‘That is the best compliment you could have paid us,’ said Walkelate sincerely.
‘Master Walkelate designed this place to last,’ said Frevill, resting a callused hand on one of the shelves. ‘It is strange to think that scholars will be sitting here in a hundred years’ time.’
‘A thousand years,’ corrected Walkelate. ‘Our names will be read out at Corpus Christi masses long after our souls have been released from Purgatory.’
He and Michael went back to their documents, leaving Bartholomew to explore alone. The physician walked slowly, running his fingers along the polished wood as he admired the intricacy of the carvings. He smirked when he saw a dragon with Etone’s dour features, while Adam and Eve bore an uncanny likeness to Bonabes and Ruth. The only negative was the powerful aroma of oil and the somewhat earthy scent of the bale of hay that had been set in the middle of the room.
He was just walking past it, eyes fixed on the handsome sconces on the wall, when he tripped over something that had been left in the way. It was Kente, face-down on the floor. Quickly, he rested a hand on the carpenter’s neck, but Kente was cold and had clearly been dead for hours. Bartholomew could only suppose that he had lain there all night.
‘Brother!’ he called urgently. ‘It seems libraries really are dangerous places.’
Walkelate was distraught when he saw his artisan. He dropped to his knees, and began imploring Kente to sit up and announce that it was all a terrible joke. Bartholomew needed Frevill’s help to pull him away and seat him at the cista in the adjoining room with his back to the corpse. Michael fetched him a cup of wine, and urged him to sip.
‘How did it happen?’ demanded Walkelate, after several gulps had given him back some of his colour. ‘He was perfectly well when we parted last night. He said he just wanted to check that all was well before going home, and I left him to lock the door.’
‘What time was this?’ asked Michael.
‘Dusk,’ replied Walkelate shakily. ‘He was nearing the end of his endurance, so I suppose our gruelling schedule must have given him a seizure. He is not as strong as the rest of us.’
‘Or do you think he was murdered by one of the many scholars who hates what we have done here?’ asked Frevill with a scowl. ‘If so, it will not stop us from finishing. Indeed, I shall do all in my power to ensure it does open as planned, because the bonus Dunning promised … well, Kente’s family will need it now he has gone.’
‘Will you inspect him for us, Matthew?’ asked Walkelate brokenly. ‘His wife and children will want to know how he died.’
Bartholomew went to oblige, Michael at his heels. Walkelate began to weep, and Frevill tried to comfort him, gruff and awkward. The other workmen gathered around them, all shocked.
Bartholomew stared at the body, sensing something amiss. He knelt next to it, stretched out his hand, then jerked it away as something moved under Kente’s tunic. He leapt backwards when the sinuous body of a snake appeared.
It was the biggest viper he had ever seen, as long as his arm and unsettlingly thick. Michael shrieked his horror, and shot out of the room, displaying remarkable speed for someone so large. He slammed closed the door, then opened it a crack.
‘Matt, come out!’ he whispered, as if he imagined that the snake might hear and try to stop him. ‘Quickly.’
‘It must have been in the hay,’ said Bartholomew, standing with his hands on his hips. ‘I suppose it crawled out, and bit Kente when he inadvertently trod on it.’
‘Then come over here,’ hissed Michael urgently. ‘Before it bites you, too.’
When the monk turned to explain what was happening to the craftsmen, Bartholomew took Kente’s shoulders and moved him carefully. The adder slithered further into the carpenter’s clothes; it was cold, and wanted somewhere warm to hide.
There were two wounds in Kente’s ankle, ringed faintly with blood, and his leg was swollen and purple to the knee. His gums were inflamed, too – another symptom of snake poisoning. Bartholomew glanced at the door, recalling the wedge that had been jammed in it, but then saw that the floor of the adjoining chamber was littered with identical fragments.
‘Enough,’ shouted Michael, when he saw his friend still pondering over Kente’s body. ‘Come out immediately. That is an order!’
‘There is no danger, Brother. Snakes only attack when they are threatened.’
‘I doubt Kente would agree. And you are not Clippesby, who enjoys a peculiar rapport with wild beasts. Walk towards me now, before it is too late.’
Ignoring him, Bartholomew upended his medical bag, then took his forceps and gently placed them around the snake’s head. It did not struggle, so it was not difficult to pick it up and drop it into an empty sack. Michael screeched his horror at every stage, but Bartholomew ignored him. He closed the bag carefully and carried it towards the door.
‘Put it down,’ ordered Michael. ‘I shall stamp on it.’
‘I am going to release it in the garden.’
‘No, you are not!’ declared Michael, appalled. ‘Meadowman is there, dredging.’
‘Fling it over the wall towards Batayl,’ suggested Frevill, quite seriously.
‘Or even better, put it in the Carmelite Friary,’ added one of his workmates.
Bartholomew paid no attention to any of them. It was not far to the river, where there was plenty of long grass. When he arrived, he looked carefully both ways. Torvin the riverman was approaching from one direction, and Jorz from the other. Neither was close enough to be a problem. He opened the bag and watched the snake slither out.
‘I saw that,’ said Jorz, eyes wide as he backed away and crossed himself. ‘I saw you release your familiar – the Devil in serpent form.’
He dashed away before Bartholomew could respond to the charge. The physician sighed, realising he should have waited until Jorz had gone.
‘Ignore him.’ Bartholomew jumped; he had forgotten Torvin was there. ‘You were right to let it go. They are peaceful creatures, and want only to be left alone. Just like us riverfolk, in fact.’
By the time Bartholomew returned to Newe Inn, Michael had summoned beadles to carry Kente’s body to the nearest church. The physician was obliged to remove some of the artisan’s clothes first, though, to show the nervous pall-bearers that there were no more vipers hidden within. Meanwhile, the hay was wrapped in sacking, and Walkelate gave the order for it to be burned in the garden. Walkelate, Frevill and their colleagues watched the blaze for a while, but soon sought comfort in the familiarity of their work.
‘So what happened?’ asked Michael, when he and Bartholomew were alone. ‘I have known others bitten by snakes, and although they were ill afterwards, none died.’
‘Kente was suffering from exhaustion,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Had he been fit and sought immediate help, the bite might not have been fatal.’
Michael shuddered. ‘So what stopped him from summoning assistance? The door was unlocked, and that piece of wood was not wedged in especially tightly. I saw it.’
‘It was easy to dislodge from this side, but it would have been much harder from the other. However, one of the windows was ajar. I suspect he did call for help, but no one heard.’
‘An accident, then?’ asked Michael. ‘Yet another one connected to books?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Meaning you are not sure?’
‘The snake may have emerged from the bale to bite Kente when he inadvertently stepped on it, but it may equally well have been placed there deliberately. There is no way to know. Similarly, there is no way to know whether the wood blocked the door by chance, or whether someone put it there.’