A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Along with Yerland,’ added Kellawe pointedly. ‘Yet it is poor Nigellus who is locked away accused of malpractice. You are fortunate the Senior Proctor is your friend, because otherwise it would be you in that cell.’

  ‘While I am here, you can tell me why you went to the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael, ignoring the accusation and glaring at the students, although Bartholomew took a step towards the door, fearing the situation might turn ugly. ‘You should not have visited a notorious town stronghold.’

  ‘We have the right to go wherever we please,’ declared Morys. ‘However, in the light of what happened, we have advised all University men to arm themselves. We have also recommended that they do not wear their academic tabards, on the grounds that it makes them too visible a target. I have already seen a number of lads following our advice.’

  ‘Then the proctors’ coffers will soon be overflowing,’ said Michael. ‘And speaking of fines, you owe three shillings for the fracas last night. If you do not pay by noon tomorrow, I shall send beadles to seize the equivalent amount in goods. I am sure you have plenty of books we can take.’

  Morys was furious. ‘You cannot! The Chancellor will not permit it.’

  ‘You have already summoned his mother, so he has nothing to gain by opposing me now.’ Michael smiled archly. ‘You should have confined yourself to threats, because then he would have been yours to manipulate as long as you wanted. You made a tactical error, Morys.’

  ‘How dare you—’ began Morys, but Michael overrode him.

  ‘Have any of you seen Wauter? He has disappeared, and while you may look the other way while your scholars wander where they please, we have rules at Michaelhouse. Unless Wauter returns immediately, he will lose his Fellowship.’

  ‘We no longer consider him a friend,’ said Kellawe sullenly. ‘He made a serious mistake when he abandoned us for another foundation. As far as I am concerned, he is dead.’

  ‘Figuratively speaking,’ added Morys quickly, shooting his colleague a warning glance. ‘We do not mean him physical harm, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ agreed Michael flatly. ‘But when he was still alive in your eyes, did you ever talk about the University moving to the Fens?’

  The Zachary men exchanged glances that were impossible to interpret.

  ‘No,’ replied Kellawe shiftily. ‘But we are not discussing him or anything else with you. Now go away or we will—’

  He was interrupted by the sound of a door being thrust open, after which Cynric burst in.

  ‘A number of scholars have marched against the dyeworks,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘And Mistress Stanmore needs you to disperse them.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Bartholomew was out of Zachary before Cynric had finished speaking, deftly jigging away when the book-bearer tried to grab his arm to explain further. However, Cynric had dealt with far more awkward customers than agitated physicians, and Bartholomew had not gone far down Water Lane before he found himself jerked roughly to a standstill. He tried in vain to struggle free.

  ‘Mistress Stanmore is safely inside with the door locked,’ Cynric said briskly, ‘as are her ladies and their guards. They are in no danger, but you will be if you race up to the protesters alone. Everyone knows she is your sister, and they will consider you a target. Now wait for Brother Michael and his men.’

  Bartholomew wanted to argue, but the monk was puffing towards them anyway, a dozen beadles at his heels. Gripping the physician’s sleeve to ensure he did not outrun them, Cynric fell in behind. They arrived to find thirty or so scholars in a howling throng in front of the dyeworks. All had demonstrated there before, but never at the same time.

  Bartholomew felt the cold hand of fear grip him. Was it coincidence that they should all decide to come at once, or had someone whispered in suggestible ears?

  ‘Here comes Zachary to swell their number,’ muttered Michael. ‘Damn it, Cynric! I wish you had taken us outside before announcing what was happening.’

  It was not just scholars who were massing in the square. So were a number of townsmen, led by Hakeney, who brazenly sported Robert’s cross around his neck. As it would be like a red flag to a bull if the demonstrating scholars saw it, Bartholomew went to suggest that he tuck it inside his tunic. Only when the townsmen surrounded him menacingly did it occur to him that it had been stupid to move away from the beadles.

  ‘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 he
r? 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.’

  Filled with new determination, he strode the rest of the way to the convent, this time not bothering to slink along alleys. He walked openly and confidently, and those whose hearts quickened at the prospect of catching him while he was virtually alone and unprotected quickly melted away when they read what was in his face.

  The priory was locked when he and Bartholomew arrived, and it was some time before his knock was answered. Then the door swung open to reveal the friars standing in an uncertain semicircle beyond, wielding an eclectic array of ‘weapons’. Most were wildly impractical, and included a ladle, a trumpet and part of a spinning wheel. Hamo, whose bulk might have been a deterrent in itself, was not among them.

  ‘We do not feel safe here any longer,’ said Joliet, who gripped a chair leg in his good hand; the other was still cradled in the orange sling. ‘Folk are angry that a townsman was murdered in our grounds, and we have been discussing an escape to the Fens – while we still can.’

  ‘There is no need,’ said Michael briskly. ‘The tension will ease. It always does.’

  ‘Until the next time,’ said Robert bitterly. He alone of the friars was not brandishing something with which to hit someone. ‘When it will start all over again. We are tired of it, Brother. We have done our best with alms and charity, even when it has meant personal hardship, yet still the town turns against us.’

  ‘Because you are suing Hakeney,’ said Michael curtly. ‘A poor man who will never be able to pay whatever the courts decide.’

  ‘I would withdraw the suit,’ said Joliet. ‘But the other Orders say that if I do, everyone will think that priests are fair game for robbers. They threatened to denounce us if we weakened.’

  ‘So?’ shrugged Michael. ‘You are an independent house. You do not need their blessing.’

  ‘But we do, Brother,’ whispered Joliet. ‘We would be sacked for certain if word leaked out that the other convents will not come to our aid in the event of trouble.’

  ‘And besides,’ added Robert, ‘Hakeney ripped the cross from my neck with considerable force. It would be cowardly to pretend it did not happen. Yet there might be a way …’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Michael sharply.

  ‘We could put the matter in the Bishop’s hands and let him decide the outcome. He is neither scholar nor townsman, and thus the perfect arbiter.’

  ‘What an excellent notion!’ cried Joliet. ‘I shall write first thing in the morning, with your permission, Brother.’

  ‘Granted,’ said Michael in relief, a sentiment that was echoed in the faces of all the Austins. ‘I shall tell Stephen to forget your case until we have the Bishop’s reply. It was criminally reckless of him to recommend this course of action.’

  ‘It was not just Stephen,’ said Robert. ‘There was also a letter …’

  ‘A letter?’

  ‘From someone who just signed himself as a well-wisher,’ explained the almoner. ‘Hamo found it shoved under our front gate.’

  ‘Prior Etone of the Carmelites had one as well,’ added Joliet. ‘It urged him to convince us to sue.’ He glanced at Robert. ‘Personally, I suspect both were from Stephen, touting for business, although he denies it, of course.’

  ‘Do you still have this missive?’ asked Michael urgently.

  Joliet shook his head. ‘Parchment is expensive, so we scraped it clean and used it for something else. Why? Is it important?’

  ‘Possibly,’ sighed Michael. ‘But the reason we came was to ask after Wauter. Robert offered to find out if any of you know where he might have gone.’

  ‘Robert did question us,’ said a portly, balding Austin named Overe. ‘But all we could tell him is that Wauter likes the Fens. Perhaps he went there in search of serenity – something that is sadly lacking in Cambridge at the moment.’

  ‘Without telling anyone?’ asked Michael dubiously. ‘That does not sound very likely.’

  ‘Then maybe he went to find a good place for the University to settle,’ suggested Robert. ‘He would not be the first. The Dominicans have sent out a party, and the Carmelites plan to do likewise.’

  ‘They are wise,’ said Joliet softly. ‘I sense that the town
will soon make our position untenable, and we should have some idea of where to go when they drive us out.’

  ‘No one will drive us out,’ said Michael firmly, but his words carried little weight when they were followed by a sudden clash of arms from the High Street. The friars exchanged grim looks.

  ‘You look harried, Brother,’ said Joliet kindly, ‘and in need of the peace that only communion with God can bring. Will you join us for vespers? Hamo is already preparing the chapel, so we can start straight away.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael, and began to walk there, although Bartholomew knew it was more for the opportunity to quiz Hamo about the anonymous letter than to pray.

  Night was approaching fast, and the precinct was full of shadows. All the brothers were uneasy, and each time there was a yell or a clatter from outside, they jumped in alarm. Several stopped in the little cemetery that held Arnold, though, declining to let their nervousness interfere with their obligations to a colleague’s soul.

  ‘Do you really think Nigellus killed him?’ asked Joliet softly. ‘He was old and in poor health, and I cannot imagine why anyone would want to dispatch a man with so little time left.’

  ‘The ways of felonious minds are not for us to fathom,’ replied Michael, as a roundabout way of saying that he had no answer.

  They entered the chapel, the Austins carefully stacking their ‘weapons’ in the porch first. It was very dark inside, the only light coming from a candle burning on the altar. Suddenly, a huge shadow loomed, causing Robert to squawk in shock and the others to scatter in alarm.

  ‘Hamo!’ exclaimed Joliet, hand to his chest. ‘You frightened the life out of us! Why have you not set the altar? What have you been doing all this time?’

  Hamo made no reply, and simply stood with his huge hands dangling at his sides.

  ‘Hamo,’ said Robert sharply. ‘The Prior asked you a question.’

  ‘There is something wrong!’ Bartholomew darted forward, and just managed to catch the hulking friar before he fell. He staggered under the weight. ‘Bring a lamp, quickly!’