A Deadly Brew (20 page)

‘She will be with us in a matter of days,’ said the Abbess. ‘King’s Hall celebrates its Foundation Day soon, and the Countess will visit us after she has attended the festivities there.’

Julianna suddenly started to cough in a way that, to Bartholomew, was clearly contrived, although it had her aunt jumping up to press a cup of wine into her hand. The Abbess hesitated, looking uncertainly at Bartholomew, but then seemed to make up her mind.

‘Since you are here, I wonder if I might impose on your good offices, Doctor. Julianna has been complaining of chest pains these last two days. It is doubtless the unhealthy vapours from the Fens, but I would appreciate your advice on the matter. She can provide you with the details necessary to calculate her stars.’

Julianna smiled at him, coughing forgotten, and Bartholomew found himself unaccountably flustered. ‘I cannot,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘I would need a set of astrological charts to calculate a horoscope, and mine were rendered useless when I fell in the river.’

‘Do not worry about that,’ said Julianna with a wide grin. ‘I have a set here that belongs to the Countess.’ She waved a scroll at him.

‘But I do not usually conduct astrological consultations,’ he objected. The more he practised medicine, the more he became convinced that the efficacy of his cures had nothing to do with the alignment of the celestial bodies. Because his personal beliefs did not exempt him from teaching his students how to do them, he performed the occasional horoscope just so he did not forget, but these were very few and far between, and he always resented the time he spent on them.

‘Rubbish!’ said Julianna, not to be deterred. ‘You are a physician, and all physicians read their patients’ stars. You saying you do not prepare horoscopes is like a merchant saying he does not like the feel of money!’

‘Well, I prefer doing other things,’ he said shortly. ‘I seldom calculate horoscopes.’

‘I would be grateful if you would make an exception,’ said the Abbess, laying a hand on her niece’s shoulder in motherly concern. ‘Julianna is very young to be suffering from chest pains, and I do not want to send her to Ely to see the infirmarian while there are outlaws at large on the causeway.’

‘Very well, then,’ he said reluctantly, realising it would be churlish to decline a request from the Abbess, given that they had availed themselves of her hospitality. He turned to Julianna, trying to become professional to hide his irritation. ‘Perhaps you can tell me when these pains started?’

‘Oh no!’ said Julianna with distaste. ‘Not here! There is a small chamber on the floor above that is far more private for you to ask your intimate questions.’ She looked pointedly at Michael.

‘I will not ask any intimate questions,’ said Bartholomew nervously. ‘I only have to know the letters in your name – each letter of the alphabet has a specific astrological number and I need to add them together – and a few pertinent dates–’

‘I want more than that!’ said Julianna indignantly. ‘I want a complete astrological prediction that will tell me whether I should be forced to remain among the dangerous miasmas of these marshes, or whether I should be allowed to move to somewhere more conducive to my health.’

So, thought Bartholomew, Julianna regarded him as her escape route from Denny to somewhere more lively. He could not blame her: the Fens were not his idea of paradise, either.

‘You will see that your consultation will enable me to make the correct decision regarding my niece’s future,’ said the Abbess, a worried frown marring her face. ‘I would truly appreciate any advice you could offer.’

‘Upstairs, then,’ said Julianna, standing and stretching out a hand to Bartholomew.

The physician swallowed hard. ‘It would be better if there were another nun present,’ he said quickly. A dozen would be preferable, he thought to himself. He saw a brief flash of anger in Julianna’s eyes, and his discomfort intensified.

‘I will chaperone Doctor Bartholomew and Julianna,’ said Dame Pelagia, heaving her ancient body from her fireside chair.

‘Let me think,’ said the Abbess, as Michael slipped quickly into the chair Dame Pelagia had vacated, thus placing himself considerably closer to her. She stood and moved away, clasping her hands. Bartholomew could see her dilemma. Should she risk the reputation of her wanton niece with the physician, or should she risk her own at the hands of Brother Michael, whose interests were clearly not monastic? To send for another nun to chaperone them might be construed as offensive and the Abbess was far too well mannered to insult her guests.

‘Doctor Bartholomew is a professional man,’ pouted Julianna, ‘and he is only going to ask me about my stars. Why would we need a chaperone?’

The Abbess eyed her niece suspiciously and came to a decision. She apparently trusted her own abilities to fend off manly attentions over those of Julianna, whose brazen gazes led Bartholomew to wonder whether the skill of repelling male attentions was ever a part of her education.

‘Dame Pelagia will go with Julianna,’ said the Abbess, ‘while Brother Michael will defend my virtue.’

She smiled lightly, as if she had made a joke, but her meaning was clear enough. Some of the glitter faded from Michael’s eyes, but he nodded politely.

Filled with trepidation, both for the Abbess and for himself, Bartholomew followed Julianna up a narrow flight of stairs to an attic above the solar. The room was as elegantly furnished as the rest of the building, and Bartholomew was impressed to see glass in the windows that was so fine and clear he could see right through them and out to the fields and Fens beyond. Dame Pelagia finally heaved herself up the stairs and stood wheezing in the doorway. Bartholomew helped her to a chair.

‘You seem more in need of a cure for chest pains than Julianna does,’ he said pointedly, as the old lady collapsed into the chair with evident relief. Julianna grinned at him, totally unabashed, and perched herself on a table where she sat swinging her legs.

Bartholomew started to ask her about her birth date and various other significant events in her life, to keep matters purely medical, and to prevent her from embarking on some tangential discussion of her own choosing. Dame Pelagia began to nod and doze in her chair, watched attentively by both Bartholomew and Julianna for entirely different reasons. Dame Pelagia’s head drooped and Bartholomew leapt noisily to his feet to pace the room. The old lady snapped awake, eyed him suspiciously and tried to pay attention to what was being said.

Several times he tried to bring the interview to an end, but Julianna knew as well as he did that ascertaining information to predict what would best favour a person’s future health with any degree of accuracy took time. She also seemed aware that he did not want to offend the Abbess by providing her niece with a less than accurate consultation. Wearily, he sat at a table, unrolled the charts and began to make his calculations.

Dame Pelagia’s head sank down onto her chest a second time and Bartholomew rapped the ink-well on the side of the table vigorously, pretending that its contents needed to be shaken. Pelagia looked up sleepily and resettled herself in the chair. But Bartholomew’s ploys could not keep the old lady from her midday doze indefinitely and it was not long before she was soundly asleep, her gentle snores whispering about the room.

‘Now,’ said Bartholomew as he sharpened a pen noisily, hoping to waken her yet again. ‘What phase was the moon in when you first experienced these pains?’

He pretended to drop the ink-well, sending it clattering to the floor, but Dame Pelagia did not even stir.

‘Now she is asleep, you will not waken her with your contrived racket,’ said Julianna, confident in her superior knowledge of the old lady’s habits. ‘We do not have long now you have successfully wasted so much time in keeping her awake. The bell for sext will ring at any moment and then our time alone together will be at an end.’ She advanced on him meaningfully.

Bartholomew leapt to his feet and backed away, raising his hands to fend her off. ‘Sister Julianna! You are a nun – remember your vows!’

‘I am not a nun!’ said Julianna in disdain, her voice low. ‘And I have taken no vows. I am merely here in the care of my aunt until a suitable marriage can be arranged.’

Bartholomew glanced uneasily towards the door, assessing his chances of reaching it before Julianna blocked his way. He wondered whether being accused of seducing a nun was better or worse than being charged with ravishing the daughter of a nobleman. Julianna moved towards him and he edged away.

‘Keep still,’ Julianna whispered in sudden frustration. ‘I am risking my life by speaking to you, while all you do is back away from me like some old priest!’

‘Risking your life?’ This was worse than he had thought. Her family must be powerful indeed!

‘Yes. And I cannot say what I must too loudly, so come closer, near the window and away from the door.’ She waited impatiently and then raised her voice in exasperation. ‘I do not bite for heaven’s sake!’ She grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the window. ‘We must not be overheard.’

He was about to reply when the slightest of creaks from outside the door indicated that someone was there, listening.

‘Saturn was at its zenith,’ said Julianna loudly, her eyes wide with horror as she gazed at the door. Swallowing hard, she leaned close to him and spoke in a whisper. ‘You must leave here today. You are in the gravest danger. Leave now – this afternoon – before it is too late!’

Chapter 6

Bartholomew regarded Julianna in disbelief, simultaneously they looked towards the door a second time as there was a slight, but distinctly audible, groan from the floorboards in the hallway.

‘And what day of the month did you notice this change in your humours?’ he asked, speaking as loudly as he could. Under the door, where there was a gap between wood and floor, a shadow moved, stopped and then passed on, while in her chair Dame Pelagia snored obliviously.

Julianna smiled quickly at him before becoming intense again. ‘They suspect I know. I am no longer safe and neither are you.’

‘Know what?’ said Bartholomew in confusion. ‘Safe from whom?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Julianna. ‘That is the frustrating part. There are comings and goings in the depths of the night and something is amiss, but I do not know what.’

‘Then how do you know you are in danger?’ asked Bartholomew. Perhaps Julianna had been locked up in the convent for too long, and her desire for something to break the monotony of her daily life had gained the better of her common sense.

She fiddled with her veil and glanced at Dame Pelagia. ‘There is not much time to explain. Last night, after compline, I went to the pantry for something to eat – I am always hungry here since the portions are so small – and I heard men in the kitchen. I heard one of them telling the others that you were not dead, but were recovering here along with that fat Benedictine and your servant. They were furious. Then I heard them say they would act tonight. As I went to leave, I knocked a plate off a shelf and they heard me. I escaped to the dormitory, but I think they guessed it was me who had been eavesdropping.’

‘What were these men like?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Mercenaries wearing boiled leather jerkins and helmets? Or a young man with a newly grown beard?’

Julianna shook her head. ‘I did not see them. But at least one of them was gently spoken. He was not a common soldier.’

Bartholomew was nonplussed. By no stretch of the imagination could Alan or any of the soldiers be described as gently spoken. But while Bartholomew could believe that the mercenaries might have discovered their whereabouts and intended to attack them again, surely there was not a second group of people who wanted his death and Michael’s? He wondered again if Julianna might be making up the story to inject some excitement into her life, or if she had misunderstood or misheard.

Julianna read the doubt in his face. Her eyes narrowed and her face became hard. ‘You do not believe me! I risk myself to come to warn you, and you do not believe a word I say. Well you will find out I am right, but then it will be too late.’

She began to flounce away, but he caught her by the arm.

‘Wait! You say you have risked your life to warn me, but people do not risk their lives for those they do not know. What were you intending to ask of me? Other than an astrological consultation to cure the cough we both know you do not have.’

Her eyes flashed with fury, but this was as quickly replaced by sudden humour. ‘You are astute!’ She looked towards Dame Pelagia and then to the door. ‘You have also guessed correctly. When you leave tonight, I want to go with you.’

He had been right: Julianna saw in Bartholomew and Michael an opportunity to escape from her tedious existence at Denny. Since she probably realised that there would be nothing in her horoscope to warrant the Abbess removing her from the Fens, she must have had an alternative plan to ensure she would be able to abscond.

‘And if we take you to Cambridge, what will you do then?’ he asked, to see how far she had considered her arrangements in advance. He was not disappointed.

‘I will throw myself on the mercy of my uncle,’ she said promptly. ‘Thomas Deschalers, the grocer.’

It was a small world, he thought. ‘Are Thomas Deschalers and the Abbess kinsmen, then?’ he asked. ‘You are the niece of both.’

‘I know what I am,’ said Julianna imperiously. ‘But Thomas Deschalers is my father’s brother and the Abbess is my mother’s sister. They are not kinsmen really. When my parents died last year, he used my relationship with her to secure me here.’

‘You did not want to come, I take it?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I did not!’ claimed Julianna vehemently. ‘I preferred life in London, although Cambridge was proving it might have possibilities. Uncle Thomas did not really give me time to find out before he had arranged for me to come to this godforsaken bog.’

‘You have not always been in a convent, then?’

Julianna grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, yes, I have spent most of my life with nuns. I had a few weeks of freedom in London after the death of my parents, and then a few weeks in Cambridge when I lived with Uncle Thomas. But I would rather be anywhere but here. You must take me with you.’

‘And what will you do if Uncle Thomas orders you straight back here?’

‘He will not!’ said Julianna defiantly. ‘I will tell him of all the strange happenings and he will inform the Sheriff who will investigate.’

‘What strange happenings?’

‘I have already told you!’ said Julianna impatiently. ‘Comings and goings in the night, strange men in the kitchens between matins and lauds–’

‘But there might be a dozen explanations for these things, Sis … Mistress Julianna,’ said Bartholomew gently.

Perhaps some of the lay sisters had their menfolk into the kitchens to give them food, he thought, for even in the Fens, where fish and fowl were more abundant than elsewhere, food was still scarce and hideously expensive for the honest labourer. Or perhaps the explanation was less innocent, and some of the lay sisters, or even nuns, entertained men under cover of darkness. But regardless, Julianna’s suspicions were scarcely something with which to bother the Sheriff.

‘The wisest course of action for you to take would be to tell your aunt of your concerns and observations, and let her decide what to do about it,’ he said eventually.

‘You are worthless!’ shouted Julianna with sudden vehemence, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I should have known better than to trust you.’

Her furious words woke Dame Pelagia, who blinked in confusion at the scene in front of her. Julianna shoved Bartholomew away and fled from the room.

‘And
you
should not be there!’ he heard her yell, presumably to the person who had been trying to listen outside the door. He went to look, but there was no one to be seen.

‘What ails Julianna?’ asked Dame Pelagia, standing unsteadily. Her eyes widened accusingly. ‘You did not seduce her while I was dozing?’

‘Of course I did not!’ said Bartholomew half indignant and half startled by the old nun’s forthrightness. ‘She is angry because she did not like the advice I gave her.’

He helped the old lady down the stairs and they entered the Abbess’s solar again. She and Michael were positioned most decorously, she standing at the window, and he still sitting in the chair by the fire. He stood as Bartholomew entered with Dame Pelagia and offered her the chair.

‘Have you worked out a course of treatment for my niece’s ailment?’ asked the Abbess. ‘Or will I need to ask Thomas Deschalers to house her until I find her another convent in a more healthy part of the country? I was alarmed when she told me of her condition yesterday. It is not good for a person so young to have such complaints.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Bartholomew. He was saved from having to answer further by the sound of the bell ringing to call the nuns to sext. The Abbess moved from the window and offered her hand to Michael, who hastened to take it in his.

‘Thank you for your company, Brother,’ she said. ‘You have been most charming and entertaining. You are welcome to join us for sext, if you like.’

Michael caught Bartholomew’s look that he wanted to talk and said, with some reluctance, that he would say his offices at the prie-dieu in the guesthall. With a gracious smile, the Abbess took her leave, followed by Dame Pelagia, while the lay sister conducted Bartholomew and Michael out of the convent proper and back to their lodgings.

‘Are you still in one piece?’ asked Cynric anxiously, looking up from the fire in front of which he had been drowsing. ‘I thought those women intended some serious mischief.’

‘Some of them did,’ said Michael slyly, looking at Bartholomew out of the corner of his eye.

‘Not to the same extent as you,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘Your lecherous attentions had that poor Abbess in a terrible quandary.’

‘Matthew, Matthew!’ said Michael in hurt tones. ‘What do you think I am? I have sworn a vow of chastity.’ The gleam in his green eyes was anything but chaste.

‘Really?’ said Bartholomew. ‘And how well do you keep it?’

‘That, my dear physician, is none of your business,’ said Michael with a smug smile. ‘But I can assure you I was nothing but decorous and gallant with that noble lady, the Abbess.’

Bartholomew looked at him sharply, but was unable to determine whether he was telling the truth. Michael’s eyes shone with something other than their usual salaciousness, and Bartholomew hoped the monk did not imagine himself in love. If he did, the situation was bound to end in tragedy for Michael, if not for the Abbess.

Briefly, he told Michael what Julianna had said, but the monk dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

‘Silly girl! The nuns ought to warn her about her behaviour. She was lucky it was you she enticed up into her secluded chambers, and not some lout who would have taken advantage of her.’

‘What about what she says she overheard last night?’

Michael shook his head. ‘You were right to have misgivings: she probably made it up to force you to take her to Cambridge. It is a clever tactic – what better way to make someone do what you want than to prey on his fears? You have just been viciously attacked and almost killed in the Fens, and so she warns you that it might happen again. Most men would be gone already!’

‘Then we should go,’ said Bartholomew promptly. ‘There is a remote chance she is telling the truth and I want to return to Michaelhouse anyway.’

‘Your leg needs more rest,’ said Michael, after a moment’s hesitation.

‘It does not!’ said Bartholomew, laughing at the feebleness of the excuse to stay.

‘It is too late,’ said Michael, studying the sky through the open shutters. ‘If we set off now, it will be dark by the time we reach Cambridge and it would be dangerous to be on the road then.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There are at least four hours of daylight left and we can easily walk the eight miles to Cambridge before dusk.’

‘Walk?’ squawked Michael in horror. ‘I cannot walk eight miles!’

‘It will do you good, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, eyeing Michael’s substantial girth critically. ‘You need some exercise.’

‘I still feel weak from my experiences in the Fens,’ said Michael, putting a flabby hand to his forehead. ‘And I think I might have twisted my ankle.’

‘Show me,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘I am good with twisted ankles.’

Michael sighed. ‘Just one more night, Matt!’ he pleaded. ‘One more! And then I will return to Cambridge with you. I will even walk if you so demand. But let us stay here one more night!’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Do you have a tryst with the Abbess? I would advise against it if you do, Brother. No good can come of such an affair.’

‘You sully that good lady’s name,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Of course I have no tryst with her. She is a holy, decent woman.’ He turned abruptly on his heel, and went to sit in one of the window seats at the opposite end of the hall, staring morosely out at the misty marshes.

Bartholomew exchanged a look of incomprehension with Cynric, who had watched the scene with considerable interest.

‘Is he in love with this Abbess?’ whispered Cynric, looking at Michael uncertainly.

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew. He sighed and paced restlessly. ‘We are wasting time here, Cynric. If Gray fails his disputation a second time, he will have to repeat an entire year of studying. And that is something neither of us wants!’

‘You work too hard, boy,’ said Cynric. He gestured to the fire. ‘Where is there a welcoming hearth like this in Michaelhouse? Just draw up a stool and enjoy it while you can.’

Reluctantly, Bartholomew saw Cynric was right. Michael clearly had no intention of leaving Denny that day – although what could be keeping him except the possibility of an encounter with the Abbess, Bartholomew could not imagine – and he could not leave the fat monk behind. He perched on a stool and poked at the fire with a stick, watching sparks fly up the chimney. He realised there was a residual stiffness in his limbs from his night in the Fens and the rest would do him good – then they would be able to make better time on the road to Cambridge at first light the next morning.

The lay sister tapped tentatively on the door and entered, bearing a tray that was so heavily laden with food that Bartholomew, not anticipating such weight, almost dropped it when he hurried forward to help. Michael smacked his lips appreciatively at the large game pie, while Bartholomew ate the excellent bread, baked that day in the convent’s own kitchens. Fresh bread was a rare commodity in Michaelhouse, where stale flour was usually used because it was cheaper. There was also some firm yellow cheese, a pat of creamy butter, a little dish of something covered by a linen cloth, and three oranges. Bartholomew picked up one of the fruits and turned it over in his hand.

‘I have not seen one of these for years,’ he said. It was wizened and hard after its long journey from Spain or Italy, and probably long past its best. But to see an orange at all in the Fens in winter was remarkable.

Cynric eyed it with suspicion. ‘I heard those things poisoned Master Mortimer the baker.’

‘That was lemons,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Oranges should not poison anyone. Try some.’

Cynric shook his head quickly and turned his attention back to his bread and cheese. Michael poked suspiciously at the green and lumpy substance in the small dish covered by the linen.

‘What is that?’ he asked with some disgust. ‘It looks like something terrible has been done to a vegetable – and you know how I feel about vegetables.’

‘Pickled eels and samphire,’ said Bartholomew, recalling Stanmore bringing some as a gift for Edith many years before. His sister had eaten it only because she wanted to please her husband, and had paid for her courtesy by spending most of the night being sick. The next time Stanmore had presented some to her she had shown the good sense to feed it to the cat. ‘It is considered a great delicacy and is very expensive. We should be honoured the abbey is sharing such a dish with us.’