Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘That was helpful,’ said Michael brightly, once they were out in the street. ‘Nigellus almost certainly did give Yerland medicine, and Segeforde was murdered because he witnessed it.’

‘Perhaps, but you cannot prove it,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘I can prove that both victims – and Lenne and Irby, too – consumed something that damaged their livers and stomachs. Or rather, you can.’

‘Yes, but not that Nigellus was responsible. It might have been someone else. Kellawe or Morys, for example.’

‘Kellawe and Morys would not have murdered Lenne,’ argued Michael. ‘Whereas Nigellus was his physician. Moreover, you are forgetting that crucial piece of evidence – the note Irby wrote to you, in which he virtually names Nigellus as his killer.’

‘He does not,’ said Bartholomew, feeling that the monk was putting far too much store in a message that was ambiguous at best.

Michael sighed irritably. ‘Then we shall visit Lenne’s wife and see what she can tell us. She will not enjoy an invasion from scholars, but it cannot be helped.’

Bartholomew fell into step beside him. They met the Austin friars on Milne Street – they had finished teaching the nominalism-realism debate to Michaelhouse’s students, and were on their way home. Prior Joliet was clutching his elbow, his round face creased with pain, while Robert had a solicitous arm around his shoulders and the burly Hamo toted a thick staff. Wauter was with them, looking angrier than Bartholomew had ever seen him.

‘Someone threw a rock,’ he said tightly. ‘The whole town has gone insane, and not even priests are safe now.’

‘Who?’ demanded Michael. ‘Tell me, and I will arrest him.’

‘I was not there,’ replied Wauter bitterly. ‘I wish I had been, because I would have–’

‘No,’ interrupted Joliet, gently but firmly. ‘We will not sink to violent thoughts.’ He turned to Michael. ‘We did not see the culprit, Brother. I just felt the stone land.’

‘We do not know if the attack was because we are scholars,’ added Robert, ‘or because we were emerging from Michaelhouse, which is home to a physician.’

‘There is a rumour that medici are dispatching their patients, you see,’ explained Joliet, when Bartholomew frowned his puzzlement. ‘One has been arrested for it.’

‘Segeforde,’ grunted Hamo.

‘Yes, let us not forget that damned fool,’ spat Wauter. ‘He assaulted a popular lady in front of dozens of witnesses. And do not say it was an accident, because it was not.’

‘It certainly looked deliberate to me,’ said Joliet. He shook his head tearfully when Bartholomew offered to examine his arm. ‘It is just a bruise, and I would rather not stay out longer than necessary – I want to be safely inside my convent with the gate locked. I dislike the town when it takes against the University.’

‘Fens,’ growled Hamo, gripping the stave. ‘Good.’

‘You are right, Hamo,’ said Robert, wincing when a group of passing apprentices took the opportunity to howl abuse. ‘Because as soon as one problem is solved in this place, another raises its head. Like my cross – Hakeney stole it today.’

‘How do you know it was him?’ asked Michael tiredly.

‘Because he raced up to me, tore it from my person and danced away laughing,’ replied Robert sourly. He rubbed his neck. ‘And it hurt.’

‘When they heard, the head of every convent in Cambridge demanded an audience with me,’ added Joliet. ‘They all said the same: that attacks on priests cannot be tolerated and action must be taken. They ordered me to report Hakeney to the Sheriff immediately.’

‘Which he did, but Tulyet was reluctant to make an arrest, lest it ignited a riot,’ Robert went on bitterly. ‘He said that Hakeney is clearly not in his right wits, and it would be wiser to resolve the matter without recourse to a process that might see him hanged.’

‘So we decided to let the matter go,’ said Joliet, ‘but then my fellow priors descended on me again , this time with Stephen, who recommended a civil suit instead.’

‘No!’ cried Michael, horrified. ‘The University cannot sue another townsman. Dick Tulyet was right: it will cause no end of trouble. The priors should have minded their own business.’

‘I disagree,’ said Wauter stiffly. ‘If we ignore this vicious assault, what message will it send to those who wish us harm? A lawsuit is the only way to keep us all safe.’

‘Let me speak to Hakeney,’ said Michael wearily. ‘I will tell him to give back the cross and apologise. Then you can tell Stephen that his services will not be required, and the matter can be quietly forgotten.’

‘Very well,’ said Joliet, sadness etched into a face that was meant for laughter. ‘I should like to avoid bad feeling if possible, so please try your best.’

‘But if Hakeney refuses, we will have no choice but to proceed,’ warned Robert. ‘We cannot risk people thinking it is acceptable to assault clerics – which some may already believe, given that Prior Joliet has just been injured. It is–’

He was interrupted by another barrage of waved fists and combative yells, this time from a gaggle of bakers. Joliet whimpered his distress, Robert and Wauter flinched, and Hamo took a firmer grip on his staff. Michael saw the culprits on their way with a few sharp words, but Bartholomew was unnerved. The Austins were by far the most popular Order in the town, and if they were not safe, what hope did the rest of the University have?

Not many moments passed before Bartholomew and Michael were stopped again, this time by Wayt and Dodenho from King’s Hall. They were at the head of a phalange of students who wore leather jerkins under their tabards, and carried swords or bows. One even had a mace, a weapon rarely seen off the battlefield. Several were wan, and clearly not in the best of health. Bartholomew stared at a lad whose hand was to his stomach; the student saw him looking and sneered, which revealed a thin grey line around the tops of his incisors.

‘Are you aware that strutting around armed to the teeth is a finable offence?’ asked Michael.

‘We are,’ replied Wayt arrogantly. ‘But we do not care. We would rather lose a few shillings than our lives – and the town is not safe for scholars at the moment.’

‘It is safe if you stay indoors,’ retorted Michael. ‘You do not have to venture out.’

‘We do if we want to pray in St Mary the Great for Cew,’ Wayt flashed back. ‘Or do you suggest that we forget our religious obligations while the town is being difficult?’

‘That does not excuse–’ began Michael.

‘Cew is worse,’ blurted Dodenho. His expression was so full of unhappy concern that Michael elected to overlook the interruption. ‘He has a weakness in his muscles now.’

‘And he still thinks he is the King of France,’ said the Acting Warden unpleasantly. ‘Your medicine did nothing to cure him of that delusion, Bartholomew.’

‘Meanwhile, three more of our lads have come down with the debilitas ,’ added Dodenho. ‘Would you mind visiting them later, to see what might be done to ease their discomfort?’

‘No,’ said Wayt sharply. ‘What if the reason for their malaise is his sister’s dyeworks? He is not the man we should trust with our students’ welfare.’

Bartholomew opened his mouth to object, but Dodenho was wise enough to know that offending medici was not a good idea when the University was on the verge of a major brawl. After all, who else would sew up wounds and set broken bones?

‘Please come when you can, Bartholomew,’ he said quietly, shooting the Acting Warden a glance that warned him to hold his tongue. ‘We would be most grateful. Perhaps you will be able to persuade Cew to eat something other than oysters and soul-cakes as well.’