Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘But why?’ cried Joliet, distressed. ‘I thought we had just proved that you are wrong, and that Robert is innocent of … whatever it is you think he has done.’

‘There is no time to explain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will just have to trust us.’

Dusk had settled across Cambridge as Bartholomew and Michael ran along the High Street, and mischief was in the air. Lights blazed from Gonville Hall, and its gates were open to reveal scholars massing in its yard. Michael stopped to demand whether they had heard about the curfew.

‘Yes, but we shall have no University left if we do not stop the defectors from disappearing into the marshes,’ said an undergraduate, a burly youth whose missing front teeth suggested he was no stranger to brawls. ‘You should thank us for what we aim to do tonight.’

‘You will stay in and behave,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Where is Rougham?’

‘Out with a patient,’ replied the lad, ‘and the other Fellows have locked themselves in the conclave. Perhaps you should join them there, Brother. It will be safer for you.’

Michael struggled not to lose his temper. ‘Where are your academic tabards? You do know I can fine you for not wearing them?’

‘They make too obvious a target for our enemies, so we elected to don secular garb tonight,’ replied the lad. He flicked imaginary dust from his fur-trimmed gipon, a gesture that suggested vanity had played no small role in the decision to defy the University’s rules on what constituted suitable attire.

Michael was used to dealing with insolent youths, and his steely glance had caused many a knee to wobble, but Gonville’s boys had been drinking. It was also too dark for the full force of his proctorly glower to be felt, and Bartholomew knew that, although they meekly closed their gates as the Senior Proctor ordered, it would not be long before they marched out.

In St Michael’s Lane, a few scholars from Ovyng and Physwick hostels were slinking along in the shadows, cloaked and hooded against recognition, many with bundles over their shoulders. Others were calling them back, some issuing threats and ultimatums that were unlikely to encourage the renegades to stay.

‘It is like trying to stem the tide,’ said Michael in dismay, as he hammered on Michaelhouse’s sturdy gate. ‘The strategist has been clever indeed.’

The porter opened the door to reveal a scene of efficient activity. Some students had been set to patrol the walls, while others were filling butts with water should there be a fire. Langelee was in charge, standing serenely in the middle of the yard as he issued instructions to Fellows, students and staff alike. Even Agatha was scurrying to obey, and was in the process of putting all the College’s valuables in a box so it could be buried.

‘Buried?’ asked Michael in alarm.

‘It is the best way to keep it safe from looters,’ explained the Master. ‘I have been in enough dangerous situations to know that our very existence is in question tonight. Vengeful hostel men or townsfolk may batter their way in, but they will not get our precious treasures. Such as they are.’

‘Good.’ Michael cast a quick glance around. ‘Is everyone here?’

Langelee nodded. ‘Do not worry, Brother. The other Heads of Houses might have lost control of their lads, but I still command Michaelhouse.’

‘Robert,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Did he come to deliver wine?’

‘Yes – some of that nasty apple brew from Shirwynk, which he said was a gift from your sister, although I should be surprised if that were true. She knows I do not like it.’

‘Has anyone had any?’ demanded Bartholomew.

‘Not yet. Robert said we should share it out tonight, to fortify ourselves for the coming battle, but Clippesby started clamouring some tale about pigeons and poison and he unsettled me, to be frank, so I put it in your storeroom. Why–’

Bartholomew shoved past him and ran to his quarters, where the cask was standing in the middle of the floor. He decanted some of its contents into a cup, and sniffed it before swirling it around to inspect its consistency. It looked and smelled innocuous enough. He stared at it. It was reckless to sip something he was sure was dangerous, but time was short and he needed answers. He put a drop on his tongue, and immediately tasted the sickly sweetness of the wine. It was followed by a slight burning sensation. He spat it out of the window.

‘He added a caustic substance to it,’ he told Langelee and Michael. ‘Not enough to kill instantly – like the stuff he forced Frenge to swallow – but enough to make us very ill. And all so that Edith would be blamed.’

‘Why would Robert want that?’ asked Langelee, startled.

‘To create another reason for the University to be angry with the town,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘And another reason for people to rail against the dyeworks. Robert is a clever man – the strategist is a good name for him.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Well? Is this evidence enough for you to accept that he is the mastermind behind all this mayhem?’

Michael nodded slowly.

‘Then go and stop him,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I will dispose of this “gift” and keep the College safe. Now hurry, before he destroys us all.’

‘Perhaps there are advantages to having a battle-honed Master,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael raced back towards to the Austin Priory in the hope that Robert had returned. ‘At least we know that Michaelhouse is safe in his hands.’

‘Nowhere is safe tonight,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And Langelee knows it. Why do you think he is burying our valuables? He has never done that before.’

Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Do you think it is that bad?’

‘I would not be surprised if the whole town was in flames by tomorrow,’ came the sombre response. ‘Especially if we do not find Robert and prevent him from implementing more of his felonious plans.’

Trouble found Bartholomew and Michael long before they reached the Austin Priory. Gonville’s students were out, and they had been joined by lads from King’s Hall. They were facing a small pack of scholars from the hostels, led by Gilby, the vociferous priest from White. Some carried pitch torches, and the light they shed cast eerie shadows on the surrounding houses.

‘I thought you had gone to the Fens,’ said Michael, displeased to see Gilby in the thick of more disorder. ‘And that you were sick with the debilitas .’

‘I made a miraculous recovery,’ replied the priest. ‘God be praised.’

‘Is there any apple wine in the marshes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or sweet foods?’

‘No,’ replied the priest shortly. ‘There is nothing debauched about our new studium generale . It is a fine place, based on sober virtues. And it is growing fast, which is why I am here – to encourage other decent men to join us. But these louts will not let us pass.’

‘Stand aside,’ Michael told the College men tiredly. ‘We are not tyrants, to keep them here by force. If they want to live in rush hovels and listen to lectures given under dripping trees, then that is their decision.’

‘There should be a statute forbidding anyone from slinking off in the middle of term,’ said the gap-toothed Gonville boy. Michael took a step towards him, at which point he decided it was imprudent to challenge the Senior Proctor and so shuffled to one side. His cronies did likewise.

‘Go,’ said Michael to Gilby, indicating the path to freedom. ‘But bear in mind that once you do, you can never return. We will not reinstate rebels.’

‘Why would we return?’ asked Gilby haughtily. ‘Your University is steeped in corruption – especially Michaelhouse, which was as poor as a church mouse last year, but now is drowning in money. And I know why: donations from the dyeworks. The latest bribe was a cask of wine. Poor Almoner Robert said that Edith Stanmore insisted he deliver it immediately, despite the perils of being abroad tonight.’