Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

Dodenho spirited him to the students’ dormitory afterwards, both keeping a wary eye out for the bellicose Wayt. When he had examined his new patients, Bartholomew trailed back to Michaelhouse and handed the shilling to a delighted Agatha. She immediately set to work on a much larger pot of ‘Royal Broth’, promising to deliver it to King’s Hall herself when it was ready.

Bartholomew met Michael in the yard. The monk was disconsolate that interviews with Shirwynk, Peyn and Hakeney had yielded nothing of value, while Stephen could not have been as ill as his maid had claimed, because he was still out.

‘I discovered that Cew and Wauter were friends, though. Very good friends.’

‘We already knew that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told us so himself.’

‘No – he told us that he visited Cew to debate points of logic. It is not the same, and by all accounts he is deeply distressed by Cew’s descent into madness. And now he has disappeared.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that Frenge’s attack on Cew sent Wauter on a spree of revenge that involves murder and the removal of the University to the Fens.’

‘It does sound outlandish,’ admitted Michael. ‘But we have both encountered stranger motives in the past, and we should not discount this one until we are sure it is wrong. I suggest we visit Zachary now, to see what Wauter’s old colleagues can tell us about him.’

They arrived to find the Zachary students sitting in their hall on benches, while Morys held his lecture notes upside down and Kellawe looked shifty. Bartholomew interpreted this as meaning that the pair had been giving incendiary speeches, but did not want the Senior Proctor to know.

‘We will not talk to you until Nigellus is released,’ stated Morys, to a chorus of defiant cheers. He was wearing hose with yellow and black stripes, a black gipon with an amber belt, and a hat stippled in the same colours. Bartholomew wondered why one of his friends did not do him the kindness of advising him to choose attire that did not scream ‘unpopular stinging insect’.

‘That would be foolish,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It will only prolong his incarceration.’

‘If you are here to suggest we apologise for what Segeforde is alleged to have done to Anne, you have had a wasted journey,’ said Morys. ‘It was an accident, and we are not giving that money-grubbing harlot a penny.’

‘She exposed herself deliberately,’ declared Kellawe, all wild eyes and outthrust jaw. ‘And poor Segeforde was so appalled by the sight that he fell into a fatal debilitas .’

One lad in the front row began to splutter, struggling to turn laughter into a cough when the Franciscan glared at him, while his cronies looked away or pretended to wipe their noses in an effort to conceal their own amusement. Clearly, the late Segeforde had been rather more worldly than Kellawe would have the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner believe.

‘Segeforde’s demise puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he could reveal what his illicit dissection had told him – one of the Zachary men might have an explanation. ‘He was well enough to protest outside the dyeworks and launch himself at Anne. But all of a sudden he is dead.’

‘It was not “all of a sudden”,’ snapped Morys. ‘He had been unwell with the debilitas all day, which you know perfectly well, because you physicked him.’

‘Along with Yerland,’ added Kellawe pointedly. ‘Yet it is poor Nigellus who is locked away accused of malpractice. You are fortunate the Senior Proctor is your friend, because otherwise it would be you in that cell.’

‘While I am here, you can tell me why you went to the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael, ignoring the accusation and glaring at the students, although Bartholomew took a step towards the door, fearing the situation might turn ugly. ‘You should not have visited a notorious town stronghold.’

‘We have the right to go wherever we please,’ declared Morys. ‘However, in the light of what happened, we have advised all University men to arm themselves. We have also recommended that they do not wear their academic tabards, on the grounds that it makes them too visible a target. I have already seen a number of lads following our advice.’

‘Then the proctors’ coffers will soon be overflowing,’ said Michael. ‘And speaking of fines, you owe three shillings for the fracas last night. If you do not pay by noon tomorrow, I shall send beadles to seize the equivalent amount in goods. I am sure you have plenty of books we can take.’

Morys was furious. ‘You cannot! The Chancellor will not permit it.’

‘You have already summoned his mother, so he has nothing to gain by opposing me now.’ Michael smiled archly. ‘You should have confined yourself to threats, because then he would have been yours to manipulate as long as you wanted. You made a tactical error, Morys.’

‘How dare you–’ began Morys, but Michael overrode him.

‘Have any of you seen Wauter? He has disappeared, and while you may look the other way while your scholars wander where they please, we have rules at Michaelhouse. Unless Wauter returns immediately, he will lose his Fellowship.’

‘We no longer consider him a friend,’ said Kellawe sullenly. ‘He made a serious mistake when he abandoned us for another foundation. As far as I am concerned, he is dead.’

‘Figuratively speaking,’ added Morys quickly, shooting his colleague a warning glance. ‘We do not mean him physical harm, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ agreed Michael flatly. ‘But when he was still alive in your eyes, did you ever talk about the University moving to the Fens?’

The Zachary men exchanged glances that were impossible to interpret.

‘No,’ replied Kellawe shiftily. ‘But we are not discussing him or anything else with you. Now go away or we will–’

He was interrupted by the sound of a door being thrust open, after which Cynric burst in.

‘A number of scholars have marched against the dyeworks,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘And Mistress Stanmore needs you to disperse them.’

Bartholomew was out of Zachary before Cynric had finished speaking, deftly jigging away when the book-bearer tried to grab his arm to explain further. However, Cynric had dealt with far more awkward customers than agitated physicians, and Bartholomew had not gone far down Water Lane before he found himself jerked roughly to a standstill. He tried in vain to struggle free.

‘Mistress Stanmore is safely inside with the door locked,’ Cynric said briskly, ‘as are her ladies and their guards. They are in no danger, but you will be if you race up to the protesters alone. Everyone knows she is your sister, and they will consider you a target. Now wait for Brother Michael and his men.’

Bartholomew wanted to argue, but the monk was puffing towards them anyway, a dozen beadles at his heels. Gripping the physician’s sleeve to ensure he did not outrun them, Cynric fell in behind. They arrived to find thirty or so scholars in a howling throng in front of the dyeworks. All had demonstrated there before, but never at the same time.

Bartholomew felt the cold hand of fear grip him. Was it coincidence that they should all decide to come at once, or had someone whispered in suggestible ears?

‘Here comes Zachary to swell their number,’ muttered Michael. ‘Damn it, Cynric! I wish you had taken us outside before announcing what was happening.’

It was not just scholars who were massing in the square. So were a number of townsmen, led by Hakeney, who brazenly sported Robert’s cross around his neck. As it would be like a red flag to a bull if the demonstrating scholars saw it, Bartholomew went to suggest that he tuck it inside his tunic. Only when the townsmen surrounded him menacingly did it occur to him that it had been stupid to move away from the beadles.