A Poisonous Plot

‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael. ‘Your precautions. They involve Peyn standing guard, which suggests one of two things: either he quaffs the stuff himself and lies when he says it is stolen; or he abandons his post to go carousing with his friends.’

Shirwynk regarded him with dislike. ‘He does not drink wine, and of course he is obliged to slip away on occasion — to visit the latrine or to patrol our yard at the back. The villains wait for him to leave and then they strike.’

Michael snorted his scepticism. ‘Perhaps you should consider using your apprentices instead. Or do you not trust them?’

‘I trust my son,’ snarled Shirwynk. ‘And if he says scholars are stealing our wine, then scholars are stealing our wine.’

‘It is more likely to be a villain from the town,’ countered Michael. ‘There are far more seculars who know about theft than academics, and if you do not believe me, look in the castle prison. It is stuffed full of them.’

It was drizzling as Michael stalked towards St Mary the Great to berate Tynkell for requesting a licence to absolve scholars from acts of violence. The Chancellor was in his office, so pale and wan that Bartholomew was concerned.

‘I have the debilitas,’ Tynkell whispered plaintively. ‘And Stephen will be here in a moment, to tie me in logical knots. Please do not leave me alone with him, Brother.’

Michael’s ire evaporated at such a piteous appeal, and he flopped wearily on to a bench, which groaned under his weight. Bartholomew was about to dispense the mixture for distressed stomachs that he often gave to Tynkell, when he noticed a tremor in the man’s hands.

‘I have had it ever since Morys and I became kin by marriage,’ the Chancellor explained tearfully. ‘But it is worse today, because I have just had a letter from my mother, saying she is coming to visit. If she does, it will be the end for me.’

‘The end in what way?’ asked Bartholomew kindly.

‘In every way,’ replied Tynkell miserably. ‘Indeed, I might have to ask your book-bearer for a charm against evil spirits. She is a dragon, you see.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what might be made of the fact that the head of the University consulted a Michaelhouse servant on matters of superstition. ‘I am sure she cannot be as dreadful as you think.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Tynkell disconsolately. ‘You have never met her.’

‘While we are on the subject of outrageous missives,’ said Michael, ‘perhaps you will explain why you applied to the Bishop for a certain licence.’

‘Oh,’ gulped Tynkell guiltily. ‘You have heard about that, have you? It was not my idea. Morys said that in any battle with the town, we would be hobbled by the fact some scholars will refuse to fight lest bloodshed stains their souls. Then he recommended Kellawe as a good man to dispense absolutions. It seemed like a good idea …’

‘It is not a good idea at all!’ exploded Michael. ‘It will make the town think we are planning an attack.’

‘I suppose it might,’ conceded Tynkell weakly, ‘but Morys gave me no choice. Then he went and summoned my mother anyway — he reneged on the agreement he made, the sly rogue!’

Footsteps outside heralded the arrival of Stephen. He still looked unwell, but was clad in clothes of exceptional quality: clearly, the law was a lucrative business when clients like Edith and Shirwynk were willing to pay handsomely for sharp minds to find ways around it.

‘I have just been to King’s Hall to assess Cew,’ he began without preamble. ‘He is only pretending to be insane, purely to strengthen his College’s claim against the brewery. Thus the so-called assault on him will be excluded when we go to court.’

‘He is not pretending,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He is genuinely disturbed — and that is my professional medical opinion.’

In truth, he was not sure what to think about Cew, but the lawyer’s presumption in making a diagnosis he was not qualified to give had annoyed him.

Stephen considered for a moment. ‘Then he was already a lunatic, and King’s Hall aim to blame his illness on Frenge. Regardless, it will not form part of the case.’

‘I wish you could find a way to persuade both parties not to proceed,’ said Michael irritably. ‘The situation is causing untold harm to University-town relations.’

‘It will make no difference now whether they proceed or not,’ replied Stephen. ‘Because there is yet another suit — the assault on Anne by Segeforde. She was shamed in front of her friends and neighbours, and she is demanding substantial compensation for her anguish.’

‘How much of it will you receive?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘Twenty per cent? Thirty?’

Stephen regarded him coolly. ‘That is my business.’

‘If you do not answer, I shall tell my mother.’ The gleam in Tynkell’s eyes showed the pleasure he took from being on the giving end of threats for a change. ‘And you have met her …’

‘Fifty per cent,’ replied Stephen quickly. He raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Anne could have found a lawyer who charges less, but not one who will win. Quality costs.’