Susanna Gregory
A POISONOUS PLOT
2015
For Brad and Mary Anne Blain
Prologue
Barnwell Priory, near Cambridge, September 1358
Nigellus de Thornton eyed the dying Augustinian dispassionately. What had started as a mild fever a month ago had gradually progressed to violent stomach cramps, agonising headaches and a debilitating weakness. Nigellus had been a physician for many years and he knew the signs: John Wrattlesworth would not live to see another dawn.
‘He has eaten nothing for days,’ whispered Prior Ralph de Norton, hovering anxiously on the other side of the bed. He was fond of Wrattlesworth and was distressed by his plight – Wrattlesworth had been a kindly and unassuming presence at Barnwell for nearly three quarters of a century, and Norton had not forgotten the older man’s support and guidance when he himself had first come to rule. ‘And he has drunk nothing but your medicine and our elderflower wine.’
Nigellus winced on Wrattlesworth’s behalf. The Augustinian canons were very proud of the acidic brews they fermented themselves, although few who tasted them thought they had cause to be. ‘How much elderflower wine?’
‘One or two cups a day. The vintage this year is unusually fine, and we hoped a few sips of such sweet nectar would help him rally.’
‘Christ God,’ muttered Nigellus. He cleared his throat. ‘What about the remedies I prescribed? Has he had those?’
‘Of course – every electuary, tonic, infusion and decoction. Yet still he continues to sink.’ Norton’s voice cracked as he added pleadingly, ‘Do you have nothing that works?’
Nigellus was affronted. ‘The fault does not lie with my medicines. If they have not done what was expected, it is because they have been improperly applied.’ He raised an imperious hand when the Prior began to object. ‘We shall try Gilbert Water next. However, it is costly – it contains crabs’ eyes, ambergris, ground pearls and other expensive ingredients.’
‘I care nothing for the price, not if it makes him well again. But perhaps we should summon another physician. Cambridge is less than two miles away, and Bartholomew at Michaelhouse or Rougham of Gonville Hall would–’
‘Neither will do anything that I have not already tried,’ said Nigellus shortly. He was tired of hearing about the University’s medici and their legendary skills. He had more experience than Bartholomew and Rougham put together, and considered himself by far the superior practitioner. ‘Besides, one is away and the other is far too busy to trail all the way out here.’
Unhappily, Norton watched him write more instructions for the apothecary. Nigellus exuded the arrogant confidence that was often found in members of the medical profession, but Norton was far from convinced that the man’s hubris was justified, and heartily wished one of the College men had been available instead. When Nigellus had finished, Norton escorted him to the gate.
‘I understand you will become a member of the University yourself this term,’ he said, good manners compelling him to make polite conversation, despite the apathy he felt towards the man. ‘You have been offered a post in Zachary Hostel, and will leave our village to take it up.’
‘Yes,’ said Nigellus, gratified that the Prior had heard about his good fortune. After all, what greater acknowledgement of his abilities than to be courted by one of the studium generale’s richest and most respected foundations? ‘New patients from the town will flock to me, of course, but I shall not abandon my old ones.’
‘Oh, I am so glad.’ Norton tried to inject a note of grateful enthusiasm into his voice, but did not succeed, and received a sharp glare in return.
Nigellus climbed on his horse. Although Barnwell was tiny, comprising just the priory, a few cottages and a leper hospital, he would never demean himself by making his rounds on foot. He rode to his next patient, a woman with symptoms not unlike Wrattlesworth’s. Olma Birton was the reeve’s wife, a lady who had never enjoyed robust health, and who had taken a downward turn over the past three or four weeks.
‘How is she?’ he asked as he entered the stone-built house that nestled prettily in a copse of ancient oaks. ‘Any better?’
‘Worse,’ replied Birton tersely. ‘And Egbert died last night.’
‘Egbert?’ queried Nigellus blankly.
Birton scowled at him. ‘My uncle. You came three days ago to calculate his horoscope.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Nigellus recalled an ancient person with wispy white hair and no teeth. ‘He was unable to supply me with the dates I needed for an accurate forecast, and I did warn you that any treatment I prescribed might not be effective.’
‘Well, it failed completely,’ said Birton. ‘So I hope you do better with Olma. The last time you were here, you told me that she and Egbert were suffering from different ailments, but you are wrong. They fell ill within days of each other and–’
‘The timing of their maladies is irrelevant,’ said Nigellus sharply, annoyed that the reeve should dare presume to tell him his business. Did he dispense advice about harvesting crops or mending fences? No, he did not, and Birton should mind his tongue.
‘They both had headaches, pains in the innards and weak limbs,’ the reeve persisted. ‘And what about Canon Wrattlesworth? He is suffering from the same symptoms that–’
‘His illness is none of your affair. Now, do you want me to see your wife or not?’
Nigellus could see that Birton itched to send him packing, but the curmudgeonly reeve loved his wife, and would never do anything that might be to her disadvantage. Nigellus was glad: Birton was wealthy, and no physician liked to lose a good source of income. He followed the reeve to a pleasant bedchamber on the upper floor, where Olma lay grey-faced and barely conscious.
‘Did you rub her cheeks with snail juice, as I ordered?’ he asked, laying two fingers on her neck to assess the strength of her life-beat. He could barely feel it at all.
‘No,’ replied Birton in a strangled whisper, gazing at the woman who had shared his life for the past three decades. ‘She would not have liked it. She is a fastidious lady.’
‘Then it is your fault she has slipped into this fatal decline,’ said Nigellus brutally. ‘You promised to follow my orders, but this is the third time you have flouted them. How can you expect her to recover when you withhold the treatment that will save her life?’
Birton hung his head while Nigellus busied himself about the patient, but there was nothing he could do, and it was not long before Olma breathed her last. Nigellus left Birton to his grieving and rode to Cambridge, aiming to inspect his new quarters in Zachary Hostel – they were being redecorated and he was keen to ensure that the right colours were being used. He would collect his fee from Birton the following day: he was not so insensitive as to ask for it while the man was still in a state of shock.
‘I have had a trying morning,’ he sighed when he arrived at Zachary, hoping to find a sympathetic ear in John Kellawe, the hostel’s theologian. ‘Olma Birton died an hour ago, while Canon Wrattlesworth will follow her to the grave tonight.’
Kellawe raised his eyebrows. He hailed from the north, and was noted for his sharp tongue and brusque manners, along with a religious fanaticism that even pious men found alarming. He was an unattractive specimen, with a pugnacious jaw and wild eyes.
‘You lost two patients last week as well,’ he remarked. ‘The Prior’s cook and gardener. That makes four dead – a lot gone in so short a space of time. Especially in a small place like Barnwell.’
‘Five, not four,’ sighed Nigellus. ‘Birton’s uncle is dead, too.’
‘Of the same disease?’ asked Kellawe in alarm. ‘There are rumours that the plague is poised to return …’