Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

Bartholomew breathed in deeply as he walked, savouring the fresh scent of early morning. Then there was a waft of something vile, accompanied by a plume of oily smoke.

‘The dyeworks,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘My beadles reported that a pile of waste had been assembled ready to incinerate. No doubt Edith and her lasses hope their neighbours will not notice if they burn it when most people are still in bed.’

Wauter pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘You really should encourage her to move away from the town, Matt. You must see that such a reek is deleterious to health.’

‘I will speak to her today,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘Again.’

‘Good,’ said Wauter. ‘Because our University has no future in a town that chokes us with poisonous gases. If she does not leave, then we shall have to go instead.’

‘We are not going anywhere,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We may not like our secular neighbours, but we need the goods and services they provide – food, fuel, shoes, candles, pots, cloth, beds–’

‘Many great abbeys and priories are self-sufficient,’ argued Wauter. ‘We can be, too.’

‘It takes years – decades, even – to develop that sort of community,’ said Michael testily. ‘What would we do in the interim? Live in tents?’

‘You are clever, with a keen eye to the University’s interests. I am sure you could find a solution. And then your name would be remembered for all eternity. Masses like the one we have just said for our founder will be sung for you long after your soul is released from Purgatory.’

‘That will happen anyway,’ said Michael loftily. ‘Because I have already done much to put us on an equal footing with Oxford. However, I certainly do not intend to be remembered as the man who took our University from a perfectly good town to a bog.’

Wauter nodded to where a handful of students from Zachary were reeling along with three Frail Sisters. The lads made themselves scarce when they saw the Senior Proctor, so the women turned their lewd attentions to the Michaelhouse men instead, some of whom looked sorely tempted by the activities that were listed as on offer.

‘You would not have to worry about that happening in the Fens,’ said the Austin. ‘Lads in holy orders know how to resist such invitations, but the same cannot be said for our seculars. Your students would be over there in a trice, Matt, and so, I am sorry to say, would Langelee.’

He stepped forward to distract the Master with a discussion about the disceptatio . It was a prudent decision, as Langelee’s lustfully gleaming eyes had been noted by several undergraduates, and it was hardly a good example.

‘Wauter is an excellent teacher, a gifted geometrician and good company in the conclave,’ whispered Michael to Bartholomew. ‘But he is also a liar. I am unconvinced by his claim that he did not know Frenge. Moreover, he disappeared this morning while we were preparing the church, and arrived back hot, dishevelled and unwilling to say where he had been.’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘He said he had been removing debris from the churchyard, so that we would be “perceived as having an unstained soul despite our many blemishes”. Now what is that supposed to mean?’

Bartholomew had no idea, but agreed that it was an odd remark to have made.

The procession arrived back at College to find that the servants had only just started their own breakfast, as Agatha had anticipated that the scholars would be longer at their devotions. They started to rise, but she waved them back down with an authoritative hand, muttering that they would need their strength if they were going to give of their best that day.

‘But I am hungry,’ objected Langelee plaintively.

‘So are we,’ retorted Agatha, and the Master, veteran of battles and performer of unsavoury acts of violence for powerful churchmen, backed away at the belligerence in her voice. ‘We have been working hard this morning, and we need our sustenance. We will attend you as soon as we have eaten.’

Unwilling to waste time, Langelee led the way to the hall, where he and the students set out the tables and benches themselves.

‘If any one of you drops so much as a crumb on the floor this morning, he will answer to me,’ he growled. ‘And wipe the tables with your sleeves when you have finished, because we cannot have greasy fingermarks all over them. Wauter? Go and fetch your Martilogium . Deynman tells me that you still have not brought it to the library.’

‘I have explained why, Master: it is incomplete,’ replied Wauter shortly. ‘We do not want people thinking that we foist unfinished manuscripts on our students.’

‘And I have told you that no one will read it,’ argued Langelee. ‘My own contribution is next year’s camp-ball fixtures, which I would never risk being looked at, because they are confidential. But they add to the bulk, and it is the impression that is important here.’

‘I will make sure no one touches anything,’ promised Deynman. ‘Books are far too valuable to be pawed by laymen anyway, no matter how much money they want to give us. Your list of martyrs will be safe with me.’

The hall smelled strongly of polish and the caustic substances that had been used to scour stains from the floor, so Bartholomew opened the shutters to let in some fresh air. It was a pretty morning, with the sun burning away the fog that had dampened the streets earlier. A blackbird sang in the orchard and hens clucked in the yard below. Then the porter’s peacock issued a shrill scream.

‘I want that thing gagged,’ said Langelee. ‘Who will tell Walter?’

As the porter was fond of his pet, and was inclined to be vindictive to anyone who took against it, there were no volunteers.

‘Actually, Master,’ said Wauter, ‘the creature may serve to our advantage. Peacocks are expensive, and there are not many Colleges that can afford to give one to a servant.’

‘Go and inform Walter that his bird is to have its tail on display when our guests arrive,’ instructed Langelee, capitulating abruptly. ‘And it is to screech and attract the attention of anyone who does not notice it.’ He turned to Clippesby. ‘You will repeat my orders to the peacock.’

The two Fellows nodded acquiescence and sped away. There was no more to be done until breakfast arrived, so Bartholomew leaned on the windowsill and gazed absently across the yard. He was not alone with his thoughts for long: his students came to give a report on the mock disputation with Rougham and Nigellus the previous day.

‘It was great fun,’ enthused young Bell. ‘Father William threw open the floor for questions after you left, and I have not laughed so much in all my life.’

‘It was not meant to be amusing,’ said Bartholomew, wondering whether he had been wise to disappear. ‘It was supposed to be an exercise in logical analysis and contradiction.’

‘Oh, it was,’ said Melton, the eldest, with a wicked grin. ‘Rougham and Nigellus were excellent examples of how not to argue a case. Even Bell won points, and he has never taken part in a disputation before. You would have been proud of him, sir.’

Bartholomew groaned, not liking to imagine the intellectual carnage that had taken place. ‘You did not offend them?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Not deliberately,’ hedged Melton.

Bartholomew supposed he would have to apologise on their behalf. Rougham and Nigellus were colleagues, after all, and he did not want to be ostracised by men he might need in the future. He turned when Agatha announced that breakfast was ready, and there was the usual scramble as everyone dashed for their places. As it was a special day, Langelee was obliged to read a set grace from a book, which started well, but took a downward plunge when he turned the page and saw how much more was still to come.