'The book!' exclaimed Michael, snapping his fingers.
'There must be something in the book! But the only person who knows I am reading it, other than you, is de Wetherset.'
He met Bartholomew's eyes, and they exchanged a look of horror.
'Surely not!' breathed Michael.
'Does this book record anything about these unholy guilds?' asked Bartholomew, refusing to dismiss too glibly the possibility that de Wetherset might be involved.
Michael shook his head. 'There is very little incriminating in any of it. I do not understand why de Wetherset was so relieved to discover it had not been stolen." 'Unless he has not given all of it to you to read,' said Baitholomew.
Michael's green eyes were huge as he considered Bartholomew's words. Oh, lord, Matt! What have we been dragged into? You are right, of course. What I have read is nothing: de Wetherset had no reason to be concerned about the documents he has given me to read. He has only given me the parts he considers harmless! What a fool I have been! Do you think he is a member of a coven? Do you think he told them what I was doing?'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'If he knows you have access to only those parts of the book he considers innocuous, there is no reason for him to warn you away with dead animals. No, Brother. The warning is either from someone who has seen you at the church and who has guessed what you are reading, or it is unrelated to the book at all. I think de Wetherset has been less than honest with us, but I do not see why he would need to send you the head.'
Michael, appalled, stared at the head on the floor. 'I wish it had been you who left that thing on me after all,' he said fervently. 'If anyone had to dump dead animals on me in the night, I would rather it were you than anyone else! A practical joke, however vile, would be preferable to this sinister business.'
Bartholomew started to laugh and poked the monk with his elbow. 'Go back to bed,' he said. 'I will get rid of this thing. We can do no more tonight, and you should rest.'
Michael stood with a sigh. 'I am sorry, Matt,' he said.
'I was hasty in my accusation. Had I stopped to consider, I would have known that you, of all people, would do nothing that might endanger my health.' He left and went back to his own room while Bartholomew looked for a cloth in which to put the animal's head. He wrapped it up, and slipped out along the side of the north wing to the porch door. He unlatched it and went into the darkened building, first glancing across the courtyard to see if Walter were watching, but could see no moving shadows in the Porter's Lodge.
He walked through the kitchen to the gardens at the back. He tossed his grisly bundle, still in its cloth, onto the refuse fires that smouldered continuously behind the kitchen, and retraced his steps. He felt angry at Walter for being more interested in his half-pennies from Alcote for tale-telling than in doing his job of watching the College.
He walked quickly around the courtyard to the small stone building that served as the Porter's Lodge, intending to berate him for being negligent in his duties.
He pushed open the door and called out. There was no reply. Perhaps Walter was off checking some other part of the College. The small room where the porters usually sat was empty. Curious, Bartholomew went through to the back room where they ate their meals, relaxed and, occasionally, slept. Walter was sprawled out on the straw pallet that served as a makeshift bed. Bartholomew was about to shout at him, to wake him with the fright he deserved, when he saw the man's face was unusually white in the light from the open window.
Bartholomew knelt by him and felt a cold and clammy forehead. He put a hand against Walter's neck and felt the slow life beat. Walter moaned softly, and murmured something incomprehensible. On the table, Bartholomew saw the remains of a large pie, and some of it was on the floor. Walter had evidently been eating it when he was stricken.
'Poisoned!' muttered Bartholomew into the darkness.
He grabbed Walter by the shoulders and hoisted him on to his knees, forcing fingers down his throat. Walter gagged painfully, and the remains of the pie came up. He began to cry softly. Bartholomew made him sick a second time.
The porter slipped sideways and keeled onto the floor.
Bartholomew left him and raced to the room that Gray shared with Bulbeck and Deynman, snatching the startled student out of bed by his shirt collar.
'Fetch me some raw eggs mixed with vinegar and ground mustard,' he said urgently. 'As fast as you can!'
Gray scuttled off towards the kitchens, unquestioning, while Deynman and Bulbeck scrambled from their beds and followed Bartholomew. Walter lay where he had fallen, and Bartholomew heaved him into a sitting position, helped by Bulbeck, while Deynman watched with his mouth agape. Bulbeck kindled a lamp, while Bartholomew heaved the porter onto his feet and tried to force him to stand.
'What is wrong with him?' said Bulbeck, staring in shock at the ghastly white face of the porter as the room flared into light from the lamp.
'Poison,' said Bartholomew. 'We must force him to walk. If he loses consciousness he might die. Help me to hold him up.'
'But who poisoned him?' said Deynman, staring with wide eyes at Walter.
Bartholomew began gently slapping Walter's face.
The porter looked at him blearily before his eyes began to close.
'Walter! Wake up!' Bartholomew shouted.
At that moment, Gray appeared with a large bowl of eggs and vinegar.
'I did not know how much mustard you wanted,' he said, 'so I brought it all.'
Bartholomew grabbed the small bottle and emptied the entire contents into the slippery egg-mixture. Gray and Bulbeck exchanged a look of disgust. Bartholomew shook Walter until his eyes opened and forced him to drink some. He was immediately sick again, sinking onto his knees. Remorselessly, Bartholomew forced more of the repulsive liquid down his throat until the entire bowl had been swallowed and regurgitated. Walter began to complain.
'No more!' he whispered. 'My stomach hurts, Doctor.
Leave me be.'
Bartholomew grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the door. 'Walk with me,' he said. Bulbeck ran to grab Walter's other arm, and they began to march him around the courtyard.
'Will he die?' asked Bulbeck fearfully.
Bartholomew shook his head. 'I think most of the poison must be out of his stomach. We need to keep him awake for several hours, though, just to make sure.'
'I never sleep on duty,' muttered Walter thickly.
Bartholomew smiled. The porter was regaining his faculties. Bartholomew had arrived just in time. The poison he suspected had been used was a slow-acting one that was virtually tasteless, and could easily be concealed in food or drink. It brought on a slow unconsciousness, and Walter probably just felt pleasantly drowsy, until he fell into the sleep that might have been his last.
'Who did this to him?' asked Bulbeck. Bartholomew had been wondering the same thing. It stood to reason it was the same person who had put the kid's head on Michael's bed. The noise they were making began to wake the other scholars, and soon the courtyard was full of curious and sleepy students and Fellows. The Master arrived breathlessly, followed by Alcote, who exclaimed in horror when he saw the state of his informant.
Bartholomew quickly explained what had happened, and instructed Gray and Bulbeck to walk Walter around the courtyard until he could manage on his own. The students hurried to do his bidding, proud to be the centre of attention as the other students clustered round them with questions.
Kenyngham watched them with his lips pursed. Where are the beadles? They are supposed to be watching the gates.'
'They are watching the back gate, Master,' said Alcote.
'The front gate is locked after dark, and with a porter on duty is always secure. It is the back gate that is vulnerable.'