Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Do not bother, dear,’ said Anne to her husband. ‘It would be so tedious.’

‘You are a very wise lady,’ said Robert, smiling approvingly. ‘A lawsuit would drive yet another wedge between University and town. Besides, I doubt the compensation you would win would be worth the inconvenience of a trial.’

‘Compensation?’ echoed Anne sharply. ‘You mean money?’

Alarm suffused Robert’s face and he began to gabble. ‘Very little, I imagine. Certainly not enough to warrant the trouble.’

‘A paltry sum,’ put in Joliet quickly. ‘Especially to the wife of a rich burgess. Mere pennies.’

‘Rubbish,’ yelled Shirwynk. ‘Zachary is a wealthy hostel. You will be awarded a fortune.’

‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Michael. ‘He wants you to sue a University foundation because King’s Hall is prosecuting him. His advice stems from a desire for vengeance.’

‘So what if it does?’ asked Shirwynk, still addressing Anne. ‘It does not detract from the fact that a lawsuit is an easy way to swell your coffers. Stephen will take the case, I am sure.’

‘Well, now,’ said Anne, exchanging a greedy glance with her husband. ‘I did suffer when Segeforde hurled himself at me. Perhaps we had better pay Stephen a visit.’

‘No, you will not,’ said Edith firmly. ‘A quarrel with Zachary will do no one any good, least of all us. The University is our biggest customer – we cannot afford to offend it.’

‘You will not need its custom if you win funds from Zachary,’ coaxed Shirwynk.

‘We will make far more money by keeping its good graces,’ argued Edith. ‘There is–’

‘The dyeworks will make more money: you will not,’ called Shirwynk. ‘Be a man, Rumburgh. Take what is rightfully yours.’

‘I shall,’ declared Rumburgh, grabbing Anne’s hand and beginning to tow her towards the High Street. ‘We shall begin proceedings today, while memories are fresh.’

Michael watched Rumburgh and Anne go with a sense of helplessness, while Shirwynk filled the street with mocking laughter. Robert began to edge away, his face a mask of dismay, but Michael rounded on him before he had taken more than two or three steps.

‘What were you thinking, to mention compensation?’ he snarled. ‘Surely you must have realised what their reaction would be?’

‘I was praising her prudence,’ said Robert defensively. ‘Of course I did not predict that the pair of them would be seized by a sudden rush of greed.’

‘Go home,’ Michael ordered crossly. ‘And please watch what you say in future, especially to townsfolk.’

Robert bowed his head, cheeks red against his long white hair. Joliet opened his mouth to defend his almoner, but had second thoughts when he saw the dark expression on Michael’s face. He led his friars away, although Hamo felt compelled to have the final word.

‘Mistake,’ he murmured to Michael as he passed. ‘Sorry.’

Meanwhile, Edith was still furious – about Segeforde’s lunge, Shirwynk’s goading, Anne’s response and Bartholomew’s perceived treachery. The brewer was the first to feel her tongue.

‘How dare you tell Zachary that we run a brothel,’ she barked, stalking towards him. ‘Perhaps I should visit Stephen and take out a case against you – for slander.’

‘You could try,’ sneered Shirwynk. ‘But no judge will convict me, because your dyeworks do contain prostitutes, and the men guarding them are repaid with sexual favours.’

‘The men are paid with coins from me,’ countered Edith icily. ‘I assure you, nothing immoral happens here. It is a respectable establishment.’

Shirwynk attempted a sardonic laugh, although it was short-lived in the face of Edith’s wrath. He became defensive. ‘Well, it was not me who started that tale. Kellawe was lying when he claimed it was: I never said any such thing.’

‘Insult us again and you will regret it,’ hissed Edith, so venomously that the brewer blanched and retreated to his domain. When the door had closed behind him, she spun on her heel and stamped inside her dyeworks. Bartholomew followed, keen for her to know that Michael and Morys had misquoted him. He opened his mouth to explain, but the stench was far worse inside than out, and it took his breath away.

‘It really is foul, Edith,’ he gasped, once he had stopped coughing. ‘It cannot be doing anyone any good, especially the women who work here. Can you not open some windows?’

‘We could,’ replied Edith coldly. ‘But that would let the smell out, and we would have more complaints than ever. Besides, we barely notice it now.’

Bartholomew looked around unhappily. Several buckets of evil-smelling waste stood near the door, almost certainly destined for the river, while he did not know how anyone could bear the toxic atmosphere in the annexe, where Yolande was stirring the fermenting woad.

‘This cannot continue,’ he said quietly, holding his ground when Edith glowered at him. ‘The protesters have a point: there have been mysterious deaths and illnesses over the last few weeks – roughly coinciding with the time that this place opened.’

Edith’s expression went from angry to sad, which was much harder for him to bear as she doubtless knew. ‘So you are against us, too?’

‘I am against people becoming unwell and dying unnecessarily.’

Edith pointed at the watching women. ‘If my dyeworks are responsible for making people sick, then why are they not ill? They work most closely with these so-called deadly compounds.’

Bartholomew glanced at them, and thought that he had never seen a healthier horde. Every one was rosy-cheeked and sleek, and it was clear that regular meals and daytime work was doing them a power of good.

‘If you want a culprit, look to your own profession,’ Edith went on. ‘Everyone who has died – Lenne, Irby, Frenge, Letia, Arnold, Mistress Vine – was visited by a physician first.’

‘You mean Nigellus?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was not Mistress Vine’s medicus .’

‘No,’ agreed Edith. ‘ You were.’

Bartholomew winced. ‘But I never saw her. I meant to go, but …’

‘She was tended by Meryfeld in her final hours,’ said Yolande. ‘I am sure she would have preferred you, but she was too ill to argue, and Vine did not want to send for a physician who has ties to us.’

‘But she had this debilitas , which only affects the wealthy,’ added Edith stiffly. ‘And as I said earlier, the waste from our dyes cannot distinguish between rich and poor, so I suggest you find something else to blame.’

And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

‘Come with me to talk to Shirwynk, Matt,’ said Michael when Bartholomew emerged despondently from the dyeworks. ‘I want to know why he is so violently opposed to our University. We have had our detractors in the past, but none as vehement as him.’

‘Will you talk to Anne first?’ asked Bartholomew, hopeful that trouble might yet be averted. ‘She did not seem particularly upset by what happened – until Robert mentioned compensation.’

‘I will visit her later, but the prospect of “free” money is attractive, and nothing I say will make any difference now.’ Michael rubbed a hand wearily across his face. ‘That stupid incident will do much harm. The town will be offended on her behalf, and scholars will rally to Segeforde, especially when he claims it was an accident.’

‘Perhaps it was. I did not see what happened.’

‘He did make a grab for her, although I doubt he intended to tear off her clothes. However, it is clear that she has a certain history with him.’