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

by Susanna Gregory

  Michael started to argue, but then stopped and became thoughtful. ‘You said at the time that he was trying to communicate something. Failing that, the message would eventually have been found by whoever changes the altar cloth – the sacristan or his assistants, but definitely not the almoner. But why would Robert kill Hamo? He is a friar, and a good one. Such men do not usually dispatch their colleagues.’

  ‘Because Robert is the strategist.’ Bartholomew continued quickly when he saw Michael’s immediate disbelief. ‘He is one of those who thinks the University should decant to the Fens.’

  ‘So does half the University,’ Michael pointed out.

  ‘But it makes sense! Frenge also died here – in a place that Robert knows. But this is no time to speculate. Our best option now is to go to the refectory and see what Robert has to say about his name written in blood beneath the altar.’

  He began to hurry there before Michael could object, arriving to find the friars concluding a modest repast of bread and ale. They were standing and Prior Joliet had just finished saying grace. They all looked up in astonishment when Bartholomew burst in. Robert was not there.

  ‘Where is your almoner?’ Bartholomew demanded.

  Joliet blinked at the abrupt question. ‘He has gone to Michaelhouse. Why? And how did you get in? Our front gate is locked.’

  ‘Gone to Michaelhouse to do what?’ asked Bartholomew in alarm.

  ‘To deliver wine,’ said Joliet, regarding Bartholomew in bemusement. ‘It is a gift from your sister, but the mood of the town is such that she was too afraid to take it herself, so she asked Robert to oblige. I advised him to leave it until tomorrow, but he—’

  ‘Edith is not in the habit of sending us wine,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘And even if she were, she has a whole household to do her bidding and would not have asked Robert. Moreover, she would not think it necessary for the stuff to arrive tonight, when the town is alive with unrest.’

  ‘So what does it—’ began Michael.

  Bartholomew cut across him. ‘Robert aims to do Michaelhouse harm, no doubt to cause further strife between University and town. Which is more evidence that he is the strategist!’

  ‘Now just a moment,’ objected Joliet indignantly. ‘Edith probably chose Robert to be her agent because he is an almoner, used to giving things away. He—’

  ‘How did she ask him?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Did she come here?’

  ‘No, she sent a message.’ It was Overe who replied. ‘I have it here.’ He reached into the scrip that hung from his belt and produced a folded piece of parchment.

  ‘I have seen this writing before,’ said Bartholomew, snatching it from him. ‘Or rather, I have seen letters penned with this nib – it has a nick, which makes all its upstrokes distinctive.’

  ‘Where have you seen it?’ asked Joliet warily.

  ‘On letters to Stephen. Two informed him that Michaelhouse and Gonville are on the brink of moving to the Fens, and a third told him to persuade Hakeney to steal Robert’s cross.’

  ‘Robert’s cross,’ pounced Michael. ‘He is unlikely to encourage a crime against himself. And why would he bother to forge a note from Edith? He could have just told everyone that she asked him to deliver the wine and no one would know any different. You are wrong, Matt.’

  ‘He would not have been allowed out without one,’ said Overe. ‘The rest of us would have refused to let him go – on account of the danger – but this letter is very persuasive …’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Bartholomew, scanning it again. ‘It is also nothing Edith would have written. Ergo, Robert penned it himself, aiming to escape the convent and further his nasty plans.’

  ‘My almoner is a good man,’ said Joliet quietly. ‘Like all my brethren. Indeed, there is only one Austin whose character I would question – the one in your College.’

  ‘Wauter?’ asked Bartholomew, his stomach churning.

  ‘Well, he did charge off to the Fens without asking permission,’ Joliet went on. ‘And I am told he took his Martilogium with him, which means he is unlikely to return.’

  ‘Go to your chapel and lock the door,’ instructed Michael. ‘I am afraid your front gate will no longer protect you. Do not come out until I tell you it is safe to do so.’

  ‘And if you see Robert, toll the bell,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Michael will send help.’

  ‘But why?’ cried Joliet, distressed. ‘I thought we had just proved that you are wrong, and that Robert is innocent of … whatever it is you think he has done.’

  ‘There is no time to explain,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will just have to trust us.’

  Dusk had settled across Cambridge as Bartholomew and Michael ran along the High Street, and mischief was in the air. Lights blazed from Gonville Hall, and its gates were open to reveal scholars massing in its yard. Michael stopped to demand whether they had heard about the curfew.

  ‘Yes, but we shall have no University left if we do not stop the defectors from disappearing into the marshes,’ said an undergraduate, a burly youth whose missing front teeth suggested he was no stranger to brawls. ‘You should thank us for what we aim to do tonight.’

  ‘You will stay in and behave,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Where is Rougham?’

  ‘Out with a patient,’ replied the lad, ‘and the other Fellows have locked themselves in the conclave. Perhaps you should join them there, Brother. It will be safer for you.’

  Michael struggled not to lose his temper. ‘Where are your academic tabards? You do know I can fine you for not wearing them?’

  ‘They make too obvious a target for our enemies, so we elected to don secular garb tonight,’ replied the lad. He flicked imaginary dust from his fur-trimmed gipon, a gesture that suggested vanity had played no small role in the decision to defy the University’s rules on what constituted suitable attire.

  Michael was used to dealing with insolent youths, and his steely glance had caused many a knee to wobble, but Gonville’s boys had been drinking. It was also too dark for the full force of his proctorly glower to be felt, and Bartholomew knew that, although they meekly closed their gates as the Senior Proctor ordered, it would not be long before they marched out.

  In St Michael’s Lane, a few scholars from Ovyng and Physwick hostels were slinking along in the shadows, cloaked and hooded against recognition, many with bundles over their shoulders. Others were calling them back, some issuing threats and ultimatums that were unlikely to encourage the renegades to stay.

  ‘It is like trying to stem the tide,’ said Michael in dismay, as he hammered on Michaelhouse’s sturdy gate. ‘The strategist has been clever indeed.’

  The porter opened the door to reveal a scene of efficient activity. Some students had been set to patrol the walls, while others were filling butts with water should there be a fire. Langelee was in charge, standing serenely in the middle of the yard as he issued instructions to Fellows, students and staff alike. Even Agatha was scurrying to obey, and was in the process of putting all the College’s valuables in a box so it could be buried.

  ‘Buried?’ asked Michael in alarm.

  ‘It is the best way to keep it safe from looters,’ explained the Master. ‘I have been in enough dangerous situations to know that our very existence is in question tonight. Vengeful hostel men or townsfolk may batter their way in, but they will not get our precious treasures. Such as they are.’

  ‘Good.’ Michael cast a quick glance around. ‘Is everyone here?’

  Langelee nodded. ‘Do not worry, Brother. The other Heads of Houses might have lost control of their lads, but I still command Michaelhouse.’

  ‘Robert,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘Did he come to deliver wine?’

  ‘Yes – some of that nasty apple brew from Shirwynk, which he said was a gift from your sister, although I should be surprised if that were true. She knows I do not like it.’

  ‘Has anyone had any?’ demanded Bartholomew.

  ‘Not yet. Robert said we should share it out t
onight, to fortify ourselves for the coming battle, but Clippesby started clamouring some tale about pigeons and poison and he unsettled me, to be frank, so I put it in your storeroom. Why—’

  Bartholomew shoved past him and ran to his quarters, where the cask was standing in the middle of the floor. He decanted some of its contents into a cup, and sniffed it before swirling it around to inspect its consistency. It looked and smelled innocuous enough. He stared at it. It was reckless to sip something he was sure was dangerous, but time was short and he needed answers. He put a drop on his tongue, and immediately tasted the sickly sweetness of the wine. It was followed by a slight burning sensation. He spat it out of the window.

  ‘He added a caustic substance to it,’ he told Langelee and Michael. ‘Not enough to kill instantly – like the stuff he forced Frenge to swallow – but enough to make us very ill. And all so that Edith would be blamed.’

  ‘Why would Robert want that?’ asked Langelee, startled.

  ‘To create another reason for the University to be angry with the town,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘And another reason for people to rail against the dyeworks. Robert is a clever man – the strategist is a good name for him.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Well? Is this evidence enough for you to accept that he is the mastermind behind all this mayhem?’

  Michael nodded slowly.

  ‘Then go and stop him,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I will dispose of this “gift” and keep the College safe. Now hurry, before he destroys us all.’

  ‘Perhaps there are advantages to having a battle-honed Master,’ said Bartholomew, as he and Michael raced back towards to the Austin Priory in the hope that Robert had returned. ‘At least we know that Michaelhouse is safe in his hands.’

  ‘Nowhere is safe tonight,’ said Michael grimly. ‘And Langelee knows it. Why do you think he is burying our valuables? He has never done that before.’

  Bartholomew shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Do you think it is that bad?’

  ‘I would not be surprised if the whole town was in flames by tomorrow,’ came the sombre response. ‘Especially if we do not find Robert and prevent him from implementing more of his felonious plans.’

  CHAPTER 14

  Trouble found Bartholomew and Michael long before they reached the Austin Priory. Gonville’s students were out, and they had been joined by lads from King’s Hall. They were facing a small pack of scholars from the hostels, led by Gilby, the vociferous priest from White. Some carried pitch torches, and the light they shed cast eerie shadows on the surrounding houses.

  ‘I thought you had gone to the Fens,’ said Michael, displeased to see Gilby in the thick of more disorder. ‘And that you were sick with the debilitas.’

  ‘I made a miraculous recovery,’ replied the priest. ‘God be praised.’

  ‘Is there any apple wine in the marshes?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or sweet foods?’

  ‘No,’ replied the priest shortly. ‘There is nothing debauched about our new studium generale. It is a fine place, based on sober virtues. And it is growing fast, which is why I am here – to encourage other decent men to join us. But these louts will not let us pass.’

  ‘Stand aside,’ Michael told the College men tiredly. ‘We are not tyrants, to keep them here by force. If they want to live in rush hovels and listen to lectures given under dripping trees, then that is their decision.’

  ‘There should be a statute forbidding anyone from slinking off in the middle of term,’ said the gap-toothed Gonville boy. Michael took a step towards him, at which point he decided it was imprudent to challenge the Senior Proctor and so shuffled to one side. His cronies did likewise.

  ‘Go,’ said Michael to Gilby, indicating the path to freedom. ‘But bear in mind that once you do, you can never return. We will not reinstate rebels.’

  ‘Why would we return?’ asked Gilby haughtily. ‘Your University is steeped in corruption – especially Michaelhouse, which was as poor as a church mouse last year, but now is drowning in money. And I know why: donations from the dyeworks. The latest bribe was a cask of wine. Poor Almoner Robert said that Edith Stanmore insisted he deliver it immediately, despite the perils of being abroad tonight.’

  Before Bartholomew could inform him that Edith had done no such thing, there was a shout, and they turned to see the scholars of Zachary Hostel marching towards them. They were led by Nigellus, although Morys was nowhere to be seen. Every man was sumptuously attired and carried an impressive array of weapons – swords, daggers, cudgels and even crossbows. There was a collective hiss as King’s Hall drew their own blades and took up fighting formation. Gilby barked an order, and his followers did likewise.

  ‘No,’ snapped Michael. ‘The town would love to see us tear each other to pieces. Do you want to provide their entertainment tonight?’

  ‘We will defeat the hostel scum, then teach the town a lesson,’ shouted someone from King’s Hall to cheers from his cronies. ‘The priest who promised to absolve them of the sin of attacking us is dead, so we will all burn in Hell together.’

  ‘Almoner Robert has been granted a licence to take his place,’ announced Nigellus, although Bartholomew was sure it could not be true – there had not been enough time to make such arrangements with the Bishop. ‘So you will burn alone.’

  ‘Take your students home, Nigellus,’ begged Bartholomew, seeing the hostels take courage from his words and square up for a brawl. ‘You are a physician. You cannot want a battle that—’

  The rest of his sentence was lost as the Colleges surged forward with a baying roar, and for a moment, all was a blur of flailing weapons, screams and curses. Those who had been holding torches dropped them in order to fight, with the result that the street was suddenly plunged into darkness, making it all but impossible to tell friend from foe. A few torches continued to flicker on the ground, but rather than illuminating what was happening, they posed a fire hazard, and more than one combatant backed away to slap at burning clothing.

  Fortunately, the skirmish did not last long, and Bartholomew had done no more than haul out his childbirth forceps to defend himself before he sensed some of the belligerents running away. The trickle quickly became a rout, and then the street was full of the rattle of fleeing footsteps and the cheers of the victors. The dropped torches were snatched up to show that the hostels had won the encounter, thanks to a timely influx of reinforcements from the foundations along Water Lane.

  ‘That showed the rogues!’ howled Gilby, his voice only just audible over the triumphant yells. ‘Now we shall hunt down more of those College vermin and show them what—’

  ‘No, you will not,’ bellowed Michael furiously. Bartholomew was relieved to see him unharmed. ‘Take your recruits and go – and do not show your face here again.’

  ‘Not until I have trounced King’s Hall,’ countered Gilby, and before Michael could stop him, he had dashed away, his torch acting as a bobbing beacon to his followers.

  Soon all that remained were the injured, a dozen or so scattered across the street, moaning or crying for help. Bartholomew grabbed a light and went to see what might be done for them.

  ‘Does anyone need last rites, Matt?’ asked Michael urgently. ‘Or may I go?’

  ‘No one from Zachary needs a priest,’ came a familiar voice. It was Nigellus, one hand clasped to his hip. His voice was gloating even in his pain. ‘Almoner Robert has already absolved us for anything we might do tonight. But come here, Brother. I have something to tell you.’

  Michael knelt next to him, but Bartholomew’s attention was snagged by the student who lay groaning at his feet, and he did not hear what Nigellus whispered to the monk. He glanced up several minutes later to see Michael disappearing into the darkness, leaving him alone with the casualties of the encounter, all of whom pleaded with him to tend them first. For the second time that evening, he found himself thinking of Poitiers – of the battle’s aftermath, when he had been similarly inundated with piteous calls for help.

  He moved from one to the next, de
termining quickly who could be saved and who was a lost cause. He stemmed bleeding from five serious wounds, reset a broken arm and reduced a dislocated shoulder before reaching Nigellus, who had a crossbow bolt lodged in his hip. It was not easy to remove, and Nigellus howled so loudly that Bartholomew feared the screams would bring back the hostel men, who would almost certainly assume he was being deliberately heavy-handed.

  He was acutely aware of movements in the shadows nearby, as people slunk this way and that, but it was too dark to see whether they were friendly or hostile. All he could do was keep working and hope they would realise that he was not a ‘damned butcher’ as Nigellus was shrieking, and that his aim was to mend, not torture, the injured.

  By the time he had finished with Nigellus, the other casualties had either staggered away by themselves or been carried home by friends – only two corpses remained. He was as taut as a bowstring, wondering how he was going to tote Nigellus to safety on his own. He was relieved when Tulyet, Dickon and a band of soldiers arrived.

  ‘The whole town is running mad,’ the Sheriff reported tersely. ‘We are a hair’s breadth from a riot such as we have never seen.’

  Dickon covered the faces of the dead with their cloaks, and Tulyet nodded silent approval – although a cold shiver ran down Bartholomew’s spine when he read not compassion in the eerie red face, but ghoulish fascination. More sounds of violence were carried on the wind, and Tulyet issued a stream of orders to his men that had them scurrying off in all directions.

  ‘I should have stayed in Barnwell,’ Nigellus was muttering. His face was ashen, and Bartholomew wondered if he would survive the shock of the wound and what had been necessary to treat it. ‘I had a good life there, but Robert said I was wasted, and should become a scholar …’

  ‘Almoner Robert?’ demanded Bartholomew, crouching next to him. ‘Why? He is not a member of Zachary. Or was he actually inviting you to become an Austin?’