A Poisonous Plot

‘He would not have been allowed out without one,’ said Overe. ‘The rest of us would have refused to let him go — on account of the danger — but this letter is very persuasive …’

‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew, scanning it again. ‘It is also nothing Edith would have written. Ergo, Robert penned it himself, aiming to escape the convent and further his nasty plans.’

‘My almoner is a good man,’ said Joliet quietly. ‘Like all my brethren. Indeed, there is only one Austin whose character I would question — the one in your College.’

‘Wauter?’ asked Bartholomew, his stomach churning.

‘Well, he did charge off to the Fens without asking permission,’ Joliet went on. ‘And I am told he took his Martilogium with him, which means he is unlikely to return.’

‘Go to your chapel and lock the door,’ instructed Michael. ‘I am afraid your front gate will no longer protect you. Do not come out until I tell you it is safe to do so.’

‘And if you see Robert, toll the bell,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Michael will send help.’

‘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-’