He paused, gazing at the logs crackling merrily in the hearth. The charred rugs had already been replaced with newer, finer ones, and large bowls of dried flowers added their pungent scent to the underlying acrid stench of burning. Philius continued.
‘Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Isaac slip something into his bag, although I was not certain what it was. When I heard you question him about the wine he used in my purge, I realised exactly what had happened. I take a purge each Saturday morning to maintain the balance of my humours and Isaac makes it up for me once a month. The poisoned bottle must have sat harmlessly for four weeks before Isaac used it. I was lucky you guessed the cause of my ailment or I might be dead.’
‘Probably not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You might have recovered on your own.’
‘Perhaps. But I would have taken the purge again next week – not knowing it was the cause of my illness – and then I would have died for certain. It is due to you that I am alive today and I thank you for it most sincerely.’
Bartholomew rose to leave, embarrassed by the Franciscan’s profuse gratitude. ‘I am glad the treatment worked, Philius. I admit I was uncertain that it would.’
‘So was I, given that you had not consulted any astrological charts to see what my stars suggested, or even bled me.’
Bartholomew raised his hands, not wishing to become embroiled in a debate over the efficacy of the methods Philius employed while Michael waited for him. ‘I imagine you had bled all too much as a result of the burning nature of the poison.’
Philius held out his hand to Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps you are right. Meanwhile, when I am well I will make some inquiries among some of my brethren who have experience with poisons, and if I discover the nature of the potion that struck me down, I will let you know.’
Bartholomew thanked him politely, declining to ask how Philius’s Franciscan brethren had acquired their ‘experience with poisons’. Philius had completed his medical training at the University of Salerno in Italy, and Bartholomew had been told that Italians were very skilled in the uses of toxic substances. Philius probably knew far more about them than did Bartholomew.
‘You said Grene died from drinking this poison, as well as the young student from Bernard’s?’ asked Philius as Bartholomew reached the door. ‘Perhaps it was as well. Poor man.’
Bartholomew gazed at him uncertainly, the hand that had been stretching out to the handle arrested in mid-air.
‘Around Christmas I diagnosed a wasting sickness in Grene,’ Philius continued. ‘You and I have seen many such cases before – there is no cure and the demise is long and painful. I estimated that he had a few months to live at most. At least he was spared a lingering death.’
Bartholomew nodded slowly and took his leave of Philius. Grene must have been told of his illness after he had lost the election to Bingham. No wonder he was bitter. Bartholomew considered Eligius’s story – that Grene had claimed to be in fear of his life. Were they the ramblings of a man already fatally ill and perhaps weak in his wits? Or was there some truth to his fears? Or was the whole thing a fabrication and had Eligius’s disregard for both Grene and Bingham driven him to use the death of one to rid Valence Marie of the other?
He told Michael what Philius had said as they walked the short distance from Gonville Hall to Stanmore’s house on Milne Street, but the monk had no answers either. Engrossed in thoughts of Eligius and Grene, he was almost crushed by a brewer’s wagon as it thundered down the lane at a speed that was far from safe, and was saved only by a timely shove from the more alert Michael. The brewer was not in the least apologetic, announcing in a ringing voice that scholars had no right to wander all over the roads with total disregard for other users.
Several onlookers exchanged amused grins, gratified to see a townsman berating members of the detested University. Immediately, two friars and three undergraduates in black tabards came to stand next to Bartholomew, clearly itching to punish the brewer’s impudence with a show of violence. Michael ordered them about their business, nodded curtly to the brewer, and the unpleasant atmosphere dissipated. Bartholomew glanced around him uneasily, sensing it would take very little to spark off a fight between scholars and townsmen; and a rumour that poisoned wine sold by a town thief to a young student would be more than enough.
The house of Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, was one of the grandest on Milne Street, although Stanmore himself elected to live on his manor at the nearby village of Trumpington, away from the noise and the noxious smell of the river. Stanmore’s business was cloth and, as Bartholomew strode through the gates into the cobbled yard with Michael, he saw evidence of it wherever he looked. The doors to the storehouses stood open, revealing bales of wool that were stacked to the ceiling, while piles of the wooden cones on which the cloth was wound occupied one corner, ready to be re-used. Scraps of material left from cutting were strewn across the yard in a kaleidoscope of colours, and fluttered here and there where they were caught on doors or timbers.
Because it was Sunday, Bartholomew had expected Stanmore to be in Trumpington and had intended to speak with his steward. He was pleased to find that not only was Stanmore in Cambridge, but that Edith was with him. She ran forward to greet her brother in delight.
‘Matt! What a lovely surprise! I saw you at that dull installation yesterday, but every time I tried to make my way over to you, that boring Prior of Barnwell would start yet another tedious tale to keep me at his side. And after that dreadful scene with Grene, Oswald decided it was time to leave.’
Bartholomew hugged her, swinging her off her feet. She was ten years older than him, but she had retained the youthful exuberance he remembered from his earliest days. Her hair, like his, was black, although wisps of silver were beginning to appear here and there, and her dark eyes sparkled with humour. Stanmore placed an affectionate arm across Bartholomew’s shoulder, and invited him and Michael for breakfast. Bartholomew shook his head, although Michael was clearly tempted.
‘We cannot stay. We have been summoned to Ely by the Bishop.’
The laughter in Edith’s face was gone in an instant. ‘Why? What does he want with you?’ She looked at Michael anxiously, wondering in what murky subterfuge the fat monk was embroiling her brother this time.
Bartholomew put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘Nothing to concern you. The Chancellor and a group of scholars attending the installation were attacked on the Cambridge to Ely road. I have been asked to tend to the injured.’
‘How can you say such a thing does not concern me?’ said Edith, knocking his hand away angrily. ‘If the Chancellor was attacked, how can the Bishop be sure you will be safe?’
‘He has sent an escort,’ said Michael. ‘And Cynric is going with us.’
‘Cynric will look after you,’ said Edith grudgingly. ‘But I am not happy about this. Tell the Bishop you cannot go. Tell him you are needed here. What will your patients do while you are gone – poor Mistress Pike took a turn for the worse last night.’
‘Edith is right,’ said Stanmore when she paused for breath. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘The Bishop’s summons is unreasonable. He has his own physicians at Ely.’ He called to his steward, who lounged against a wall watching two apprentices racing woodlice. ‘Hugh! You travelled the Ely road yesterday. Did you see any signs of trouble?’
Hugh shrugged laconically. ‘A cart had broken down near Stretham, but that was all.’