Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘To give you some friendly and well-intentioned advice – that King’s Hall should drop their case against Frenge’s estate.’

Tynkell frowned. ‘But it was you who told them that death is no excuse in the eyes of the law, and that Frenge’s brewery will still be liable to pay their claims for damages.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Stephen silkily. ‘But that was before Shirwynk hired me. Now I am recommending that King’s Hall settles the case out of court, before they lose a lot of money.’

‘Money is not the issue here,’ said Michael, making no attempt to hide his distaste for the lawyer’s duplicity. ‘Our relationship with the town is – so I shall speak to Wayt and ask him to withdraw in the interests of peace. None of us want a war. Well, some of us do not: I am not sure that is true of the man who allowed Edith to build her filthy dyeworks.’

Stephen shrugged. ‘It was all perfectly legal, I assure you. But to return to the matter in question, Shirwynk wants compensation for the distress he has endured. I am sure we can reach a mutually acceptable arrangement.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘You want King’s Hall to pay Shirwynk? Have you lost your reason? He is lucky not to lose half his brewery – assuming I can convince King’s Hall to do as I suggest, of course. They may decline.’

‘Then on their head be it,’ said Stephen, standing and making a small bow before aiming for the door. ‘And yours.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Tynkell, when he had gone. ‘He changes sides like the wind. I never know whether he is for us or against us.’

‘Whichever will make him richer,’ said Michael sourly. Then he glared at the Chancellor. ‘But I did not come here to talk about him. I came to discuss Zachary.’

Tynkell grabbed a handful of parchments from the table, and clutched them to his thin chest, as if he imagined they might protect him. ‘My mother has recently married into Morys’s family, and she told me to accommodate him in any way I could, so I had to accede to his requests.’

‘How can you be frightened of your mother?’ asked Michael contemptuously. ‘She must be well into her seventh decade. Or even her eighth.’

Tynkell nodded miserably. ‘But age has rendered her fiercer than ever, and only a fool would cross her, believe me. Worse, she is a close friend of the Queen, so any infractions on my part will be reported to royal ears.’

‘Then send Morys to me when he comes with his bullying demands,’ said Michael irritably. ‘I do not care what your dam whispers at Court, and his behaviour is unacceptable.’

‘I will try,’ mumbled Tynkell. ‘But he is like you, Brother – he just bursts in and starts giving orders. I cannot say I am pleased to call him kin, and dealing with him plays havoc with my nerves. I do not suppose you have any of that soothing remedy to hand, do you, Bartholomew?’

It was mid-morning by the time Bartholomew and Michael emerged from St Mary the Great, but their journey to the brewery was interrupted yet again, this time by Acting Warden Wayt from King’s Hall who shoved his hairy face into the physician’s and spoke in a snarl.

‘Your sister’s whores have filled the river with blue dye, which has stained the wood on our pier. God only knows what toxins were in it. She poisoned Trinity Hall, after all, and it is probably her fault that Cew is so sick as well.’

‘You said it was Frenge’s antics that turned Cew’s wits,’ pounced Michael before Bartholomew could respond. ‘If it is the dyeworks, then you cannot sue the brewery.’

‘It was Frenge who sent Cew mad,’ Wayt snapped back. ‘But the dyeworks have given him stomach pains, nausea and vomiting.’

‘He is worse?’ asked Bartholomew, concerned. ‘Would you like me to visit him again?’

Some of the belligerent anger went out of Wayt, and he nodded, although Michael rolled his eyes. Muttering under his breath, the monk followed them to King’s Hall, where the College continued in a state of watchful vigilance – its gates were barred, armed students patrolled the tops of its walls, and barrels of water had been placed ready to extinguish fires.

‘This would not be necessary if you dropped the case against Frenge’s estate,’ said Michael, as Wayt led him and Bartholomew along the maze of corridors to Cew’s quarters.

‘Never,’ declared Wayt. ‘I want reparation for the terrible crimes committed against us. That snake Stephen might have defected to Shirwynk for the promise of a larger fee, but we have good lawyers of our own, so he is no loss.’

‘His recommendation to sue was seriously flawed,’ said Michael. ‘He was motivated by personal gain, and you cannot trust his advice.’

‘He always did have an eye to his own purse,’ Wayt conceded. ‘But–’

‘What he failed to tell you was that going ahead will cost you dear, even if you win. You will earn the town’s undying hostility, and will have to pay a fortune in increased defences. None of us want trouble, so abandon this foolery and–’

‘I shall not,’ declared Wayt. He glared at the monk. ‘And we are not moving to the Fens either. If the University leaves Cambridge, it will be without King’s Hall.’

‘There are no plans to relocate,’ said Michael, puzzled. ‘Who told you that there were?’

‘Weasenham the stationer.’ Wayt held up a hand when Michael started to object. ‘I know he is a gossip and his “facts” are often wrong, but my Fellows have heard the same tale from several other sources, too, so it must be true.’

‘Well, it is not,’ said Michael shortly. ‘How could we survive in the Fens without the services a town provides – bakeries, breweries, candle-makers, mills, potteries, clothiers, tanneries, saddlers? I know monasteries do it, but we are different: we would founder within a year.’

Wayt sniffed. ‘Then make sure you tell the Chancellor so, should he moot the idea.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed as a servant hurried past carrying a bowl. It was not a very big one, but he carried it with considerable care. It was full of grainy white crystals.

‘Sucura,’ he said accusingly. ‘The substance banned by the Sheriff, which you assured me that King’s Hall would never buy, despite the fact that I tasted it in your soul-cakes.’

Wayt’s expression turned shifty. ‘We did not buy it – it was donated by a benefactor, so it would have been rude to question its origins. Besides, it is for Cew. Soul-cakes are one of the two things he will eat, so we have no choice but to use sucura. Or do you suggest we let him starve?’

Cew’s peculiar diet had done nothing to help him regain his wits. He sat in his bed with the pewter bowl on his head, and swiped with the poker at anyone who came close. After suffering a nasty crack on the elbow, Bartholomew decided to question him from a distance.

‘You cannot ask the King of France about his bowel movements,’ declared Cew indignantly. ‘It is treason. Now go away – unless you can cure our terrible pains.’

‘I might, if you let me examine you,’ said Bartholomew crossly.

‘Very well,’ said Cew, capitulating abruptly. ‘But do not touch our crown. Now hurry, because we shall be sick soon.’

Unfortunately, even a lengthy examination did not tell Bartholomew what was wrong with Cew. He prescribed a mild anti-emetic of chalk and herbs, and recommended that the oysters and cakes were replaced with a simple barley broth.

‘We will try,’ said Wayt. ‘But he is shockingly mobile for an invalid, and will simply get what he wants from the kitchens himself if we do not oblige. I suppose we could lock him in …’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew quickly. ‘It would cause him distress and might hinder his recovery. Just watch him as often as you can.’