A Poisonous Plot (17 page)

‘There is no time,’ interrupted Nigellus curtly. ‘Or do you suggest that we keep hundreds of people waiting while we go through a host of petty formalities? I am sure Michaelhouse will not object to the substitution, given the immediacy of the situation.’

‘Do you?’ asked Joliet of Bartholomew and Wauter. He grimaced. ‘I confess I am worried about the uneasy atmosphere in the church today, so the sooner we start, the less opportunity there will be for trouble. It would certainly make for a quieter life if you agree to Morys’s nomination.’

‘True,’ agreed Wauter. ‘I do not mind him in lieu of Irby.’

Bartholomew did, and wished Wauter had consulted with him before replying. Uncharitably, he wondered whether the geometrician’s loyalties still lay with the hostel that had housed him for a decade, rather than the College that had kept him for a few weeks. And was Irby really ill, or had Nigellus simply decided to exchange a moderate man for one with opinions akin to his own?

‘The motion is carried then,’ said Joliet, casting an apologetic glance at Bartholomew, whose opinion did not matter now the majority had spoken.

‘Good,’ said Nigellus smugly. ‘Then the subject of the debate will be
nemo dat
, as I have been suggesting for weeks. Are you in agreement, Morys?’

‘Yes, I am,’ replied Morys firmly. ‘It is by far the best idea.’

‘So there are two votes in its favour,’ said Joliet. ‘Wauter? What do you think?’

‘It
would
make for an interesting—’ began Wauter.

‘Three,’ pounced Morys. ‘Which means that the views of Bartholomew and Joliet are now immaterial. I shall inform the Chancellor at once.’

‘Now just a moment!’ Joliet put out a hand to stop him. ‘Wauter did not say he was voting for
nemo dat
– he merely said it was interesting. Besides, I am chairman, Morys, not you, so it is for
me
to speak to the Chancellor when we make our choice.’

Morys glared at him. ‘You want Michaelhouse to win because they hire you to teach and paint murals. You are unfairly biased, and should not have accepted a place on this committee.’

Joliet and Bartholomew gaped at him, astounded by such intemperate accusations.

‘Steady on, Morys,’ murmured Wauter. ‘And Joliet is right – I did
not
vote for
nemo dat
. I want to hear a few more suggestions before making my final decision.’

‘Why?’ demanded Nigellus. ‘Morys and I have made up our minds and we will not be swayed. Now, Joliet, will you tell Tynkell or shall I?’

‘I recommend that we select a theological or a musical—’ began Joliet, pointedly turning his back on the Zachary men.

‘No,’ snarled Nigellus. ‘It is
nemo dat
or nothing.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Morys.

‘Then Joliet, Wauter and I
will choose the question,’ said Bartholomew, objecting to their bullying tactics. ‘If we can agree on a subject, you two are irrelevant.’

Nigellus addressed Joliet in a voice that held considerable menace. ‘Vote as I suggest or I will tell the Sheriff that you bought illegal sucura for Arnold in his final days. All the money you have hoarded to feed the poor this winter will be gone in a fine.’

Bartholomew felt his jaw drop, while the blood drained from Joliet’s face.

‘You would never do such a terrible thing!’ breathed the Prior, shocked.

‘No?’ sneered Nigellus. ‘Just try me.’

‘You want
nemo dat
because your students have been practising it,’ said Bartholomew accusingly, unable to help himself. ‘Do not look indignant – we all know the truth. But there is no glory in a victory won by cheating. Moreover, the Chancellor will not stand by and let you make a mockery of—’

‘He will never oppose my wishes,’ interrupted Morys. ‘And if you accuse us of foul play again, I shall sue you for slander. Now, Joliet, what will it be?
Nemo dat
or poverty?’

Joliet’s answer was in his silence and bowed head.

‘Morys, tell Tynkell that the subject is
nemo dat
,’ ordered Nigellus, allowing himself a tight, smug smile of triumph. ‘I shall inform our students. No, do not argue, Bartholomew – we have the necessary three votes. The matter is over.’

He and Morys hurried away. The Zachary students began to cheer when he addressed them, a reaction he quelled with an urgent flap of his hand. It told Bartholomew all he needed to know about the hostel’s sense of honour. Wauter watched for a moment, then ambled away to report the ‘decision’ to Michaelhouse, although given that every moment of preparation counted, Bartholomew thought he should have moved more quickly.

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Joliet wretchedly. ‘But I am afraid we
did
buy sucura to make poor Arnold smile during his last few days. And as legitimate sources are prohibitively expensive, we were obliged to turn to an illegal one.’

‘How did Nigellus know?’ Then Bartholomew sighed and answered the question himself. ‘Because he was Arnold’s
medicus
, and took a professional interest in his diet.’

Joliet nodded bitterly. ‘He recommended sucura. Now I know why – not to brighten a dying man’s last days, but to blackmail me. He knew I would opt for the cheapest source – and that the Sheriff would love to make an example of us.’ He looked miserable. ‘I know Tulyet is your friend, Matt, but it is the beggars who will suffer if you tell him what we have done.’

‘I will keep your confidence, although I am not sure you can trust Nigellus. Perhaps you should confess before he blabs. Dick is a compassionate and practical man, and will understand why you did it. Probably.’

Sniffing unhappily, Joliet followed him to where Michael stood with Tynkell, ready to set the
disceptatio
in progress. The Chancellor was almost invisible inside his sumptuous robes of office, and he looked ill.

‘It is strain,’ he said in response to Bartholomew’s polite concern. ‘Morys threatens to invite my mother here unless I do everything he says, while there are rumours that say I am going to lead the University to a new life in the Fens. Half our scholars are delighted and press me for a date; the other half accuse me of being the Devil incarnate.’

‘It is just gossip,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Everyone will forget about it in a few days.’

‘No, they will not,’ said Tynkell glumly. ‘Because the town is overjoyed by the “news”, and when they realise it is untrue, their disappointment will know no bounds. They will riot.’

‘But not today,’ said Michael. ‘Now go and start the debate. The
nemo dat
principle is not my idea of fine entertainment, but I suppose the
consilium
knows what it is doing.’

Michaelhouse’s students rose to the challenge magnificently, and their inability to recite long passages from legal texts meant their observations were sharper and more concise, which put the audience on their side. This encouraged them to even greater mental acuity, and it was quickly clear who was the better of the two participants. Zachary’s dismayed response was to resort to personal insults that lost them marks. With grim satisfaction, Bartholomew saw that Nigellus and Morys had done their pupils a serious disservice by cheating – Zachary would have fared better if they had been left to rely on their wits.

‘Deciding the victor has been extremely difficult,’ announced Tynkell when it was over.

‘Rubbish!’ cried Wayt from King’s Hall. ‘There was no real contest. And I do not say I support a College over a hostel, because everyone here knows that Michaelhouse sparkled, while Zachary was pompous and dull.’

‘You are entitled to your opinion,’ said Tynkell, shooting a nervous glance at Morys, whose eyes were like gimlets. ‘But Zachary is adjudged the winner, because—’

Cries of ‘shame’ boomed through the church, which Tynkell was unequal to quelling. Michael let them mount until it was obvious that most support was for Michaelhouse – even from the hostels – and only then did he take pity on the beleaguered Chancellor. He ordered silence in a stentorian bellow.

‘You did not let me finish,’ bleated Tynkell. ‘Zachary is adjudged the winner in
quotes
, but Michaelhouse made more convincing arguments. So it is a draw.’

‘You cannot have a draw,’ yelled Wayt, while Morys’s expression was as black as thunder. ‘Do not be a fool, man!’

There was a resounding chorus of agreement, which Michael again allowed to run before calling for order, hoping that Tynkell would come to his senses in the interim.

‘Very well,’ conceded the Chancellor feebly. ‘Michaelhouse wins.’

There was a loud cheer, and Bartholomew was disappointed but not surprised to see that Zachary were poor losers. They shouldered their way out of the church, sullen and angry, and the look Morys shot Tynkell was enough to make the Chancellor wilt.

‘I shall be glad when he retires,’ said Langelee, watching in disapproval. ‘Tynkell is a dreadful weakling, wholly unsuited to the post.’

‘He is,’ agreed Wauter with a tight smile. ‘But justice has been done, so let us forget about the debate and concentrate instead on convincing all these wealthy burgesses that our College is a worthy recipient for their spare money.’

The beadles cleared the church quickly after Tynkell had announced the result, aiming to reduce the chances of fights breaking out. Langelee rounded up his scholars and guests, and led them back to Michaelhouse at a jaunty clip. They were greeted by the peacock, which was indeed standing in full display by the gate. Clippesby was with it, and Bartholomew was not the only one who wondered if the Dominican
had
somehow persuaded it to do as the Master had ordered.

The hall looked better than it had done in years – bright, clean and welcoming. The mural was spectacular in the full light of day, with the four great thinkers holding forth under a spreading oak while the Fens stretched away in the distance. Prior Joliet stood next to it, accepting the praise of admirers, while Robert and Hamo served wine, managing it better than the students who had been allotted the task – they were more interested in reliving the triumph of the debate. Then Hakeney appeared, and shoved himself to the front of the queue.

‘Who invited him?’ hissed Langelee, glaring accusingly at his Fellows. ‘He is not rich – not now he drinks wine rather than makes it.’

‘No one did,’ surmised Wauter. ‘He just sniffed out free victuals.’

‘I see you wear my wife’s cross, Robert,’ the vintner said aggressively. He was already drunk, although Bartholomew’s remedy seemed to have worked on his constipation, as he looked better than he had when they had last seen him. ‘When will you return it to its rightful owner?’

‘I bought it in London,’ said Robert with weary patience. ‘You have seen the bill of sale.’

‘That is a forgery,’ stated Hakeney, staggering when he tried to lean against a table and missed. ‘And so is the letter from that so-called priest who you claim sold it to you. That cross belongs to me, and I demand it back.’

‘It does not,’ said Tulyet quietly. ‘I looked into this matter at your request. Do you not recall my verdict? Robert can prove ownership; you cannot. So stop this nonsense and let us enjoy this splendid repast.’

‘Unless you would rather talk to me instead,’ said Dickon. His evil leer turned into a grin of malicious satisfaction when Hakeney took one look at the crimson face and backed away.

‘Christ God, Tulyet,’ breathed Langelee, staring at the boy. ‘What have you done to him? Or is that his natural colour, and you have been deceiving us all these years?’

‘His mother insisted that he come,’ replied Tulyet stiffly, which Bartholomew interpreted as meaning that she wanted the brat out of her house. She, unlike her husband, was beginning to accept that there was something not very nice about their son. ‘Personally, I thought he should remain indoors until it wears off.’

‘Well, just make sure he does not fly up to the rafters, trailing his forked tail behind him,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I do not want potential benefactors frightened out of their wits.’

He turned abruptly to usher members of the wealthy Frevill clan towards the cakes, leaving the Sheriff scowling his indignation.

For the next hour, Bartholomew made polite conversation with the guests, who were so numerous that he wondered if Langelee had invited everyone with two coins to rub together. Edith was there with Anne and Rumburgh. They were talking to Wayt from King’s Hall, and he went to join them quickly when he saw anger suffuse his sister’s face.

‘I was telling her that Cew is getting worse,’ explained Wayt, when Bartholomew asked what was the matter. ‘He might have recovered from the fright Frenge gave him, but the dyeworks poison the air he breathes and send him ever deeper into lunacy.’

‘If that were true, you would be showing symptoms of madness, too,’ retorted Edith.

‘Perhaps he is, and he came here for a remedy,’ purred Anne, running one finger down Wayt’s sleeve, so that Bartholomew was seized with the sudden conviction that she already counted the Acting Warden among her conquests. ‘I know one that is better than any physick.’

‘In that case,’ Wayt said smoothly, ‘perhaps you will enlighten me, madam. Shall we step outside to discuss it? It is overly warm in here.’

Rumburgh started to protest, but Anne and Wayt sailed away without so much as a backward glance, leaving the burgess bleating his objections to thin air.

‘It would not surprise me to learn that
he
killed Frenge,’ Rumburgh muttered resentfully. ‘After all, I did overhear them arguing shortly before Frenge died – Frenge was telling Wayt that if he continued with his lawsuit, he would reveal a nasty secret about King’s Hall.’

‘What secret?’ asked Bartholomew keenly.

‘I did not hear, but Wayt was livid.’ Rumburgh clenched his fists in impotent fury as his wife and the Acting Warden reached the stairs and disappeared from sight.

‘And Frenge?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘How did he seem?’

‘He yelled like a fishwife.’ Rumburgh lowered his voice. ‘I should not speak ill of the dead, but I could not abide him either. He had designs on my Anne, and she was hard-pressed to repel him on occasion. He was very persistent.’