A Plague On Both Your Houses

by Susanna GREGORY

  She had asked Edith for a veil, and since then had locked herself in her room. That had been seven days before. Edith had spent many hours trying to get her to unlock the door, but she had eventually refused even to speak.

  Bartholomew stood. 'She will not see you, Matt,' said Edith. 'She left a note that you specifically should not come to see her. Poor girl. I cannot imagine that she can be so badly scarred.'

  Neither could Bartholomew. At least, not so badly scarred that he would not still want her. He thought of Colet. What terrible things this pestilence was doing to people's minds. He gave his sister the faintest of smiles before making his way up the stairs to Philippa's room.

  Edith did not try to stop him; she knew him too well.

  At the back of her mind lingered the hope that the sound of his voice might serve to pull Philippa out of her depression.

  He stood outside the door for a few moments before knocking. There was a rustle from inside the room, and then silence.

  'Philippa?' he called softly. 'It is Matthew. Please open the door. There is no cause to be afraid.'

  There was silence. He knocked again.

  'Philippa. If you open the door and talk to me, I promise I will not try to touch you or look at you,' he called. 'Just give me a few moments with you.'

  There was nothing. Bartholomew sat on the chest that was in the hallway and reflected. He would not have normally considered invading someone's privacy, but he wondered whether Philippa's mind, somehow affected by her illness, might mean that she was unable to look after herself properly. If this were the case, then she needed help, even though she might not know it herself.

  Edith had married Stanmore when she was eighteen, and had come to live in Trumpington. Bartholomew had been eight, and whenever he had been permitted out of the abbey school in Peterborough, he had come to stay in Edith's rambling house. He knew every nook and cranny, and also knew that the lock on the door, behind which Philippa hid, was faulty. He knew that a sharp stick in the right place would open the door in an instant because he had played with the lock on many a wet afternoon as a boy.

  He decided to try once more. 'Philippa. Why will you not answer me? Just let me talk to you for a few moments, and I promise to leave when you ask.'

  There was no sound at all, not even a rustle.

  Bartholomew was worried, and was sure that there must be more wrong with her than a few scars. He took a sharpened piece of metal that was part of his medical equipment, and pushed it into the lock the way he had done so many years before with a stick.

  He had not lost his touch, and the door sprung open with ease.

  Philippa jumped violently as he took a step towards her, and Bartholomew stopped. She huddled on the bed, swathed in the cloak he had given her when they had walked from the convent to Trumpington. It was still spotted with mud. Her face was turned towards him, but was covered by a long piece of gauze so that he could not make out any features. She was crouched over like an old hag, a piece of embroidery on her lap.

  Bartholomew felt his breath catch as he looked at the embroidery. Philippa hated sewing and would do almost anything to avoid it. She most certainly would not be doing it voluntarily. He looked at her more closely. Her posture was wrong: something in the way she held herself was not right, and her feet were bigger than Bartholomew remembered.

  "I asked you not to come.' The voice was the merest whisper, intended to deceive.

  'Who are you? Where is Philippa?' Bartholomew demanded. Her head came up with a jerk when she realised she was found out, and Bartholomew caught the glint of eyes under the thick veil. He stepped forward to pull the veil off, but stopped short as she threw the embroidery from her lap and pointed a crossbow at his chest.

  Bartholomew took a step back. How ironic, he thought, to escape the plague and to die from a crossbow bolt.

  The figure beckoned Bartholomew forward, waving the crossbow in a menacing gesture when he did not move.

  'Who are you?' Bartholomew asked again. He wondered whether he would die before he found out, and whether the woman would have the courage to shoot him as he stood there.

  'No questions, and turn around slowly,' she said in her dreadful whisper.

  'Where is Philippa?' Bartholomew demanded, his concern making him desperate.

  'One more question, and I will shoot you. Turn round.'

  The whisper held a menace that was chilling, and Bartholomew had no doubt that this was not an idle threat. He turned round slowly, knowing what was coming next, and bracing himself for it.

  He was not wrong. There was a sudden rustle of clothes and the crossbow came crashing down, aimed at his head. He half turned and was able to escape the full force of the blow, although it stunned him for vital seconds. The woman shot out of the door and tore down the stairs. Bartholomew staggered to his feet and lurched after her. She tore across the courtyard to where Richard was talking to the stable-boy, with Stephen's horse now clean and still saddled. Bartholomew could see what was going to happen.

  'Stop her!' he yelled. He was too far behind to catch her, and ran instead towards the great oak gate, intending to close it so that she would not be able to escape.

  Richard and the stable-boy gaped at the spectacle of Philippa racing across the yard clutching a crossbow, and Richard only pulled himself together at the last minute.

  He lunged at the would-be rider.

  Meanwhile, Bartholomew was hauling at the gate with all his might. Stanmore seldom closed his gate by the look of the weeds that climbed about it, and it was stuck fast. He saw Richard hurled to the ground as the woman reached the horse. She was mounted in an instant, and wrenched the reins away from the stable-boy in a great heave that all but pulled the lad's arms out of their sockets. Bartholomew felt the gate budge, and heaved at it with every ounce of his strength. The woman wheeled the horse around, trying to control its frenzied rearing and aim it for the closing gate.

  Bartholomew felt the gate move again, and was aware of blood pounding in his temples. The woman brought the horse under control, and began to urge it towards the gate. Bartholomew felt the gate shift another inch, but then he knew it would not be enough. The horse's iron-shod hooves clattered on the cobbled yard as it headed towards the gate.

  Bartholomew suspended his efforts as the horse came thundering down on him. He made a futile attempt to grab at the rider, but was knocked from his feet into a pile of wet straw. The rider swayed slightly, and, as she glanced back, the wind lifted the veil, giving Bartholomew a clear view of her face. Richard shot through the gate after her, and raced down the track before realising a chase was hopeless. The rider turned the corner and was gone from sight.

  'After her!' Stanmore cried, and his yard became a hive of activity as horses were saddled and reliable men hastily picked for pursuit. Bartholomew knew that by the time Stanmore was ready, their quarry would be long gone. Still, it was always possible that the horse might stumble and throw its rider, especially that miserable horse, he thought. Edith hurried up to him as he picked himself up.

  'What happened? What did you say to her?' she cried.

  'Are you all right, Uncle Matt? I am sorry. He was just too strong for me.' Richard looked forlorn at having failed. Bartholomew put a hand on his shoulder.

  'For me too,' he said with a resigned smile.

  Edith looked from one to the other. 'What are you saying?' she said. 'He?'

  Bartholomew looked at Richard. 'Did you see his face?' he asked.

  Richard nodded. 'Yes, but why was he here? Where is Philippa?'

  'Who was it, if not Philippa?' asked Edith, perplexed.

  'Giles Abigny,' said Bartholomew and Richard together.

  7

  Bartholomew looked out of the window for at least the tenth time since Stanmore and his men had set off in pursuit of Abigny.

  'Perhaps it was Giles all along, and you just thought it was Philippa you met outside the convent,' Richard said to him.

  "I kissed her,' said Bartholom
ew. Seeing his nephew's eyebrows shoot up, he quickly added, 'And it was Philippa, believe me.'

  Richard persisted in his theory. 'But you could have been mistaken, if you were tired, and…'

  'Giles has a beard,' said Bartholomew, more patiently than he felt. 'Believe me, Richard, I would have noticed the difference.'

  'Well, what do you think is going on?' demanded Richard. "I have been sitting here racking my brain for answers, and all you have done is tell me they are wrong.' "I do not know,' said Bartholomew, turning to stare into the fire. He saw Richard watching him and tried to pull himself together. He asked his nephew to tell him everything that had happened since he had left Philippa with the Stanmores ten days ago, partly to try to involve Richard and partly to make sure that the sequence of events was clear in his own mind.

  Philippa had become ill almost as soon as he had left, and either Edith or one of the servants had been with her through the two nights of her fever. On the morning of the third day, she seemed to have recovered, although she was, of course, exhausted. In the evening, she had asked for a veil and had closed her door to visitors, communicating by notes the day after that. Edith had not kept any of them, and so Bartholomew was unable to see whether the writing had been Philippa's or her brother's. No one could prove whether it had been Philippa or Giles who had been living in Edith's house for at least the last seven days.

  Richard, with an adolescent's unabashed curiosity, had crouched behind the chest in the hallway to glimpse her as she emerged to collect the trays of food that had been left. Even with hindsight, he was unable to say whether the person who came from the room, heavily swathed in cloak and veil, was man or woman.

  Bartholomew considered Richard's recital of events.

  What could be happening? Giles had behaved oddly ever since the death of Hugh Stapleton. Had he completely lost his mind and embarked on some fiendish plot to deprive Philippa of potential happiness because he had lost his? Had he secreted her away somewhere, either because he thought she would be safer with him, or because he meant her harm?

  Richard and Bartholomew made a careful search of the garret room, but found nothing to provide them with clues to solve the mystery. There were some articles of clothing that Edith had lent her, and the embroidery, but virtually nothing else. The room had its own privy that emptied directly into the moat, but there was nothing to indicate how long Giles had been pretending to be Philippa.

  Bartholomew thought carefully. There was not the slightest chance that Abigny would return to College if he thought Bartholomew might be there. He would hide elsewhere, so Bartholomew would need to visit all Abigny's old haunts — a daunting task given his dissolute lifestyle. Abigny had a good many friends and acquaintances, and was known in virtually every tavern in Cambridge, despite the fact that scholars were not permitted to frequent such places. Bartholomew grimaced. The company Abigny kept was not the kind he relished himself — whores and the rowdier elements of the town. Gray would probably know most of these places, Bartholomew thought uncharitably; after all, he had mentioned he knew Abigny.

  A clatter in the yard brought Bartholomew to his feet again. Richard darted out of the door to meet his father, with Bartholomew and Edith close on his heels.

  'Got clean away,' said Stanmore in disgust. 'We met a pardoner who had been on the road from Great Chesterford. He said he saw a grey mare and rider going like the Devil down towards the London road. We followed for several miles, but he will be well away by now. Even if the horse goes lame or tires, he will be able to hire another on the road. Sorry, Matt.

  He has gone.'

  Bartholomew had expected as much, but was disappointed nevertheless. He clapped Stanmore on the shoulder. 'Thank you for trying anyway,' he said.

  'Poor Stephen,' said Stanmore, handing his horse over to the stable-boy. 'He was attached to that mare.

  And his best cloak gone with it! I suppose I must lend him one of mine until he can have another made.'

  Bartholomew walked slowly back into the house.

  Stanmore was right. Given such a good start, Abigny was safely away. If he hired a fresh horse, reverted to another disguise, and joined a group of travellers as was the custom, it would be unlikely that Bartholomew would ever trace him. London was a huge sprawl of buildings and people, and it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  Edith put her hand on his arm. 'There is nothing you can do now,' she said. 'Stay here tonight, and Oswald will ride into town with you tomorrow.'

  Bartholomew shook his head, trying not to compare Edith'swarm and comfortable house with his chilly room at Michaelhouse. "I must get back tonight. Colet has lost his mind, and there is much still to be done.'

  'Then at least drink some warmed wine before you go,' said Stanmore. Before Bartholomew could object, Stanmore had taken his arm and was leading him up the flagged stairs to the solar. Richard followed. A fire burned steadily in the hearth, and the woollen rugs scattered on the floor muffled their footsteps. A sudden gust of wind rattled the shutters, and Bartholomew shivered.

  'You will need help with the town,' said Stanmore.

  'Stay here tonight and we will discuss what must be done.'

  Bartholomew smiled at his brother-in-law's guile.

  They all knew he had overstretched himself on his first real day out. He would have been most disapproving had a patient done the same thing, and Edith was correct in that there was nothing he could do to help Philippa that night. He sat on a stool near the fire and picked up a stick to poke at the flames. Richard drew up a stool next to him, and Stanmore settled himself in a large oak chair covered in cushions and furs. For a while, no one spoke.

  'How has Trumpington fared with the plague?' asked Bartholomew eventually, stretching outspread hands towards the fire.

  'Twenty-three dead,' replied Stanmore, 'and another two likely to follow. Our priest died on Sunday, and one of the Gilbertine Canons is staying here until a replacement can be found.' He shook his head wearily. 'What is happening, Matt? The priests say this is a visitation from God, but they are dying just like those they accuse of sinning. The physicians can do nothing. I sent for Gregory Colet when Edith and Philippa became ill, since you, too, were stricken. He told me to put hot tongs in their mouths to draw the demons out. When I asked him to do it, because I was so concerned for Edith I would have tried anything, he refused because he said he was afraid the demon would enter him. What kind of medicine is that?'

  Bartholomew stared into the fire. 'Colet has lost his mind. I suppose seeing so many die must have been too much for him to bear.'

  'Colet?' exclaimed Richard in disbelief. 'Surely not!

  He always seemed so… cynical.'

  'Perhaps that is why he has become so afflicted,' said Bartholomew glumly. "I cannot understand it. And I do not understand the plague. Agatha walks among the victims daily and is fit and well; Francis Eltham and Henri d'Evene hid themselves away and were taken. The old and sick cling to life, while the young and healthy die within hours. Some recover, some do not.'

  'Then perhaps the priests are right,' said Stanmore.

  'But why do they die too? Take Aelfrith. I heard he is dead, and he was as saintly a man as you could hope to meet.'

  'The plague did not take him,' said Bartholomew, and then could have kicked himself for his thoughtless indiscretion. He drew breath to make amends, but it was too late.

  'What do you mean?' asked Stanmore. 'Michael said the Death took him.'

  Bartholomew hesitated. It would be a relief to tell Stanmore all he knew-aboutSirJohn, Aelfrith, Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet, and about the plot to suppress Cambridge University. But men had been killed, and it was likely that others would follow: the plague had not prevented Aelfrith from being murdered. Bartholomew could not risk Stanmore's safety merely to satisfy his own longing for someone with whom to share his thoughts.

  Edith entered the solar with a servant who carried a jug of steaming wine. She stood next to her husband, and Barth
olomew's resolve strengthened. He had no right to put Stanmore's life or Edith's happiness at stake.

  After all, he had already lost five friends and colleagues to murder, many more to the plague, Colet to madness, and Giles and possibly Philippa to something he did not yet understand. There was only his family left. He changed the subject, asking Stanmore about his ideas for dealing with the plague in the town.

  By the time Stanmore had finished outlining his plans for clearing the town of the plague dead, the day was too far advanced for Bartholomew to think of returning to Michaelhouse — as Stanmore had known it would be. Bartholomew spent the night in the solar, wrapped in thick, warm blankets, enjoying the rare luxury of the fire.

  Bartholomew rose early the next day feeling much stronger. He rode into Cambridge with Stanmore, who offered to break the news of the stolen horse to Stephen. Bartholomew dismounted at St Botolph's and went to see Colet. He had to step over two bodies that had been dumped next to the door to await collection by the plague-cart. He buried his nose and mouth in his cloak against the smell and slipped into the dim church.

  The monks were still there, different ones than last time, praying in a continuous vigil for deliverance from the plague and saying masses for the dead. Colet was there too. He sat on a bench wrapped in a blanket to protect himself from the damp chill of the church and playing idly with a carved golden lion that he wore on a long chain around his neck.

  'Look at this, Matt,' he said, turning his face with its vacant grin to Bartholomew. 'Is it not pretty? It will protect me from the plague.'

  Bartholomew sat beside him, and looked at the carving. He had seen others wearing similar icons, and had heard from Agatha that some rogue had been selling them in the town, claiming that anyone who wore one would be protected from the pestilence.

  'It will not work, Gregory,' he said. 'We need to clean up the streets and bury the dead more quickly.'

  Colet stared at him, and a thin drool of saliva slipped from his mouth onto the blanket. 'We should not do that.