A Poisonous Plot (46 page)

‘Lady Joan de Hereford,’ announced Wauter in a ringing voice. ‘Wife of Robert Morys of Brington Manor and friend of Her Majesty the Queen. And with her are members of the royal guard – men who know how to deal with those who break the King’s peace.’

‘What is going on here?’ demanded Joan. ‘Why are you not at your devotions? It is time for morning service, is it not? To be attended by scholars
and
townsfolk.’

‘We are about to teach the University a lesson,’ shouted Hakeney, hopping from foot to foot in excitement, so that the cross he wore around his neck bounced wildly and was in danger of knocking his teeth out. However, if he was expecting support from his ruffianly friends, he was disappointed, because they shot away from him as though he had the plague.

Joan fixed him with a hard stare. ‘You intend to attack my son?’

Hakeney swallowed hard when he found himself standing in splendid isolation. ‘Not him, specifically, but scholars in general. They are an unruly horde, given to stealing crucifixes and suing people. Not to mention wearing clothes that make them look like courtiers. Not that there is anything wrong with courtiers, of course,’ he added prudently.

‘I am glad to hear you think so,’ said Joan coolly, then brought her basilisk gaze to bear on the assembled scholars. ‘The King will not be pleased to learn that you would rather brawl than attend your religious duties. So shall I tell him, or will you go to your churches and chapels?’

Wayt opened his mouth to argue, but she fixed him with a steely glare, and the words died in his throat. However, it was the knights who convinced him to stand down – one spurred his enormous destrier forward and the Acting Warden was obliged to scramble away or risk being knocked over. The other warriors followed suit, drawing broadswords as they did so, and the crowd scattered like leaves in the wind. A skirmish had been averted, aided by the fact that dawn had brought a drenching drizzle that encouraged people not to linger anyway.

‘Hello, Mother,’ said Tynkell, advancing with a curious crab-like scuttle that made those watching wonder if he aimed to embrace her or fall at her feet.

Lady Joan regarded him stonily. ‘I thought Master Wauter was exaggerating when he came to tell me to hurry because there was trouble. I am not impressed, William. You are Chancellor – you should nip this sort of thing in the bud. As should the Sheriff.’

‘He tried,’ shouted Dickon indignantly. ‘He is my father, and a very good leader. He has been teaching me things.’

Joan’s eyebrows went up when she saw the scarlet face, but then her expression softened. ‘And you are a worthy pupil, I am sure. Come here, and tell me your name.’

‘Why am I not surprised that she has taken a liking to him?’ muttered Wauter, coming to stand next to Bartholomew and Michael. ‘The Devil sees his own like, I suppose.’

‘Where have you been?’ demanded Michael frostily.

‘Fetching her,’ replied Wauter. ‘I wrote a letter explaining why, and left it with Prior Joliet. Did he not give it to you? Lady Joan and I are old friends, and I thought she would give her son the strength he needs to lead the University in its time of crisis.’

‘You consider Dick and me unequal to the task?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘I thought you might need help,’ said Wauter quietly. ‘That is all.’

‘Well, I am glad you brought the King’s knights,’ said Tulyet, watching Lady Joan and Dickon talk animatedly. ‘I am not sure we could have quelled that battle without them, and people would have died.’

‘How long will she and her entourage stay?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting the turmoil would start again the moment they left.

‘Until Christmas at least,’ replied Wauter. ‘Quite long enough to put us all in order.’

About a month after the incident at the Trumpington Gate, Michael was able to report with satisfaction that the fledgling
studium generale
in the Fens was no more. When the first serious frost settled across the marshes, most of its scholars decided that it was no place to spend the winter, and began to trickle away. Eventually only a stubborn handful remained, but not enough to warrant being called a university or even a college.

The same evening, he and Bartholomew met in the conclave. It was bitterly cold, but there was no fire, because Michaelhouse’s finances did not stretch to wood, and the only refreshments on offer were sour ale and stale bread. They joined William and Wauter at the table where, as usual, the discussion turned to the strategist and his schemes.

‘Joliet manipulated everything and everyone to achieve what he wanted,’ said Wauter, shaking his head sadly. ‘He persuaded Stephen to find a way around the town’s by-laws for Edith to start her dyeworks, knowing that people would object and there would be trouble—’

‘Stephen, who was so miserly that he insisted on finishing the expensive sucura he had bought, which brought about his death last week,’ said William with unfriarly satisfaction.

‘He added it secretly to his Royal Broth,’ said Bartholomew, wishing he had guessed sooner why the lawyer had failed to rally. ‘He told me just before he died that he found the mixture unpalatable on its own.’

‘It is difficult to mourn him, though,’ said Michael. ‘Even on his deathbed, he was encouraging people to sue each other over the slightest offence. I shall not miss his agitating.’

‘The apple wine and sucura claimed twenty-five lives in the end,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Six from Barnwell, Letia, Lenne, Arnold, Irby, Yerland, Segeforde and Stephen, plus three of my patients, four of Rougham’s and five more of Nigellus’s. Other than Yerland and Segeforde, all would probably have survived had they been younger or fitter.’

‘I wonder how Nigellus likes practising in the Fens,’ said William smugly. ‘It is a far cry from his comfortable existence here, and I am sure he cannot be happy with only half a dozen impoverished fanatics to tend.’

‘Well, he did want the University to move there,’ said Michael, ‘so he cannot object to the choices he was offered: prison or permanent exile in the marshes. And at least out in the bogs he can call himself Senior Physician, although it is not a title he deserves. Did I tell you that he was lying when he claimed to have trained at Oxford? He was there less than a month before they tired of his arrogance and threw him out. He certainly never graduated.’

‘So he was a fraud,’ mused Wauter. ‘I always sensed something unsavoury about him, which was one reason why I was glad to accept a post here when Irby told me that Nigellus had been invited to join Zachary.’

‘Along with the promise of decent company, of course,’ put in Michael.

‘Joliet had his just deserts, though,’ said William. ‘The Austins refused to have him in their cemetery, so he went behind the compost heap in St Botolph’s. Personally, I think his helpmeets should join him there, but some still live.’

‘Not Robert,’ said Michael. ‘He hanged himself in his cell after a visit from Lady Joan. Meanwhile, everyone else from Zachary has been banished to France.’

‘They did a lot of harm,’ said Wauter sadly. ‘Robert killed Arnold and Hamo, Morys poisoned Segeforde and Yerland, and they both worked together to dispatch Frenge. And Joliet strangled Kellawe.’

‘But not before Kellawe had run amok in the dyeworks,’ said William disapprovingly. ‘Twice. He should never have been allowed to wear a Franciscan habit – he should have been an Austin instead.’

‘I am going to resign my Michaelhouse Fellowship,’ said Wauter. He raised a hand when a startled William began to blurt an apology. ‘Not because you just insulted my Order, Father, but because my colleagues have asked me to be their Prior. I think I must accept.’

‘Why?’ demanded William, speaking belligerently to mask his dismay. The weeks since the crisis at the Trumpington Gate had allowed Wauter to become a popular and trusted colleague, and the Franciscan did not want to lose him. ‘If you go anywhere, it should be to the Fens – you did say that you thought the University should decant there.’

‘I was mistaken,’ said Wauter quietly. ‘Our future is here. The townsfolk do not want us, so it is our duty to change their minds – which I can do better in a convent that dispenses alms than in a college that can barely afford to feed itself.’

‘You will be an excellent Head of House,’ said Michael warmly. ‘And as Joliet and Robert are no longer available to teach our students, you can do it instead. We will not let you escape from us that easily!’

Wauter laughed. ‘You have no money to pay me, and I should concentrate on my
Martilogium
anyway. Prior Joliet was right about that, at least – it is an important work.’

He stood to leave, and his place at the table was taken by Clippesby, who had the College cat in his arms. The Dominican was sorry when he heard the news about Wauter.

‘Please do not invite Thelnetham to take his place,’ he begged. ‘He was such a divisive force, and the College is much nicer without him. But what a pity about Wauter! He is a good man.’

‘He is,’ agreed Michael. ‘Although there was a time when I thought he might be the strategist. For example, when he left us to do all the work in the church on All Souls’ Day, then returned to make that enigmatic remark about Michaelhouse’s stained soul, I thought he had been up to no good. But do you know where he went?’

‘Yes – to move the remains of the shed that was set alight behind the church,’ replied Clippesby. ‘He thought it was unsightly and might count against us as we tried to attract benefactors. The pigeons that live in the graveyard told me.’

Michael sighed irritably. ‘You knew? You might have told me!’

‘You did not ask,’ replied the Dominican serenely.

‘Still, at least some good came out of this miserable affair,’ Michael went on. ‘Matt is hailed as the man who discovered a cure for the
debilitas
.’

‘Royal Broth is not a cure,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is an easily digestible—’

‘It is a cure,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Our reputation is shaky at the moment, and we need all the goodwill we can muster. Having the physician responsible for eliminating the
debilitas
helps.’

‘But I did not eliminate it,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘The removal of lead salts from the town’s diet means there have been no further cases, but the victims still—’

‘Royal Broth is selling as fast as Agatha can make it,’ grinned William. ‘The money is just pouring in.’

‘She charges for it?’ asked Bartholomew in dismay.

‘Yes,’ said William. ‘But do not look so horrified. Only rich folk were able to buy sucura and apple wine, so they are the ones who need the remedy. They can afford to pay her inflated prices. Of course, I am not sure we shall ever rid the College of the stench of onion and garlic …’

‘Not everyone has recovered, though,’ said Clippesby sadly. ‘Cew remains mad.’

‘I do not think his affliction was caused by lead salts,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I am at a loss as to what else it could have been. Ailments of the mind are a mystery to me.’

‘No they are not – they are just so complex that you cannot explain them to laymen.’ William shrugged when Bartholomew shot him an uncomprehending glance. ‘People will think less of you if you confess that you are as perplexed by his condition as everyone else.’

‘But I
am
perplexed.’

‘Then ask King’s Hall for Cew’s head when he dies,’ suggested William. ‘You can anatomise it and find the answers you need. But until then – bluster. For the good of the College.’

‘Now that Warden Shropham is back, and Wayt no longer runs King’s Hall, Dodenho has admitted that Cew lost his reason several weeks before Frenge frightened him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Wayt lied purely to win easy money from the brewery.’

‘Wayt was not the only one to spout untruths,’ said Michael. ‘So did Hakeney.’

‘You mean his claim that Frenge knew Wauter?’ asked William. ‘Yes – it was pure malice on his part. I challenged him about it and he made a full confession.’

‘And speaking of Frenge, we were suspicious that he and Letia died within hours of each other,’ said Michael. ‘But it
was
coincidence. Of course, Frenge was no innocent victim. On the day he was killed, he made two separate attempts at blackmail – King’s Hall over the sucura he himself had sold them, and then Robert and Morys over a conversation he overheard.’

The door opened at that point, and Langelee entered, his face grey with worry and fatigue. He looked so unwell that William, not usually a man to concern himself with the needs of others, scrambled to his feet so the Master could sit.

‘We failed,’ said Langelee hoarsely. ‘We gambled everything we had – and more – to win a benefactor, but the bad feeling Joliet generated in the town means that donors are withdrawing offers, not making them. Michaelhouse will be dissolved before the end of term.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Bartholomew, speaking over the immediate chorus of dismay. ‘Lady Joan was impressed by Edith’s efforts to reform the Frail Sisters, but thinks that dyeing is too arduous a trade for ladies. She told Tynkell to award my sister the contract for sewing the University’s robes instead.’

‘And Tynkell did it?’ cried William. ‘Our colleagues will wear garments made by whores? What will Oxford think?’

‘
Ex
-whores,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘Well, mostly. Edith is relieved – she has accepted that the dyeworks are problematic, and is delighted to be able to provide her staff with safer work.’

‘I am glad the dyeworks will close,’ sighed Langelee. ‘They stink to high heaven. But what does this have to do with Michaelhouse? Or will your sister employ us as seamstresses? I might accept – I shall need to earn a crust somehow once the College folds.’

‘She has given the dyeworks to us,’ explained Bartholomew. He held out a piece of parchment. ‘I have the deed here. It includes not just the building, but a sizeable tract of land and that nice new pier.’

Langelee snatched it from him and the colour slowly seeped back into his cheeks. When he looked up, his eyes were bright with tears. ‘We are saved! God bless her.’

‘The revenue from the dock alone will keep us in victuals and fuel,’ said Clippesby, beaming happily. ‘And we can sell the building to—’