Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Those are good questions,’ said Michael. ‘And one we shall ponder while he sits in my gaol.’

While Michael went to do battle with Stephen, Bartholomew trudged home to Michaelhouse, wanting no more than a quiet evening in the conclave. Unfortunately, the porter handed him a long list of patients who needed to see him. Given the uneasy atmosphere, Bartholomew was reluctant to venture out alone, and as Cynric was with Edith, he took two students instead – Melton and Bell.

‘Prior Joliet is a gifted speaker,’ said Melton, as they walked to the home of a wealthy merchant. Bartholomew did not have many rich patients, but Rob Upton did a lot of business with Edith and thought hiring her brother was an easy way to stay in her good books. ‘But Father William refused to let us take any breaks, so it was one long, continuous session.’

‘What about the noonday meal?’

‘Cancelled,’ scowled Melton. ‘To save money after the lavish display we put on over Hallow-tide. So now we are starving .’

Upton claimed he was suffering from the debilitas , although Bartholomew suspected that the half-empty plate of marchpanes might have more than a little to do with the patient’s ‘griping in the guts’. He asked enough questions to prove himself right, and set about writing out the remedy for over-indulgence that he was often obliged to dispense to those with more money than sense.

‘Three other burgesses fell ill with the debilitas today,’ whispered Upton miserably, ‘while it killed Lenne, Arnold, Letia and the scholars from Zachary.’

‘You will feel better tomorrow,’ Bartholomew assured him, ‘although you should abstain from rich foods for a few days. And that includes marchpanes.’

‘Let me try one,’ begged Bell plaintively. ‘To assess whether they are safe.’

Bartholomew shot him an admonishing glance, but that did not stop the lad from snagging one on the way out anyway.

‘Too sweet,’ was the verdict once they were outside. ‘Like eating pure honey. No wonder Upton was queasy. But now I am hungrier than ever, and I doubt I shall sleep tonight.’

‘Nor will I,’ moaned Melton. ‘The pangs are growing worse by the moment.’

Bartholomew took them to the Brazen George, where Landlord Lister provided a large plate of tasty scraps for a very reasonable price. When they had finished, they went to Gonville Hall, where a Fellow named Osborne was suffering from a weakness in the legs. As Osborne reeked of claret, Bartholomew could not imagine why Rougham should want a second opinion as to what was wrong.

‘It came on him gradually,’ Rougham explained. ‘He cannot stand without falling over.’

When he heard how much Osborne had imbibed, Bartholomew was not surprised.

‘He drank to help with the discomfort of his debilitas ,’ added another Fellow. ‘His knees were wobbly before his three jugs of wine.’

Declining to comment, Bartholomew prescribed a large bowl of his favourite cure-all – boiled barley water – and an early night. Afterwards, he accepted the offer of refreshments in Rougham’s quarters, where he was provided with wine so dry as to be almost unpalatable. While he warmed himself by the fire, he told Rougham what Nigellus had claimed about the patients he had lost.

‘I cannot imagine why Zachary recruited him,’ said Rougham in distaste. ‘He is the worst combination of unshakable conceit and incompetence. And Oxford-trained into the bargain.’

‘They probably hope he will leave them all his money,’ said Bartholomew, disinclined to remind him that Nigellus was not the only one who had studied at the Other Place. ‘He is a wealthy man, after all.’

‘He is a charlatan,’ spat Rougham. ‘If you do not want more folk to die – which we dare not risk when the town is in such turmoil – Michael should keep him under lock and key.’

‘The debilitas was his invention,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He probably blurted it out when he was stumped for a diagnosis, and it has become a popular term for a whole range of unrelated symptoms – headaches, stomach pains, nausea, constipation, weakness in the limbs …’

‘Perhaps you and I should rename it the Devil’s Pox,’ suggested Rougham wryly. ‘Then we would never see another case again. But you are wrong to say these symptoms are unrelated, Bartholomew. I have seen more of the debilitas than you – all my patients are rich, while yours tend to be paupers – and nearly everyone complains of two or three problems, not just one.’

‘Osborne did not. He just had weak legs.’

‘Along with a mild headache and nausea,’ corrected Rougham. ‘He did not mention them to you because he was more concerned about not being able to walk. I hate to admit it, but Nigellus might have stumbled across a new disease. It would be galling if he did – him being such an ass.’

‘Do you think my sister’s dyeworks are responsible?’ asked Bartholomew, voicing the worry that had been with him all day. He supposed Gonville’s strong wine must have loosened his tongue, because he was not sure he wanted to hear Rougham’s answer.

‘No, I do not,’ replied Rougham promptly. ‘Or rich and poor alike would be afflicted. However, the venture will claim lives eventually, because nothing can smell that bad and not be harmful. If you can persuade her to move to the marshes – or better yet, close down – you will be doing the town a great service.’

They talked a while longer, then Bartholomew stood to leave, wondering if he should claim to have the debilitas when he found himself decidedly light-headed.

‘You were pale and unhappy when you arrived,’ explained Rougham. ‘So I added poppy juice to your wine. It will give you a good night’s sleep, and restore the balance of your humours.’

‘You dosed me with soporific?’ Bartholomew was horrified.

‘Yes, and do not glower at me – it was for your own good. As the great Galen said, the body knows what it needs, so one should pay heed to it. Yours must require restorative sleep, or it would have vomited my mixture out. So go home now and rest well.’

Bartholomew did rest well, sleeping so deeply that he did not hear the bell when it rang the following morning, and nor did he stir when his students indulged in a pillow fight over his head. They left him to his slumbers, and went to assemble in the yard for church. However, he was not the only one who had failed to appear: Wauter was also absent.

‘Perhaps we need a bigger bell,’ muttered Langelee, striding towards the Austin’s room. ‘Because I cannot have my Fellows oversleeping. It sets a bad example to the students.’

Wauter was not there, although his undergraduates were, still in bed and claiming they could not rise because they had the debilitas .

‘He did not come home last night, sir,’ said one, which explained why there were several empty wineskins on the floor and all four looked decidedly seedy.

‘Where did he sleep then?’ demanded Langelee.

‘We do not know,’ replied the lad wretchedly. ‘At his old hostel, perhaps.’

Langelee’s expression was dangerous as he stalked across the yard to deal with his other missing Fellow, and it darkened further still when Michael regaled him with an account of how he had spent his evening: a throng of students from Zachary had invaded the King’s Head, a rough tavern where scholars were not welcome. Not surprisingly, there had been a fight.

‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Langelee, shaking Bartholomew’s shoulder with considerable vigour. When the physician only turned over and went back to sleep, he drew a blade – a wicked little thing that had been intended for use as a letter-opener, but that he had honed to extraordinary sharpness. It had been nowhere near a missive in years.