A Poisonous Plot

‘I am not sure whether to be pleased or worried,’ said Brother Michael to the other Fellows as they repaired to the conclave — the comfortable chamber adjoining the hall that was off-limits to students. Michael was a portly Benedictine who taught theology, and was Bartholomew’s closest friend. ‘On one hand, I am delighted that we won the honour of hosting the reception after the All Souls’ debate this year, but on the other, it will cost a lot of money — money we do not have.’

‘It is an investment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, the Master. He had been chief henchman for an archbishop before deciding that life as a scholar would be more interesting, and still looked more like a warrior than an academic. He knew little of the philosophy he was supposed to teach, but he was fair and level-headed, and his Fellows had no complaints about his rule. ‘When the town’s wealthy elite see the princely show we put on, they will fall over themselves to give us money.’

‘Will they?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. He had never understood economics. ‘What if our ostentatious display makes them think we have too much already?’

‘It is a matter of confidence,’ explained Langelee. ‘No one wants to fund a venture that is on the brink of collapse — which describes us at the moment, unfortunately — but they will certainly want to be associated with one they think is flourishing.’

‘Because of their sin-steeped souls,’ elaborated Father William, a grubby Franciscan whose oily hair sprouted untidily around a tonsure that was never the same shape two days in a row. ‘Which need prayers if they are to escape Purgatory. The rich are eager to support foundations that will still be saying Masses for them in a thousand years, and our ruse will convince them that we are such a place. Our gamble will pay off, you can be sure of that.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Bartholomew, less sanguine about the risks they were taking. If they failed, Michaelhouse would never repay the debts that were accumulating, and the College would be dissolved.

Langelee waved away his concerns. ‘I have invited a whole host of prosperous merchants to our feast tonight, in the hope that they will brag to their cronies about the lavish way in which they were entertained. And more of them will experience our generosity at the student debate-’

‘At the disceptatio, Master,’ corrected William. ‘It sounds more illustrious, and we should do all we can to stress the grandeur of the occasion.’ He grinned impishly. ‘Even if it is only one where a lot of youths pontificate on matters they do not understand.’

‘-when we shall provide refreshments fit for a king,’ finished Langelee. ‘Of course, we have other irons in the fire, too. Namely Prior Joliet and his fellow Austins.’

The Austin friars, unlike their monastic counterparts the Augustinian canons, lived in the town among the people to whom they ministered. The Order had arrived in Cambridge almost seventy years ago, and occupied a tract of land between the King’s Ditch and the Market Square.

‘They will give us money?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Priories did not usually extend their largesse to Colleges — they had their own communities to fund.

‘Not money,’ explained Langelee. ‘Labour. First, they have agreed to teach all the new theologians we enrolled last year-’

‘The ones we took to get the fees,’ put in William, lest the physician should have forgotten.

‘-and second, they are painting that lovely mural for us in the hall,’ finished Langelee.

Bartholomew regarded him in alarm. ‘They have not donated this labour — they expect to be paid! Prior Joliet was telling me only yesterday how he plans to spend what they earn. They give more alms than all the other convents combined, and if we default, it will be the poor who suffer.’

‘We will not default,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘We will pay the Austins the moment the benefactions start flowing in.’

‘Which they will,’ avowed William. ‘Thanks to the mural.’

Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment. ‘How will the mural help?’

‘In two ways,’ replied Langelee. ‘By showing prospective patrons that our finances are healthy enough to afford such a luxury; and by demonstrating that we are men of great piety — it depicts St Thomas Aquinas, you see. The rich will certainly want prayers from our priests when they see that fresco.’

‘But what if this scheme fails?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly.

‘It will not fail,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘It cannot.’

‘I am looking forward to the disceptatio this year,’ said Michael, before Bartholomew could argue. ‘It is a great honour for Michaelhouse to be one of the two foundations chosen to take part.’ He shot the physician a grin. ‘As you and Wauter are on the committee that selects the topic, you can tell our lads what it is in advance. Then they can prepare, so will defeat Zachary with ease.’