A Poisonous Plot

‘Moreover,’ Peyn went on, ‘the sudden outbreak of the debilitas is a sly plot by academics to kill all the burgesses, so there will be no one left to challenge the University’s authority.’

‘If that were true, the debilitas would only affect townsfolk,’ said Michael coolly. ‘But scholars are suffering, too.’

‘But not at Michaelhouse,’ Peyn flashed back. ‘Which is more affluent than all the other Colleges put together. You should be dying, too, yet you remain suspiciously healthy. You are sacrificing colleagues from other foundations to strike a blow at the town.’

Langelee would be pleased to hear that his scheme to conceal Michaelhouse’s poverty had been so successful, thought Bartholomew, amused by the irony. ‘No one is-’

‘You are ruthless and dangerous,’ interrupted Shirwynk. ‘And if we can do anything to oust your University from our town, we will not hesitate.’

Michael regarded them both thoughtfully. ‘I ask again: why have you taken so violently against us after years of peaceful coexistence?’

‘Because we have had enough of your arrogance, condescension and dishonesty,’ snapped Shirwynk. ‘More of my apple wine was stolen last night, and I know a scholar took it.’

‘How can that have happened?’ demanded Bartholomew archly. ‘I thought Peyn stayed here all night to guard it.’

He did not voice the thoughts that sprang instantly to mind — that Kellawe had gone to avail himself of a courage-generating tipple before turning his attention to the dyeworks next door. Or that Michael had hit the nail on the head when the matter had been raised before — that Peyn had either supped the stuff himself or he was not as assiduous with his duties as he would have his father believe.

Shirwynk glared at him. ‘The poor boy fell asleep for a few moments — protecting our property from thieving scholars is exhausting. The cunning bastards waited until he closed his eyes, and then they crept in.’

Unwilling to waste time arguing, Bartholomew and Michael went on their way, the physician wondering how Peyn had managed to persuade his father to be sympathetic to his napping on duty.

‘He adores the lad,’ said Michael. ‘God knows why. I should be ashamed if he were mine, and I cannot imagine the Treasury being very impressed when he appears on its doorstep, expecting access to the King’s money.’

The atmosphere was poisonous as Bartholomew and Michael walked up Water Lane — figuratively and literally. The dyeworks had started a process that involved a lot of foul-smelling ochre smoke, while it felt dangerous to be abroad in an academic tabard.

Bartholomew went directly to Michaelhouse, where Cynric was proud to learn that he was now responsible for Edith’s safety. Then, while Michael set about strengthening his case against Nigellus, Bartholomew aimed for the Barnwell road. He was relieved when it began to rain, giving him an excuse to raise his hood. It concealed his face, enabling him to walk without being subjected to a barrage of insults.

The Barnwell Causeway was a desolate place to be, even in good weather. It was elevated above the marshes through which it snaked, leaving its users cruelly exposed to the elements. That day, rain scudded across it in sheets and everything dripped. Bartholomew walked briskly, while wind hissed among the reeds and made his cloak billow around him. Eventually, he reached the huddle of buildings that comprised the Augustinian convent, and hammered on the door.

A lay-brother conducted him to the warm, cosy solar occupied by Prior Norton, a man who might have been nondescript were it not for a pair of unusually protuberant eyes. Bartholomew stated the purpose of his visit quickly, wanting to waste neither his time nor the Prior’s with aimless chatter. Norton listened carefully, then sent a canon to fetch Birton the reeve.

‘We lost Cellarer Wrattlesworth and his friend Canterbury in quick succession,’ Norton said while they waited. ‘And our cook and gardener the week before. All four were tended by Nigellus — I would have summoned you, but you were away. He assured me that he could cure them by calculating their horoscopes and prescribing specific remedies.’

‘Medicines?’

Norton nodded. ‘Electuaries, infusions, tonics, decoctions. His last recommendation was Gilbert Water, which was very expensive, although it did scant good.’

‘Were you happy with his suggestions at the time?’

‘At first. However, I began to doubt his wisdom when he blamed our elderflower wine for the deaths. We have been drinking it for years with no ill effects, so his claims were a nonsense.’

Bartholomew had been provided with a cup of it when he had arrived, and although it was generally believed that the Augustinians’ devotion to their beverage was undeserved, he had to admit that the one he sipped now was sweeter than usual, and so almost palatable.