Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Done what?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.

‘He told me that if I were to see the Senior Proctor, I should send him to the Austin Priory. I did as he asked, but now I wonder whether I should have held my tongue. I have a bad feeling that Robert means Brother Michael harm.’

Briskly, Bartholomew ordered two passing beadles to carry Nigellus to Zachary, but he had taken no more than two or three steps towards the Austins’ domain when a huge crowd of hostel men suddenly materialised in front of him. He faltered, wondering if they would chase him if he darted down an alley. Then Tulyet strode forward, several soldiers and Dickon at his back.

‘Go home,’ the Sheriff roared. ‘Or you will answer to the King for disturbing his peace.’

The hostels jeered, careless that they were challenging a royally appointed official, and there was a moment when it seemed there would be another bloody skirmish. But then came the sound of clashing arms from the Market Square, and as one, the horde whipped around and raced off to join it.

‘Your strategist has done his work well, Matt,’ growled Tulyet. ‘So far, no scholar has listened to me, and the beadles say that no townsman will listen to them. The only way to restore order is for Michael and me to stand together.’

‘I will bring him as soon as I have rescued him from Robert,’ said Bartholomew, hoping he could reach the convent unscathed. ‘Until then, use Chancellor Tynkell.’

‘Take Dickon with you,’ said Tulyet. ‘He carries my authority and is proficient with a blade.’

‘No, thank you!’ gulped Bartholomew. Tulyet’s eyes narrowed, so he flailed around for an excuse that would be believed. ‘He is too young for–’

‘No, I am not,’ interrupted Dickon crossly. ‘I am bigger than some of our soldiers.’

It was no time to argue, and Bartholomew supposed that the sight of Dickon’s fierce scarlet face might be enough to save him from attacks en route – and may even frighten Robert into an easy surrender. ‘Very well, but only if he does what I tell him.’

‘Do you agree, Dickon?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Yes? Good. And remember what I have taught you: the appearance of a confident, well-armed soldier is often enough to bring about a peaceful solution, without recourse to violence.’

Dickon nodded dutifully, although Bartholomew doubted the homily would do much to keep the brat in check – it should have been obvious even to the most besotted of parents that Dickon was itching for battle. He grabbed a torch from the ground and set off with the boy in tow, immediately disconcerted to note how comfortable Dickon was with his armour and weapons.

They reached the Austin Priory without incident, at which point Bartholomew faltered. Now what? He might endanger Michael if he just charged in. And what if Robert had persuaded his brethren to his way of thinking? Bartholomew could not tackle an entire convent alone – or even with Dickon. He jumped when there was a chorus of ear-piercing cheers from the Market Square: one side had scored a victory, although there was no way to know who, or how many casualties might have resulted from the clash.

‘Hurry up,’ hissed Dickon irritably. ‘Or you will make me miss the next fight, too.’

Bartholomew crept forward, where the torch revealed that the gate’s shattered remains had been replaced by a refectory table, which had been upended and jammed into the gap. He pushed it, tentatively at first but then with growing urgency. It did not budge.

He stared at it. Did it mean that Michael had not been able to get in either, and had given up and gone elsewhere? Or had the opening been secured once the monk was inside – that he had already been ‘dealt with’ and Robert was in control?

Then Bartholomew felt himself shoved out of the way. Dickon took his sword, inserted it between table and gatepost, and levered furiously until a gap appeared.

‘That is no way to treat your weapon,’ remarked Bartholomew, stepping forward to lend his greater strength to the task – an easy one now that the table was loose.

‘It is still sharp enough for what we need it to do,’ replied Dickon with cool pragmatism. Then he grinned, small eyes glittering. ‘Besides, my father will get me another if this one breaks, and I want a bigger blade anyway.’

Bartholomew was sure he did. He hauled him back by the scruff of his neck when the lad started to enter the priory first, earning himself a venomous look in the process.

‘Robert might be armed,’ he explained.

Dickon grinned again. ‘Good. Then I will kill him.’

‘Stay behind me, and do as I say,’ ordered Bartholomew, heartily wishing it was the father, not the son, who was with him.

He doused the torch in a trough of water – there was no point in advertising their arrival – and stepped through the gate, heart thudding so loudly that he was sure Dickon would be able to hear it. The convent was pitch black inside, and the only lamps were in the chapel.

‘We had better put the table back as we found it,’ he whispered. ‘Leaving the entrance unsecured might encourage looters inside.’

‘They will not find much in here,’ muttered Dickon disparagingly. ‘The Austins live like paupers, and some only have one pair of boots. I have six.’

Bartholomew ignored the lad’s self-important bragging, and shoved the table back into place. As an added precaution, he placed a thick plank across it, sliding the ends into two conveniently placed recesses in the doorway to either side. It would now be impossible to break in without some serious pounding.

‘It is a good thing Robert did not do that,’ remarked Dickon. ‘Or I could have levered all night and not got in.’

‘Perhaps he is not here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And I doubt his brethren have much experience with this sort of thing.’

‘No,’ agreed Dickon. ‘Priests are nearly all useless at warfare.’

He spat, to indicate his disdain for such an unpardonable failing, making Bartholomew wonder afresh whether he wanted the boy at his side that night. Then came the sound of voices: the friars were chanting a psalm. Bartholomew heaved a sigh of relief – they would not be performing their religious devotions if they were helping Robert with his grand designs. Or if they had just helped him to murder Michael, for that matter. He crept towards the chapel, and spent several moments peering through a crack in the door, trying to assess whether the almoner was in there with them.

‘They are in the chancel,’ reported Dickon, and Bartholomew saw that he had climbed on to a tombstone and prised open a window shutter, again using his trusty sword. ‘But Robert and your fat friend are not among them.’

Bartholomew tried to open the door, aiming to ask if they knew where the almoner might be, but it was locked. Then he remembered Michael telling Joliet and his flock to retreat to the building and shut everyone inside. He hammered hard.

‘Who is it?’ came Joliet’s voice. ‘Robert?’

‘No, it is Dickon Tulyet and Doctor Bartholomew,’ piped the boy. ‘Open up in the name of the law.’ He smirked at the physician and added sotto voce , ‘I have always wanted to say that.’

‘We cannot,’ replied Joliet. ‘Robert has the key, but he is not here. What is happening out there? We keep hearing terrible battle cries.’

‘Your almoner is the villain who has been killing everyone and setting the University against our town,’ explained Dickon bluntly.

Bartholomew shot him a withering glance. Joliet would have plenty to say about such a claim, and arguing would waste time – time Michael might not have. There was a brief silence from behind the door, followed by a clamour of objections and queries. Joliet’s voice rose above it.