Susanna GREGORY: A Poisonous Plot

‘Wauter!’ breathed Bartholomew. ‘Now what?’

The geometrician strode towards the carriage and offered his hand to its occupant. A woman alighted. She was well past her prime and not very tall, but there was a gleam in her eye and a set to her chin that indicated she was not someone to trifle with.

‘Oh, Lord!’ gulped Tynkell, as she gazed around with an imperious stare that caused more than one person in the crowd to shuffle his feet and look away. ‘It is my mother!’

‘Lady Joan de Hereford,’ announced Wauter in a ringing voice. ‘Wife of Robert Morys of Brington Manor and friend of Her Majesty the Queen. And with her are members of the royal guard – men who know how to deal with those who break the King’s peace.’

‘What is going on here?’ demanded Joan. ‘Why are you not at your devotions? It is time for morning service, is it not? To be attended by scholars and townsfolk.’

‘We are about to teach the University a lesson,’ shouted Hakeney, hopping from foot to foot in excitement, so that the cross he wore around his neck bounced wildly and was in danger of knocking his teeth out. However, if he was expecting support from his ruffianly friends, he was disappointed, because they shot away from him as though he had the plague.

Joan fixed him with a hard stare. ‘You intend to attack my son?’

Hakeney swallowed hard when he found himself standing in splendid isolation. ‘Not him, specifically, but scholars in general. They are an unruly horde, given to stealing crucifixes and suing people. Not to mention wearing clothes that make them look like courtiers. Not that there is anything wrong with courtiers, of course,’ he added prudently.

‘I am glad to hear you think so,’ said Joan coolly, then brought her basilisk gaze to bear on the assembled scholars. ‘The King will not be pleased to learn that you would rather brawl than attend your religious duties. So shall I tell him, or will you go to your churches and chapels?’

Wayt opened his mouth to argue, but she fixed him with a steely glare, and the words died in his throat. However, it was the knights who convinced him to stand down – one spurred his enormous destrier forward and the Acting Warden was obliged to scramble away or risk being knocked over. The other warriors followed suit, drawing broadswords as they did so, and the crowd scattered like leaves in the wind. A skirmish had been averted, aided by the fact that dawn had brought a drenching drizzle that encouraged people not to linger anyway.

‘Hello, Mother,’ said Tynkell, advancing with a curious crab-like scuttle that made those watching wonder if he aimed to embrace her or fall at her feet.

Lady Joan regarded him stonily. ‘I thought Master Wauter was exaggerating when he came to tell me to hurry because there was trouble. I am not impressed, William. You are Chancellor – you should nip this sort of thing in the bud. As should the Sheriff.’

‘He tried,’ shouted Dickon indignantly. ‘He is my father, and a very good leader. He has been teaching me things.’

Joan’s eyebrows went up when she saw the scarlet face, but then her expression softened. ‘And you are a worthy pupil, I am sure. Come here, and tell me your name.’

‘Why am I not surprised that she has taken a liking to him?’ muttered Wauter, coming to stand next to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘The Devil sees his own like, I suppose.’

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Michael frostily.

‘Fetching her,’ replied Wauter. ‘I wrote a letter explaining why, and left it with Prior Joliet. Did he not give it to you? Lady Joan and I are old friends, and I thought she would give her son the strength he needs to lead the University in its time of crisis.’

‘You consider Dick and me unequal to the task?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘I thought you might need help,’ said Wauter quietly. ‘That is all.’

‘Well, I am glad you brought the King’s knights,’ said Tulyet, watching Lady Joan and Dickon talk animatedly. ‘I am not sure we could have quelled that battle without them, and people would have died.’

‘How long will she and her entourage stay?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting the turmoil would start again the moment they left.

‘Until Christmas at least,’ replied Wauter. ‘Quite long enough to put us all in order.’

About a month after the incident at the Trumpington Gate, Michael was able to report with satisfaction that the fledgling studium generale in the Fens was no more. When the first serious frost settled across the marshes, most of its scholars decided that it was no place to spend the winter, and began to trickle away. Eventually only a stubborn handful remained, but not enough to warrant being called a university or even a college.

The same evening, he and Bartholomew met in the conclave. It was bitterly cold, but there was no fire, because Michaelhouse’s finances did not stretch to wood, and the only refreshments on offer were sour ale and stale bread. They joined William and Wauter at the table where, as usual, the discussion turned to the strategist and his schemes.

‘Joliet manipulated everything and everyone to achieve what he wanted,’ said Wauter, shaking his head sadly. ‘He persuaded Stephen to find a way around the town’s by-laws for Edith to start her dyeworks, knowing that people would object and there would be trouble–’

‘Stephen, who was so miserly that he insisted on finishing the expensive sucura he had bought, which brought about his death last week,’ said William with unfriarly satisfaction.

‘He added it secretly to his Royal Broth,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he had guessed sooner why the lawyer had failed to rally. ‘He told me just before he died that he found the mixture unpalatable on its own.’

‘It is difficult to mourn him, though,’ said Michael. ‘Even on his deathbed, he was encouraging people to sue each other over the slightest offence. I shall not miss his agitating.’

‘The apple wine and sucura claimed twenty-five lives in the end,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Six from Barnwell, Letia, Lenne, Arnold, Irby, Yerland, Segeforde and Stephen, plus three of my patients, four of Rougham’s and five more of Nigellus’s. Other than Yerland and Segeforde, all would probably have survived had they been younger or fitter.’

‘I wonder how Nigellus likes practising in the Fens,’ said William smugly. ‘It is a far cry from his comfortable existence here, and I am sure he cannot be happy with only half a dozen impoverished fanatics to tend.’

‘Well, he did want the University to move there,’ said Michael, ‘so he cannot object to the choices he was offered: prison or permanent exile in the marshes. And at least out in the bogs he can call himself Senior Physician, although it is not a title he deserves. Did I tell you that he was lying when he claimed to have trained at Oxford? He was there less than a month before they tired of his arrogance and threw him out. He certainly never graduated.’

‘So he was a fraud,’ mused Wauter. ‘I always sensed something unsavoury about him, which was one reason why I was glad to accept a post here when Irby told me that Nigellus had been invited to join Zachary.’

‘Along with the promise of decent company, of course,’ put in Michael.

‘Joliet had his just deserts, though,’ said William. ‘The Austins refused to have him in their cemetery, so he went behind the compost heap in St Botolph’s. Personally, I think his helpmeets should join him there, but some still live.’

‘Not Robert,’ said Michael. ‘He hanged himself in his cell after a visit from Lady Joan. Meanwhile, everyone else from Zachary has been banished to France.’

‘They did a lot of harm,’ said Wauter sadly. ‘Robert killed Arnold and Hamo, Morys poisoned Segeforde and Yerland, and they both worked together to dispatch Frenge. And Joliet strangled Kellawe.’