A Poisonous Plot

‘The University would not dirty its hands by touching that low villain,’ bellowed Kellawe, whose voice was louder still. ‘He invaded the sacred confines of a priory, aiming to repeat the mischief he did in King’s Hall, so God struck him down for his malice.’

‘Well done, Matt,’ hissed Michael irritably as the two groups surged towards each other and began to screech insults. ‘I told you we should have gone straight to see Hakeney, but your appearance has inflamed these rogues, and now we have a spat.’

‘They cannot blame Edith for Trinity Hall,’ Bartholomew snapped back. ‘That was caused by the bad cream in their sickly syllabub.’

‘So you are happy with the dyeworks?’ asked Michael, watching Kellawe wave his fist in Vine’s face; furiously, the potter knocked it away. ‘They pose no risk to health?’

‘I did not say that,’ mumbled Bartholomew, hating the invidious position he was in. He turned with relief when he heard a clatter of feet on cobblestones. ‘Here are your beadles, come to restore the peace. Shall we go to see Edith now?’

The odour from the dyeworks was unpleasant in the street, but it was nothing compared to the stench inside the building. Bartholomew recoiled, sure the fumes could not be safe to breathe. Edith had decided to make her own dyes, rather than buy them from Ely, and it was this process, not the staining of cloth, that was responsible for much of the reek.

The woad used to make blue colouring was the worst offender. The leaves had to be mashed into balls and dried, after which they were allowed to ferment before being mixed with urine and left to steep. The madder and weld used for red and yellow respectively were less noxious, but still required generous amounts of dung, oil and alum. Each stage of production generated much smelly waste, and the river, which ran a few steps from the back door, was the obvious place to deposit it, despite the by-law that forbade the practice.

Bartholomew blinked his smarting eyes and looked around. The dyeworks comprised a long shed dominated by three enormous vats, each with a space underneath for a fire. All were so tall that the only way to see over their rims was by climbing up a ladder.

Drying racks covered three of the four walls, while the last was shelved and held the tools of the trade — buckets of the precious finished dyes, mangles, poles and dollies. Frail Sisters were everywhere, sleeves rolled up and faces shiny with the sweat of honest labour; there was no hint of the alluring creatures who haunted the streets after dark. Some stirred the contents of the vats, others stoked the fires, while the remainder scurried here and there with bustling purpose.

One was Yolande de Blaston, married to the town’s best carpenter. Their enormous brood of children meant that money was always tight, so she was obliged to supplement their income by selling physical favours to various town worthies — favours she performed so well that she was in almost constant demand. However, as several of their offspring bore uncanny resemblances to prominent burgesses and scholars, Bartholomew often wondered whether her chosen method of contributing to the family purse had compounded rather than eased the problem.

‘What, again?’ he asked, when he saw the tell-tale bulge around her middle. ‘How many is it now? Twelve? Thirteen?’

‘The twins last year made fourteen,’ she replied. ‘Have you come to visit your sister?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘About this morning’s spillage.’

An expression of guilty defiance flashed across Yolande’s face. ‘I was carrying a couple of buckets of blue sludge when I stumbled and dropped them. The same thing happened to Anne.’

‘So four pails of waste “accidentally” fell in the river? No wonder people are complaining!’

‘Edith will not want to see you if you are going to take that tone,’ said Yolande warningly. ‘So keep a civil tongue in your head or she will box your ears.’

Edith was in the annexe at the end of the building, the place reserved for the most malodorous processes. She smiled when she saw Bartholomew and Michael, although there was a guarded expression in her eyes — she knew why they were there. Bartholomew took a breath to speak, but the reek of fermenting woad was so powerful that all he could do was cough, while Michael pressed a pomander so tightly to his nose that it was a wonder he could breathe at all.

‘How can you bear it?’ Bartholomew gasped. ‘The stench is enough to melt eyeballs.’

‘What stench?’ asked Edith.

‘I am glad you have not set up near Michaelhouse,’ croaked Michael. ‘Or we would be forced to take out an injunction against you.’

‘You could try,’ said Edith coolly. ‘But we have retained the services of Stephen the lawyer, who assures us that any such action will fail. And we are doing good things here, Brother. Look around you: these women have decent pay and regular meals. They are respectable now.’