An Unholy Alliance

Boniface regarded him aghast. 'It is the Lord's day!' he exclaimed. 'We cannot work!'

'Reading is permitted,' said Bartholomew. 'But no one is obliged to attend if they feel themselves unable.'

'Working on the Lord's day is a sin!' said Boniface, looking down his long nose at his teacher. 'It is because of evil men like you that the Death was visited upon us.'

'That is true, Doctor.' Bartholomew turned to see Father William standing behind him, tall, immovable, and with a fanatical gleam in his eye that forewarned Bartholomew he was spoiling for a good theological debate.

' Perhaps it is,' said Bartholomew.' But I do not consider listening to medical texts work.'

'But you hold a book, you turn its pages, and you use your voice to speak the words,' said William. 'That is work.'

' In which case you are working now,' said Bartholomew.

'You are trying to engage me in a theological debate — and theology is your trade, quite apart from your vocation, since you are paid to teach it — and you are using your voice to speak the words.'

William nodded, appreciating the logic. 'True,' he countered. 'Yet I do not consider it work.'

'And I do not consider reading medical texts work,' said Bartholomew. 'So we have reached a stalemate.'

Before William could respond, Bartholomew gave a small bow and began to walk away. Boniface ran after him and seized his sleeve.

'I will not read your heretical texts,' he hissed. 'And I will not commit the sin of working on the Sabbath. I will go to the conclave and listen to readings from the Bible with Father Aidan.'

'Do so, Brother,' said Bartholomew wearily. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to ask Boniface what he thought the difference was in listening to one text or another. He disengaged himself from his obnoxious student, and made for his room. This time he was accosted by C*ray and Bulbeck.

'All those potions we tested yesterday seemed to be what you said they should be,' said Gray. 'Except for the white arsenic. That was sugar.'

'Sugar? How did you know it was sugar?' asked Bartholomew, startled. "I gave you no tests to prove that!'

'Deynman ate it,' said Gray.

'He what?' cried Bartholomew, looking in horror at Deynman skulking nearby, waiting for his friends. He grinned nervously at Bartholomew.

'We thought the arsenic looked like that fine white sugar that we had at the feast last year. Deynman ate it, and said it was indeed sugar.'

Bartholomew put his hand over his eyes. He wondered what he had done to deserve students like Boniface and Deynman, one unable to see past the dogma of his vocation, and the other unable to see much of anything. 'Deynman!' he yelled suddenly, making the others jump and several scholars look over to see what was happening. He strode to where the student stood and grabbed him by the front of his tabard.

'What are you thinking of?' he said fiercely. Deynman shrugged and tried to wriggle free. Bartholomew held him tighter. 'You might have been poisoned — like Walter!'

'Sam and Thomas would have fetched eggs and vinegar to make me sick!' Deynman protested, struggling feebly.

'Like Walter.'

'The chances that eggs and vinegar would have saved you from arsenic poisoning are remote,' said Bartholomew. 'It would have been a horrible death, and I doubt I would have been able to help you.' He released Deynman, and stood looking down at him, torn between wonder and anger at the young man's ineptitude.

'But it was not arsenic, it was sugar,' protested Deynman. 'The poison that made Walter ill must have been stolen from your bag and replaced with sugar.'

'Oh, Rob!' exclaimed Bartholomew in despair. 'How can that be possible? I have just told you that arsenic produces a violent death, not a peaceful slipping away into sleep like Walter. Walter was poisoned with a strong opiate used for dulling pain. The arsenic missing from my bag was not the poison used on Walter.'

'But who would exchange arsenic for sugar?' cried Deynman, confused.

'I do not know,' said Bartholomew. 'And anyway,' he added severely, 'that is none of your concern. But if you ever taste any of my medicines again without asking me first, I will make sure that you are sent home the same day. Do I make myself clear?'

Deynman nodded, frightened by his teacher's rare display of anger. Bartholomew gave him a long hard look and sent him off before Alcote, hurrying across the courtyard towards them, could catch him. Alcote watched Deynman run to Bartholomew's storeroom to fetch the book with Gray and Bulbeck.

'What was all that about?' he asked.

'Alchemy!' snapped Bartholomew, still angry at Deynman's stupidity, but reluctant to tell the nosy Alcote anything that would get him into more trouble.

'Your students are a disgrace,' sniffed Alcote. 'When I catch them, I will fine them for laughing in church.'

He headed towards Bartholomew's store, head tilted to one side, looking more like a hen than ever. As he entered, Bartholomew saw the shutters fly open and the students clamber out of the window. Alcote emerged to see them running across to the hall with the book tucked under Gray's arm. Bartholomew laughed despite himself, and wondered how long they could keep a step ahead of the vindictive Senior Fellow.

He went to close the shutters, wondering whyJanetta's friends had exchanged sugar for white arsenic. Arsenic was an unusual item for a physician to carry, but Bartholomew found it useful for eliminating some of the vermin that he believed spread diseases to some of his poorer patients. Despite his words to Deynman, Bartholomew did not carry enough of the white powder to kill a person, and he was not unduly worried about the amount that was stolen.

Michael was waiting for him by the porter's lodge, and together they walked to see the Chancellor.

'Why were you yelling at Deynman?' Michael asked curiously. He had seldom seen the physician angry enough to shout.

Bartholomew did not want to think about it, and avoided Michael's question. Cynric had already been dispatched to ask de Wetherset if they could try the keys on the locks, and when they arrived at his office, the Chancellor and Hailing, recently promoted from Senior Proctor to Vice Chancellor to replace Buckley, were waiting for them. De Wetherset reported that his clerks had still been unable to trace Froissart's family, and suggested he be buried in St Mary's churchyard as soon as possible.

"I have made some enquiries,' said Hailing. 'One of the two covens in Cambridge, the Guild of the Coming, uses goats in its rituals. I can only conclude that members of this guild must have left the head on Brother Michael's bed, perhaps as a warning?'

'A warning of what?' demanded Bartholomew. 'We cannot be a danger to them. We have made little headway in our investigation: we do not know who the friar was, or what he wanted from the chest, and we do not know who killed Froissart.' He stood abruptly and began to pace.

'We know that the Guild of the Coming must be connected to the woman in Nicholas's grave,' said Harling, trying to be placatory.

'Why?' snapped Bartholomew. 'How do you know it was not one coven trying to desecrate the sacred symbol of its rivals, or trying to implicate it in a murder of which it is innocent? And what of the Guild of the Holy Trinity?

That may be leaving satanic symbols to bring the covens into disrepute.'

Harling spread his hands. 'The Guild of the Holy Trinity is dedicated to stamping out sin, not to committing murder and desecration. But regardless, how would anyone guess that Nicholas's grave would be exhumed and we would find the mask?'