Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Very well,’ said Langelee. ‘What is the subject, Bartholomew? And do not worry about what Nigellus and Rougham will think when informed that their audience will be ten times the size of the one they are expecting – they will be delighted, as both love being the centre of attention.’

Bartholomew hoped he was right. ‘Whether scrofulous sores in the throat can–’

‘Oh, no,’ gulped Langelee with a shudder. ‘I do not want to listen to that sort of thing today, thank you very much. We shall change it to something less grisly.’

‘What about one of Aristotle’s medical questions?’ suggested Suttone. ‘Such as my personal favourite: why do women have softer bodies than men?’

‘I hardly think our theologians will want to hear the answer to that, Father,’ said Wauter primly. ‘Moreover, our seculars will become inflamed with lust, and we shall have trouble.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘Medical debates necessarily involve mention of human parts, and I am sure we can trust Rougham and Nigellus to be genteel. Besides, our clerics can always stuff their fingers in their ears if anything too shocking is aired.’

He rubbed his hands together gleefully, although Bartholomew thought that if he was expecting anything enjoyably lewd from those particular medici , then he was going to be sorely disappointed.

When the meal was over, the servants began to remove dirty dishes and fold away tables, turning the hall from refectory to auditorium. Bartholomew went to wait by the gate, aiming to warn Rougham and Nigellus about the revised itinerary, so they could escape if they wanted. The rest of Michaelhouse might not care about offending their sensibilities, but Bartholomew was obliged to work with them, and did not want them irked.

‘I have not attended a good debate in ages,’ came a cheerful voice. It was Rob Deynman, who had been a medical student himself before Langelee had ‘promoted’ him to the post of Librarian. He had been accepted to study because his father was rich, but the unfortunate truth was that he had no academic talent whatsoever and everyone had heaved a sigh of relief when he had agreed to care for books rather than people. ‘Now we shall have two in as many days.’

‘Do you plan to take part tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew, a little uneasily. Michaelhouse would be unlikely to impress potential donors if he did.

‘No, because Brother Michael says it would be beneath a Librarian’s dignity,’ replied Deynman. ‘So I shall just listen, and nod sagely in all the right places.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, supposing he would have to be placed where no one could see him.

‘I am sorry that Stephen is giving his architecture books to Gonville,’ Deynman went on, his amiable face creasing into a scowl. ‘He promised them to us, and I built special shelves to house them. I imagine Rougham did something sly to make him change his mind.’

‘I do not think–’ began Bartholomew, but Deynman was already stamping away, having thoroughly outraged himself with the notion.

‘Ah, Matt,’ said Wauter, emerging from his room. ‘I keep meaning to ask you about your sister’s dyeworks. Are you sure they are safe? My former colleagues at Zachary are extremely worried by the stench. As am I.’

Bartholomew was in a quandary. He did not want to betray Edith by voicing his concerns about the venture, but nor could he bring himself to issue false assurances.

‘I will try to monitor what they do,’ he hedged, although he was aware that Edith would not take kindly to such interference.

‘Good,’ said Wauter, smiling. ‘But here comes Rougham, so I shall make myself scarce. I cannot see him being very pleased to learn that his opinion on scrofulous sores is no longer required, but that Michaelhouse is instead eager to hear what he thinks about the softness of women’s bodies.’

Rougham was effectively Master of Gonville Hall, because the real one had gone to see the Pope in Avignon some years before and had not bothered to come back. He was a plump, smug man who hated anything that smacked of innovation, even if it worked. Bartholomew went to greet him, but Nigellus arrived before he could speak, glorious in a green gown and scarlet cloak that were certainly not part of Zachary’s sober uniform of grey and cream.

‘I am a few moments late because I was with a dying patient,’ Nigellus declared importantly. ‘I felt obliged to linger a while, lest he asked for another horoscope, but I think he is past caring about his stars now.’

‘A wealthy patient?’ queried Rougham, ready to be sympathetic to an inconvenient loss.

‘Naturally, or I would not have answered his summons.’

Bartholomew tried to mask his distaste by informing them of the change of plan. He was surprised when Rougham clapped his hands together in delight and Nigellus actually smiled.

‘Do not be sorry, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham, eyes gleaming. ‘It will be a lot more enjoyable than scrofulous sores, which I have never found particularly interesting anyway. I shall go first, naturally. After all, Nigellus is the Junior Physician, and so must take second place.’

Nigellus scowled. ‘Call me that once more and I shall savage you in this debate. And do not think I cannot do it – I know a great deal about women’s bodies, despite the fact that I have never had the opportunity to couple with one.’

Bartholomew blinked, astonished by the bald confidence, but Rougham, who had a long-standing arrangement with one of the town’s most popular prostitutes, smirked superiorly. ‘Then let the most experienced man win.’

‘So this is your home,’ said Nigellus, shoving past Bartholomew to stand in the yard and gaze around disdainfully. ‘It is much smaller than I expected, and you must be terribly crowded. Thank God I chose Zachary instead.’

Resisting the urge to point out that Nigellus had never been offered a place at Michaelhouse, Bartholomew led the way towards the hall. For the first time, he saw the College through the eyes of an outsider. Algae ran in streaks down the walls, while the steps were worn and narrow. The hall was pleasant, but too small for the number of students currently enrolled, and it suffered from having no glass in its windows. The rushes on the floor needed changing after what had been dropped or spilled in them the previous night, and someone had lobbed a dish of brawn at the founder’s coat-of-arms above the dais, where it had lodged.

He introduced the speakers, noting that the eyes of students and Fellows alike were bright with the prospect of vulgar entertainment, while the servants loitered behind the serving screen, pretending to work but clearly hoping to hear something rude.

‘No,’ interrupted Nigellus curtly, when Bartholomew announced his intention to preside. ‘Your non-medical members will not want three physicians holding forth, so we shall have someone else instead. Father William, perhaps. He accused my colleague Kellawe of being a narrow-minded fool, so let us see his intellect in action.’

William surged to his feet. ‘Very well. And then you can tell that stupid oaf how a real scholar performs in the debating chamber.’

Presented with a fait accompli, Bartholomew had no choice but to yield, although he did so with considerable reluctance, loath for members of rival foundations to witness the friar in action. The students were sniggering helplessly, while Langelee, Michael, Suttone and Wauter looked pained, and Clippesby, unable to witness what was about to transpire, simply stood and left.

It was the president’s duty to introduce the subject, and William launched into a detailed account of the differences between the sexes that had everyone gaping their amazement at the depth and breadth of his knowledge. It wiped the smirk from Nigellus’s face, and his own opening statement was repetitive and uninspired. Rougham was not much better, and it was only when the Franciscan stood to summarise their preliminary arguments that matters became lively again.