A Poisonous Plot (31 page)

When the Michaelhouse men approached, Cew bared his teeth, and Bartholomew saw a thin grey line around the top of them. It was identical to the one he had seen in the student the previous day, and similar to the problem suffered by Rumburgh. But there was no time to ponder its significance, because Cew began to gibber in a manner that made Dodenho back away in alarm.

‘Garlic and onions. Put them in my soul-cakes. List the syllogisms – Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio. Dodenho does not know them. Garlic in the oysters, onion in the pastries.’

‘You see?’ snapped Wayt, although there was more sorrow than anger in his voice. ‘Now tell us why we should care about the man who did this to him.’

‘He will not eat oysters now.’ Dodenho sounded sad and frustrated in equal measure. ‘Just soul-cakes. God knows why – they are far too sickly for me.’

‘You sweeten them with sucura,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what Dodenho had let slip the last time they had met.

‘Not any more,’ averred Wayt. ‘We use honey instead.’

‘Honey is not a syllogism,’ babbled Cew. ‘Baroco, Bocardo. Nasty, sticky stuff to dissolve my orb and sceptre. I hate honey, so give me onions. Onions and garlic.’

‘He keeps asking for those,’ said Dodenho worriedly. ‘But he cannot mean it.’

Bartholomew was about to agree when he remembered Rougham quoting Galen the night before, about the body knowing what it needed. Nigellus had mentioned it, too, at a meeting of the
consilium
, when he and Bartholomew had argued about the importance of a balanced diet. But before he could suggest that they give Cew what he wanted, Wayt tried to propel him and Michael towards the door. Outraged that anyone should dare lay hands on the august person of the Senior Proctor, Michael resisted with a snarl, so Wayt ordered Dodenho to see the Michaelhouse men off the premises, loath to risk his dignity in a shoving contest he would not win.

‘He means no harm,’ said Dodenho apologetically, once they were in the yard. ‘Although I shall be glad when Master Shropham comes home. Can you help Cew, Bartholomew? Or did Wayt not allow you sufficient time to judge?’

Suspecting Dodenho might baulk if anything as vulgar as onions and garlic was recommended for the patient, Bartholomew mumbled something about a remedy he kept at home.

‘I will prepare it now and bring it as soon as it is ready,’ he promised.

Leaving Michael to visit Stephen alone, Bartholomew hurried back to College, where he solicited Agatha’s help. Together, they produced a stew that contained plenty of onions and garlic, along with barley and sundry other vegetables. When they were soft, he mashed them to a paste, which he coloured with saffron left over from Hallow-tide, aiming to disguise the mundane ingredients with an exotic splash of colour. Then he added boiled water to turn the concoction into a smooth soup. Agatha grinned when he asked her to keep the recipe secret, delighted to indulge in a conspiracy with a Fellow.

He returned to King’s Hall, where Dodenho was waiting anxiously. He was whisked quickly to Cew before Wayt could see him, and was pleased when the patient gulped down a whole bowl.

‘What is it?’ asked Dodenho curiously, as Cew indicated that he wanted more.

‘Royal Broth,’ lied Bartholomew, smiling encouragingly at Cew. ‘It is full of expensive ingredients that only monarchs can afford.’

The logician wolfed down a second helping, after which he curled up and went to sleep.

‘We shall have some of this Royal Broth for our ailing students as well,’ declared Dodenho, watching in relief. ‘Nigellus calculated their horoscopes, but we are not sure we can trust those now that he stands charged with murder.’

‘What else did Nigellus do?’ probed Bartholomew. ‘What medicines did he prescribe?’

‘No medicines,’ replied Dodenho. ‘Only advice – mostly about foods that should be avoided when the moon and stars are in certain positions. It was all very complicated, and I am not surprised our lads made mistakes – it is not always easy to see where these celestial bodies are at specific times, and we cannot spend all night gazing at the sky.’

‘He gave them nothing at all to swallow?’

‘No – just a long list of instructions about the ascendancy of Venus and that kind of thing. When he first arrived in Cambridge, he confided in his cups that he planned not to accept any sick clients, and that he aimed to acquire a practice comprised solely of healthy ones.’

‘Well, a lot of them are sick now,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘And some have died.’

‘He should have realised that no one stays hale and hearty for ever, and his was an impractical aspiration. He must be livid that the
debilitas
has come to haunt us, given that he is not very good at curing it. Unlike you with your magical Royal Broth. What did you say was in it?’

To ensure that Dodenho continued to feed it to Cew, Bartholomew took a leaf from Nigellus’s book and became haughty. ‘I am afraid I cannot share my professional secrets with laymen. Suffice to say that it contains a wide variety of costly and efficacious compounds.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Dodenho pleasantly, and handed him a shilling, a fee far in excess of what the physician had intended to charge. ‘Is that enough, or do you require more?’

Bartholomew wanted to refuse it, feeling that to accept would be tantamount to theft. However, if he did, Dodenho would probably be suspicious, and he was loath to risk Cew’s well-being over a few pennies. He took the coin with a sheepish nod of thanks.

Dodenho spirited him to the students’ dormitory afterwards, both keeping a wary eye out for the bellicose Wayt. When he had examined his new patients, Bartholomew trailed back to Michaelhouse and handed the shilling to a delighted Agatha. She immediately set to work on a much larger pot of ‘Royal Broth’, promising to deliver it to King’s Hall herself when it was ready.

Bartholomew met Michael in the yard. The monk was disconsolate that interviews with Shirwynk, Peyn and Hakeney had yielded nothing of value, while Stephen could not have been as ill as his maid had claimed, because he was still out.

‘I discovered that Cew and Wauter were friends, though. Very
good
friends.’

‘We already knew that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He told us so himself.’

‘No – he told us that he visited Cew to debate points of logic. It is not the same, and by all accounts he is deeply distressed by Cew’s descent into madness. And now he has disappeared.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that Frenge’s attack on Cew sent Wauter on a spree of revenge that involves murder and the removal of the University to the Fens.’

‘It does sound outlandish,’ admitted Michael. ‘But we have both encountered stranger motives in the past, and we should not discount this one until we are sure it is wrong. I suggest we visit Zachary now, to see what Wauter’s old colleagues can tell us about him.’

They arrived to find the Zachary students sitting in their hall on benches, while Morys held his lecture notes upside down and Kellawe looked shifty. Bartholomew interpreted this as meaning that the pair had been giving incendiary speeches, but did not want the Senior Proctor to know.

‘We will not talk to you until Nigellus is released,’ stated Morys, to a chorus of defiant cheers. He was wearing hose with yellow and black stripes, a black gipon with an amber belt, and a hat stippled in the same colours. Bartholomew wondered why one of his friends did not do him the kindness of advising him to choose attire that did not scream ‘unpopular stinging insect’.

‘That would be foolish,’ said Michael coldly. ‘It will only prolong his incarceration.’

‘If you are here to suggest we apologise for what Segeforde is
alleged
to have done to Anne, you have had a wasted journey,’ said Morys. ‘It was an accident, and we are not giving that money-grubbing harlot a penny.’

‘She exposed herself deliberately,’ declared Kellawe, all wild eyes and outthrust jaw. ‘And poor Segeforde was so appalled by the sight that he fell into a fatal
debilitas
.’

One lad in the front row began to splutter, struggling to turn laughter into a cough when the Franciscan glared at him, while his cronies looked away or pretended to wipe their noses in an effort to conceal their own amusement. Clearly, the late Segeforde had been rather more worldly than Kellawe would have the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner believe.

‘Segeforde’s demise puzzles me,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he could reveal what his illicit dissection had told him – one of the Zachary men might have an explanation. ‘He was well enough to protest outside the dyeworks and launch himself at Anne. But all of a sudden he is dead.’

‘It was not “all of a sudden”,’ snapped Morys. ‘He had been unwell with the
debilitas
all day, which you know perfectly well, because you physicked him.’

‘Along with Yerland,’ added Kellawe pointedly. ‘Yet it is poor Nigellus who is locked away accused of malpractice. You are fortunate the Senior Proctor is your friend, because otherwise it would be
you
in that cell.’

‘While I am here, you can tell me why you went to the King’s Head last night,’ said Michael, ignoring the accusation and glaring at the students, although Bartholomew took a step towards the door, fearing the situation might turn ugly. ‘You should not have visited a notorious town stronghold.’

‘We have the right to go wherever we please,’ declared Morys. ‘However, in the light of what happened, we have advised all University men to arm themselves. We have also recommended that they do not wear their academic tabards, on the grounds that it makes them too visible a target. I have already seen a number of lads following our advice.’

‘Then the proctors’ coffers will soon be overflowing,’ said Michael. ‘And speaking of fines, you owe three shillings for the fracas last night. If you do not pay by noon tomorrow, I shall send beadles to seize the equivalent amount in goods. I am sure you have plenty of books we can take.’

Morys was furious. ‘You cannot! The Chancellor will not permit it.’

‘You have already summoned his mother, so he has nothing to gain by opposing me now.’ Michael smiled archly. ‘You should have confined yourself to threats, because then he would have been yours to manipulate as long as you wanted. You made a tactical error, Morys.’

‘How dare you—’ began Morys, but Michael overrode him.

‘Have any of you seen Wauter? He has disappeared, and while you may look the other way while your scholars wander where they please, we have rules at Michaelhouse. Unless Wauter returns immediately, he will lose his Fellowship.’

‘We no longer consider him a friend,’ said Kellawe sullenly. ‘He made a serious mistake when he abandoned us for another foundation. As far as I am concerned, he is dead.’

‘Figuratively speaking,’ added Morys quickly, shooting his colleague a warning glance. ‘We do not mean him physical harm, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ agreed Michael flatly. ‘But when he was still alive in your eyes, did you ever talk about the University moving to the Fens?’

The Zachary men exchanged glances that were impossible to interpret.

‘No,’ replied Kellawe shiftily. ‘But we are not discussing him or anything else with you. Now go away or we will—’

He was interrupted by the sound of a door being thrust open, after which Cynric burst in.

‘A number of scholars have marched against the dyeworks,’ the book-bearer gasped. ‘And Mistress Stanmore needs you to disperse them.’

Bartholomew was out of Zachary before Cynric had finished speaking, deftly jigging away when the book-bearer tried to grab his arm to explain further. However, Cynric had dealt with far more awkward customers than agitated physicians, and Bartholomew had not gone far down Water Lane before he found himself jerked roughly to a standstill. He tried in vain to struggle free.

‘Mistress Stanmore is safely inside with the door locked,’ Cynric said briskly, ‘as are her ladies and their guards. They are in no danger, but
you
will be if you race up to the protesters alone. Everyone knows she is your sister, and they will consider you a target. Now wait for Brother Michael and his men.’

Bartholomew wanted to argue, but the monk was puffing towards them anyway, a dozen beadles at his heels. Gripping the physician’s sleeve to ensure he did not outrun them, Cynric fell in behind. They arrived to find thirty or so scholars in a howling throng in front of the dyeworks. All had demonstrated there before, but never at the same time.

Bartholomew felt the cold hand of fear grip him. Was it coincidence that they should all decide to come at once, or had someone whispered in suggestible ears?

‘Here comes Zachary to swell their number,’ muttered Michael. ‘Damn it, Cynric! I wish you had taken us outside before announcing what was happening.’

It was not just scholars who were massing in the square. So were a number of townsmen, led by Hakeney, who brazenly sported Robert’s cross around his neck. As it would be like a red flag to a bull if the demonstrating scholars saw it, Bartholomew went to suggest that he tuck it inside his tunic. Only when the townsmen surrounded him menacingly did it occur to him that it had been stupid to move away from the beadles.

‘No, I will not hide it,’ snarled Hakeney indignantly. ‘I
want
everyone to know that I retrieved it from that thieving Robert.’

The townsmen closed in even tighter, and Bartholomew braced himself for a trouncing, but suddenly Cynric was among them, hand on the sword at his side.

‘We were just talking,’ said Hakeney quickly, evidently aware of the Welshman’s military prowess. ‘No harm has been done, eh, Bartholomew? But you had better go and defend Brother Michael – those scholars look ready to attack him.’

He was right: tempers were running high in the University faction. The situation was aggravated by Kellawe, who directed a stream of invective not only against the dyeworks, but also against some of his fellow protesters. Bartholomew wondered if the Franciscan would be quite so vociferous if someone took a swipe at his pugnacious jaw and broke it.

‘We want those whores out!’ he screeched. ‘They are not welcome near Zachary. Put them by White Hostel instead – their members are not fussy about the company they keep.’