A Poisonous Plot

‘Do not be sorry, Bartholomew,’ said Rougham, eyes gleaming. ‘It will be a lot more enjoyable than scrofulous sores, which I have never found particularly interesting anyway. I shall go first, naturally. After all, Nigellus is the Junior Physician, and so must take second place.’

Nigellus scowled. ‘Call me that once more and I shall savage you in this debate. And do not think I cannot do it — I know a great deal about women’s bodies, despite the fact that I have never had the opportunity to couple with one.’

Bartholomew blinked, astonished by the bald confidence, but Rougham, who had a long-standing arrangement with one of the town’s most popular prostitutes, smirked superiorly. ‘Then let the most experienced man win.’

‘So this is your home,’ said Nigellus, shoving past Bartholomew to stand in the yard and gaze around disdainfully. ‘It is much smaller than I expected, and you must be terribly crowded. Thank God I chose Zachary instead.’

Resisting the urge to point out that Nigellus had never been offered a place at Michaelhouse, Bartholomew led the way towards the hall. For the first time, he saw the College through the eyes of an outsider. Algae ran in streaks down the walls, while the steps were worn and narrow. The hall was pleasant, but too small for the number of students currently enrolled, and it suffered from having no glass in its windows. The rushes on the floor needed changing after what had been dropped or spilled in them the previous night, and someone had lobbed a dish of brawn at the founder’s coat-of-arms above the dais, where it had lodged.

He introduced the speakers, noting that the eyes of students and Fellows alike were bright with the prospect of vulgar entertainment, while the servants loitered behind the serving screen, pretending to work but clearly hoping to hear something rude.

‘No,’ interrupted Nigellus curtly, when Bartholomew announced his intention to preside. ‘Your non-medical members will not want three physicians holding forth, so we shall have someone else instead. Father William, perhaps. He accused my colleague Kellawe of being a narrow-minded fool, so let us see his intellect in action.’

William surged to his feet. ‘Very well. And then you can tell that stupid oaf how a real scholar performs in the debating chamber.’

Presented with a fait accompli, Bartholomew had no choice but to yield, although he did so with considerable reluctance, loath for members of rival foundations to witness the friar in action. The students were sniggering helplessly, while Langelee, Michael, Suttone and Wauter looked pained, and Clippesby, unable to witness what was about to transpire, simply stood and left.

It was the president’s duty to introduce the subject, and William launched into a detailed account of the differences between the sexes that had everyone gaping their amazement at the depth and breadth of his knowledge. It wiped the smirk from Nigellus’s face, and his own opening statement was repetitive and uninspired. Rougham was not much better, and it was only when the Franciscan stood to summarise their preliminary arguments that matters became lively again.

‘I never said that large women find it easier to grow moustaches,’ objected Nigellus in dismay. ‘You have misquoted me, and make me sound like an idiot.’

‘You have done that all by yourself,’ retorted William. ‘And you did say it — everyone heard you.’ He addressed his audience. ‘Am I right?’

There was a resounding chorus that he was, and Nigellus fell silent, folding his arms with a petulant pout. His sulk lasted until William paraphrased what Rougham was alleged to have said about big hips, at which point he released an involuntary snort of laughter.

‘I can stand it no longer,’ muttered Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and pulling him away. ‘And we should not be listening to this nonsense when there is a killer at large anyway.’

Bartholomew was sorry to go. No one would learn anything of medical use from the occasion, but it had certainly been entertaining, and he had been maliciously gratified to see the pompous Nigellus put in his place.

The two scholars had not taken many steps across the yard before they were hailed. Langelee had followed them out. The Master jerked his head towards the hall, from which angrily raised voices could be heard. They were loud enough that the servants were no longer obliged to lurk behind the serving screen to listen, and were going about their work outside, grinning as the combatants began to make some very outlandish claims.

‘We shall have to do this again,’ he said. ‘It is very amusing.’

‘My novices do not think so,’ said Michael prudishly. ‘They are mortified.’

Langelee laughed. ‘Nonsense! They are relishing every moment. But tell me about Frenge and the rumour that King’s Hall murdered him. Is it true?’