wine.’
The Countess looked at Valence Marie’s Fellows impatiently, waiting for them to explain what was happening. ‘What is going on, Father Eligius? Is this man Brother Michael as he claims?’
Eligius rose, his Dominican habit hanging in untidy folds from his narrow shoulders, and opened his mouth to speak.
‘He is not!’ cried Thorpe desperately, before the logician could respond. ‘The good Canons at the hospital must be in their cups today to let
‘Test it,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Give the wine to an animal. Better still, let Thorpe try it for you. If there is nothing wrong with it, he will not mind obliging.’
‘Thorpe?’ asked the Countess, turning her head again to stare at the apprentice. ‘But he is in York.’ She looked more closely. ‘You are his relative?’
Thorpe bolted, clambering over the table and sending dishes and bottles flying, only to run straight into the iron embrace of Michael. He struggled violently, but uselessly.
‘It was not me!’ he yelled, frightened now. ‘It was him!’ His flailing hand encompassed at least half the room.
‘Who?’ asked the Countess coldly. ‘And what was not you?’
‘It was him! Grene!’ yelled Thorpe.
‘This is nonsense,’ said Eligius. ‘The boy is raving. Grene is dead.’
‘What is Master Grene supposed to have done?’ the Countess asked impatiently, addressing the struggling Thorpe.
‘Poison!’ screamed Thorpe. ‘It was his idea. He forced me!’
The Countess indicated that Michael should let Thorpe go. Michael hesitated, but the sudden flash of anger in the Countess’s eyes convinced him that she was unused to having her orders disobeyed, and that she certainly did not like it. Thorpe shrugged himself out of Michael’s relaxed grip and advanced towards her.
‘You must believe me, good lady,’ he sobbed, taking her hand and gazing up into her face. ‘I am innocent of all this. I bought two bottles of wine from a thief in a tavern. I did not know it at the time, but they were poisoned, and one killed my cousin when he drank it. I came to Master Grene, who was my father’s best friend, for help. He suggested we throw my cousin’s body down the well, and told me to serve the other to him during the installation. He said it would avenge the wrong done to my father and would serve Bingham right.’
‘You suggest that Master Grene encouraged you to poison him at the installation?’ asked the Countess, scepticism written clear in her face.
‘Yes!’ said Thorpe desperately. ‘He made me! It was all his idea.’
‘Unlikely though it seems, he might be telling the truth,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael. ‘Philius told me that Grene had been diagnosed with a fatal illness. If he was as bitter as everyone believes about Bingham’s election, it is entirely possible he might have decided to exchange his last few painful months for a quick death – and at the same time, take the opportunity to strike at Bingham in a most spectacular way.’
‘Suicide?’ whispered Michael uncertainly. ‘I do not think so. He would go straight to hell.’
‘Perhaps he did not see it so,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or perhaps he was so eaten up with resentment and envy that he did not care.’
‘It would certainly explain his morose manner that night,’ muttered Michael. ‘Most people would have at least tried to be a little more gracious in defeat.’
‘Why do you two whisper so?’ called the Countess in aggrieved tones. ‘If you have something to say, say it aloud so we can all hear.’
She sounded like a schoolmaster, thought Bartholomew. Before he could respond, Eligius had stepped forward, his dark habit swinging several inches above his thin white ankles.
‘I apologise for this unseemly interruption, my lady,’ he said. He looked hard at Thorpe. ‘This boy has served at our high table on occasion recently, but I did not know he was a relative of Master Thorpe. We know him only as Rob. Yet I cannot believe that Brother Michael’s accusations are true. I am certain Grene’s death was at the hands of Bingham – as indeed I told the Sheriff when I petitioned for his arrest. I have already told you of how poor Grene voiced his fears to me the night before his death. So, I believe Rob will not mind tasting the wine, to assure you of his innocence.’
He picked up the Countess’s cup and held it out to Thorpe with an encouraging smile.
‘I do not like wine,’ said Thorpe, licking his lips nervously. ‘It makes my head swim.’
‘In that case,’ said Eligius, ‘let us put an end to this nonsense here and now.’ Before Bartholomew or Michael could stop him, he had put the cup to his lips and drained it in a single draught. There was a deathly hush in the hall. Eligius replaced the cup on the table and raised his hands. ‘Well, Brother? I am still here. I am not struck down in an instant like Grene. You have clearly been mistaken in your logic.’
Michael gazed at him in disbelief. Thorpe’s disbelief, however, was the greater. He looked at Eligius in horror and the blood drained from his face, leaving him an unhealthy grey-white colour.
‘You seem to have made a grave mistake, Brother Michael,’ said the Countess. ‘You have accused a young man of a vile crime of which he appears to be wholly guiltless.’
She rested her elbows on the table and steepled her beringed fingers. Meanwhile, Eligius walked around the table to the seat next to her and sat, leaning back in his chair to fix his gaze on Michael and wait for an explanation. Michael strode forward and seized the cup, his face almost as pale as Thorpe’s. For quite some time there was no sound in the hall as everyone watched Michael staring at the goblet. Bartholomew racked his brains for an answer, but he had been so convinced that Rob Thorpe had intended to harm the Countess, for some warped reason of his own, that his mind was nothing but a blank. As far as Bartholomew was concerned, Eligius should be gasping his last, his lips and throat blistering from the same poison that had killed Grene, not reclining easily in his chair with his bony hands folded in his lap.
Eventually, when the Countess began to show signs of impatience, and the mutters of the cook at the rear of the hall that the food was spoiling grew embarrassingly audible, Michael spoke.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, turning the cup over in his hands in bewilderment. ‘I was certain we were correct in our beliefs. You see, we reasoned that Thorpe had killed Grene using one of six bottles of wine sold by a thief named Sacks. An apprentice – Thorpe’s cousin – was dredged from the well today and his body shows similar signs of poisoning as those we observed on James Grene.’
The Countess pulled a face of disgust. ‘I heard about the body in the well. But it seems as though your reasoning is flawed, Brother. Why should Thorpe – or anyone else for that matter – poison me? I am no candidate for the Mastership, and I played no part in his father’s dismissal.’
Michael raised his hands in defeat and took a few steps towards the Countess. ‘What can I say? I am sorry, my lady. My only thought was that you might be in danger, and I acted without giving the matter sufficient thought. But despite Father Eligius’s conviction regarding Bingham’s guilt, Thorpe has admitted that he gave the poisoned wine to Grene, and we must be allowed to question him further on the matter. He has also stolen from his employer. If he will come with us now, we will leave, and you will be able to finish your meal in peace.’
He turned to Eligius, whose eyes were closed, as if in prayer. For the third time since their dramatic entry, there was a heavy silence as everyone waited for him to give Michael permission to take Thorpe away. Thorpe swallowed hard as Bartholomew looked more closely at Eligius, and then he darted past them, aiming for the door and freedom. Bartholomew dived at him, and both went tumbling to the floor. Thorpe scratched, kicked and bit like an animal as Bartholomew fought to pin him down. The Countess leapt to her feet.
‘For God’s sake!’ she exclaimed in angry exasperation. ‘Eligius has just proved the boy’s innocence: Bingham killed poor Grene and there is an end to it. Eligius? Order Brother Michael and this brawling physician to leave my presence at once. I will not be insulted in this way!’
‘Eligius will not be ordering anything ever again,’ gasped Bartholomew, still struggling with Thorpe. ‘He is dying.’
It was not until much later that Bartholomew and Michael were able to leave Valence Marie and go to make their report to Harling. He listened to their description of events in silence.
‘So,’ he said, when Michael had finished. ‘Thorpe maintains the whole affair was Grene’s idea?’
Michael nodded, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. ‘He says he fled to Grene – his father’s best friend – when Will Harper died from the poisoned wine. Apparently, Thorpe and Harper liked to drink together
