Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

Langelee was pale, and kept both hands pressed to his temples as he mumbled a grace that comprised a string of half-remembered Latin quotations, including part of a recipe for horse-liniment. No one but Bartholomew seemed to notice. Wauter had dark circles under his eyes and winced when Langelee raised his voice for a final amen, while William’s habit was not only splattered with a quantity of grease and custard that was remarkable even for that foul garment, but it was rumpled, suggesting he had slept in it.

The remaining Fellows were Suttone and Clippesby, both swaying in a way that suggested they might still be drunk. Clippesby was a Dominican who talked to animals and claimed they spoke back, so was generally deemed to be insane. He had no beasts about his person that day, however, and when the College cat rubbed around his ankles, it was ignored. Suttone was a portly Carmelite famous for his conviction that the plague was poised to return at any moment.

The students were also unusually subdued, and as breakfast comprised a bizarre and unsuitable combination of leftovers, it seemed that the servants had also availed themselves of the opportunity to enjoy the festivities the previous night.

‘Is it my imagination, or do our pupils get younger every year?’ asked Langelee, as food worked its magic on roiling stomachs and the students began to chat amongst themselves, throwing off their malaise with the enviable resilience of youth.

‘They must lie about their age,’ said Michael sourly. ‘That puny boy in Matt’s class – Bell, is it? He cannot be more than nine.’

‘Eighteen,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They seem younger because you are growing old.’

‘That is a wicked thing to say!’ cried Michael. ‘I am in my prime. However, there are a few grey hairs on your head that were not present a decade ago.’

‘Those came because he let women make him unhappy,’ stated William, referring to Matilde, who had left Cambridge because Bartholomew had been too slow to ask her to marry him; and Julitta, who had transpired to be a rather different lady from the one they all thought they knew. ‘Painful affairs of the heart always age a man, which is why he should give up his various amours and become a Franciscan. Like me.’

‘Or better yet, find a few more,’ said Langelee. Relations with women were forbidden by the University, but many scholars – he and Bartholomew among them – opted to ignore this particular stricture. ‘What about that widow you were seeing earlier this year? Is she still available?’

Bartholomew was aware that the students were listening, no doubt delighted to learn that the Fellows strayed from the straight and narrow – and his colleagues’ remarks, taken out of context, made him sound like an incurable philanderer. Moreover, he did not want to be reminded of the confusion and hurt he had suffered that summer. He changed the subject with an abruptness that made everyone automatically conclude that he had intriguing secrets to hide.

‘The mural is looking nice,’ he declared. ‘The Austins are talented artists.’

‘They are,’ agreed Wauter, prodding suspiciously at the plate of marchpanes and cabbage that had been set in front of him. ‘It is why I suggested we hire them. You should see their chapel – it is a delight.’

They were silent for a while, studying the painting. It ran the full length of one wall, and was nearing completion. There had been some debate as to what it should depict, but in the end they had settled for Aristotle, Galen, Aquinas and Plato teaching rows of enrapt scholars. The faces of many College members were among them: Bartholomew sitting near Plato but straining to hear Galen; Clippesby with the College cat; Wauter raising a finger as he prepared to tackle Aristotle; and William scowling at Aquinas’s Dominican habit – he hated his rival Order with a passion that verged on the fanatical.

‘I do hope our plan works,’ said Suttone worriedly, lowering his voice so that the students would not hear. ‘We have spent such a lot of money on it, and if we fail to win benefactors …’

‘I know it is a risk,’ whispered Langelee. ‘But we have no choice. We will not survive another year if we do not replenish our endowment, and drastic situations call for drastic solutions.’

‘Then we must remain aloof from this burgeoning spat between town and University,’ said Wauter. ‘No secular will give us money if we support King’s Hall against Frenge.’

‘Hopefully, we will not have to be diplomatic for long,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall put on such a grand display at the disceptatio tomorrow that donors will race to be associated with us.’

‘They will race even faster if we win,’ said William, treating Bartholomew and Wauter to a pointed look. ‘Which may not happen unless our representatives on the consilium agree to be reasonable and tell us which question they have chosen.’

‘We cannot,’ said Wauter shortly. ‘We have not yet made our final decision.’

‘Then you had better hurry up,’ said the Franciscan disagreeably. ‘Or do you expect us to stand around in St Mary the Great tomorrow, waiting while you debate the matter?’

‘Perhaps we should listen to them instead of the students,’ sniggered Suttone. ‘It will almost certainly be more entertaining.’

‘Regardless of what happens in the debate,’ said Michael, tactfully changing the subject, ‘when they see the lavish style in which we honour the memory of our founder, every wealthy family in the town will want us to do the same for them.’

‘But if not, there is always Wauter’s Martilogium ,’ said Suttone. ‘He confided last night that all the monies from its publication will come to Michaelhouse.’

‘You mean that list of martyrs that you have been compiling for the last twenty years?’ asked Langelee eagerly. ‘That is generous, man!’

Wauter shot Suttone a weary glance. ‘Yes, I confided my intentions to you. That means you were meant to keep them secret until I was ready to make a general announcement.’

‘Oh,’ mumbled Suttone guiltily. Then his expression became pained. ‘Lord! I remember why you told me now! To cheer me up after what Stephen the lawyer said – that he plans to leave his collection of tomes on architecture to Gonville Hall instead of us.’

‘Does he?’ cried Langelee, dismayed. ‘I thought I had persuaded him that they would be more appreciated here.’

‘You did,’ said Suttone. ‘But he changed his mind. Personally, I suspect it was Zachary’s doing – to disconcert us before the disceptatio .’

‘It will have been Kellawe,’ said William viciously. ‘I cannot abide him – he is a fanatic.’

‘But he is a Franciscan,’ Suttone pointed out, while the others supposed that the Zachary man must be zealous indeed to have drawn such condemnation from William, who was no moderate himself. ‘A member of your own Order.’

‘He should never have been allowed to join,’ declared William hotly. ‘He should have gone to the Dominicans instead. They are the ones who love heretics.’

There followed a lengthy diatribe, during which William listed all Kellawe’s failings. His colleagues were wryly amused to note that every one of them was echoed in himself – arrogance, inflexibility, dogmatism and stupidity.

‘What will the Saturday Sermon be about today, Suttone?’ asked Langelee, eventually tiring of the tirade and so changing the subject. ‘It is your turn to preach.’

Suttone’s regarded him in horror. ‘Is it? Lord, I forgot, and I have nothing prepared! Perhaps we all can listen to the mock disputation that Matthew has organised instead. I know it will be about medicine, but that cannot be helped.’