Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

They walked to the High Street, where they were hailed by Gilby, the dim-witted priest from White Hostel. He was riding on a cart that was piled high with his belongings. He was grey-faced, and one hand was clasped to his stomach.

‘I have the debilitas ,’ he whimpered. ‘I do not want to die, so I have decided to leave Cambridge while I can. Three other scholars from White will follow me this afternoon, along with four from Trinity Hall and two from Peterhouse.’

‘We shall be sorry to lose you,’ lied Michael. ‘Where will you go?’

‘The Fens,’ replied Gilby with a vague flap of his hand. ‘We shall establish a new University where members can be free of poison – of the body and the mind. In time, this one will fade into oblivion, and we shall be regarded as the true studium generale .’

‘Are you sure it is wise to travel while you are ill?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course it is,’ said Michael quickly, scowling at him. He turned back to the priest with a bright smile. ‘Go and found your university, Gilby. I wish you every success.’

‘I do not want to leave,’ said Gilby, eyes narrowing when he saw the monk was glad to be rid of him. ‘But your ineptitude as Senior Proctor leaves me no choice. And do not come crying to me when the town destroys you, because you will not be welcome.’ He turned to the Austins. ‘But you will.’

‘Thank you,’ said Joliet. He glanced nervously around him. ‘If the town continues to descend into chaos, you might be seeing us sooner than you know.’

‘How can you think of going?’ asked Michael reproachfully. ‘What about the paupers who rely on you – the ones you starved yourselves to feed last winter, and who you will help with the money you have earned by teaching and painting at Michaelhouse?’

Joliet looked away. ‘I pity them, but I must consider the safety of my people. This week has proved beyond all doubt that the town loathes us, despite all our sacrifices.’

‘And one of them killed Hamo,’ added Robert. ‘We cannot fight such deeply held hatred.’

‘You are quite right,’ agreed Gilby. ‘So do not wait too long before joining us.’

He cracked the reins and the vehicle rumbled forward. Another followed, bearing two men from Gonville Hall, one of whom was the drunken Osborne. Both looked wan.

‘Where they will sleep?’ asked Bartholomew, watching the wagons clatter away. Joliet and Robert dropped behind to talk in low voices, obviously giving serious consideration to Gilby’s invitation. ‘All are used to comfort, and I doubt they will enjoy bedding down under a cart, especially if they are ill.’

‘They will not sleep under a cart,’ predicted Michael. ‘I suspect they will aim for a specific location – one the strategist has already chosen. A settlement left empty after the plague, perhaps.’

‘Then they will be disappointed. It has been a decade since those were abandoned, and few will be habitable now. However, I suspect the strategist wants our scholars to think as you have – that his new university has decent buildings free for the taking.’

‘Then his foundation will not survive long – his cronies will not stay if they are forced to live like peasants. And they cannot come back to us, because I will not allow it. They will have tasted independence, so will be a divisive force. Yet we will not survive either if we are stripped of too many members, but how can we stop them from trickling away?’

‘There is only one way: find the strategist.’

It was not an easy journey to the Austin friary. Townsmen hurled abuse at them, although none was quite brave enough to launch a physical attack on the princely bulk of the Senior Proctor, while students roamed in belligerent packs.

‘We should follow Gilby,’ gulped Robert. ‘We will be safe in the marshes.’

‘Safe, but not comfortable,’ said Michael. ‘Do not abandon your lovely convent just yet.’

‘I am not comfortable here,’ averred Joliet, waving a hand in front of his face as a particularly noxious waft blew from the dyeworks.

They reached the priory, where Bartholomew and Michael surveyed every inch of the chapel for clues, but found nothing useful. The blood that had been dripped and smeared on the floor confirmed what the physician had already surmised – that Hamo had been attacked near the altar, but had managed to stagger to the door where he had died.

‘There is no suggestion that the culprit broke into the church,’ said Bartholomew, inspecting the lock. ‘He walked inside freely.’

‘Of course he did,’ said Robert bitterly. He and his brethren were standing in the porch, watching the search with troubled expressions. ‘The door was open, because we were about to say vespers – and Hamo was in here, preparing the altar.’

‘I have been wickedly remiss,’ said Joliet, tears rolling down his round cheeks. ‘I saw how easy it was to invade our holy grounds when Frenge died, but I never imagined the killer would strike again. I should have posted guards, or barricaded the gates. And Hamo paid the price for my complacency.’

‘We will find the culprit,’ promised Michael, as the friars hastened to comfort their leader. ‘And we shall start by questioning Hakeney.’

Hakeney was not at home or protesting at the dyeworks, and Bartholomew and Michael were not sure where else to look for him. As they pondered, Isnard the bargeman swung up on his crutches, and began to regale them with his opinion of the latest rumour that was surging around the town.

‘Hakeney did not kill Hamo,’ he declared. ‘It is a vicious lie – one put about by the Austins, probably, so we will all support their legal case against him. Well, it will not work.’

‘Who told you this tale?’ demanded Michael irritably.

‘Dozens of folk,’ replied Isnard, and began to list them. ‘Landlord Lister, Noll Verius, Thelnetham of the Gilbertines, Dickon Tulyet, Peyn and Shirwynk the brewers–’

‘What makes you so sure that Hakeney is innocent?’ interrupted Michael, seeing the recitation would continue for some time if he let it.

‘Because he was with me in the King’s Head when Hamo was stabbed,’ replied Isnard. ‘We were there all night, and he is still there now. I am his alibi, and you know you can trust me.’

‘Right,’ said Michael, aware that Isnard was not always conscious after visiting that particular tavern, and Hakeney could have wandered out, committed a dozen murders and returned to his tankard with the bargeman none the wiser.

A hurt expression suffused Isnard’s face when he saw what Michael was thinking. ‘I barely touched a drop all night, Brother. We kept clear heads for making plans, see.’

‘What plans?’ asked Michael in alarm.

‘Me and some of the choir aim to stop the University from slinking off to the Fens,’ replied the bargeman. ‘Our musical evenings would not be the same without you, Brother, and we want you to stay.’

‘I am glad someone does.’

‘It might be dangerous to intervene,’ warned Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what wild and reckless scheme the patrons of the King’s Head might have hatched, regardless of whether they had stayed sober. ‘Please do not–’

‘We care nothing for danger,’ declared Isnard grandly. ‘Not when we are doing what we believe is right. Do not worry – we will not let the fanatics in the town drive you away.’

‘I am more concerned about the fanatics in the University,’ muttered Michael. ‘But leave the matter to me, Isnard. I have no intention of leaving Cambridge.’

‘But some of you have already gone,’ Isnard pointed out worriedly. ‘Wauter yesterday, Gilby and others this morning, with more set to follow tonight. It is the beginning of the end.’