A Poisonous Plot

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.’

CHAPTER 14

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.’

Before Bartholomew could inform him that Edith had done no such thing, there was a shout, and they turned to see the scholars of Zachary Hostel marching towards them. They were led by Nigellus, although Morys was nowhere to be seen. Every man was sumptuously attired and carried an impressive array of weapons — swords, daggers, cudgels and even crossbows. There was a collective hiss as King’s Hall drew their own blades and took up fighting formation. Gilby barked an order, and his followers did likewise.

‘No,’ snapped Michael. ‘The town would love to see us tear each other to pieces. Do you want to provide their entertainment tonight?’

‘We will defeat the hostel scum, then teach the town a lesson,’ shouted someone from King’s Hall to cheers from his cronies. ‘The priest who promised to absolve them of the sin of attacking us is dead, so we will all burn in Hell together.’