A Poisonous Plot (2 page)

‘Will they?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. He had never understood economics. ‘What if our ostentatious display makes them think we have too much already?’

‘It is a matter of confidence,’ explained Langelee. ‘No one wants to fund a venture that is on the brink of collapse – which describes us at the moment, unfortunately – but they will certainly want to be associated with one they think is flourishing.’

‘Because of their sin-steeped souls,’ elaborated Father William, a grubby Franciscan whose oily hair sprouted untidily around a tonsure that was never the same shape two days in a row. ‘Which need prayers if they are to escape Purgatory. The rich are eager to support foundations that will still be saying Masses for them in a thousand years, and our ruse will convince them that
we
are such a place. Our gamble will pay off, you can be sure of that.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew, less sanguine about the risks they were taking. If they failed, Michaelhouse would never repay the debts that were accumulating, and the College would be dissolved.

Langelee waved away his concerns. ‘I have invited a whole host of prosperous merchants to our feast tonight, in the hope that they will brag to their cronies about the lavish way in which they were entertained. And more of them will experience our generosity at the student debate—’

‘At the
disceptatio
, Master,’ corrected William. ‘It sounds more illustrious, and we should do all we can to stress the grandeur of the occasion.’ He grinned impishly. ‘Even if it is only one where a lot of youths pontificate on matters they do not understand.’

‘—when we shall provide refreshments fit for a king,’ finished Langelee. ‘Of course, we have other irons in the fire, too. Namely Prior Joliet and his fellow Austins.’

The Austin friars, unlike their monastic counterparts the Augustinian canons, lived in the town among the people to whom they ministered. The Order had arrived in Cambridge almost seventy years ago, and occupied a tract of land between the King’s Ditch and the Market Square.

‘They will give us money?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Priories did not usually extend their largesse to Colleges – they had their own communities to fund.

‘Not money,’ explained Langelee. ‘Labour. First, they have agreed to teach all the new theologians we enrolled last year—’

‘The ones we took to get the fees,’ put in William, lest the physician should have forgotten.

‘—and second, they are painting that lovely mural for us in the hall,’ finished Langelee.

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘They have not donated this labour – they expect to be paid! Prior Joliet was telling me only yesterday how he plans to spend what they earn. They give more alms than all the other convents combined, and if we default, it will be the poor who suffer.’

‘We will not default,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘We will pay the Austins the moment the benefactions start flowing in.’

‘Which they will,’ avowed William. ‘Thanks to the mural.’

Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How will the mural help?’

‘In two ways,’ replied Langelee. ‘By showing prospective patrons that our finances are healthy enough to afford such a luxury; and by demonstrating that we are men of great piety – it depicts St Thomas Aquinas, you see. The rich will certainly want prayers from our priests when they see that fresco.’

‘But what if this scheme fails?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.

‘It will not fail,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘It cannot.’

‘I am looking forward to the
disceptatio
this year,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could argue. ‘It is a great honour for Michaelhouse to be one of the two foundations chosen to take part.’ He shot the physician a grin. ‘As you and Wauter are on the committee
that selects the topic, you can tell our lads what it is in advance. Then they can prepare, so will defeat Zachary with ease.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘How many more times must I say it? The subject will be announced on the day. No one will prepare, which is the point – to test the participants’ mental agility when dealing with an entirely new thesis.’

‘But Principal Irby has already told
his
scholars,’ said William crossly, ‘which means that Zachary will emerge victorious, while our boys end up looking like fools.’

‘No, he has not,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He cannot – we have not chosen the question yet.’

‘Really?’ asked Michael, frowning. ‘But the
disceptatio
is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Are you not leaving it a little late?’

‘A little,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot agree on a topic. But we are meeting again this morning, and I hope it will be decided then.’

‘Do not fret,’ said Langelee to William, who was red-faced and indignant. ‘If Bartholomew will not tell us, we shall have it out of Wauter.
He
will not be hobbled by foolish principles.’

He turned to where Michaelhouse’s newest Fellow, John Wauter, was reading in the window. Wauter was an Austin and a geometrician, and it had been his idea to hire priests from his own Order to help teach Michaelhouse’s overly abundant theologians. He had cropped black hair and a ready smile. He became aware that he was the subject of discussion and looked up.

‘I was just telling William that you will not let us down,’ said Langelee. ‘
You
will tell our students what they will be discussing at the
disceptatio
, so they can practise.’

Wauter blinked his surprise. ‘You mean cheat? Really, Master!’

Langelee regarded him frostily. ‘You were a member of Zachary Hostel before accepting a Fellowship here. I hope you know where your loyalties lie.’

It was a nasty remark and Wauter would have been within his rights to object to the slur on his integrity, but he merely closed his book and stood up.

‘With Michaelhouse – a College that will win honourably or not at all.’ He turned to Bartholomew. ‘The committee is due to convene soon. Shall we walk there together?’

‘Walk where, exactly?’ asked William casually.

‘To a place where
you
cannot eavesdrop,’ replied Bartholomew curtly.

Hallow-tide was popular in the town as well as in Michaelhouse. It meant time away from work, so folk could visit friends and neighbours, where soul-cakes – sweet spiced biscuits with a cross cut into the top – would be given in exchange for prayers for the dead, and there would be both laughter and sadness as lost loved ones were remembered. That evening, bonfires would be lit on street corners, and there would be a torchlit procession led by the parish priests.

‘Half the town is drunk already,’ muttered Wauter disapprovingly, as Bartholomew pulled him out of the path of an erratically steered handcart bearing a barrel of ale.

‘My remedies for sore heads will be in demand tomorrow,’ agreed the physician.

‘Good! The College needs every penny it can get. How much will you charge?’

Bartholomew smiled ruefully. ‘Nothing, because most of those who summon me will be unable to pay. Any spare funds they did have will have been spent on Hallow-tide treats, and who can blame them? This is the last fun they will have until Christmas.’

Wauter opened the door to St Mary the Great, where the meeting was to be held. The other committee members were already there, standing in a huddle in the centre of the nave, a place chosen specifically to thwart spies – the
disceptatio
always brought out the worst in its participants. Bartholomew and Wauter exchanged a wry glance when they spotted a Zachary Hostel lad lurking behind a pillar.

‘Can he read lips?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Yes, quite possibly.’ Wauter raised his voice. ‘Do not think you are hidden there, Yerland, because I can see you. Now go home before I tell the Senior Proctor that Zachary is resorting to unscrupulous tactics.’

‘And that goes for you, too, Melton,’ called Bartholomew, aware that one of his medical students had been trailing him ever since he had left the College.

Scowling, both youths slouched away, fortunately towards different doors. Although the
disceptatio
had originally been established to pit two randomly selected foundations in an innocent and enjoyable battle of wits, it was being taken more seriously that year, because one contestant was a College and the other was a hostel. Colleges were larger, richer and more secure – by virtue of their endowments, a perpetual source of money that hostels did not have – while hostels tended to be smaller and much less stable. Rivalry between the two had always been intense.

However, in a curious inversion of the usual state of affairs, Michaelhouse was on the brink of fiscal ruin – although only its Fellows knew the true extent of its problems – while Zachary was noted for its affluence. Zachary liked to gloat about its wealth, which Michaelhouse resented, so spats nearly always followed when their students met.

The debate committee, or
consilium
, comprised five members: two from Michaelhouse, two from Zachary and a chairman. Zachary was represented by Principal Irby and Nigellus de Thornton, while the chairman was Prior Joliet of the Austins.

Irby was a dreamy grammarian who was far too gentle to rule a hostel, particularly one with a reputation for feistiness like Zachary. He was famous for always wearing a cloak – in his hostel’s colours of grey and cream – no matter what the weather, and never went out without a wineskin clipped to his waist, which he claimed was necessary for good health. The remedy was not working as far as Bartholomew was concerned, because Irby never looked well, and he was sure the man was suffering from some chronic and debilitating illness.

By contrast, Nigellus was squat, fierce-faced and aggressive. He was sensitive about the fact that his late entry into the University had brought him the title of Junior Physician, particularly as he was older than the other
medici
by a good twenty years. The Colleges, quick to sniff out a sore point, rarely missed the opportunity to jibe him about it.

‘We are all here at last,’ said Prior Joliet, who had a round little head perched atop a round little body. He had a reputation for piety, sincerity and generosity, and he and his flock had gone hungry the previous winter so that beggars might eat. He was also a talented artist, and it was he who was painting Michaelhouse’s mural. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘Yes – and may I reiterate that we
must
make our decision today,’ said Nigellus, all brisk business. ‘I am tired of discussing it, to be frank. It is time we made up our minds.’

‘I say we gauge the mood of the audience on the day,’ countered Wauter. ‘We can determine then whether to pick a topic that will make them laugh, one that will provoke intelligent reflection, or one so tedious that it will quell any desire to engage in fisticuffs.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Irby, nodding approvingly. ‘We all want the occasion to pass off peacefully, and emotions do seem to be running unusually high this year.’

‘Nonsense,’ snapped Nigellus. ‘We should decide now, and I recommend
nemo dat quod non habet
– “what you do not own you cannot give”. It is high time we had a legal debate.’

‘You have been fighting for
nemo dat
ever since this committee was formed,’ said Wauter suspiciously. ‘Would there be a reason for that – such as that Zachary has been practising it?’

‘How dare you question my honour!’ cried Nigellus furiously. ‘It is not—’

‘Gentlemen, please,’ interrupted Joliet sharply. He waited until Nigellus spluttered into angry silence and then continued. ‘Even if we do make our final decision on the day, we should still have a shortlist of questions ready. We have not agreed on a single one so far.’

‘Then put
nemo dat
on it,’ ordered Nigellus stiffly. ‘It will be the one chosen, because it is the most suitable, and any fool should see it.’

With a pained smile, Joliet began to write, and while he did so, Bartholomew took the opportunity to study Nigellus. He had been delighted when he had first heard that another
medicus
was to enrol in the University – there had been a desperate shortage of them after the plague – but it had not taken him long to learn that Nigellus epitomised the very worst of the medical profession. The Junior Physician was brash, condescending, closed to new ideas and saw his patients purely in terms of their fees. His cosy practice at Barnwell had made him very rich, which was why he had been invited to join Zachary Hostel, a place where the size of a member’s purse was much more important than his academic credentials.

‘What else?’ asked Joliet, pen poised expectantly.

‘How about a medical question?’ suggested Irby. ‘I have always found the subject fascinating. Bartholomew, did you moot something to do with diet the last time we met?’

Bartholomew nodded, and was about to elaborate when Nigellus cut rudely across him. ‘I have never been convinced by all that rubbish. A man should eat what he feels like, on the grounds that the body knows best. The notion of good and bad foods is a nonsense.’

Bartholomew could not help himself. ‘So you think that a man who eats nothing but red meat or marchpanes will be healthy? Surely it is obvious that a balanced diet is extremely important.’

‘An excellent thesis,’ said Joliet, writing it down before Nigellus could object. ‘The students will have a lot of fun with that. Any more suggestions?’

There were, but none of them were suitable, and when he felt the discussion was starting to go around in circles, Joliet called the meeting to a close.

‘I recommend we go away and think very carefully,’ he said, folding the parchment and slipping it in his scrip. ‘Our shortlist needs to be longer than two.’

‘Yet more wasted time,’ grumbled Nigellus. ‘I would not have agreed to serve on this stupid committee if I had known how much indecision there would be. May I go now, Father Prior? I have patients waiting –
paying
patients.’

He gave a superior smile before turning to strut towards the door, his remarks designed to remind Bartholomew that
he
did not demean himself by tending paupers like his Michaelhouse colleague, and that all
his
clients were from the very highest echelons of society. Bartholomew watched him go, eyes narrowing when the ousted Zachary student and several cronies hurried to cluster around the Junior Physician the moment he stepped outside.