A Poisonous Plot

Irby turned to Bartholomew. ‘Nigellus is wrong to insist on nemo dat — it will be tedious, and there are far more interesting issues to debate. A medical question, for example.’

‘We had better not,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what was currently happening in Michaelhouse. ‘Besides, the last time I discussed medicine with a layman, I was accused of heresy.’

‘By Kellawe, I suppose,’ sighed Irby. ‘Who believes that the soul resides in a pouch in the heart. He is wrong, of course. It is much more likely to be a pouch in the head. But a debate with a medical theme will be best, and I shall continue to ponder until the right subject comes to mind.’

‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘Although you might want to run it past your Senior Proctor first. These occasions can be contentious, and we do not want trouble.’

‘You want to know so that Michaelhouse’s students will have time to prepare,’ said Irby, wagging an admonishing finger. ‘But I am afraid you will have to hear it at the same time as everyone else, because no one on the committee will break his silence.’

‘He will not,’ murmured Michael resentfully, watching him go. ‘Nor will you, Prior Joliet or Wauter. But Nigellus will cheat for certain. He is that kind of man.’

As they continued along Milne Street, they met the Austins from the convent. Almoner Robert was struggling to carry the large and very heavy book that he needed for a lecture on Augustine’s Sermones, long white hair undulating in the breeze, while hulking Hamo toted pigments, brushes and boards as though they were made of feathers. Prior Joliet was empty-handed and sombre.

‘I cannot stop, Brother,’ he said, as Michael made to intercept him. ‘I am summoned to Will Lenne’s deathbed, so I dare not linger.’

‘The furrier?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Lenne had hacked horribly the previous evening, but he had not appeared to be on his deathbed.

Joliet nodded. ‘He is Nigellus’s patient — his ailment has something to do with metal, apparently, although I am not sure what. Nigellus’s message said that death was imminent, so you must excuse me — I promised to be with Lenne at the end, and I have a feeling that the lad Nigellus hired was not the quickest. I may already be too late.’

He hurried away, while Bartholomew recalled Nigellus claiming that his failure to arrive on time at Michaelhouse was due to a dying patient. Bartholomew was unimpressed: Lenne should not have been abandoned by his medicus at such a time. It was unprofessional.

‘Did your novices read that extract I set them yesterday, Brother?’ asked Robert, grimacing when his pectoral cross caught on a corner of the book, pulling it tight around his neck. He nodded his thanks when Michael pulled it free for him. ‘Or shall I give my lecture tomorrow instead? I imagine you were all busy preparing for the feast.’

‘We were,’ nodded Michael. ‘However, you cannot teach at Michaelhouse today — or paint, for that matter — because the University’s medici are in our hall, showing everyone how to conduct a disputation.’

Robert regarded him uncertainly. ‘You mean Rougham and Nigellus? You let them loose on your students? Heavens! You are brave.’

Michael laughed. ‘It will keep them occupied while we try to find out what happened to Frenge. And speaking of Frenge, we should inspect the place where he died in daylight. May we visit you later?’

‘Of course,’ replied Robert. ‘Come at noon and share our dinner. It is nothing like the sumptuous fare at Michaelhouse, of course, but it is wholesome and plentiful.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, never one to refuse free victuals. Then he scowled. ‘Here come those Zachary men, and not one is wearing his academic tabard. It seems my threats of further fines have gone unheeded.’

Robert regarded them unhappily. ‘The town resents the way they flaunt their wealth with these ostentatious clothes. If our University were out in the Fens, Zachary would not feel the need to bother, as there would be no women to impress.’

‘Lust,’ growled Hamo, the master of the one-word sentence.

‘Hamo is right,’ said Robert. ‘Lust would not be a problem in the marshes, and Zachary would be more inclined to concentrate on their studies.’

The Zachary scholars were an imposing sight in their finery, and anyone might have been forgiven for thinking that they were burgesses. They were led by Morys, who wore a different set of clothes that day, but ones that were still reminiscent of an angry insect. Purple-lipped Segeforde was on one side of him, while the fanatical Kellawe was on the other. Their students strutted behind, defiant and gleeful — an attitude that suggested they were out without their Principal’s permission. Michael had been right to warn Irby that Morys aimed to usurp his power.

‘It is a holiday,’ declared Morys insolently, as Michael draw breath for a reprimand. ‘And Chancellor Tynkell says we can suspend our membership of the University for Hallow-tide, so do not think of fining us again. We are no longer under your jurisdiction.’