A Poisonous Plot

Langelee waved away his concerns. ‘Leave it to me, Brother — I know what I am doing. You concentrate on restoring the peace. Bartholomew will help.’

‘But I have not given a lecture in days,’ objected Bartholomew, ‘and my students are-’

‘The Austins are coming to tell my lads about the nominalism-realism debate today,’ interrupted Langelee. ‘Yours can join them, which means you are not needed here.’

‘Thank you, Master,’ said Michael. ‘That debate is central to all current scholarly thinking, and Prior Joliet is sure to have new insights. Your students will learn a great deal, Matt.’

‘Only if they listen,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘Which they will not do unless someone is here to keep them in line — and most of the Fellows plan to be out.’

‘Not William and Wauter,’ said Langelee. ‘They will prevent mischief.’

A flash of irritation crossed Wauter’s face. Bartholomew did not blame him: it would not be easy to convince a lot of lively lads to listen to a multi-hour lecture on metaphysics, and Wauter would not be able to relax for an instant.

‘I have other plans, Master,’ said the Austin irritably.

‘Cancel them,’ ordered Langelee peremptorily.

‘I cannot — they are important.’

Langelee’s eyes narrowed. ‘More than the well-being of your College? What are they then?’

Wauter’s face became closed and a little sullen, an expression none of them had seen before. ‘I would rather not say. They are private.’

‘Then you will stay in the hall with William,’ decreed Langelee with finality.

When Bartholomew had delivered his students a stern warning that any mischief would result in them cleaning the latrines for a month, he climbed the stairs to Michael’s room. When he arrived, the monk began planning their day.

‘First, we must visit Zachary, to ask what happened to Yerland and Segeforde. Hopefully, Nigellus’s colleagues will have come to their senses now that the enormity of his crimes has been exposed, and will tell us the truth. Then we shall speak to Nigellus in the gaol.’

‘I will come with you to Zachary, but not the prison. Nigellus will think I am there to gloat.’

‘I do not care what he thinks and we need answers — there is no time for foolish sensitivities. Are you ready? Then let us be on our way.’

It was early, but the streets were busy, and the atmosphere was tense and dangerous. Townsmen glared at scholars, who responded in kind, and Bartholomew was shocked when some of his patients, people who had accepted his charity and professed themselves to be grateful, included him in their scowls. Perhaps more surprising was that several members of the Michaelhouse Choir hissed abuse at Michael — the man who provided them with free bread and ale. The monk did not react, but Bartholomew suspected they would be told to leave if they turned up for the next practice. Isnard was his usual friendly self, though.

‘They are angry that a scholar ripped the clothes from a townswoman,’ he explained. ‘And they wish the University would leave Cambridge instead of just talking about it.’

‘Are you among them?’ asked Michael coolly, hurt by his singers’ disloyalty.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Isnard indignantly. ‘It would mean the end of the best choir in the country. And who would tend me when I am ill? I do not let any old medicus near me, you know — I have standards. No, Brother. You cannot let the scholars leave.’

‘I shall do my best,’ said Michael, mollified by the warmth of the response. ‘But you can help by telling folk that there will be no lawsuit between Segeforde and Anne, because Segeforde is dead. He passed away last night.’

‘Yes, of the debilitas,’ nodded Isnard. ‘I heard. But it makes no difference. King’s Hall is still suing Frenge’s estate, even though he is dead, so Anne will still sue Segeforde’s.’

‘Stephen!’ muttered Michael angrily. ‘That will have been his idea.’

‘He is skilled with the law,’ agreed Isnard. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘Have you seen your sister today? She had some trouble before dawn this morning.’

‘Trouble?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

‘Someone broke into the dyeworks and-Wait! I have not finished!’

Bartholomew sped along Milne Street, dodging carts, horses and pedestrians. He almost fell when he took the corner into Water Lane too fast, but regained his balance and raced on. As usual, there were knots of protesters in the square at the end, some led by Kellawe and others in a cluster around Hakeney and Vine the potter. The dyeworks door was open, so Bartholomew tore through it, barely aware that the stench was so bad that day that most of the women wore scarves around their mouths and noses. Edith was on her knees with a brush and pan.

‘What happened?’ he demanded breathlessly.

‘Matt,’ said Edith, climbing to her feet. ‘Do not worry. We drove him off before he could do too much harm.’

‘We? You were here at the time?’

‘Yes, with Yolande. We came to … to stir the woad.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew drew his own conclusions when she would not look him in the eye.