Bartholomew heard that Stanmore's older sister, her husband, and all seven of their children were dead, while at Michaelhouse he buried Roger Alyngton, two more students, and four of the servants. Colet still sat in St Botolph's Church and drooled his days away.
Bartholomew had lain in wait for him one day, and dragged him along when he went to visit his patients hoping to shock him back to rationality — but his patients had been disconcerted, and Colet had become so distressed that Bartholomew was forced to take him home.
It was mid-afternoon, but already growing dark because of the overcast skies, when Bartholomew and Gray were met on the way home by Master Burwell, who asked them to attend a student who was dying.
Bartholomew did all he could, but the student died without regaining consciousness. Three other Bene't Hostel students were ill, and Bartholomew helped Burwell set up a separate room in which they could be cared for. It was a large room compared to the others, and Jacob Yaxley, Master of Law, who had had it to himself since the death of his room-mates, clearly resented being moved. He muttered and grumbled as his students helped him carry his books and papers to another chamber.
As they walked back to the College, Bartholomew thought he saw one body, all wrapped in its shroud, move, and went to investigate. He took his knife and slit open the crude sheet. The woman inside was still alive, although barely. Her neighbour shouted that the woman had sewn herself into the winding sheet when she knew she had the plague, because there was no one left to do it for her.
'What about you?' Bartholomew shouted.
The neighbour crossed himself quickly, and slammed the window shut. The woman muttered incoherently as Bartholomew carried her back inside.
He had heard from Michael that some people, the last surviving members of their families, were preparing themselves for burial with their dying strength but he had dismissed it as yet another plague story intended to horrify. He sat back on his heels, patting the woman's hand abstractedly, unable to stop his mind running through the dreadful outcomes of such actions: supposing the cart had come while she was still alive, and she had been smothered in earth or burned by the quicklime? He wondered if others had not already suffered that fate. The woman slipped away quietly while he was thinking, and he and Gray resewed the shroud and left her on her doorstep again.
It was dark by the time they arrived back at Michaelhouse. Bartholomew went to see his patients in the commoners' room. Jerome had recovered from the plague, but it had weakened him, and he was dying slowly from the wasting disease in his chest. As Bartholomew entered the room, he saw Father William was helping one of the Benedictine novices to sew someone into a blanket.
A quick glance around the room told him it was Nicholas, at fifteen Michaelhouse's youngest student, who looked that morning as if he might recover. Bartholomew sat heavily on a stool.
'His end was so quick that there was no time to call you,' William said. The fanatical gleam that was usually in his eyes had dulled, and he looked exhausted. "I have listened to so many dreadful confessions that hell will soon be running out of space.'
Bartholomew wondered if the Franciscan were making a joke, but there was no humour in his face.
'Then perhaps there will be an overspill into heaven,' he replied, standing up.
William grabbed at his sleeve and pulled him down again, whispering angrily in his ear. 'That is heresy, Doctor, and I advise you against such fanciful remarks!'
'So is your belief that hell has limited space,'
Bartholomew retorted. He remembered the rumours when William had first arrived at Michaelhouse that he had been an inquisitor for the Church.
William let go of Bartholomew's sleeve. 'Do not worry,' he said, and Bartholomew saw the gleam come back into his eye as his mind ran over the implications of Bartholomew's reply. "I will not entrap you in a theological debate. But I miss the company of Aelfrith.
There was a man with a lively mind!'
Bartholomew agreed, and wished Aelfrith were alive, so that he could confide his thoughts and feelings to him at that moment. He could have trusted Aelfrith — unlike William or Alcote or Michael — with his concerns about the plague and the College. And thinking of Michael, Bartholomew had not seen him since the previous day.
He asked if William had.
A curious expression passed over William's face.
'No,' he said. 'He has gone somewhere. He has left me with quite a burden, you know.'
Bartholomew thought it curious that Michael had told no one where he was going, but let it pass. He stood up from his stool, stretched his aching limbs, and helped William to carry Nicholas downstairs and across the courtyard to the stables. They placed the body near the door and left as quickly as possible. Bartholomew knew he would never enter the stables again without thinking about Augustus.
The following day, as he walked back along the High Street with Gray, Bartholomew felt the first huge drops of rain from a storm that had been threatening all morning. Gray hailed a student he knew, who invited them into Mary's Hostel to shelter from the worst of the rain. Like Bene't Hostel, Mary's was warm, steamy, and smelled of boiled vegetables. The student brought them spiced wine, and Bartholomew began to relax from the warmth of the fire and the effects of the wine.
He was virtually asleep when he became aware that Gary was introducing him to someone. Embarrassed, he jumped to his feet, and bowed to the scholar who was being presented to him. From Gray's words, he found it was the new Principal of Mary's, Neville Stayne.
Bartholomew had known the previous Principal quite well, but he had died of the plague before Christmas.
His successor was a man in his forties with a shock of oddly wiry black hair that seemed to want to be as far away from his scalp as possible.
Stayne gestured for him to sit again, and perched on a stool next to him, asking him about the progress of the plague in the town. After a while, Stayne brought the subject round to Giles Abigny, who, it seemed, had also spent a good deal of time at Mary's. The members of the hostel were anxious for his safety.
'Have you any idea where he might be?' asked Bartholomew, expecting the same range of speculation and unfounded rumour he had been given everywhere else.
The fire popped and crackled, and Stayne watched it for a moment before answering. "I do not know where he is now, but I believe I saw him two nights ago in Cambridge.'
Bartholomew's stomach lurched. 'Where? What happened?'
'Well, I think I saw him coming out of the alehouse near the Dominican Friary the night before last. I had heard about him taking his sister off somewhere, and so seeing him stuck in my mind.' The Principal leaned back and closed his eyes as he tried to recall what he had seen. 'He was wearing a heavy cloak, and he turned when I called his name. Then he began to walk away from me quickly. He turned a corner, and I ran after him, but when I got there, the street was empty.' He shrugged.
'That is all, I am afraid. If asked to swear in a court of law, I would not be able to say it was definitely Giles.
But it certainly looked like him, and he did turn and then run away when I called his name. Draw your own conclusions.'
Bartholomew and Gray took their leave as soon as the rain had eased. Stayne closed the door behind them and waited. From the small chamber to one side of the hallway, Burwell emerged. The two men spoke together in low tones for a short time, and then Burwell left, his face grim.
There were two alehouses near the Dominican Friary, but no one in either could remember Giles Abigny. When Bartholomew began to describe him, the fat landlord shook his head.
'We are on a main road, and our trade is excellent, even with this pestilence. I cannot remember everyone who buys ale from me. He may have been here, but I cannot be certain.'
The landlord at the other alehouse knew Abigny and was more helpful, but said Abigny had most definitely not been there two nights before. He smiled ruefully, and said that Abigny had once been caught cheating at a game of dice with two of the locals,
and had not dared to show his face again for fear of what might happen to him.
They walked back to Michaelhouse, and, after a silent meal, Bartholomew went to the sick-room. The dim light of the grey winter afternoon made it feel gloomy, and Bartholomew stoked up the fire. He was sure that Wilson would have been appalled at the waste of fuel on dying men. He smiled to himself as a picture of Wilson in hell, telling the Devil not to waste wood on his fires, sprang into his mind. He felt someone touch him on the shoulder, and looked up to see William bending over him. He felt slightly uncomfortable. Was the ex-inquisitor reading his mind and seeing heretical thoughts within?
William beckoned him outside, and stood waiting in the chilly hallway outside Augustus's room.
'We have been sent a message from the Chancellor at last,' he said. 'He has chosen Robert Swynford to be our next Master.'
'No great surprise, and he will make a good Master,'
Bartholomew said. 'Will he come back from the country?'
William shook his head. 'Robert also sent a message saying that there has been plague in the house of his relatives and most of the menfolk have died. He asks our indulgence that we allow him to remain away for a few weeks until he is sure the women will be properly cared for. He has asked Alcote to act as his deputy until then.'
Bartholomew wondered if leaving the College in the care of a man who had just been deprived of the position might not be a risky move. Then he thought of Robert Swynford's easy grace and confidence, and knew that he would have no problem whatsoever in wresting delegated power back from Alcote.
'But Alcote is hiding in his room like Wilson was,' said Bartholomew. 'How can he run the College?' "I assume Swynford has not been told that,' said William. 'Alcote has asked for various documents to be sent to him, so it seems he will at least see to the administration.'
Bartholomew went outside for some air and to stretch limbs cramped from bending over his patients all afternoon. The rain had stopped, and the clouds were beginning to clear. The porter saw him and scuttled over, stopping a good ten feet from Bartholomew, a large pomander filled with powerful herbs pressed to his face.
Bartholomew realised that he had not seen the porter's face since the day he had returned from the house of Agatha's cousin and announced to Michaelhouse that the plague had come. The man held a note that he placed on the ground so he would not have to go nearer to Bartholomew than necessary. When he saw Bartholomew pick it up, he scurried back into the safety of his lodge. Bartholomew watched as he slammed the door. Perhaps the porter was right, and Bartholomew did carry a dangerous miasma around with him. He felt well enough, but how did he know he did not carry the contagion with him, in his breath, his clothes? He sighed heavily and turned his attention to the scrap of parchment in his hand which, in almost illegible writing, said that he was needed at the tinker's house near the river.
Bartholomew collected his cloak and bag of medicines, and set off. A wind was getting up, and it seemed to be growing colder by the moment. Bartholomew wondered whether the river would freeze over, as it had done the year before. As first, he had welcomed this, because it had cut down the smell. But then people just threw rubbish onto the ice rather than into the water, and it was not long before the smell was worse than it had been when the river was running.
He reached the river, and turned to walk along the row of shacks where the river people lived. He recalled that the last patient he had seen before the plague had been the tinker's little girl, and he remembered that he had seen her body buried in one of the first plague pits to be dug. The last house in the row belonged to the tinker, but only one child stood outside to greet him this time.
Entering the single room, he walked over to the pile of rags in one corner that served as a bed, and crouched down to look at the person huddled there.
He was pleasantly surprised to see a healthy woman lying on the bed.
She appeared startled to see him, and exchanged a puzzled glance with the child who had followed him in.
'You sent for me,' said Bartholomew, kneeling on the earth floor. 'What can I do?'
The woman exchanged another look with the child, who shook her head. "I would not send for you for this, Doctor,' the woman said. 'My baby is coming. The midwife is dead, and I had to send my lad to fetch a woman to help me. I do not need a physician.'
Bartholomew returned her puzzled look. 'But you sent me a note…'
He stopped as the woman tensed with a wave of contractions. When she relaxed again, she blurted out,
"I did no such thing. I cannot write, and nor can my children. I do not need a physician.'
And could not pay for one was the unspoken addendum. Bartholomew shrugged. 'But since I am here, and since your time is close, perhaps I can help.
And I will require no payment,' he added quickly, seeing concern flitting across the woman's face.
Bartholomew sent the child to fetch some water and cloths, and not a minute too soon, for the top of the baby's head was already showing. Between gasps, the tinker's wife told him how the other women who lived nearby were either dead or had the pestilence, and she had sent her son to fetch her sister from Haslingfield.
But since that was several miles, she had known help might come too late. Physicians usually left childbirth to the midwives, and Bartholomew was only ever called if there was a serious problem, usually when it was far too late for him to do much about it. He was not surprised to find that he was enjoying doing something other than dealing with plague victims. When the baby finally slid into his hands all slippery and bawling healthily, he was more enthusiastic over it than were the exhausted mother and her wide-eyed daughter.
'It is a beautiful girl,' he said, giving the baby to the mother to nurse, 'perfectly formed and very healthy.' He pulled back the cloth so he could look at her face, and exchanged grins with the mother. He took one of the tiny hands in his. 'Look at her fingernails!' he exclaimed.
The tinker's wife began to laugh. 'Why, Doctor, anyone would think a newborn baby was something special to hear you going on!' she said. 'You would not be like this if it was your ninth in twelve years!'
Bartholomew laughed with her. "I would be happy to help with any more babies you might have, Mistress Tinker,' he said, 'and would consider it a privilege to be asked.'
Bartholomew left the house feeling happier than he had since the plague had started. He made his way back along the river, whistling softly to himself. As he turned the corner to go back to College, a figure stepped out of the shadows in front of him, wielding what looked to be a heavy stick.
Bartholomew stopped in his tracks and glanced behind him, cursing himself for his foolishness. Another two shadowy forms stood there similarly armed. The note! It had been a trap! He swallowed hard, a vision of Augustus's mutilated body coming to mind. His stomach was a cold knot of fear. He had a small knife that he used for medical purposes, but it would be useless against three men armed with staves. He twisted the strap of his bag around his hand, and suddenly raced forward, swinging the bag at the figure in front of him as he did so. He felt it hit the man, and heard him grunt as he fell. Bartholomew kept going, hearing the footsteps of the two behind him following.
He fell heavily to the ground as a fourth figure shot out of some bushes in the lane and crashed into him. He twisted round, and saw one of the men who had followed raise his stick high into the air for a blow that would smash his head like an egg. He kicked out at the man's legs, and saw him lose his balance. Bartholomew tried to scramble to his feet, but someone else had grabbed him by his cloak and was trying to pull it tight around his throat.
Bartholomew struggled furiously, lashing out with fists and feet, and hearing from the obscenities and yelps that a good many of his blows were true.
He brought his knee up sharply into the groin of one man, but he could not hold out for ever against four. He looked up, and saw for the second time an upraised stick silhouetted against the dark sky, but now he was pinned down and unable to stru
ggle free. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow that he was certain would be the last thing he would know.
The blow never came. Instead, the man toppled onto him clutching his chest, and Bartholomew felt a warm spurt of blood gush over him. He squirmed out from underneath the inert body, and made a grab for the cloak of one of his attackers who was now trying to run away. The man kicked backwards viciously, and Bartholomew was forced to let go. He heard their footsteps growing fainter as they ran up the lane, while others came closer.
He drew his knife, knowing that he did not have the strength to run a second time, and prepared to sell his life dearly should he be attacked again. He squinted as a lamp was thrust into his face.
'Matt!' Bartholomew felt himself hauled to his feet, and looked into the anxious face of Oswald Stanmore.
'Matt!' Stanmore repeated, looking down the lane after Bartholomew's attackers. 'What happened? Who is this?' He pushed at the body of the man who had fallen with his foot.
Bartholomew saw that Stanmore's steward, Hugh, was with him, armed with a crossbow. Stanmore kept looking around, as if he expected the attackers to come again.
"I was sent a note to see a patient by the river,'
Bartholomew said, still trying to recover his breath, 'and these men attacked me.'
'You should know better than to go to the river after dark,' said Stanmore. 'The Sheriff caught three of the robbers that have been menacing the town there only last week. Doubtless these are more of the same.' He glanced around. 'Who sent you the note? Surely you can tie note and attackers together?'
Bartholomew showed him the now-crumpled message.
'The tinker did not write this,' he said.
Stanmore took it from him and peered at it. 'The tinker most certainly did not,' he said, 'for he died last month. I heard that only two of his children live, and his wife is expecting her ninth, poor woman.'
Bartholomew bent to look at the man on the ground.
He was dead, the crossbow bolt embedded deeply in his chest. Bartholomew rifled hurriedly through his clothes, hoping for something that would identify him. There was a plain purse, filled with silver coins, but nothing else.
A Plague On Both Your Houses Page 24