A Poisonous Plot

‘I have a licence to absolve any scholar who commits an act of violence against the town,’ he declared in a ringing voice. Morys was next to him, nodding vigorously. ‘It came from the Bishop himself. However, any townsman who harms us will land himself in serious trouble.’

‘That is not fair!’ cried Hakeney. ‘We have the right to defend ourselves.’

‘If you do, you will be doomed to the perpetual fires of Hell,’ shouted Kellawe, grinning provocatively. ‘Scholars, however, will be deemed blameless.’

‘Not in the eyes of the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I will fine any man — scholar or townsperson — who breaks the King’s peace. And so will the Sheriff.’

‘But we have just cause,’ yelled Kellawe angrily. ‘Not only does this place release dangerous vapours, but he said its women run a different business after dark.’ He nodded towards Shirwynk. ‘We do not want a brothel as a neighbour, thank you. Our students have impressionable minds.’

Bartholomew took in the Zachary lads’ courtly clothes and worldly faces, and was sure there was not an impressionable mind among them. Segeforde was behind them, pale but better than he had been earlier, although there was no sign of Yerland.

‘Then Shirwynk has slandered us most disgracefully,’ said Edith, drawing herself up to her full height and fixing the brewer with an imperious glare. Shirwynk promptly slunk indoors, although he was a fool if he thought that was the end of the matter — Edith was not a woman to forget insults to her workforce.

‘Has he?’ demanded Kellawe hotly. ‘Then why have you hired so many whores?’

‘To dye cloth,’ replied Edith tartly. ‘And they are not whores: they are women reduced to desperate measures by circumstances beyond their control. You should applaud their courage, not condemn them.’

‘You should,’ agreed Yolande. She jabbed an accusing finger at Segeforde. ‘Especially as you and many of your colleagues regularly hired our services before we started working here, so do not play the innocent with us, you damned hypocrite.’

There was a mocking cheer from the women, laughter from the townsfolk, and indignant denials from the scholars.

‘These dyeworks stink,’ declared Morys, once the clamour had died down. ‘They made Trinity Hall sick — twice — and they claimed the life of poor Principal Irby, God rest his soul.’

‘You told us that he died of loss of appetite,’ pounced Michael.

Morys pointed at Bartholomew. ‘Yes, but he said loss of appetite was a symptom, not a disease. And the disease came from here, from this filthy business.’

‘How could you, Matthew?’ whispered Edith crossly. ‘I thought you admired what we are trying to do. How could you fuel these ignoramuses’ vitriol by gossiping with them?’

‘More importantly, there have been town deaths,’ shouted Hakeney, before the physician could defend himself. ‘Namely Will Lenne, Mistress Vine, Letia Shirwynk and poor John Frenge. Bartholomew does not care that his sister is killing us, and neither do his medical cronies. And now Stephen has the debilitas.’

‘That sounds nasty,’ gulped Isnard the bargeman. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It is something that afflicts only the rich,’ explained Hakeney. ‘Paupers are immune, so most of us need not fear it. However, it is what carried away all these hapless townsfolk.’

‘If that is right, then we are not responsible,’ said Edith. ‘How can the occasional waft of bad air or bucket of sludge target only the wealthy? The answer is that they cannot. Now go away.’

‘Not until you agree to leave the town,’ yelled Kellawe. ‘We do not want you here, and I do not see why my University should have to up sticks and move to the Fens when it is you causing all the trouble.’

‘We cannot leave — not when we provide a valuable service to so many men,’ purred Anne. She winked at Segeforde. ‘And some scholars in particular would miss us sorely.’

Full of mortified rage, Segeforde surged towards her. The rest of Zachary followed, and there was a lot of unseemly jostling, all of which stopped when there was a piercing screech that was half indignation and half amusement. It came from Anne. Segeforde had stumbled and grabbed her dress, so that the flimsy material had come clean away in his hand. There was a shocked silence from both sides, and for a long time, no one moved.

‘Well,’ drawled Michael eventually, his eyes huge in his chubby face. ‘That is one way to quell a spat.’

CHAPTER 7

The incident with Segeforde and Anne might have sparked a serious fight if some of Tulyet’s soldiers had not arrived. They waded into the mêlée with drawn swords, which encouraged the antagonists to disperse. First to go were the men who had stood behind Edith’s ladies, no doubt having fallen foul of the Sheriff’s troops before, and they were followed by the other townsfolk. The scholars slunk away under Michael’s withering gaze, and for the first time since the dyeworks had opened, the square was all but empty. Only the women, Rumburgh, Bartholomew and Michael remained. Edith was incandescent with outrage.