A Poisonous Plot

‘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.

‘He was a liability,’ snapped Joliet crossly. ‘And put more moderate men off joining us. I told him to stay away from your sister’s business after he was almost caught there the first time, but he ignored me and went again anyway. I followed and-’

He was interrupted by an agonised scream. The surviving student had been distracted by the discussion, which allowed Dickon to dart forward and plunge his sword into the lad’s foot. Then Dickon whipped around and rushed at Joliet. The Prior tried to turn, but lost his footing on the slippery wood. He landed on his back, where he made a peculiar sound, half whimper, half groan.

Bartholomew also capitalised on the distraction, lashing out with a punch that sent Morys flying. When the Principal regained his feet, he was within reach of Dickon’s sword. There was an unpleasant crunch as metal met bone, and Morys went limp.

‘Untie me, Matt,’ shouted Michael, ramming a meaty elbow into Robert’s face. The almoner reeled, dazed. ‘The University needs its Senior Proctor out on the streets, or these misguided fools are going to get their wish of a University in the Fens.’

‘Not Morys — he is dead,’ said Dickon with enormous satisfaction. ‘I can see his brains.’