‘Is there a suppuration?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘That is always a danger with–’
‘Do not blame it on the wound,’ snapped Miller, hand dropping to the dagger in his belt. ‘Bunoun said you poisoned him. You are lucky I do not run you through!’
Cynric drew his hunting knife, daring him to try, while Bartholomew’s hand slipped into his medical bag and the various implements it contained. He had forgotten his sword again.
‘Young Hugh brought a message last night,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could embark on a complex explanation of wounds and their consequences that Miller would not understand. And Cynric had been right: the looming riot would bring an abrupt end to his investigation, and time was short. ‘It was for Chapman, and asked him to meet Simon in the Church of the Holy Cross.’
Miller regarded him frostily. ‘Do not be stupid. You know Chapman could not go to Holy Cross or anywhere else. He is too ill.’
‘So you have said,’ said Michael. ‘But I want to know about the note. When was it delivered?’
‘There was no note from Simon,’ said Miller firmly. ‘I would have remembered, since he so seldom bothers to acknowledge me these days. After all I have done for him, too.’
Langar had heard the shouting, and came to see what it was about. Ink stained his fingers, and he carried a quill in one hand and a sword in the other. Behind him were the hefty Lora Boyner and Sabina. Lora carried a bowl of water, and her blunt features were tear-stained.
‘Master Langar,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see a note from Simon last night – for Chapman?’
Langar frowned. ‘There was no letter from Simon – for Chapman or anyone else. The man is a coward, afraid to put pen to parchment, lest the Guild wins the confrontation they are itching to provoke. He is too cunning to leave documentary evidence of his real allegiance.’
‘The Guild will not win,’ snarled Miller. ‘God is on our side. Chapman said so.’
Lora looked the scholars up and down. ‘You are brave. Miller promised to kill you if Chapman dies, and here you are on his doorstep, asking to be executed.’ Her eyes watered, and Bartholomew saw the relic-seller’s sufferings had pierced her tough façade. ‘It was the wine you sent yesterday afternoon that did the damage. You said he should not have claret, but then you had a flask delivered and ordered him to finish the whole thing.’
‘I did not send anything,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled. He jumped back when Lora emptied the bowl, narrowly missing him. ‘And I specifically told you not to give him wine – only ale.’
‘The prescription accompanying the jug was signed with your name,’ snapped Miller, not believing him. ‘One of the priests from the cathedral brought it. You left it with him, because you could not be bothered to walk the extra distance to hand it to us yourself.’
‘And you gave this potion to Chapman?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘After I expressly warned you against feeding him anything from outside?’
‘Do not blame it on us,’ said Sabina, indignantly. ‘You–’
But Bartholomew was livid, both by the slur on his skills and on behalf of his patient. He went on the offensive, startling them with the ferocity of his attack. ‘You ignorant fools! Chapman narrowly escaped the first time someone tried to poison him, and now you have let the killer strike again. I thought he would be safe here, among friends concerned for his welfare, but I was wrong. I should have taken him to the Gilbertines’ hospital, and tended him myself. You are–’
‘Easy, Matt,’ said Michael, afraid he might push them too far. ‘It is clear a mistake has been made, and yelling will not help us understand what has happened. Do you still have this flask, Master Miller? If so, then perhaps we can see it.’
‘You had better come in,’ said Langar reluctantly. ‘This is not a conversation we should have in the open, not with the city on the brink of civil unrest. We want to avert a riot, not encourage one.’
‘Do we now,’ sneered Miller, suggesting that Langar would have his work cut out for him if he intended to act as peacemaker. ‘Fetch that wineskin, Lora. I want to know what is going on here.’
While Lora went to find the offending container, Bartholomew looked around Miller’s hall. Changes had been made since their last visit. Window shutters had been reinforced with planks of wood, and water-filled buckets stood in a row near the hearth, in case of fire. A pile of crossbows lay on the table in the centre of the room and several men were sharpening bolts. Uneasily, Bartholomew wondered whether they had defence or attack in mind.
‘Old models,’ muttered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Unreliable. These will not change the odds in their favour. They are still about even with the Guild.’
Michael surveyed the scene with monkish disapproval. ‘Perhaps you would tell me something while we wait, Master Miller. Yesterday, Ursula de Spayne was sent milk that was tainted with poison. She drank it, because she assumed it was a gift from you.’
‘Ursula likes milk, bless her,’ replied Miller. ‘It is bad for her innards, though, and I stopped sending it when Surgeon Bunoun told me it blocks her bowels. So you can accuse someone else–’
‘Ursula is not the only one who has been fed fishy poison,’ Michael went on. ‘First, there was Herl, then Flaxfleete, then it was in Telford’s wineskin.’
‘And now Chapman,’ said Bartholomew, taking the pitcher Lora handed him and sniffing it carefully. The poison did not smell as rank as it had in Flaxfleete’s barrel, but, like Ursula’s milk, it was still strong enough to be noticeable. He supposed it had come from the pot they had left at the cathedral – the one they should have destroyed.
Miller was confused. ‘This note is from you,’ he said, snatching a piece of parchment from Lora and waving it in Bartholomew’s face. ‘See your name signed at the bottom, nice and big?’
‘I never write it like that,’ said Bartholomew, regarding it in disdain. ‘And nor would my prescriptions encourage a sick man to “swallow the lot”, as is so prosaically written there. I did not send Chapman the wine, just as you did not send Ursula the milk.’
‘This is Kelby’s doing,’ said Lora, turning angrily to Miller. ‘It must be. He killed Herl, then Aylmer, and now he is after Chapman. Where will it end? When he has dispatched the lot of us?’
Suddenly, there was a sword in Miller’s hand. ‘I will not wait meekly to be struck down by poison. Round up the men, Langar.’
‘Not yet,’ said Langar. ‘We should wait until Sunday, when we have a better idea of numbers–’
Spittle flew from Miller’s mouth as he spoke. ‘We could all be dead by Sunday.’
Langar scowled, angry in his turn. ‘Very well, we shall have a war, if that is what you want. However, I need an hour or two to take a few steps of my own – to increase the odds in our favour.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael nervously.
‘I have trained men to spread rumours that will shake our enemies’ confidence,’ explained Langar. ‘And one or two highly placed guildsmen have been in my pay for years. I shall summon them and learn Kelby’s secret plans.’
‘If he has any,’ said Sabina reasonably. ‘He may be like us, waiting to see what will happen.’
‘You would say that,’ said Langar, turning on her. ‘You abandoned us, and only returned when you became frightened for your life. You are not here for friendship or loyalty.’
‘That is not true,’ lied Sabina. ‘I came because Chapman is ill.’
‘Nicholas should never have married you,’ said Langar, working himself into a temper. ‘We were happy until you came along with your sordid offer of “marriage”. And you did not do it to save him from Kelby’s accusations of lewd behaviour with me. You did it because you wanted to share his house and the money he had from his trade.’
Sabina shot him a look full of loathing. ‘His house was a hovel and he earned a pittance.’