Free A Poisonous Plot by Susanna Gregory Page A

at any moment.
    The students were also unusually subdued, and as breakfast comprised a bizarre and unsuitable combination of leftovers, it seemed that the servants had also availed themselves of the opportunity to enjoy the festivities the previous night.
    ‘Is it my imagination, or do our pupils get younger every year?’ asked Langelee, as food worked its magic on roiling stomachs and the students began to chat amongst themselves, throwing off their malaise with the enviable resilience of youth.
    ‘They must lie about their age,’ said Michael sourly. ‘That puny boy in Matt’s class – Bell, is it? He cannot be more than nine.’
    ‘Eighteen,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They seem younger because you are growing old.’
    ‘That is a wicked thing to say!’ cried Michael. ‘I am in my prime. However, there are a few grey hairs on your head that were not present a decade ago.’
    ‘Those came because he let women make him unhappy,’ stated William, referring to Matilde, who had left Cambridge because Bartholomew had been too slow to ask her to marry him; and Julitta, who had transpired to be a rather different lady from the one they all thought they knew. ‘Painful affairs of the heart always age a man, which is why he should give up his various amours and become a Franciscan. Like me.’
    ‘Or better yet, find a few more,’ said Langelee. Relations with women were forbidden by the University, but many scholars – he and Bartholomew among them – opted to ignore this particular stricture. ‘What about that widow you were seeing earlier this year? Is she still available?’
    Bartholomew was aware that the students were listening, no doubt delighted to learn that the Fellows strayed from the straight and narrow – and his colleagues’ remarks, taken out of context, made him sound like an incurable philanderer. Moreover, he did not want to be reminded of the confusion and hurt he had suffered that summer. He changed the subject with an abruptness that made everyone automatically conclude that he had intriguing secrets to hide.
    ‘The mural is looking nice,’ he declared. ‘The Austins are talented artists.’
    ‘They are,’ agreed Wauter, prodding suspiciously at the plate of marchpanes and cabbage that had been set in front of him. ‘It is why I suggested we hire them. You should see their chapel – it is a delight.’
    They were silent for a while, studying the painting. It ran the full length of one wall, and was nearing completion. There had been some debate as to what it should depict, but in the end they had settled for Aristotle, Galen, Aquinas and Plato teaching rows of enrapt scholars. The faces of many College members were among them: Bartholomew sitting near Plato but straining to hear Galen; Clippesby with the College cat; Wauter raising a finger as he prepared to tackle Aristotle; and William scowling at Aquinas’s Dominican habit – he hated his rival Order with a passion that verged on the fanatical.
    ‘I do hope our plan works,’ said Suttone worriedly, lowering his voice so that the students would not hear. ‘We have spent such a lot of money on it, and if we fail to win benefactors …’
    ‘I know it is a risk,’ whispered Langelee. ‘But we have no choice. We will not survive another year if we do not replenish our endowment, and drastic situations call for drastic solutions.’
    ‘Then we must remain aloof from this burgeoning spat between town and University,’ said Wauter. ‘No secular will give us money if we support King’s Hall against Frenge.’
    ‘Hopefully, we will not have to be diplomatic for long,’ said Langelee. ‘We shall put on such a grand display at the disceptatio tomorrow that donors will race to be associated with us.’
    ‘They will race even faster if we win,’ said William, treating Bartholomew and Wauter to a pointed look. ‘Which may not happen unless our representatives on the consilium agree to be reasonable and tell us which question they