Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘No, I will not hide it,’ snarled Hakeney indignantly. ‘I want everyone to know that I retrieved it from that thieving Robert.’

The townsmen closed in even tighter, and Bartholomew braced himself for a trouncing, but suddenly Cynric was among them, hand on the sword at his side.

‘We were just talking,’ said Hakeney quickly, evidently aware of the Welshman’s military prowess. ‘No harm has been done, eh, Bartholomew? But you had better go and defend Brother Michael – those scholars look ready to attack him.’

He was right: tempers were running high in the University faction. The situation was aggravated by Kellawe, who directed a stream of invective not only against the dyeworks, but also against some of his fellow protesters. Bartholomew wondered if the Franciscan would be quite so vociferous if someone took a swipe at his pugnacious jaw and broke it.

‘We want those whores out!’ he screeched. ‘They are not welcome near Zachary. Put them by White Hostel instead – their members are not fussy about the company they keep.’

‘Now just a moment,’ objected the dim-witted but vocal priest named Gilby, who happened to be a member of that particular foundation. ‘We are not–’

‘Do not call us names,’ bellowed Yolande from inside the besieged building. ‘Especially as most of you have been our customers for years – from Zachary and from White.’

‘We can prove it, too,’ called another woman. ‘We know all your little foibles. Go on, Brother. Ask us a question about any of this rabble, and we will tell you exactly what he likes to do behind closed doors. You will be entertained royally, I promise.’

‘Lies,’ cried Morys, although his flaming cheeks and uneasy eyes suggested otherwise.

‘The debilitas is in Physwick Hostel now,’ raged Kellawe, not about to be sidetracked. ‘And these whores put it there. They are as base and corrupt as the filth they hurl in the river.’

Bartholomew’s heart lurched as the dyeworks door opened and Edith strode out. She was not particularly tall, but she was like a giant when she was angry, and the power of her personality had been known to cow even Dickon. Everyone fell silent as her eyes raked across them.

‘My workers are good women,’ she said frostily, once the protesters had gone so quiet that a pin could have been heard dropping, ‘who are doing their best for their families. Now, I suggest we dispense with this unseemly hollering and resolve our differences with proper decorum. I shall listen to your complaints, and you will listen to my replies.’

‘Listen to you?’ spluttered Kellawe. ‘I do not think so! Decent men are dying all over the University, thanks to you and your trollops.’

Morys and a few Zachary men cheered, but support from the other foundations was suddenly half-hearted – Edith’s quiet dignity had unnerved them. She waited for the clamour to die away before speaking again.

‘First, they are not trollops, they are women who have fallen on hard times. We have rectified the matter, and they are now gainfully employed. And second, we accept your objection about the river. In future, we shall ensure that all our waste is transported to the Fens.’

‘To the Fens?’ cried Morys. ‘But that is where we plan to move our University.’

‘Then you cannot complain about us poisoning the town,’ called Yolande provocatively. ‘Not if you do not intend to live here.’

Edith shot her a warning scowl, then turned back to the scholars. ‘It is a large area, Principal Morys. You cannot occupy it all.’

‘But even if you do cart your rubbish away, there will still be a smell.’ Kellawe appealed to his students. ‘Will we listen to her? She is a strumpet, just like her women!’

Bartholomew took a furious step forward, but Cynric was there to stop him from taking another. Unfortunately, the movement had attracted attention.

‘There is her brother,’ shrieked Kellawe, stabbing a vengeful finger. ‘A member of the University, but not really one of us because of his ties to her. We should eject him, because we do not want scholars who are tainted with links to the town. All townsfolk are scum, after all.’

There was an indignant roar from Hakeney and his followers, whose numbers had increased as the argument had unfolded. They now outnumbered the scholars by a considerable margin.

‘There is no point discussing this further now,’ said Morys, alarmed by the fury his colleague’s words had elicited, and so beginning to ease towards the safety of his hostel. ‘We are wasting our time. However, we shall return later to–’

‘No, you will not,’ stated Michael firmly. ‘I have had enough of this nonsense. Anyone who is still here by the time I count to five will be fined sixpence. One. Two–’

‘Ours is a legitimate protest, and we shall do it where we please,’ screeched Kellawe. ‘Is that not so, Morys? Morys? Morys! ’

An expression of alarm filled his face when he saw his supporters had disappeared. There was a cheer from the townsfolk when he turned and fled, although it petered out when Michael whipped around to glare at them.

‘You cannot fine me sixpence,’ said Hakeney challengingly. ‘I do not have any money.’

‘Then you can join Nigellus in my gaol,’ retorted Michael. ‘And that goes for you, too, Isnard. I see you hiding behind Vine. You should know better than to take sides against the University – you, a member of the Michaelhouse Choir.’

The bargeman was not the only singer in the horde, and afraid their free bread and ale might be at risk, many slunk away, heads down against recognition. The remainder hesitated uncertainly, but it took only one more imperious glare from Michael to send them on their way, too. Soon, only he, Bartholomew and the beadles were left.

‘Thank you, Brother,’ said Edith. ‘And now, if you will excuse us, we have work to do.’

‘We had better visit the Austins next,’ said Michael, glancing up at the sky as he and Bartholomew left Water Lane. The light was beginning to fade, and it would be dark soon. ‘Robert offered to ask the other friars if they know where Wauter might have gone, and we are in desperate need of answers – I sense time fast running out for us.’

They began to hurry towards the friary, using lanes rather than the main streets, to reduce the possibility of running into trouble. Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers were everywhere, faces strained as they struggled to prevent skirmishes from breaking out. It was time for vespers, which meant scholar-priests were obliged to go to church. They assembled in large groups to walk there, and Bartholomew despaired when he saw how many were armed. He had no doubt that word was out that Kellawe would absolve anyone obliged to use weapons, and was glad that Cynric had agreed not to leave Edith’s side until the crisis was over.

‘There will be trouble before the night is out,’ predicted Michael. ‘I can sense it building. It is an unpleasant feeling, being pulled this way and that like a puppet – one no Senior Proctor should experience. Yet I do not know how to stop it.’

‘Yes, we are puppets,’ agreed Bartholomew soberly. ‘Because I think you are right to see a connection between the murders, the lawsuits and the aggravation at the dyeworks – everything is designed to exacerbate the tension between University and town. Whoever is behind it is very clever – more than us, I fear.’

‘Not more than me,’ declared Michael indignantly. He took a deep breath, and Bartholomew saw his resolve strengthen. ‘I am the Senior Proctor, and no one – whether it is Wauter or anyone else – is going to harm my University.’