Susanna Gregory: A Deadly Brew

‘One who perhaps bought the wine from someone else?’ mused Bartholomew.

Michael considered for a moment and then dismissed the idea. ‘No, that is too contrived. Why would someone provide an innocent man with poisoned wine to sell? No, Matt. You were right with your first guess — that someone is aiming to foul the relationship between University and town. But what about this poison in the wine? Can you tell me anything about it, other than that it was horribly powerful?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘All I can say is that it did not kill Armel instantly, but rendered him unconscious and blistered his lips.’

They walked towards the Hall of Valence Marie, each lost in his own thoughts. Michael fretted over the possibility that his beloved University was once more to be the victim of the townspeople’s ire, while Bartholomew tried to fight away the feelings of helpless inadequacy he always experienced when he lost a patient.

Despite the rain, the High Street thronged with people. Liveried apprentices scampered this way and that as they ran their masters’ errands, while carts with heavy wooden wheels ferried goods to and from the Market Square and the river barges moored at the wharves. Here and there, strangers to the town gawked at the sumptuous buildings that lined the town’s main thoroughfare — such as the wealthy new College of Corpus Christi and the Blessed Virgin, founded just the previous year, with its mullioned windows and carved pediments; the sumptuous guildhouses with their coats of arms emblazoned over their doors; and the homes of the merchants with their stained-glass windows and decorative plaster. Few of them paid much attention to the untidy houses of Cambridge’s less wealthy inhabitants that were crammed in the spaces between them, noticeable only because their badly built walls and sagging roofs seemed to defy gravity.

Street vendors proclaimed the virtues of their wares in ringing voices, vying with each other and with the constant clatter of horses’ hooves and the thunder of wagons rumbling past. A small white dog, showing patches of black and pink skin through its filthy coat, yapped and worried at a small herd of sheep that was being driven to the slaughterhouse, so that frightened bleats added another tenor to the general cacophony.

They reached the Trumpington Gate, and elbowed their way through the crowd, squeezing past an indignant pardoner who was being denied access to the town for some spurious reason known only to the sergeant in charge of the guards. The sergeant waved cheerfully at Bartholomew, who had once set his broken leg, and then rearranged his face into a black scowl as he turned his attention back to the trader who was being refused admittance. Michael nodded approvingly as the sergeant sent the man packing: he did not like pardoners.

Once outside the gate, it grew quieter. The buildings gradually petered out to give way to narrow strips of fields tilled by the villagers who lived on the manor of Sir Roger de Panton. Opposite, water meadows rolled down to the River Cam, a peaceful swath of grass lined with trees, where people grazed their cattle — or did before it had become swamped and boggy from the rain.

Bartholomew stopped walking and looked up at the Hall of Valence Marie looming in front of him. ‘The last thing I feel like doing now is celebrating an installation.’

‘Me too,’ said Michael, pulling the hood of his black cloak further over his head against the chill. ‘I was looking forward to this, but giving last rites to a child has blunted my desire to enjoy myself.’

They stood in silence for a moment as they looked up at the powerful walls of the young College. It was a splendid building, comprising four ranges around a central courtyard, protected by powerful walls and a squat gatehouse tower. Founded only six years before, it enjoyed the patronage of the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, who ensured her College had the best architects and building materials money could buy.

‘So why did you decide not to accept the position of Master of Valence Marie when it was offered to you last year?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject from the poisoned wine but still making no move to enter. ‘You would have made them a fine Master.’

Michael looked sly. ‘I felt I was too young for such a position,’ he replied, bending down to brush at the mud on his habit.

‘Nonsense, Brother,’ said Bartholomew mildly. ‘What was your real reason?’

Michael gave a short bark of laughter and slapped his friend on the back. ‘You know me too well. Perhaps far too well for a man destined for great things.’

‘I assume you mean you, not me?’ asked Bartholomew, smiling an absent greeting to one of his patients, who waved before disappearing down one of the alleyways that led to the huddle of shacks near the King’s Mill.

Michael drew himself up to his full height. He had grown fatter during the last few months, despite his endless complaints about the paucity and poor quality of food since the plague, and his bulk and height made him a formidable size. ‘I spoke at length with my Lord the Bishop about that,’ he said, referring to Thomas de Lisle, the churchman who had jurisdiction over the See of Ely and the University of Cambridge within it. ‘He intimated my career would be better served by my remaining Senior Proctor.’

‘And how might chasing errant students in taverns in the dead of night help your career, rather than being Master of a new and wealthy College?’ asked Bartholomew with raised eyebrows. He was being unfair, he knew. There was more to Michael’s duties than policing the undergraduates, although keeping the rowdy, undisciplined students out of fights with the townspeople was vital to the smooth running of the town. Michael had amassed considerable power as the University’s Senior Proctor, and recently had started to undertake duties usually performed by the Chancellor himself — much to the offended disapproval of the Vice-Chancellor, who considered such duties should have been delegated to him.

‘I will be of more use to the Bishop while my attentions are not divided between his interests and those of a College,’ said Michael, favouring Bartholomew with a superior look. ‘He promised to look to my advancement when the time is right.’

‘And you trust him?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously. Bartholomew’s own experiences with the Bishop had taught him that although the Bishop was the spiritual leader of a large part of East Anglia, he had not attained his exalted position by being pleasant, honest and reliable. Bartholomew would not have trusted any promise made by the Bishop any more than he would one made by the Chancellor.

‘I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘He needs me every bit as much as I need him. Since the Death, when he lost half his monks, he has been desperately short of intelligent, able men he can trust with his business. He cannot afford to lose someone like me.’

‘Modestly put, Brother,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘Has he promised to make you Chancellor one day? Or is it his own position you crave?’

‘Either would do nicely, Matt,’ said Michael comfortably. He looked again at the clean yellow-white stone of Valence Marie. ‘This is a fine building,’ he said, almost wistfully.

Bartholomew agreed. ‘I heard that the election of Thomas Bingham as its new Master — after you declined the honour — was hotly contested,’ he said. ‘It all but tore the College in half.’

Michael’s eyes glittered as he recalled the intrigues and rumours that had abounded during the race to elect Valence Marie’s new Master. The previous incumbent had been sent to York in disgrace after some unsavoury business involving a fraudulent relic the previous year, and his unexpected departure — as much a shock to him as to his College — had thrown the Fellowship into disarray.