A Deadly Brew by Susanna Gregory

about to walk towards him when something struck him heavily on the back, sending him sprawling forwards onto his hands and knees. He tried to scramble to his feet, but a blanket was hurled over his head. He struggled violently, desperately trying to free his hands from the clinging material. Someone’s arms wrapped round him, trying to hold him still. He struggled more frantically than ever, lashing out with his feet, and then threw himself backwards with all his might and heard a heavy grunt as he crushed his attacker against the wall.
    There was a loud crash and his attacker’s hold suddenly loosened.
    ‘Leave him!’
    Bartholomew was swung round so that he lost his balance and toppled over, and then heard running footsteps. He fought himself free of the blanket and was about to follow when he saw the fire at the far end of the room. The crash had been the lamp being hurled against the wall: it lay on its side and flames were already licking at the woollen carpets on the floor. There was a crackle as they ignited and fire inched towards the bed. Bartholomew saw two figures race past the window: Isaac’s killers, and one was, perhaps, the man who had sold poisoned wine to young Armel, too. He stood immobile for an instant, itching to give chase. But the edges of Philius’s blankets were beginning to smoulder and the room was filling with a thick, choking smoke.
    He swept up the blanket that had been flung over his head and beat the flames away from the bed. Philius shifted slightly, but did not wake. Bartholomew swiped again, but the dry rugs were like tinder and the fire was already touching the tapestries on the walls. With horror, he wondered whether he would be able to douse it before it took a good hold. Fire was something everyone feared in settlements where most buildings were made of timber: if Gonville burned, the flames would spread to the adjoining houses in St Michael’s Lane and the entire town might be engulfed. He redoubled his efforts, yelling at the top of his voice for help. In desperation, he hauled the bedclothes away from Philius, tumbling him to the floor, and hurled them over the burning rugs. He was looking around for something else to use when Cynric arrived with help in the form of a handful of students, Michael and John Colton of Terrington, the Master of Gonville.
    Cynric and Bartholomew beat at the now blazing rugs, Michael yelled at the students to fetch water, and it was not long before the fire was under control. Leaving Cynric to ensure it did not ignite again, Bartholomew turned his attention to his misused patient. Philius stared around him in a daze as Bartholomew lifted him back onto the bed. Colton tucked him in, while Michael sent the porter with a message to his beadles to be on the lookout for the three people who had knocked him to the ground as they came hurtling out of Gonville’s main gate.
    ‘Three?’ queried Bartholomew, looking round at him. ‘I saw only two.’
    ‘There were three,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric would have been after them had he not heard your shouts for help.’
    ‘Has Father Philius come to any harm?’ asked Colton anxiously, peering at the Franciscan in the room that was almost pitch black now the flames had been doused. ‘He does not seem to be himself.’
    Colton was a small, neat man with a well-trimmed grey beard and a dark complexion, almost like an Arab. He was the first Master the College had ever had, and had been elected at the height of the plague when no one was sure who, if anyone, would survive.
    Bartholomew knelt next to the bed. ‘The opiate is making him dazed. We should let him rest.’
    He tried to stand, but Philius grabbed his wrist.
    ‘What happened?’ he croaked.
    ‘You can speak!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, pleased. ‘That is a good sign!’
    ‘Isaac.’
    Bartholomew’s heart sank, thinking of the lifeless body of Philius’s book-bearer in the storeroom, but, before he was forced to lie, Colton intervened.
    ‘Isaac is