Susanna GREGORY - A Poisonous Plot

‘Hurry!’ howled Michael. The water had reached his chin.

Both took breaths at the same time, Michael as the ditch surged towards his nose, and Bartholomew as he dived, desperately hoping that the axe would be sharp enough to hack through the ropes. He found Michael’s legs, then groped for the cords, sawing frantically at one that was stretched taut from the monk’s frenzied struggles to break free. He could not tell whether it was working, and was about to surface for air when he was thrust down so hard that his head cracked against the gunwale.

He tried to push upwards, but someone was holding him down. He struggled, violently at first, but with decreasing vigour as he felt himself begin to black out. Then, just when he thought his lungs would explode, he was released. He surfaced, gasping, to see that he must have cut enough of the rope to let Michael snap the rest, because the monk was standing up.

He looked around wildly, and saw it had been the student who had tried to drown him; Michael had knocked him away with his shoulder, and the lad was floating face-down nearby. Morys was clawing at the mud that filled his eyes and nose, while Dickon and the other student were still engaged in their deadly dance. Bartholomew looked for Robert.

‘Behind you, Matt!’ howled Michael.

Bartholomew spun around to see that the almoner had managed to grab the axe. With a vengeful grin, Robert raised it above his head in readiness for the fatal blow. Bartholomew threw up an arm to defend himself, but then came an imperious voice.

‘What is going on?’

Bartholomew sagged in relief. It was Prior Joliet. Robert lowered the axe, while on the bank, Dickon and the student stopped fighting.

‘You are making too much noise,’ said Joliet angrily. ‘Do you want the beadles to rush in and see what is happening?’

Numbly, Bartholomew noticed that the Prior’s arm was no longer in its orange sling, and there seemed to be nothing wrong with it.

‘So you are the strategist!’ spat Michael in disgust. ‘I might have guessed.’

‘Might you?’ mumbled Bartholomew, hating the sour taste of defeat. It had not occurred to him that the jolly, round little Prior should be involved in such a wicked scheme. ‘Why?’

‘The mural in our hall,’ said Michael. ‘What does it depict?’

‘Aristotle, Plato, Galen and Aquinas,’ replied Bartholomew, struggling to understand why the monk should consider the painting relevant. ‘Teaching under a tree.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘Under a tree – not in an academic hall or a church. I wondered from the start why that should be, but now I understand. It was Joliet’s idea to move the University to the Fens. He painted his vision of the future.’

Many things became clear to Bartholomew as the last clue fell into place, but there was no time to analyse them, because a fury of sound from the High Street suggested that a pitched battle was in progress. There would be injuries and deaths, particularly among the townsmen, whose sticks and tools were no match for the scholars’ swords and bows.

He glanced at Joliet and saw satisfaction in the plump face. It was exactly what the Prior wanted: no scholar could stay in a place that burned with resentment over the uneven number of casualties, so the University would have to flee to the Fens, where his dream of a studium generale away from the trappings of a town would be realised. Bartholomew felt a small spark of satisfaction, though: the sacking of the Austin Priory would not contribute to the trouble, because the bar he had placed across the door would keep looters out – at least until Joliet and Robert realised what he had done and went to remove it.

‘Pull that student out of the water,’ instructed Joliet, when the clamour had eased and he could make himself heard again. ‘Or he will drown.’

Robert tossed the axe to Morys and went to oblige, although Bartholomew could see it was too late. So could Joliet, who scowled angrily.

‘If you had dispatched Michael quickly, as I ordered, Bartholomew would have gone away in ignorance and that lad would still be alive. Now we shall have to kill Bartholomew, too, which is a pity – another physician would have been be useful in the Fens.’

‘Do not use the axe to do it, Morys,’ advised Robert. ‘A knife will be cleaner.’

He was proven right when Bartholomew evaded Morys’s wild swing with ease. Swearing under his breath, the Principal tossed the axe on to the pier and drew a dagger instead.

‘How did you escape from the chapel, Father Prior?’ asked Bartholomew, edging away.

‘By unlocking the door,’ replied Joliet shortly. ‘Do you really think I would allow myself to be shut inside when a riot was in progress?’

‘You tried to make us think that Wauter was the strategist,’ said Bartholomew accusingly, jerking away from Morys’ next lunge, which came far too close for comfort. ‘You claimed he left you his Martilogium to–’

‘To ensure you did not suspect me,’ interrupted Joliet briskly. ‘Yes. Not that it matters now. And I do have the Martilogium . It is a valuable work, and I could not risk it being destroyed in the riots. I took it when I last visited your College.’

‘Wauter was never one of us,’ said Morys, grimacing when yet another swipe missed. ‘He would have disapproved.’

‘So who is involved?’ asked Michael. ‘All Zachary, I suppose, which is why they refuse to wear their tabards – a ploy to aggravate the town with a flaunting of riches. And the Austins.’

‘Not the Austins,’ said Joliet. ‘It is best my brethren remain ignorant of what needs to be done, so they are still locked in the chapel, praying for peace.’

‘And not Nigellus either,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Or he would have treated you with more respect at the disceptatio. Instead he blackmailed you over the sucura you acquired from Frenge.’

‘I will make him regret that,’ vowed Joliet unpleasantly, then turned to his helpmeets. ‘Enough talk. Make an end of them.’

Obediently, the surviving student renewed his assault on Dickon, while Morys advanced on Bartholomew again. Robert jumped into the ditch and waded purposefully towards Michael.

‘You sold Shirwynk those lead tanks, knowing exactly what would happen if he fermented wine in them,’ said Michael, twisting suddenly so that Robert was knocked backwards. ‘And you have pretended to be calm and reasonable, but your “innocent” remarks have made matters worse.’

‘Hurry up,’ Joliet snapped to his helpmeets. ‘This distasteful confrontation has gone on quite long enough.’

‘You were never hurt by a rock either,’ said Michael. ‘You claimed a townsman had lobbed one, hoping the University would rebel at an assault on a priest, and you wore a bright orange sling to draw attention to the “injury”. But it was yet another ruse, aimed to encourage more–’

‘It worked,’ interrupted Joliet curtly. ‘Which is even more reason to leave this turbulent town. If we can stir up such hatred with a few rumours, lawsuits, lies and deaths, imagine what would happen if someone wicked tried to do it.’

‘Someone wicked?’ echoed Michael in disbelief. ‘I think you will find that you qualify for that particular description – as you will learn when your sins are weighed on Judgement Day.’

‘We are in the right,’ snarled Joliet, and as he spoke, he stepped into the flickering lamplight to reveal what he was wearing on his feet. ‘It is fat and corrupt Colleges that–’

‘ You killed Kellawe!’ breathed Bartholomew when he saw the colourful smears. He recalled what Dickon had said: that the Austins did not have the luxury of spare boots. Joliet had worn sandals in his refectory earlier, but something sturdier was needed for hurrying around outside in the dark, so the Prior had had no choice but to don the footwear he had worn to the dyeworks.