A Poisonous Plot by Susanna Gregory Page A

relations, and as refreshments invariably included a drink as well as a soul-cake, few were sober. Bartholomew was right: it was no time for two scholars to be abroad without good reason.
    ‘There are those Zachary men again,’ said Michael irritably. ‘What are they doing out in defiance of my instructions?’
    Bartholomew’s stomach lurched when he saw that the scholars in question had gathered in a circle around two women, one of whom was his sister. Without considering the consequences, he surged towards them, shoving them away from her with considerable vigour.
    ‘It is all right, Matt,’ said Edith quickly, as blades appeared in a dozen outraged hands. ‘We are only discussing a consignment of red cloth.’
    ‘Were you?’ asked Michael, hurrying over to regard the hostel men archly. ‘Why, when your uniform is grey and cream? And speaking of academic tabards, you seem to have forgotten yours. Where are they?’
    ‘We decided to dispense with them.’ The speaker was an older man, a master rather than a student. He wore a black and yellow gipon – a knee-length tunic with sleeves. Its colour, coupled with his small size and bristling demeanour, were redolent of a wasp.
    ‘You cannot dispense with them,’ said Michael irritably. ‘They are—’
    ‘We do not answer to you, Brother,’ interrupted the man sharply.
    ‘Oh, yes, you do,’ countered Michael. ‘I am the Senior Proctor.’
    ‘And I am John Morys, bursar of Zachary and kin to the Chancellor,’ the wasp flashed back. ‘We make the rules for our own scholars, and care nothing for your silly strictures.’
    ‘Too right,’ agreed the second older man among the throng, who was remarkable for a pair of startlingly purple lips. ‘I am Peter Segeforde, Zachary’s philosopher. What Morys says is true.’
    ‘Is that so?’ asked Michael mildly. ‘And does Principal Irby agree?’
    ‘Of course he does,’ replied Segeforde shortly. ‘He is no fool.’
    ‘Then he is included in the fine I am about to levy,’ said Michael sweetly. ‘A penny from every man in your hostel, for insolence and flouting University rules.’
    ‘You cannot,’ said Morys coldly. ‘Not without the Chancellor’s agreement – and Tynkell and I have recently become kin by virtue of his mother’s latest marriage. He would never dare cross a member of her new family, because she would skin him alive.’
    ‘She is Lady Joan de Hereford,’ said Segeforde, puce lips curling into a smirk. ‘Not only is she formidable, but she is also a friend of the Queen, and thus in a position to make life difficult for any man who dares cross her. So go home, Brother, and keep your nose out of our affairs.’
    ‘I think you will find that Tynkell fears me a lot more than his dam, no matter how ferocious and well-connected she happens to be,’ retorted Michael. ‘Now will you return to your hostel willingly or will you bear the shame of being marched there by my beadles?’
    While they argued, Bartholomew turned to Edith. He peered at her in the darkness to reassure himself that she was well – he had not forgotten the depth of her sorrow during the first few weeks of her bereavement.
    ‘You scholars!’ she whispered, and he smiled when he heard the laughter in her voice. ‘If you are not arguing with us, you are squabbling with each other. I have never known a more quarrelsome horde.’
    ‘It is because they have too much time on their hands,’ explained the woman who was with her. ‘They would not be so querulous if they did an honest day’s work.’
    ‘This is Anne de Rumburgh, Matt,’ said Edith. ‘I told you about her the other night.’
    ‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, then remembered his manners and bowed politely.
    Anne favoured him with a smile that was, by any standards, full of sensual promise. She was taller than Edith, and her kirtle was cut to show off the voluptuous curves of her figure; its neckline was lower than was currently fashionable and certainly