Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘ He will not,’ murmured Michael resentfully, watching him go. ‘Nor will you, Prior Joliet or Wauter. But Nigellus will cheat for certain. He is that kind of man.’

As they continued along Milne Street, they met the Austins from the convent. Almoner Robert was struggling to carry the large and very heavy book that he needed for a lecture on Augustine’s Sermones , long white hair undulating in the breeze, while hulking Hamo toted pigments, brushes and boards as though they were made of feathers. Prior Joliet was empty-handed and sombre.

‘I cannot stop, Brother,’ he said, as Michael made to intercept him. ‘I am summoned to Will Lenne’s deathbed, so I dare not linger.’

‘The furrier?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Lenne had hacked horribly the previous evening, but he had not appeared to be on his deathbed.

Joliet nodded. ‘He is Nigellus’s patient – his ailment has something to do with metal, apparently, although I am not sure what. Nigellus’s message said that death was imminent, so you must excuse me – I promised to be with Lenne at the end, and I have a feeling that the lad Nigellus hired was not the quickest. I may already be too late.’

He hurried away, while Bartholomew recalled Nigellus claiming that his failure to arrive on time at Michaelhouse was due to a dying patient. Bartholomew was unimpressed: Lenne should not have been abandoned by his medicus at such a time. It was unprofessional.

‘Did your novices read that extract I set them yesterday, Brother?’ asked Robert, grimacing when his pectoral cross caught on a corner of the book, pulling it tight around his neck. He nodded his thanks when Michael pulled it free for him. ‘Or shall I give my lecture tomorrow instead? I imagine you were all busy preparing for the feast.’

‘We were,’ nodded Michael. ‘However, you cannot teach at Michaelhouse today – or paint, for that matter – because the University’s medici are in our hall, showing everyone how to conduct a disputation.’

Robert regarded him uncertainly. ‘You mean Rougham and Nigellus? You let them loose on your students? Heavens! You are brave.’

Michael laughed. ‘It will keep them occupied while we try to find out what happened to Frenge. And speaking of Frenge, we should inspect the place where he died in daylight. May we visit you later?’

‘Of course,’ replied Robert. ‘Come at noon and share our dinner. It is nothing like the sumptuous fare at Michaelhouse, of course, but it is wholesome and plentiful.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, never one to refuse free victuals. Then he scowled. ‘Here come those Zachary men, and not one is wearing his academic tabard. It seems my threats of further fines have gone unheeded.’

Robert regarded them unhappily. ‘The town resents the way they flaunt their wealth with these ostentatious clothes. If our University were out in the Fens, Zachary would not feel the need to bother, as there would be no women to impress.’

‘Lust,’ growled Hamo, the master of the one-word sentence.

‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘Lust would not be a problem in the marshes, and Zachary would be more inclined to concentrate on their studies.’

The Zachary scholars were an imposing sight in their finery, and anyone might have been forgiven for thinking that they were burgesses. They were led by Morys, who wore a different set of clothes that day, but ones that were still reminiscent of an angry insect. Purple-lipped Segeforde was on one side of him, while the fanatical Kellawe was on the other. Their students strutted behind, defiant and gleeful – an attitude that suggested they were out without their Principal’s permission. Michael had been right to warn Irby that Morys aimed to usurp his power.

‘It is a holiday,’ declared Morys insolently, as Michael draw breath for a reprimand. ‘And Chancellor Tynkell says we can suspend our membership of the University for Hallow-tide, so do not think of fining us again. We are no longer under your jurisdiction.’

‘You cannot opt in and out as the whim takes you,’ snapped Michael. ‘And if Tynkell told you otherwise, then he is sadly mistaken.’

‘Well, he issued a writ that entitles us to do as we please anyway,’ said Kellawe smugly. He spoke with a thick northern accent that was difficult to penetrate, and had a habit of jutting out his lower jaw belligerently when he spoke. ‘You may contest it if you like, but by the time lawyers have debated the matter, Hallow-tide will be over, so you may as well not bother.’

‘I threatened to write to Tynkell’s mother if he refused my request,’ smirked Morys, ‘so he is unlikely to retract what he has granted. Besides, wearing secular clothes is nothing compared to the harm his sister is doing.’ He stabbed a finger at Bartholomew.

‘She has hired whores,’ elaborated Kellawe, his eyes blazing rather wildly. ‘Those dyeworks are nothing but a brothel.’

He turned and stalked away before Bartholomew could defend her. The others followed, clearly of the belief that they had won the confrontation. Bartholomew started after them – no one abused his beloved Edith – but Michael stopped him.

‘Ignore them: they are not worth a quarrel. Unlike Tynkell. What was he thinking to issue such a document? He cannot be permitted to make these decisions without consulting me. Does he want the town to attack us?’

He released Bartholomew and stamped towards St Mary the Great, Shirwynk temporarily forgotten. Bartholomew stared at the retreating figure of Kellawe for a moment, tempted to go after him anyway, but Michael was right – the Franciscan was not worth the trouble. He followed Michael instead, catching up just as the monk marched into Tynkell’s office.

Tynkell was a meek, timid man who had never wanted high office, and who had been as astonished as anyone when a technicality had seen him elected Chancellor. He was thin, wan, and had an unfortunate aversion to hygiene, which meant his chamber was rarely a pleasant place to be. He was sitting at a table that was piled high with documents representing the more tedious aspects of running a studium generale , work that had been delegated to him by Michael.

‘You have some explaining to do,’ the monk began without preamble. ‘Regarding Zachary Hostel’s– Oh, you have company.’

The ‘company’ was Stephen the lawyer, a fox-faced man with sly eyes. It was Stephen who had told Edith how to circumvent the laws regarding noisome industries, and who had disappointed Michaelhouse by electing to give his much-coveted collection of books to Gonville.

‘We were discussing architecture,’ said Stephen pleasantly, unperturbed by the monk’s whirlwind entry. ‘I should have liked to have been an architect, but my tutors thought my mind was better suited to law. However, I retain a deep interest in the subject.’

‘So do Michaelhouse’s students,’ retorted Michael pointedly. ‘And they had hoped to read some books about it.’

‘Then I am sorry, but Gonville is more likely to be here in ten years’ time than your College,’ explained Stephen. ‘It is nothing personal, and I must consider my own needs first.’

Michael blinked. ‘What are you talking about? We are by far the most secure College in the University. We own lands in Suffolk, Staffordshire and Norfolk, and we were granted a huge benefaction earlier this year from no less a person than the Archbishop of York.’

He was grossly exaggerating the value of the College’s holdings, but Stephen remained unconvinced even so. ‘I have made my decision and I will not change my mind. The matter is closed.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Michael, the curt tone of his voice suggesting that if Stephen had come to beg a favour, it would be refused.