for the three people who had knocked him to the ground as they came hurtling out of Gonville’s main gate.
‘Three?’ queried Bartholomew, looking round at him. ‘I saw only two.’
‘There were three,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric would have been after them had he not heard your shouts for help.’
‘Has Father Philius come to any harm?’ asked Colton anxiously, peering at the Franciscan in the room that was almost pitch black now the flames had been doused. ‘He does not seem to be himself.’
Colton was a small, neat man with a well-trimmed grey beard and a dark complexion, almost like an Arab. He was the first Master the College had ever had, and had been elected at the height of the plague when no one was sure who, if anyone, would survive.
Bartholomew knelt next to the bed. ‘The opiate is making him dazed. We should let him rest.’
He tried to stand, but Philius grabbed his wrist.
‘What happened?’ he croaked.
‘You can speak!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, pleased. ‘That is a good sign!’
‘Isaac.’
Bartholomew’s heart sank, thinking of the lifeless body of Philius’s book-bearer in the storeroom, but, before he was forced to lie, Colton intervened.
‘Isaac is resting, Philius. As should you.’
Philius shook his head. ‘Isaac,’ he croaked, his voice little more than a rustle. ‘Isaac steals.’ He swallowed painfully and tried again. ‘He stole wine from Stanmore.’
‘Oswald Stanmore?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘My brother-in-law?’
Philius nodded. ‘His apprentice drank the wine and died.’
His eyes began to close, and Bartholomew knew they would get nothing further from him that night. The dose of laudanum he had used had been a powerful one: Bartholomew had intended that Philius should rest until the morning, so that sleep could allow the body to heal itself.
‘Did that mean anything to you?’ asked Michael, leaning over Bartholomew’s shoulder, and looking down at the sleeping friar. Bartholomew shrugged, his expression troubled, and stood up. He ordered that the shutters be opened to allow the smoke out, and closed again when the room was clear. Meanwhile, the nightporter set about building up the fire in the hearth, and restoring order to Philius’s room. Bartholomew promised to return to visit the ailing physician the following morning, and took his leave. In a few words, he told Michael what had happened as they walked across Gonville’s yard together. Colton hurried after them and waylaid them by the gate.
‘What is happening?’ he demanded of Bartholomew. ‘The porter woke me to say Isaac was dead, and then I find someone has tried to ignite Philius in his room.’
‘Some wine made him ill,’ explained Bartholomew tiredly, not wanting to go into details. ‘Isaac was fetching it for me to examine when he seems to have been struck down.’
‘Isaac was struck down for wine?’ asked Colton, confused.
‘I expect he disturbed a burglar,’ said Michael, rubbing his chin. ‘The Sheriff was telling me only yesterday that the wolves-heads, who have been busy on the highways since Christmas, attacked three houses inside the town itself last week. They are growing bolder all the time.’
‘How secure is Gonville?’ asked Bartholomew of Colton. ‘How easy would it be to break in?’
Colton raised his hands, palms upwards, and gestured around him. Bartholomew saw he was shaking. ‘There is a porter on the front door, but if he is called away, I suppose it would be easy enough for a determined person to gain access. Do you think that is what happened?’
‘The alternative is that Isaac was killed by someone already inside,’ Bartholomew pointed out.
Colton shook his head. ‘No one in Gonville would attack Isaac. And certainly no one would harm Philius. How was Isaac killed? Come with me to see. He is in the storeroom, you say?’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed him across the courtyard, Michael in tow, and into Philius’s medicine room. Colton bent to look at Isaac’s corpse. ‘Poor man. He has been Philius’s book-bearer for many years.’
‘Where is this bottle?’ asked Michael in a low voice, as Colton began to pray over Isaac’s body. ‘We should retrieve it before anyone else comes to harm.’
‘It is broken, under the bench,’ said Bartholomew, pointing. While Michael went to look, Bartholomew sank down onto a stool, and rested his head in his hands. He wondered what time it was. It must be almost time for lauds. He looked up as Michael began to sigh in agitation.
‘Where is it exactly?’ he hissed irritably. ‘I cannot find it.’
Wearily, Bartholomew hauled himself up from the stool, and crouched to point out the bottle. His jaw dropped in astonishment. A dark stain on the wooden floor indicated where the wine had spilled, but every shard of the broken bottle itself had gone. He exchanged a mystified glance with Michael, and looked again to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him.
He stood slowly and rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘It was there,’ was all he could think to say. He saw a furry body nearby and pushed it with his foot. ‘And there is the rat that drank it.’
Michael knelt to examine the rodent. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked doubtfully.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘I did not see it drink the wine, but the cat …’ He looked around him. ‘Is there a cat in the College?’ he called to Colton. ‘A big ginger one?’
Colton paused in his prayers, and treated him to a suspicious look. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Have you seen it recently?’
Colton looked angry. ‘Isaac is murdered, Philius’s room set alight and there are robbers at large, and you enquire after the cat?’
As if on cue, the cat entered, still staggering uneasily on its feet.
Colton gave it an unfriendly look. ‘It drinks. It haunts the storerooms and kitchens in search of ale and wine, and needs to be carefully watched or it smashes things.’
‘We have one or two Fellows who are the same,’ said Michael drolly. Bartholomew picked up the cat, and inspected it a second time. It looked back at him through contentedly half-closed eyes and began to purr loudly. It struggled when he looked inside its mouth, but purred again when he rubbed its fur absently. He had been right
