‘And what happened after you brought your ill-gotten gains back here?’ the monk asked, looking from one to the other with eyebrows raised in disapprobation.
‘Brother Armel was carrying one of the bottles. When we arrived …’
Xavier faltered, gazing down at his feet, and the red-haired student took up the story. ‘Brother Armel opened his bottle, took a great swig and…’
‘And what?’ prompted Michael.
As one, the novice Franciscans looked to where Armel lay on the floor. Xavier gave a sudden sob, loud in the otherwise silent room.
‘He staggered for a moment,’ continued the red-haired student unsteadily. ‘Then he grabbed at his throat and fell to the floor. We thought he was playing the fool, so we ignored him at first. Then we tried to rouse him, but it did no good.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Brother Henry said he would fetch Father Yvo, but Xavier said we needed the Proctors because Armel had been…’
‘Poisoned,’ finished Xavier in a whisper, as the red-haired student failed to utter the dreaded word. One or two of the novices crossed themselves and all eyes were, once again, fixed on the prone figure on the floor. Xavier choked back another sob and continued with his tale. ‘I ran to fetch Father Philius, the Master of Medicine at Gonville Hall, but he is sick himself and could not come. Then I went to look for you.’
Michael pursed his lips at the sorry tale and looked down to where Bartholomew still knelt next to Armel. ‘Well? Is Armel’s sudden fainting a case of too much ale and too few wits, like the rest of these silly boys?’
Bartholomew shook his head, and met his friend’s gaze sombrely. ‘Not at all, Brother. Xavier’s suspicions seem to have been correct: Armel has been poisoned.’
Michael’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean he is dead?’ he asked in a whisper. The students hurriedly crossed themselves again and one or two dropped to their knees to begin intoning prayers for the dying in uncertain voices.
Bartholomew nodded helplessly and stood. There was nothing more he could do for Armel. The young man needed a priest to give him last rites to ensure the safety of his soul for whatever journey it was about to take.
Michael pulled himself together, dispatched Xavier to fetch the chrism he was sure Father Yvo would have and began to recite the office for the dead. Bartholomew withdrew to the far side of the room and watched. When Xavier returned with the little bottle of holy oil, Michael used it to trace a cross on Armel’s forehead, mouth, hands and feet. Bartholomew had seen Michael perform last rites many times when the plague had ravaged the town, and the monk’s ministrations had been of far more comfort to the victims than Bartholomew’s desperate, hopeless treatments. Watching Michael kneeling next to a dead youngster brought back memories that made Bartholomew’s blood run cold. He looked away.
As Michael finished and clambered inelegantly to his feet, Father Yvo, dragged from the celebrations at Valence Marie, entered the room at a run. He gazed at Armel in horror and his eyes widened in shock as he heard Michael’s brief summary of what had happened.
He swung round to Bartholomew. ‘You are a physician! Can you do nothing to help him? Perhaps we can make him drink water to wash the poisons out. Perhaps if we stood him up and made him walk–’
Bartholomew spread his hands helplessly. ‘He was beyond all earthly help when I arrived, Father. The poison had settled too far into his body for me to do anything to save him. I am sorry.’
‘Where is this wine he drank?’ asked Michael of the watching novices. Xavier presented a slender, smoked- glass bottle, which the monk took from him warily. He inspected it minutely, lifting it to the light to see if he could detect any residues, and then sniffed cautiously at it. Bartholomew moved towards him quickly, afraid that he might inhale noxious fumes, but Michael shook his head to indicate that he could detect nothing. Meanwhile, Yvo had gathered his novices around him and had them kneeling in a circle around the dead Armel.
‘There is nothing more we can do here,’ Michael whispered to Bartholomew, watching them pray. ‘I will return tomorrow when they are less shocked and try to gain a better description of this wine-seller. Meanwhile, I am sure my beadles will be delighted with the task of visiting the taverns to see if they can find a man hawking illicit claret.’
Bartholomew took the bottle from him and wrapped it in his hat. ‘From what the students say, Armel took only a single mouthful of this and yet it affected him immediately. The poison must be very strong.’ He beckoned Xavier away from his prayers, collected the two unopened bottles and instructed the tearful student to tell everyone to wash their hands lest some dangerous residue remain. This done, Bartholomew and Michael took their leave.
Michael stepped outside with evident relief and began to head back along the High Street towards the Hall of Valence Marie. The rain still fell and the day seemed more dismal than ever. ‘What a ghastly business,’ he said with a shudder. ‘Poor Father Yvo! He runs a respectable hostel – unlike some of the establishments I could mention around here – and he is still not immune to foul play.’
‘Foul play,’ echoed Bartholomew thoughtfully. ‘I hope this does not herald the beginning of another sour period between University and town. There are still ill-feelings over those riots of last summer and I would not like to see all that started again.’
‘Lord, Matt!’ sighed Michael, his baggy, green eyes anxious. ‘This could have a devastating impact on town and gown relations. The University will be suspicious of trading with the merchants, and the townspeople will be anticipating a revenge attack at every turn.’ He stopped walking and stood still, his mind working quickly. ‘You are right in that the atmosphere is still uneasy between the students and the townspeople. It would take very little before we are back to the riots and lootings of August.’
‘But we might be jumping to the wrong conclusion,’ said Bartholomew, taking Michael’s arm to make him continue walking. The rain was blowing straight into the physician’s face and he felt chilled to the bone. ‘There is always the possibility that this wine-seller did not know his wares were poisoned, or even that he was unaware Xavier and his friends were students – they were not wearing their habits, after all.’
‘Come on, Matt,’ said Michael tiredly. ‘Of course he knew! You recognised Xavier immediately as a student, even in secular clothes, and so would any intelligent person. And what kind of man does not know that the wine he sold to a handful of credulous lads – in a tavern, mind you, under the very nose of the man whose trade he is stealing – is poisoned?’
‘One who perhaps bought the wine from someone else?’ mused Bartholomew.
Michael considered for a moment and then dismissed the idea. ‘No, that is too contrived. Why would someone provide an innocent man with poisoned wine to sell? No, Matt. You were right with your first guess – that someone is aiming to foul the relationship between University and town. But what about this poison in the wine? Can you tell me anything about it, other than that it was horribly powerful?’
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘All I can say is that it did not kill Armel instantly, but rendered him unconscious and blistered his lips.’
They walked towards the Hall of Valence Marie, each lost in his own thoughts. Michael fretted over the possibility that his beloved University was once more to be the victim of the townspeople’s ire, while Bartholomew tried to fight away the feelings of helpless inadequacy he always experienced when he lost a patient.
Despite the rain, the High Street thronged with people. Liveried apprentices scampered this way and that as they ran their masters’ errands, while carts with heavy wooden wheels ferried goods to and from the Market Square and the river barges moored at the wharves. Here and there, strangers to the town gawked at the sumptuous buildings that lined the town’s main thoroughfare – such as the wealthy new College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin, founded just the previous year, with its mullioned windows and carved pediments; the sumptuous guildhouses with their coats of arms emblazoned over their doors; and the homes of the merchants with their stained-glass windows and decorative plaster. Few of them paid much attention to the untidy houses of Cambridge’s less wealthy inhabitants that were crammed in the spaces between them, noticeable only because their badly built walls and sagging roofs seemed to defy gravity.
Street vendors proclaimed the virtues of their wares in ringing voices, vying with each other and with the constant clatter of horses’ hooves and the thunder of wagons rumbling past. A small white dog, showing patches of black and pink skin through its filthy coat, yapped and worried at a small herd of sheep that was being driven to the slaughterhouse, so that frightened bleats added another tenor to the general cacophony.
They reached the Trumpington Gate, and elbowed their way through the crowd, squeezing past an indignant pardoner who was being denied access to the town for some spurious reason known only to the sergeant in
