A Poisonous Plot

‘Yet more wasted time,’ grumbled Nigellus. ‘I would not have agreed to serve on this stupid committee if I had known how much indecision there would be. May I go now, Father Prior? I have patients waiting — paying patients.’

He gave a superior smile before turning to strut towards the door, his remarks designed to remind Bartholomew that he did not demean himself by tending paupers like his Michaelhouse colleague, and that all his clients were from the very highest echelons of society. Bartholomew watched him go, eyes narrowing when the ousted Zachary student and several cronies hurried to cluster around the Junior Physician the moment he stepped outside.

‘They just want to know when his next lecture will be,’ explained Irby quickly, seeing what Bartholomew was thinking. ‘I assure you, they are not asking the outcome of this meeting.’

‘Of course not,’ said Wauter, uncharacteristically acerbic. ‘After all, being mobbed by pupils clamouring to know our teaching plans is an occupational hazard, is it not? However, regardless of Nigellus’s popularity in the classroom, I should not like to be physicked by him. It is said that a lot of his Barnwell patients died before he took up his appointment here.’

‘Lies,’ said Irby firmly. ‘Put about by bitter people who cannot afford his horoscopes. He is very good at them, and no one who follows his advice ever becomes unwell. He is of the admirable opinion that it is better to prevent sickness than to cure it once it has arrived.’

‘Perhaps I shall commission one, then,’ said Joliet. ‘I dislike being ill. It is time-consuming, unpleasant and a nuisance. How expensive are his predictions?’

‘Very,’ replied Irby. ‘Although I shall have to invest in another soon, because my last one has expired and I have been feeling shabby of late. Will anyone join me for a drink at home? My brewer makes a lovely apple wine, and I broached a new cask last night.’

It was too early for wine, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, so he left Wauter and Joliet to accept the invitation while he set off for Michaelhouse, intending to put the rest of his free day to good use by preparing lectures for the following week.

He had not taken many steps before he heard his name called, and turned to see Michael waddling towards him. The monk had an office in St Mary the Great — besides being a member of Michaelhouse, he was also Senior Proctor, a post he had manipulated to the point where he ran the entire University. The Chancellor, who should have been in charge, was a mere figurehead, there to take the blame if things went wrong. Bartholomew had once asked the monk why he did not apply his skills to improving Michaelhouse’s precarious finances, and had received a rueful reply: Michael knew how to control people; he did not know how to generate vast sums of money.

‘I am on the run from Thelnetham,’ Michael explained, falling into step at Bartholomew’s side. ‘He wants me to persuade Langelee to take him back.’

He referred to William Thelnetham, a Gilbertine canon who had resigned his Michaelhouse Fellowship to take advantage of a better opportunity. Unfortunately, the new offer had fallen through, leaving Thelnetham in limbo. He was desperate to be reinstated.

‘It was his decision to go,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And he went eagerly, after calling us thieves, fools and lunatics. His spiteful tongue caused a lot of unhappiness, and the College is better off without him. Besides, Wauter has his post now and we cannot afford to fund another.’

‘I agree and so does Langelee, but that does not stop Thelnetham from pestering me at every turn. And it is not as if I have nothing else to worry about either. Hallow-tide, for example.’

‘Are you expecting trouble?’ Bartholomew stifled a yawn. He had been summoned by a patient in the small hours, and he was tired. Unfortunately, he would not be catching up on sleep that night because of the feast: even if he managed to escape early, there would be far too much noise for peaceful repose.

Michael shot him a sour glance. ‘How can you even ask such a question? The town is furious with the University over the business with King’s Hall, and there will certainly be skirmishes later, when too much wine and ale have been swallowed by both sides.’

‘What business with King’s Hall?’

Scholars and townsmen were always at loggerheads, and Bartholomew found it difficult to keep track of all their disagreements, especially during term time, when he was struggling to balance classes containing an impractical number of students with the demands of an enormous medical practice.

Michael regarded him balefully. ‘Have you listened to nothing I have told you this week? It is the latest crisis to assail our poor studium generale.’

Bartholomew racked his brain for answers. ‘Do you mean the case of trespass that King’s Hall has brought against some drunken brewer?’