‘There speaks the saint,’ jeered Welbyrn. ‘We had better do as he suggests, Brothers, because we do not want to be struck down. He might–’
‘Leave him alone,’ warned Bartholomew, seeing Clippesby’s confusion. He was loath for the Dominican to discover that night what had been claimed about him, as he did not feel equal to soothing the dismay that would certainly follow.
‘Or what?’ challenged Welbyrn. ‘You have no authority here. You are nothing but a physician with a sinister interest in corpses.’
‘You might find yourself the object of his attentions if you do not shut up,’ snarled William. ‘And Clippesby is right: we shall discuss this matter tomorrow, when you have regained your wits and accept that it is not politic to insult the Bishop’s–’
‘Who are you calling witless?’ shrieked Welbyrn with such sudden fury that even the other two members of the Unholy Trinity reacted with shock; Ramseye jerked away from him, and Nonton’s hand went to the knife he carried in his belt. ‘How dare you! It–’
‘Come, Welbyrn,’ ordered Ramseye sharply, stepping forward to lay a wary hand on the treasurer’s arm. When Welbyrn resisted, Nonton came to help, and together, almoner and cellarer bundled him out of the guest house and into the darkness beyond.
Bartholomew watched William bar the door behind them, thinking that Welbyrn’s face had been abnormally flushed. Was something wrong with him? But he did not feel like pondering medical matters that night. He lay on the bed, but the moment he was comfortable, he realised that he was still very thirsty. Wearily, he started to rise, but William waved him back down and went to pour him some watered wine.
‘I heard and saw nothing out there, Brother,’ Bartholomew said, watching the friar fiddle with jugs and goblets and wondering what was taking so long. He felt his eyes begin to close: the Benedictine’s beds really were extremely luxurious, and he wished the ones at Michaelhouse were half as soft. ‘Are you sure you–’
‘Of course I did,’ snapped Michael. ‘And so would you, if you had not been drunk. It is fortunate that I remained sober, or we both might be dead.’
‘Right.’ Bartholomew was disinclined to argue, although it occurred to him that since Michael had downed a lot more wine than he had, the monk was probably not a reliable witness either. William finally presented him with a brimming beaker, and he was thirsty enough to drain the lot in a single draught. ‘Is there any more?’
‘Yes, but you cannot have any,’ said William, regarding the empty goblet in alarm. ‘It is unwise to gulp claret – even watered – after a serious injury, especially for a man who is usually abstemious.’
Michael began to hold forth again before Bartholomew could inform William that a graze did not constitute a serious injury. Piqued by the friar’s presumptions, Bartholomew considered going to get a drink himself but was not sure he could manage it without reeling, and he was reluctant to let the others see him totter – he would never hear the end of it. He closed his eyes again.
‘It might have been anyone,’ the monk was fuming. ‘Aurifabro’s mercenaries, Spalling and his rabble, the obedientiaries and their defensores, the bedesfolk, Reginald…’
‘Lullington,’ added William. ‘The abbey servants say he only pretended to be Robert’s friend, in order to accumulate privileges as corrodian. And I saw armour under his gipon tonight.’
‘What did you mean when you said the defensores Nonton lent us were feeble, Father?’ asked Michael, reining in his temper with difficulty. ‘How do you know?’
‘The servants again,’ replied William. ‘Apparently, Nonton has recruited two kinds of soldier: ones who know how to fight, and ones who look fierce but who actually possess no martial skills whatsoever and who are probably cowards. He supplied you with the latter kind.’
Bartholomew began to drowse. Then he supposed he should pay at least some attention to the conversation, so he forced himself to open his eyes. It was not easy, and when he finally managed it the room undulated alarmingly. He wanted to rub his damaged elbow, but his hand was suddenly too heavy to move. What was wrong with him? He tried to speak, but no words came, and when his eyes closed again, a crushing sense of darkness rushed in to meet him.
‘Matt?’ came Clippesby’s anxious voice. ‘Are you ill?’
He sensed his colleagues clustering around him, but it was as if they were speaking from a great distance. He felt himself drift further away, and the last thing he heard before he gave himself to the blackness was Michael’s horrified declaration.
‘The leeks. They were poisoned!’
Bartholomew knew it was Sunday, because he could hear the jubilant jangle of bells, and he also knew he should rouse himself and go to church. Someone else thought so, too, because he could feel his shoulder being shaken with irritating persistence. But he was still tired, and the bed was very comfortable. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
‘I am right: the leeks were poisoned,’ said Michael worriedly, when increasingly strenuous efforts on his part did nothing to jostle the physician awake.
‘It was not the leeks, Brother.’ William’s face was sober. ‘It was the Lombard slices. Clippesby and I visited the Swan as soon as we woke up this morning, and we quizzed Landlord Piel. He denied providing you with any – he has not sold cakes since his wife died. Ergo, someone else left them for you.’
‘You said you were too anxious about your investigation to eat any,’ Clippesby reminded Michael. ‘But that Matt took one on his way out.’
Michael was horrified. ‘They are my favourites, and I said so in both the Swan and the abbey. Anyone might have heard me…’
‘Quite,’ nodded William. ‘I searched the place thoroughly while I was there, but the cakes had disappeared. In other words, the culprit has slyly reclaimed the evidence.’
‘Or someone ate them after we left,’ Michael pointed out.
‘It is not that kind of establishment,’ said William. ‘Its wares are expensive, and the folk who patronise it are wealthy – they do not need to scavenge leftovers from other tables.’
Michael scrubbed at his face. ‘Matt ate one Lombard slice and it has sent him into a stupor. What would have happened to me had I sampled the entire plate?’
‘You would be dead,’ replied William baldly. ‘So we had better ensure we do not touch any food that does not come from a communal pot from now on. Pity – I was growing used to being properly fed; it makes a pleasant change from Michaelhouse.’
Michael’s expression was bleak. ‘Are you sure the Lombard slices were to blame? I tried one of those leeks, and it tasted very odd.’
‘Yes, because while William was looking for the cakes, I interviewed the tavern’s pig,’ said Clippesby. ‘She told me that Piel had over-salted his vegetables by mistake – she overheard him laughing about it with his potboys. The leftovers were in her slops, which did not please her, but she ate them anyway with no ill effects.’
‘So there you are, Brother,’ concluded William. ‘The leeks tasted nasty because there was too much salt, and the poison was in the Lombard slices – the pastries that Piel denies providing, and that have now mysteriously vanished.’
‘Do you think that whoever provided the cakes also ordered you ambushed when you did not eat them?’ asked Clippesby.
‘I hope so,’ said Michael softly. ‘Because I should not like to think there are two lots of people eager to kill me.’
Aware that the stakes had now been raised, and that the time was fast approaching when they would have to return to Cambridge, Michael became businesslike. He sent Clippesby to tell Langelee all they had reasoned, with orders to warn the Master to be on his guard, and told William to watch over Bartholomew.