Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘I suppose so. Can we go home now? It is getting dark, and it is reckless to be out while so many drunken townsmen are spoiling for a fight.’

‘I ordered a curfew for all scholars between dusk and dawn, and it would not do for the Senior Proctor to set a bad example.’ Michael grinned at Bartholomew. ‘Which means I have the perfect excuse to stay in and enjoy tonight’s celebrations.’

The High Street was teeming, pitch torches bobbing in the gathering gloom as folk gravitated towards St Mary the Great, outside which the procession would start. Many folk were also still traipsing around the homes of friends and relations, and as refreshments invariably included a drink as well as a soul-cake, few were sober. Bartholomew was right: it was no time for two scholars to be abroad without good reason.

‘There are those Zachary men again,’ said Michael irritably. ‘What are they doing out in defiance of my instructions?’

Bartholomew’s stomach lurched when he saw that the scholars in question had gathered in a circle around two women, one of whom was his sister. Without considering the consequences, he surged towards them, shoving them away from her with considerable vigour.

‘It is all right, Matt,’ said Edith quickly, as blades appeared in a dozen outraged hands. ‘We are only discussing a consignment of red cloth.’

‘Were you?’ asked Michael, hurrying over to regard the hostel men archly. ‘Why, when your uniform is grey and cream? And speaking of academic tabards, you seem to have forgotten yours. Where are they?’

‘We decided to dispense with them.’ The speaker was an older man, a master rather than a student. He wore a black and yellow gipon – a knee-length tunic with sleeves. Its colour, coupled with his small size and bristling demeanour, were redolent of a wasp.

‘You cannot dispense with them,’ said Michael irritably. ‘They are–’

‘We do not answer to you, Brother,’ interrupted the man sharply.

‘Oh, yes, you do,’ countered Michael. ‘I am the Senior Proctor.’

‘And I am John Morys, bursar of Zachary and kin to the Chancellor,’ the wasp flashed back. ‘We make the rules for our own scholars, and care nothing for your silly strictures.’

‘Too right,’ agreed the second older man among the throng, who was remarkable for a pair of startlingly purple lips. ‘I am Peter Segeforde, Zachary’s philosopher. What Morys says is true.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘And does Principal Irby agree?’

‘Of course he does,’ replied Segeforde shortly. ‘He is no fool.’

‘Then he is included in the fine I am about to levy,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘A penny from every man in your hostel, for insolence and flouting University rules.’

‘You cannot,’ said Morys coldly. ‘Not without the Chancellor’s agreement – and Tynkell and I have recently become kin by virtue of his mother’s latest marriage. He would never dare cross a member of her new family, because she would skin him alive.’

‘She is Lady Joan de Hereford,’ said Segeforde, puce lips curling into a smirk. ‘Not only is she formidable, but she is also a friend of the Queen, and thus in a position to make life difficult for any man who dares cross her. So go home, Brother, and keep your nose out of our affairs.’

‘I think you will find that Tynkell fears me a lot more than his dam, no matter how ferocious and well-connected she happens to be,’ retorted Michael. ‘Now will you return to your hostel willingly or will you bear the shame of being marched there by my beadles?’

While they argued, Bartholomew turned to Edith. He peered at her in the darkness to reassure himself that she was well – he had not forgotten the depth of her sorrow during the first few weeks of her bereavement.

‘You scholars!’ she whispered, and he smiled when he heard the laughter in her voice. ‘If you are not arguing with us, you are squabbling with each other. I have never known a more quarrelsome horde.’

‘It is because they have too much time on their hands,’ explained the woman who was with her. ‘They would not be so querulous if they did an honest day’s work.’

‘This is Anne de Rumburgh, Matt,’ said Edith. ‘I told you about her the other night.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, then remembered his manners and bowed politely.

Anne favoured him with a smile that was, by any standards, full of sensual promise. She was taller than Edith, and her kirtle was cut to show off the voluptuous curves of her figure; its neckline was lower than was currently fashionable and certainly lower than was decent. Her lips were red and full, and her eyes bright with the suggestion of fun.

But Bartholomew only inclined his head in a brief nod before turning back to Edith. He had suffered some recent mishaps with his love life, which had wounded him deeply, and he was unwilling to risk another encounter with the opposite sex just yet.

‘Yes,’ said Edith, a little crossly. ‘She runs the sales side of the dyeworks for us, and I praised her financial acumen to you for at least an hour. You gave every appearance of listening. Was your mind on something else, then?’

‘Of course not,’ mumbled Bartholomew, although he felt the colour rise into his cheeks at the lie. He had been thinking about his lost loves, Matilde and Julitta, as he always did when he was not occupied with patients or teaching.

‘Good,’ said Edith coolly. ‘Because I have better things to do than chat to myself. The dyeworks are a major undertaking, and there are many issues that require my attention.’

‘You mean like finding ways to avoid tipping waste in the river?’ asked Bartholomew.

Edith shot him a sour look. ‘Such as who to hire. So many Frail Sisters have applied to work with us that we are having to make some very difficult choices.’

Bartholomew experienced a sharp stab of loss. ‘Frail Sisters’ had been Matilde’s term for the town’s prostitutes, and she had championed their cause, organising them into an unofficial guild whereby they united to create better and safer working conditions. Now Edith was a widow, there was no one to tell her that they were unsuitable company for a respectable lady, and she had elected to take up where Matilde had left off. Bartholomew glanced at Anne, wondering whether she was one of them.

‘No,’ said Edith, reading his thoughts. ‘She is the wife of William de Rumburgh the goldsmith. You know him – he is one of your few wealthy patients.’

‘The one with the inflamed gums,’ supplied Anne, seeing Bartholomew rack his brains.

‘Oh, yes.’ The physician was often better at recalling ailments than the people who displayed them. ‘He has trouble eating.’

‘That is the least of his problems,’ said Anne with a grimace. ‘More annoying is that his condition adversely affects his performance in the marriage bed. You suggested ways in which we might remedy the matter, but none have worked. I am now a lonely and desperate woman, especially in the evenings when he is out at the guildhall.’

Another sultry smile came Bartholomew’s way.

‘Are you going to watch the procession, Matt?’ asked Edith, deftly changing the subject, clearly fearing he might be tempted by Anne’s none-too-subtle invitation.

‘No scholars can go,’ he replied. ‘The University has imposed a curfew.’

‘Ignore it,’ suggested Anne with yet another smouldering look. ‘And come to my house instead – to keep me company until my husband returns. He will be very late and–’

‘You heard him – he is obliged to stay in tonight,’ interrupted Edith sharply. ‘And you had better go home to change, Anne, or you will be late.’

Anne fluttered her eyelashes and sashayed away, hips swaying provocatively.