A Poisonous Plot (22 page)

‘We have been told that you quarrelled violently with Frenge shortly before he died,’ said Michael, while Bartholomew thought that while Nigellus’s treatment was unlikely to work, at least it would do no harm. ‘Would you care to tell us why?’

Wayt eyed him coolly. ‘If you must know, Frenge said that unless I dropped the case against him, he would tell my colleagues about my … my
indiscretion
with Anne de Rumburgh, a woman whose husband is generous to King’s Hall.’

‘So he tried to blackmail you, and within hours he is dead?’

Wayt gave a tight smile. ‘What Frenge did not realise is that half the Fellowship have been seduced by that particular lady, so his threat was meaningless. I was angry with him for attempting extortion, but not vexed enough to do him harm. And now, if there is nothing else …’

He stalked away, and loath to chase after him when it was clear he was unlikely to elaborate on his answer, Bartholomew and Michael resumed their journey to the dyeworks. The smell grew stronger with every step, and people glared at the physician as he passed, knowing him to be kin to the woman responsible for it.

When they arrived, a spat was in progress. Anne was at the heart of it, skimpily dressed even by her standards, bodice straining to contain her bulging bosom. A semicircle of Frail Sisters stood with her, hands defiantly on their hips, while behind them was a gaggle of rough men – the former clients who had rallied to protect them.

As usual, the crowd was made up of two factions. The first comprised scholars led by Kellawe, whose finger wagged furiously as he made all manner of points that no one heard over the noise of the second group, who were townsmen. Shirwynk and Peyn watched the altercation from the brewery, and their satisfied smirks suggested that they may well have aggravated the trouble. Rumburgh stood nearby. He took a sweetmeat from his scrip, and Bartholomew could tell by the way he chewed it that eating pained his sore gums.

‘Thank God you are here,’ said Edith, hurrying up to Michael. ‘Will you tell your scholars to go away? They say they do not like the smell, but we cannot get rid of it as long as they are out there bawling and shrieking. Even Anne cannot reason with them, and she is good with men.’

‘They have a point,’ said Michael. ‘You have stunk out the whole town, and it cannot be allowed to continue. Matt says it is only a matter of time before it kills someone.’

‘I never—’ began Bartholomew.

Edith silenced her brother with a look that would have blistered metal. ‘It is a lot of fuss over nothing. No one will notice the aroma once they get used to it.’

‘But we do not want to get used to it,’ objected Michael. ‘It is—’

He broke off when two Zachary scholars darted forward to engage in a fisticuffs with a pair of apprentices. With an exasperated sigh, he strode towards the mêlée. Unfortunately, his intervention meant that people stopped haranguing each other to watch, and Kellawe used the sudden silence to make an announcement.

‘I have a licence to absolve any scholar who commits an act of violence against the town,’ he declared in a ringing voice. Morys was next to him, nodding vigorously. ‘It came from the Bishop himself. However, any townsman who harms us will land himself in serious trouble.’

‘That is not fair!’ cried Hakeney. ‘We have the right to defend ourselves.’

‘If you do, you will be doomed to the perpetual fires of Hell,’ shouted Kellawe, grinning provocatively. ‘Scholars, however, will be deemed blameless.’

‘Not in the eyes of the Senior Proctor,’ said Michael sternly. ‘I will fine any man – scholar
or
townsperson – who breaks the King’s peace. And so will the Sheriff.’

‘But
we
have just cause,’ yelled Kellawe angrily. ‘Not only does this place release dangerous vapours, but
he
said its women run a different business after dark.’ He nodded towards Shirwynk. ‘We do not want a brothel as a neighbour, thank you. Our students have impressionable minds.’

Bartholomew took in the Zachary lads’ courtly clothes and worldly faces, and was sure there was not an impressionable mind among them. Segeforde was behind them, pale but better than he had been earlier, although there was no sign of Yerland.

‘Then Shirwynk has slandered us most disgracefully,’ said Edith, drawing herself up to her full height and fixing the brewer with an imperious glare. Shirwynk promptly slunk indoors, although he was a fool if he thought that was the end of the matter – Edith was not a woman to forget insults to her workforce.

‘Has he?’ demanded Kellawe hotly. ‘Then why have you hired so many whores?’

‘To dye cloth,’ replied Edith tartly. ‘And they are not whores: they are women reduced to desperate measures by circumstances beyond their control. You should applaud their courage, not condemn them.’

‘You should,’ agreed Yolande. She jabbed an accusing finger at Segeforde. ‘Especially as you and many of your colleagues regularly hired our services before we started working here, so do not play the innocent with us, you damned hypocrite.’

There was a mocking cheer from the women, laughter from the townsfolk, and indignant denials from the scholars.

‘These dyeworks stink,’ declared Morys, once the clamour had died down. ‘They made Trinity Hall sick – twice – and they claimed the life of poor Principal Irby, God rest his soul.’

‘You told us that he died of loss of appetite,’ pounced Michael.

Morys pointed at Bartholomew. ‘Yes, but
he
said loss of appetite was a symptom, not a disease. And the disease came from here, from
this
filthy business.’

‘How could you, Matthew?’ whispered Edith crossly. ‘I thought you admired what we are trying to do. How could you fuel these ignoramuses’ vitriol by gossiping with them?’

‘More importantly, there have been
town
deaths,’ shouted Hakeney, before the physician could defend himself. ‘Namely Will Lenne, Mistress Vine, Letia Shirwynk and poor John Frenge. Bartholomew does not care that his sister is killing us, and neither do his medical cronies. And now Stephen has the
debilitas
.’

‘That sounds nasty,’ gulped Isnard the bargeman. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It is something that afflicts only the rich,’ explained Hakeney. ‘Paupers are immune, so most of us need not fear it. However, it is what carried away all these hapless townsfolk.’

‘If that is right, then
we
are not responsible,’ said Edith. ‘How can the occasional waft of bad air or bucket of sludge target only the wealthy? The answer is that they cannot. Now go away.’

‘Not until you agree to leave the town,’ yelled Kellawe. ‘We do not want you here, and I do not see why my University should have to up sticks and move to the Fens when it is
you
causing all the trouble.’

‘We cannot leave – not when we provide a valuable service to so many men,’ purred Anne. She winked at Segeforde. ‘And
some
scholars in particular would miss us sorely.’

Full of mortified rage, Segeforde surged towards her. The rest of Zachary followed, and there was a lot of unseemly jostling, all of which stopped when there was a piercing screech that was half indignation and half amusement. It came from Anne. Segeforde had stumbled and grabbed her dress, so that the flimsy material had come clean away in his hand. There was a shocked silence from both sides, and for a long time, no one moved.

‘Well,’ drawled Michael eventually, his eyes huge in his chubby face. ‘That is one way to quell a spat.’

The incident with Segeforde and Anne might have sparked a serious fight if some of Tulyet’s soldiers had not arrived. They waded into the mêlée with drawn swords, which encouraged the antagonists to disperse. First to go were the men who had stood behind Edith’s ladies, no doubt having fallen foul of the Sheriff’s troops before, and they were followed by the other townsfolk. The scholars slunk away under Michael’s withering gaze, and for the first time since the dyeworks had opened, the square was all but empty. Only the women, Rumburgh, Bartholomew and Michael remained. Edith was incandescent with outrage.

‘It does not matter,’ said Anne, now draped decorously in her husband’s cloak. ‘I wanted a new kirtle anyway, and this gives me the excuse to indulge myself.’

‘It
does
matter,’ fumed Edith. ‘It was not the act of a gentleman.’

‘No, it was not,’ agreed Rumburgh, scarlet-faced with shame on his wife’s behalf. ‘And if my gums did not pain me so much, I would challenge Segeforde to a duel.’

‘There is no need for reckless heroics, dear,’ said Anne, patting his arm kindly.

‘And it is not as if they have never been flaunted before,’ muttered Yolande. ‘Such as when she appeared naked in the mystery plays last year. It caused quite a stir.’

‘It did,’ agreed Michael, then felt compelled to add, albeit unconvincingly, ‘though I was not there myself, of course.’

At that moment, a contingent of Austins arrived.

‘What has happened?’ asked Prior Joliet in a shocked voice. ‘We have been regaled with such dreadful tales! Townsfolk say that Segeforde molested a helpless lady, while Kellawe informed us that she whipped off the dress herself.’

‘She did not!’ cried Rumburgh. ‘What terrible lies!’

‘We will have to decant to the Fens now,’ said Almoner Robert sombrely. ‘The town will never forgive Segeforde, and the University will never forgive Anne.’

‘Never,’ agreed Hamo.

Then Shirwynk called out from his brewery door, evidently reluctant to move closer lest Edith should decide to take issue with him for his role in the affair. ‘Sue them, Rumburgh. Just as they are suing Frenge for having a little fun in King’s Hall.’

‘The “fun” you encouraged,’ said Michael, stalking towards him. ‘No, do not deny it – I have a witness. That was not the act of a friend.’

‘Frenge was his own man,’ said Shirwynk defiantly. ‘He could have refused.’

‘When he was drunk? Moreover, I find it suspicious that you consulted a lawyer just after Frenge died. Stephen says you went to hire him to sue King’s Hall, but if I find out that you actually quizzed him about inheriting Frenge’s half of the brewery, you will be in serious trouble.’

Shirwynk shot him an unpleasant look, then bellowed at Rumburgh. ‘Are you content to let a scholar rip the clothes from your wife in a public place?’

‘It was hardly—’ began Michael.

Shirwynk overrode him. ‘It was a clear case of assault, and dozens of witnesses will concur. If you have any respect for your wife, Rumburgh, you will restore her good name with a lawsuit.’

‘Do not bother, dear,’ said Anne to her husband. ‘It would be so tedious.’

‘You are a very wise lady,’ said Robert, smiling approvingly. ‘A lawsuit would drive yet another wedge between University and town. Besides, I doubt the compensation you would win would be worth the inconvenience of a trial.’

‘Compensation?’ echoed Anne sharply. ‘You mean money?’

Alarm suffused Robert’s face and he began to gabble. ‘Very little, I imagine. Certainly not enough to warrant the trouble.’

‘A paltry sum,’ put in Joliet quickly. ‘Especially to the wife of a rich burgess. Mere pennies.’

‘Rubbish,’ yelled Shirwynk. ‘Zachary is a wealthy hostel. You will be awarded a fortune.’

‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Michael. ‘He wants you to sue a University foundation because King’s Hall is prosecuting him. His advice stems from a desire for vengeance.’

‘So what if it does?’ asked Shirwynk, still addressing Anne. ‘It does not detract from the fact that a lawsuit is an easy way to swell your coffers. Stephen will take the case, I am sure.’

‘Well, now,’ said Anne, exchanging a greedy glance with her husband. ‘I
did
suffer when Segeforde hurled himself at me. Perhaps we had better pay Stephen a visit.’

‘No, you will not,’ said Edith firmly. ‘A quarrel with Zachary will do no one any good, least of all us. The University is our biggest customer – we cannot afford to offend it.’

‘You will not need its custom if you win funds from Zachary,’ coaxed Shirwynk.

‘We will make far more money by keeping its good graces,’ argued Edith. ‘There is—’

‘The
dyeworks
will make more money:
you
will not,’ called Shirwynk. ‘Be a man, Rumburgh. Take what is rightfully yours.’

‘I shall,’ declared Rumburgh, grabbing Anne’s hand and beginning to tow her towards the High Street. ‘We shall begin proceedings today, while memories are fresh.’

Michael watched Rumburgh and Anne go with a sense of helplessness, while Shirwynk filled the street with mocking laughter. Robert began to edge away, his face a mask of dismay, but Michael rounded on him before he had taken more than two or three steps.

‘What were you thinking, to mention compensation?’ he snarled. ‘Surely you must have realised what their reaction would be?’

‘I was praising her prudence,’ said Robert defensively. ‘Of course I did not predict that the pair of them would be seized by a sudden rush of greed.’

‘Go home,’ Michael ordered crossly. ‘And please watch what you say in future, especially to townsfolk.’

Robert bowed his head, cheeks red against his long white hair. Joliet opened his mouth to defend his almoner, but had second thoughts when he saw the dark expression on Michael’s face. He led his friars away, although Hamo felt compelled to have the final word.

‘Mistake,’ he murmured to Michael as he passed. ‘Sorry.’

Meanwhile, Edith was still furious – about Segeforde’s lunge, Shirwynk’s goading, Anne’s response and Bartholomew’s perceived treachery. The brewer was the first to feel her tongue.

‘How dare you tell Zachary that we run a brothel,’ she barked, stalking towards him. ‘Perhaps
I
should visit Stephen and take out a case against
you
– for slander.’

‘You could try,’ sneered Shirwynk. ‘But no judge will convict me, because your dyeworks
do
contain prostitutes, and the men guarding them
are
repaid with sexual favours.’

‘The men are paid with coins from me,’ countered Edith icily. ‘I assure you, nothing immoral happens here. It is a respectable establishment.’