A Poisonous Plot

Howls of fury vied with cheers and a lot of menacingly brandished weapons. Then Michael’s eye lit on the Chancellor, who had donned his ceremonial finery in the hope of rendering himself more imposing. It had not worked, and he looked like a frightened man wearing robes that were too big for him. Michael was desperate enough to make an appeal anyway.

‘Do something, Tynkell,’ he begged. ‘For God’s sake, help me!’

Tynkell cleared his throat nervously as the clamour began to die down. ‘This is all very silly,’ he began feebly. ‘So go home. It looks like rain anyway, and you will not want to get wet.’

There was a startled silence, followed by jeering laughter from townsmen and scholars alike. But the atmosphere soon turned menacing again.

‘Will we listen to a man who is afraid of his mother?’ asked Wayt sneeringly of his cronies. ‘Or shall we leave that sort of nonsense to the hostels?’

‘We are not afraid of women,’ declared Gilby. He turned to the men who were ranged at his back. ‘Are you ready? Then let us attack and be away from this evil place once and for all!’

Gilby’s charge never materialised, because there was a sudden rumble of hoofs on the road outside the gate. A cavalcade was thundering towards it, comprising an elegant carriage, two heavily loaded wagons and a pack of liveried knights on horseback. There was immediate curiosity — and consternation — as only nobility or high-ranking churchmen travelled in that sort of style.

The vehicles clattered through the gate and rolled to a standstill. The warriors took up station on either side of them, their faces dark and unsmiling. A nervous murmur ran through the crowd, but it petered out quickly, and the silence was absolute as one horseman flung back his hood and dismounted.

‘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.’