A Poisonous Plot

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Nigellus de Thornton eyed the dying Augustinian dispassionately. What had started as a mild fever a month ago had gradually progressed to violent stomach cramps, agonising headaches and a debilitating weakness. Nigellus had been a physician for many years and he knew the signs: John Wrattlesworth would not live to see another dawn.

‘He has eaten nothing for days,’ whispered Prior Ralph de Norton, hovering anxiously on the other side of the bed. He was fond of Wrattlesworth and was distressed by his plight – Wrattlesworth had been a kindly and unassuming presence at Barnwell for nearly three quarters of a century, and Norton had not forgotten the older man’s support and guidance when he himself had first come to rule. ‘And he has drunk nothing but your medicine and our elderflower wine.’

Nigellus winced on Wrattlesworth’s behalf. The Augustinian canons were very proud of the acidic brews they fermented themselves, although few who tasted them thought they had cause to be. ‘How much elderflower wine?’

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