A Poisonous Plot: The Twenty First Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘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 pur
se 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.

  ‘They just want to know when his next lecture will be,’ explained Irby quickly, seeing what Bartholomew was thinking. ‘I assure you, they are not asking the outcome of this meeting.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Wauter, uncharacteristically acerbic. ‘After all, being mobbed by pupils clamouring to know our teaching plans is an occupational hazard, is it not? However, regardless of Nigellus’s popularity in the classroom, I should not like to be physicked by him. It is said that a lot of his Barnwell patients died before he took up his appointment here.’

  ‘Lies,’ said Irby firmly. ‘Put about by bitter people who cannot afford his horoscopes. He is very good at them, and no one who follows his advice ever becomes unwell. He is of the admirable opinion that it is better to prevent sickness than to cure it once it has arrived.’

  ‘Perhaps I shall commission one, then,’ said Joliet. ‘I dislike being ill. It is time-consuming, unpleasant and a nuisance. How expensive are his predictions?’

  ‘Very,’ replied Irby. ‘Although I shall have to invest in another soon, because my last one has expired and I have been feeling shabby of late. Will anyone join me for a drink at home? My brewer makes a lovely apple wine, and I broached a new cask last night.’

  It was too early for wine, as far as Bartholomew was concerned, so he left Wauter and Joliet to accept the invitation while he set off for Michaelhouse, intending to put the rest of his free day to good use by preparing lectures for the following week.

  He had not taken many steps before he heard his name called, and turned to see Michael waddling towards him. The monk had an office in St Mary the Great – besides being a member of Michaelhouse, he was also Senior Proctor, a post he had manipulated to the point where he ran the entire University. The Chancellor, who should have been in charge, was a mere figurehead, there to take the blame if things went wrong. Bartholomew had once asked the monk why he did not apply his skills to improving Michaelhouse’s precarious finances, and had received a rueful reply: Michael knew how to control people; he did not know how to generate vast sums of money.

  ‘I am on the run from Thelnetham,’ Michael explained, falling into step at Bartholomew’s side. ‘He wants me to persuade Langelee to take him back.’

  He referred to William Thelnetham, a Gilbertine canon who had resigned his Michaelhouse Fellowship to take advantage of a better opportunity. Unfortunately, the new offer had fallen through, leaving Thelnetham in limbo. He was desperate to be reinstated.

  ‘It was his decision to go,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And he went eagerly, after calling us thieves, fools and lunatics. His spiteful tongue caused a lot of unhappiness, and the College is better off without him. Besides, Wauter has his post now and we cannot afford to fund another.’

  ‘I agree and so does Langelee, but that does not stop Thelnetham from pestering me at every turn. And it is not as if I have nothing else to worry about either. Hallow-tide, for example.’

  ‘Are you expecting trouble?’ Bartholomew stifled a yawn. He had been summoned by a patient in the small hours, and he was tired. Unfortunately, he would not be catching up on sleep that night because of the feast: even if he managed to escape early, there would be far too much noise for peaceful repose.

  Michael shot him a sour glance. ‘How can you even ask such a question? The town is furious with the University over the business with King’s Hall, and there will certainly be skirmishes later, when too much wine and ale have been swallowed by both sides.’

  ‘What business with King’s Hall?’

  Scholars and townsmen were always at loggerheads, and Bartholomew found it difficult to keep track of all their disagreements, especially during term time, when he was struggling to balance classes containing an impractical number of students with the demands of an enormous medical practice.

  Michael regarded him balefully. ‘Have you listened to nothing I have told you this week? It is the latest crisis to assail our poor studium generale.’

  Bartholomew racked his brain for answers. ‘Do you mean the case of trespass that King’s Hall has brought against some drunken brewer?’

  ‘That “drunken brewer” did a lot of damage. He let the pigs out, chased the geese, and terrified John Cew out of his wits by leaping out at him from behind a buttress. Indeed, Cew has still not recovered, and his colleagues want you to visit later, to see what can be done.’

  Bartholomew nodded, but thought the antics of one silly townsman should not have been given so much attention. In his opinion, John Wayt, who was in charge of King’s Hall while its regular Warden hobnobbed with royalty in Winchester, should have ignored the matter in the interests of good relations.

  ‘Cambridge has never wanted us here,’ Michael went on bitterly. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether our ancestors should have chosen another town. Peterborough, for example. I liked what I saw when we were there last summer.’

  ‘It is a pretty place,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But I imagine its people would have objected just as vigorously to a lot of noisy and opinionated academics descending on them.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Michael frowned worriedly. ‘I have had to order all my beadles to work tonight, because there is a rumour that Frenge – the marauding brewer – plans a repeat performance, and there are plenty of hotheads in the town who are eager to join him.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. Of all the Colleges, King’s Hall was best able to protect itself, not only because it boasted sturdy walls and a powerful gatehouse, but also because many of its scholars were the sons of noblemen, well-versed in the art of combat. Frenge and his supporters were likely to get themselves killed if they staged an invasion.

  ‘A massacre will do nothing to calm troubled waters,’ he said worriedly. ‘Let us hope your beadles can talk some sense into them.’

  They reached Michaelhouse to hear a lot of noisy activity emanating from the kitchens. Agatha – technically the laundress but in reality head of the domestic staff – was in the midst of the maelstrom, screeching orders as she oversaw preparations for the festivities to come. Bartholomew smiled at the cacophony, and surveyed the College that was his home.

  Its core w
as a fine hall with an oriel window, where the scholars took their lessons and meals. Adjacent to it was the conclave, while beneath were the kitchens and a range of pantries, butteries and storerooms. At right angles to them were the two accommodation wings, the older, smaller north wing more dilapidated than the newer southern one. A wall completed the square, against which had been built stables and a porters’ lodge. There were more outbuildings behind the hall, as well as a long garden that ran down to the river.

  The Hallow-tide celebrations were to begin with a special Mass in church, and most scholars had already donned their finery, ready to go. Those in holy orders were bedecked in their best habits, while the seculars wore their College uniform of black, but with ceremonial fur trimmings to mark the special occasion. Langelee saw Bartholomew and Michael, and came to talk to them, William trailing at his heels.

  ‘Have you heard the rumours?’ the Master asked. ‘That Frenge the brewer will lead another assault on King’s Hall tonight?’

  Michael nodded. ‘My beadles will stop him.’

  ‘They had better,’ said Langelee. ‘I do not like the mood that bubbles here at the moment, and another raid by Frenge will certainly ignite a spat.’

  They all jumped when there was a sudden roar of delight from the High Street. Then smoke wafted into the sky above the rooftops, a few wisps at first, followed by bigger billows.

  ‘Will Lenne must have lit the bonfire that he and his apprentices built at the back of our church,’ said Langelee angrily. ‘I asked him to move it to a safe distance, but he refused, on the grounds that that particular plot is common land. I hope it does not do us any damage. We cannot afford repairs – at least, not until we have secured some wealthy benefactors.’

  ‘We should have dismantled it, as I suggested,’ growled William. ‘Because the town will not pay if anything goes wrong. And if you want an example, look at how Frenge is refusing to make good on the destruction he wreaked on King’s Hall.’