An Unholy Alliance

by Susanna GREGORY

  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.'

  'Cynric.' Kenyngham looked around for the small Welshman whom he knew would not be far away. 'Find out where the beadles are, and then come back to me.

  Matthew? Have you any idea what prompted all this?'

  Bartholomew told him about Michael finding the goat's head on his bed, while the other Fellows AN UMl)OlY ALLIANCE exclaimed in horror. Michael paled as he considered the implications of Walter's poisoning — that someone had wanted him to receive the goat's head sufficiently to kill for it.

  Bartholomew went to examine Walter again, and came back satisfied that he was recovering. The Fellows stood in a small group around Kenyngham, confused and fearful.

  Father William muttered prayers to himself, while Father Aidan and Hesselwell looked on in shock.

  Kenynngham ordered the students back to their rooms and Cenric returned from the back gate with Jonstan.

  'I saw and heard nothing!' said Jonstan, appalled. 'I have been patrolling the lane and keeping a permanent watch on the back gate since dusk. We saw nothing!'

  'Do not worry, Master Jonstan.' said Kenyngham, seeing the alarm in the jovial Proctor's face. 'You did your best. I suspect we are dealing with clever and committed people.'

  'But I am committed,' saidjonstan, stung. 'I have been overseeing my men and ensuring that the lane is checked constantly since dark. I saw Doctor Bartholomew and Brother Michael return, and I am willing to wager that they did not see me!'

  The surprise on Bartholomew and Michaels faces told the watching Fellows that Jonstan's claims were true.

  'I set up a regular patrol once the night became quiet,'

  Jonstan continued.

  'How regular?' asked Bartholomew.

  'Every quarter of an hour,' saidjonstan, his eyes still wide with shock.

  'Then that is probably why you did not see the intruder,' said Baitholomew. if you were working to an established pattern, it would not take much to work it out and slip into the College when you were furthest away.'

  Jonstan's face fell. Kenyngham rubbed at his eyes wearily. 'This cannot go on,' he said, i will not have the lives of College members threatened, and poisoners breaking in. Come, Master Jonstan. We must discuss what more can be done.'

  He held out his arm to indicate that Jonstan was to precede him to his room.

  'Poor man,' said Hesselwell, watching the dejected Jonstan leave. 'He thought he was being rigorous by establishing a regular pattern in his checks, while all the time he was achieving quite the reverse.'

  Bartholomew nodded absently. He watched Gray and Bulbeck with Walter, although the porter was now able to walk on his own. Bartholomew was pleased at his students' diligence, and knew they would remain with Walter until he gave them leave to stop.

  'Who is doing this?' asked Aidan, his prominent front teeth gleaming in the candle-light. 'Why would anyone mean Michaelhouse harm?' i cannot imagine,' said Hesselwell. i wondered whether it might be a commoner, or perhaps one of the students, but that is unlikely. It must be an outsider.'

  'What makes you so sure?' asked Bartholomew, surprised at Hesselwel
l's quick deduction.

  'Because everyone in College knows that Walter sleeps all night when he should be on duty, and would know there would be no need to use poison in order to sneak unseen into the building.'

  'But the gate is locked and barred,' said Bartholomew, gesturing to where the huge oak plank was firmly in place. 'Even if Walter were asleep, it would be difficult to break in." 'There are places where the wall is easily breached, as you know very well, Bartholomew,' said Hesselwell.

  'And before you ask me how I know, I occasionally have problems sleeping, and sometimes walk in the orchard at night. I have seen students using it, and I imagine you have used it yourself while out on your nocturnal ramblings.'

  His tone was unpleasant, and Bartholomew resented the accusation in his voice. He had only ever climbed across the wall once, and would not need to do so again now he had the Master's permission to be out to visit patients. Alcote looked on with malicious enjoyment.

  'And how would this intruder present Walter with the poison and be sure he took it?' Bartholomew demanded.

  'Would you eat something that appeared miraculously in the middle of the night?'

  Hesselwell smiled smugly. 'I would not. But Walter might. He is not intelligent, and his greed might well get the better of his suspicion.'

  Bartholomew realised that Hesselwell was right, although it galled him to admit it. It did seem more likely that the person who poisoned Walter and left the grisly warning for Michael was from outside Michaelhouse, for exactly the reason Hesselwell suggested: that everyone inside knew Walter slept, and that it would not be necessary to kill him to move about the College unnoticed.

  'Where is Deynman?' said Bartholomew suddenly, looking around him.

  Gray and Bulbeck looked round briefly, and shrugged, more interested in Walter than in Deynman's absence.

  When Bartholomew had hauled Walter out into the yard, Deynman had stayed in the porters' lodge. Bartholomew began to walk across to the lodge, and then broke into a run. He shot into the small room, staggering as he slipped in the mess on the floor, and gazed at Deynman who was kneeling in front of the table, chopping the remains of the pie into ever smaller pieces. He grinned cheerfully at Bartholomew.

  "I am looking for the poison,' he said.

  Bartholomew leaned against the door in relief at seeing Deynman unharmed. He had been afraid that Deynman might have eaten the pie to see whether it had been poisoned. His eye was caught by a goblet on the table.

  He picked it up and looked at it before taking a cautious sip. It was slightly bitter and there was a grainy residue at the bottom of the vessel. He spat it out and looked at the bottle. It was not a kind that was kept in College.

  He inspected the chopped remains of Walter's pie: it was covered with some of Agatha's hard, heavy pastry and had, without doubt, been made in Michaelhouse.

  'The poison was in the wine, Robert,' he said, and explained why. Deynman looked at the mess he had made, and his face fell as he realised that his initiative had failed.

  Bartholomew relented at Deynman's crestfallen attitude.

  'I will show you how to test for certain poisons,' he said, trying not to sound weary. 'But you are unlikely to find any of them by chopping something into tiny pieces.

  Go and help Sam and Thomas. I am trusting you to make sure that tonight Walter rests, but does not sleep. If he loses consciousness, fetch me immediately.'

  Deynman'sface brightened at being given such responsibility, and he scampered off to do as he was told.

  'Is that wise?' asked Michael, looming in the doorway and watching him go. 'The boy is a half-wit.'

  'Oh, hardly that,' said Bartholomew. 'He tries hard. I will give the others the same instructions before I retire.

  It is about time they had some practical training. With any luck it might put them off. They might choose a monkish vocation instead.'

  'Heaven forbid!' said Michael. He became serious.

  'Did you learn anything from Walter? Who poisoned him and when?'

  Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. Now the initial excitement had worn off, he felt exhausted.

  'Walter had a close call. Whoever left that head was determined that you would get it.'

  Michael shuddered. 'We should talk to Walter,' he said.

  Out in the yard, Walter had recovered to the point of grumpiness. He glared at Bartholomew. 'My throat hurts,' he said aggressively, 'and I can still taste mustard.'

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. 'Would you like some of that wine you were drinking in the lodge, to wash away the taste?'

  Walter spat. 'I thought it had an odd taste about it. I should have known that no one gives gifts for nothing.'

  'Who gave it to you?' asked Michael.

  'The Master,' said Walter.

  Michael and Bartholomew exchanged glances. 'How do you know it was from the Master?' asked Bartholomew.

  'Did he give it to you in person?'

  'He left it for me, and I knew it was from him, because who but the Master has fine wines to give away? You two do not,' he added rudely. 'Why should I question the Master when he was offering good wine?' He paused for a moment in thought. 'I should have done, though.'

  'You should indeed,' said Michael.

  Deynman hauled Walter away for another turn around the yard, and Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully.

  'So, because it seemed a good wine, Walter assumed it was from the Master,' he said.

  'Can we be sure it was not?' Michael asked.

  Bartholomew shrugged. 'I doubt Kenyngham would leave poisoned wine for Walter when he would be such an obvious culprit,' he said. 'And anyway, Hesselwell is right.

  The poisoner must be an outsider, because Kenyngham would know Walter sleeps most of the night.'

  They talked for a while longer, and went back to their beds. Bartholomew repeated his instructions that the students should wake him immediately if Walter went to sleep or became ill, and left the surly porter in their less than tender, but hawklike, care. He smiled, remembering that Walter had landed Gray in trouble two weeks ago when he had stayed out all night and Walter had informed Alcote. Now the student could have his revenge, and Walter would find himself walked off his feet by the morning.

  As Bartholomew lay on his bed to sleep, questions tumbled endlessly through his tired brain. Who had left the goat for Michael? What was in the book that was so incriminating that the Chancellor had censored it? How were the guilds connected to the deaths of the friar and Froissart? Who had killed them, and was the killer also the murderer of the women? Was Fiances de Belem killed because of her-father's involvement with the Guild of Purification? He turned the questions over and over, searching for a common theme, but could think of nothing except the mysterious covens.

  He lay on his bed, watching the clouds drift across the night sky through the open window shutters. Eventually he got up and closed them securely. He locked the door, too, something he had not felt obliged to do in Michaelhouse for a long time, and, when the bell chimed for Prime the following morning, he wondered whether he had slept at all.

  Walter was back to his miserable self by dawn, complaining bitterly that his throat and stomach hurt from the enforced vomiting, and that his feet were sore from walking all night. Convinced that he was suffering no long-term ill-effects from his narrow escape, Bartholomew ordered that he rest, and he then returned to his teaching.

  His students, having seen medical practice at work in their own College the night before, were full of questions, and Deynman proudly gave the class a description, reasonably accurate, of the treatment for a person with suspected poisoning. Bartholomew then described treatments for different kinds of poisons, and Deynman's face fell when he realised that, yet again, medicine was more complex than he had believed. Brother Boniface was sullen and uncooperative, refusing to answer questions, and Bartholomew wondered what was brewing behind the Franciscan's resentful eyes.

  After the main meal, Baitholomew gave Gray and Bulbeck
a mock disputation, and was pleased with their progress. He took them with him to treat Brother Alban's elbow. The old monk was delighted to have an audience of three whom he could regale with his gossip. He began talking about the increase in witchcraft in the town.

  'More and more of the common people are flocking to evil ways,' he crowed gleefully.

  'Oh, not you too,' said Gray disrespectfully. 'We have to listen to Boniface droning on about heresy and witchcraft all day.'

  Bulbeck nodded in agreement. 'He sees heresy in everything,' he said. 'He thinks Doctor Bartholomew is a heretic for saving Walter last night. He says God called him and Doctor Bartholomew snatched him back.'

  So that was it, thought Bartholomew. He was sure Walter would not agree with Brother Boniface's opinion, and wondered how Boniface proposed to be a physician with these odd ideas rattling around in his head.

  Alban ignored them and chattered about the desecration of several churches in the town after one of the guild meetings two nights ago. He crossed himself frequently in horror, but his gleaming eyes made it obvious that he found the whole thing of great interest, and was eagerly waiting to hear what happened next.

  'Have you found the killer of the whores yet?' he asked Bartholomew, beady black eyes glittering with malicious delight.

  'They were not all whores, 'said Bartholomew patiently, concentrating on his task.

  'They were,' said Alban firmly. 'And you cannot try to defend that de Belem girl. She was worse than the rest.'

  Bartholomew looked at him, startled, and seeing the pleasure in the old man's face at having surprised him, he shook his head and continued with his treatment.

  Alban really was a nasty old man, he thought, for taking such delight in the downfall of others.

  'She was out in the dark seeing her man,' Alban continued. 'After her husband died in the Death, her father could not control her lust.'

  'Who was her man?' asked Gray, interested.

  The old monk beamed at him, pleased to have secured a positive reaction at last. He tapped the side of his nose.

  'A scholar,' he said. 'That is all I can say." He sat back, his lips pursed.