A Plague On Both Your Houses

by Susanna GREGORY

  'Oh, surely not?' said Colet, laughing. 'What happened to your spirit of learning and discovery? I never thought that you, of all people, would refuse to learn after all our debates and experiments together.'

  'We were different men then,' said Bartholomew, with undisguised loathing.

  'Perhaps,' mused Colet. 'But Brother Michael asked me a question, and I feel duty-bound to answer it. Aelfrith was coming too close to the truth. I heard from the monks in St Botolph's that Aelfrith heard Wilson's confession every Friday. So, I sent Aelfrith a small bottle of mead with a signed message from Wilson saying he appreciated Aelfrith's understanding, and he should drink the mead to help him relax after his hard work in the town. The message, of course, was written by me, and the mead was poisoned. I retrieved the rest of the bottle the night he died, lest you should find it.'

  He smiled absently. "I was almost caught. The poison was slower-acting than I had imagined, and Aelfrith was still alive and staggering around when I came for the bottle. You, Brother, tried to take him back to his room, and I only just managed to lock the door before you came. You took Aelfrith elsewhere to die, but it was a narrow escape for me.'

  Bartholomew remembered Michael telling him that Aelfrith's door had been locked, and recalled assuming Aelfrith's room-mates had shut it because they did not want a plague victim in the chamber with them. But Colet had been hiding there, with the murder weapon in his hands.

  'So you kill by stealth,' said Bartholomew bitterly.

  'As I am sure you did with Sir John, for you would never have overpowered him in a fair fight.'

  'True enough,' said Colet, 'and I most certainly was not prepared to try. I had help that night. Masters Yaxley and Burwell accompanied me.'

  'Why did you go to so much trouble for the seal?' asked Michael. 'It would have been no use to you at all after the death of Sir John.'

  'You are right, the seal is nothing,' said Colet. 'Once it was known by the King's spies that Sir John was dead, there would have been no value in his seal, and it could never have been used for the same purpose again. But it suited our plans to make believe that there were men desperate to retrieve the seal. If people thought the seal was important enough to kill for, they would also think that the information Sir John received from his spy our messages — was of great significance.'

  'Was it you or Swynford that tried to burn poor, sick Augustus in the middle of the night?' asked Michael.

  'Neither, actually. We did not want to set Augustus's room on fire or burn him in his bed. That would have drawn attention to the room we were trying to search. Our notion was to make the fire smoke to asphyxiate him.' "I see,' said Bartholomew sarcastically. 'And how could you possibly have made such a mess of this simple operation?'

  Colet eyed Bartholomew malevolently for a moment.

  'Jocelyn thought the fire was taking too long, and lit another under the bed to speed the process along.

  Instead of smoke, there were flames and the old man woke.' He looked in disgust at Jocelyn, who curled his lip in disdain at Colet. 'Fortunately he was too confused to identify Jocelyn, who managed to put out the fire and escape by the trap-door before you two came and broke down the door. When I returned to make amends for his bungling the night of the feast, I was careful to remove all evidence that there was ever a fire.'

  Bartholomew recalled the cinders that had clung to his gown when he lay on the floor to retrieve the lid of the bottle Michael dropped. When he had looked for them the morning after, they had gone.

  'You disgust me, Colet,' said Bartholomew softly.

  'You are a physician, sworn to heal. Even if you did not use a weapon, it is still murder to frighten an old man to death.'

  'You almost caught me, actually,' said Colet, and Bartholomew could see that the entire affair was little more than an intellectual game for him. "I let myself out of the other trap-door and hid in Swynford's room, since I was uncertain whether you would know about the one in Augustus's room, and you might have come looking for me in the attic. But you did not and so I climbed back into the attic ready to continue my search.'

  Bartholomew had a sudden, sharp memory of the shadow flitting across the door as he walked down the stairs after he had examined Augustus's body. If only he had looked harder, this whole thing may have ended there and then.

  Colet smiled. 'It was no simple matter lifting a body through the trap-door. But even so, I had an easier time of it than when that fat slug Wilson tried to heave his bulk into the attic. You must have rattled him when you found him prising up Augustus's floorboards, Matt, because had he been himself, he would certainly have spotted the blood on the floor and one of Augustus's legs sticking out of the passageway. But he did not, and we both escaped.'

  'Not only did you break your oath to heal, but you desecrated the dead too,' Bartholomew said accusingly.

  'That was most disagreeable,' Colet agreed, 'but it had to be done. I was never as adept at surgery as you, Matt, and I am afraid I made rather a poor job of it. I told you I saw Augustus swallow something. What else could it have been but the seal? After I had completed my inspection of his innards, I wrapped him up and hid him in the blocked-off passageway.' "I take it you found nothing,' said Bartholomew.

  'On the contrary,' said Colet. "I found this.' He held up an object for Bartholomew to see. There, glittering in the light from the candle was Colet's golden lion.

  Bartholomew felt sick. Colet must be an ill man indeed to have ripped out a man's entrails and to have kept a pathetic ornament he had discovered there.

  'And this brings me to the second point I do not understand,' said Michael. 'How did you know about the trap-doors? They were meant to be a secret passed from Master to Master.'

  'Poor, sick Augustus told Swynford about them.

  Augustus was Master of Michaelhouse once, if you remember,' said Colet. 'They made things easier, but we would have managed without them. We would have just planned differently.' He took the golden lion from his pocket and began to twist it through his fingers. He started suddenly as voices could be heard down the hallway. Swynford. Bartholomew recalled his disapproval of Colet speaking to him before, and was not surprised when Colet left abruptly.

  In the darkness, Bartholomew heard Michael move towards the food that Colet had brought. "I wonder what poison they have used,' he mused, smiling grimly as he heard Michael drop the plate.

  'Damn you, Matt,' Michael grumbled. 'Do we starve here or die of poison?'

  'The choice is probably yours, Brother,' replied Bartholomew.

  Once again, time began to drag. Bartholomew and Michael talked more about what Colet had told them, but he had revealed little they did not already know, merely answering how Aelfrith had come to believe Wilson had killed him, and how Swynford had known about the trap-door in Augustus's room. Bartholomew presumed that Stanmore's underground rooms were used for secret meetings only at night, when Oswald Stanmore went home to Trumpington, and Stephen had the premises to himself.

  When he heard the scratching noise outside the door, he first assumed it was his imagination, or Michael fidgeting in the darkness. But the sound persisted, and Bartholomew thought he could see the merest glimmer of light under the door. So, this is it, he thought. Swynford had conceived another diabolical plan, and he and Michael would be murdered just like the others who had threatened his objectives. He shook Michael awake, cautioning him to silence with a hand over his mouth.

  The door swung open very slowly, and two figures slipped in, one shielding the light from the stub of a candle with his hand. The other closed the door behind them and they stood peering into the gloom.

  'Michael! Matt!' came an urgent whisper.

  Bartholomew was bracing himself to jump at one of the figures to see if he could overpower him when the candle flared and he found himself looking at Abigny, his youthful face tense and anxious.

  'Thank God! You are unharmed!' he whispered, breaking into a smile, and clapping Bartholomew on the back.

&nbs
p; 'Giles!' exclaimed Bartholomew in amazement.

  'How…?'

  'Questions later,' said the philosopher. 'Come.'

  The other figure at the door gestured urgently, and Abigny led the way out of the chamber and along the passageway. They quickly climbed the wooden stairs and Abignyclosedthetrap-doorcarefully,coveringitwithstraw.

  The other person snuffed out the candle, leaving them in darkness and together they set off for the door at the far end of the stables.

  They froze at the sound of someone in the yard.

  Hastily, Abigny bundled them into a stall with an ancient piebald nag, hoping that it would not give them away.

  Bartholomew saw Stephen come into the stable with a lamp, while outside, they could hear some of the men who worked for him chattering and laughing.

  Stephen set the lamp down, and went to a splendid black gelding, which he patted and caressed lovingly.

  Oswald had bought Stephen the horse to compensate for the one Abigny had stolen.

  Bartholomew's legs were like jelly and, judging from Michael's shaking next to him, the fat monk felt the same.

  To his horror, Michael give a muffled sneeze. The straw!

  Michael frequently complained that straw made him cough. Bartholomew pinched Michael's nose to stop him from sneezing again. Stephen ceased crooning to the horse, and looked up.

  'Who is there?' he asked. He picked up the lamp and shone it down the building. Next to them, the piebald horse stirred restlessly, its hooves rustling in the dry straw. Stephen tutted as he heard it, and went back to the black horse. He gave it one last pat on the nose, and left, carefully shutting the stable door behind him. Bartholomew heard the voices of Stephen and his men recede as they crossed the yard to the house.

  'We must leave here as soon as we can,' said Abigny.

  'Cynric is keeping watch outside.'

  He opened the door a crack and peered out. 'They have gone into the house,' he whispered, 'and the candles are out. Come on.'

  The night was clear, and the yard was lit brightly by the moon. Bartholomew hoped Stephen's dogs would not begin to bark, for anyone looking out of the windows of the house would surely see them in the yard. Cynric appeared out of nothing, and beckoned them to follow, moving like a cat through the shadows.

  To Bartholomew, he, Abigny, and Michael sounded like a herd of stampeding pigs compared to Cynric, and he kept glancing at the house, certain that he would see someone looking out because of the noise.

  Finally, they reached the huge gates, where the smaller person stepped forward with a key to unlock the wicket gate. Cynric pushed it open, and all five of them slipped outside.

  In the moonlight, Bartholomew saw the face of the small person as she turned to go back inside.

  'Rachel Atkin!' he said in surprise.

  'Shhh!' she said, glancing fearfully about her. 'Go now, quickly. I must get back to bed before anyone realises I am missing.'

  'You were my well-wisher!' he said, light dawning suddenly.

  'You must have overheard Stephen talking She put her hand over his mouth. 'Go,' she said again. 'Master Abigny will explain.'

  Before he could say anything else, she had slipped back through the wicket gate, and they could hear it being locked from the inside.

  Cynric led the way through the dark streets and into Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew sank gratefully into Agatha's chair.

  Michael sat heavily on a stool next to him, wiping the sweat from his eyes, and snatched the bottle that Cynric was handing to Bartholomew.

  'My need is greater than yours, Physician,' he said, downing a good quarter of the bottle in the first gulp.

  Bartholomew sat back in the chair and asked Cynric for some water. Although he wanted to drain it in a single draught, he sipped it slowly, because he knew that the cold water would be likely to give him stomach cramps after so long without drinking.

  He leaned forward and touched Abigny on the hand. 'Thank you,' he said. 'And Cynric, too. How did you know?'

  Cynric closed the shutters on the windows, and sat near Bartholomew so he could poke at the fire. Michael took another hearty swig from his bottle — another of Master Wilson's, Bartholomew noted.

  'Your friend told us,' said Abigny. 'Rachel.'

  Bartholomew was amazed. Once he had arranged for Rachel to work for Stephen, he had not given her another thought. He had seen her around Stephen's house several times, and had been told that she was settling in well, but that was all.

  Cynric took up the tale. 'She was grateful for what you did for her when her son was killed — she could not have paid for a decent funeral for him, and you saw to it, as well as finding her work and a place to live. She is a silent sort, who people come not to notice after a while.' Cynric paused, and Bartholomew wondered whether Cynric saw some of himself in Rachel Atkin.

  'She overheard conversations between the Stanmores organising a secret meeting, and she knew you were seeking information about Philippa. She heard them mention your name and so thought you might learn something to your advantage if you eavesdropped. She knew what the back of Bene't Hostel looked like because she and her son were sometimes hired to clean the yard when the smell got too unbearable. You know the rest: we met her by the plague pits and we listened in on the meeting.'

  Abigny continued. 'Cynric grew worried about you when you did not return Wednesday night. He was still concerned that the Stanmores might be involved and felt that, in the light of what he had been through with you the night before, you would not have gone to Peterborough without telling him. He did the only thing he could think of and waylaid Mistress Atkin on her way to the market. She already knew that meetings took place in the rooms under the stables when Oswald was away, and so they considered it a possibility that you were being kept there.'

  Cynric interrupted. 'I also saw Michael given a note on Thursday, and I followed him to Stanmore's business premises. He also did not return.'

  'Cynric, in the absence of anyone else he could trust, asked me to help,' concluded Abigny.

  'How long were we in that wretched place anyway?' said Bartholomew, leaning down to rub some warmth into his cold feet.

  'It is now almost Saturday morning. When Gray came back with your brother-in-law and said that they had been sent on a wild goose chase regarding Edith's supposed sore arm, Cynric guessed that the hostel men had been up to something.'

  Abigny was full of questions, and despite his tiredness, Bartholomew felt that he and Cynric were owed answers. Michael began the long, elaborate explanation that had Bartholomew dozing in the warmth of the fire, and Abigny and Cynric mesmerised. Eventually, Michael rose, and Bartholomew started awake.

  "I am afraid we are going to have to go through all this again,' he said. 'The Bishop will arrive this morning.'

  Bartholomew groaned. 'We have been talking for days.'

  Michael waved a fat white finger at him. 'Which is far preferable to what Swynford and Colet had in mind for you.'

  There was no disputing that Michael was right. They stood outside the kitchen for a while, Bartholomew enjoying the clear, crisp smell of night, and looking at the sky he had thought he might never see again.

  Cynric yawned hugely. "I had better get some sleep.

  The University Debate is due to start in a couple of hours, and I have been invited to earn a shilling by being a deputy beadle and keeping an eye out for pickpockets in the crowd. That is, unless you want me to stay with you,' he added suddenly, looking at Bartholomew anxiously.

  Bartholomew smiled and shook his head. 'You will enjoy yourself at the Debate, so go,' he said. He looked up at the sky, and a thought occurred to him. "I thought the Debate had been cancelled because of the plague.'

  Michael sniffed. 'It is an important occasion with people coming for miles to listen. Why would the town cancel an event from which it can make money? What is the containment of the Death when there are goods to be sold, beds to be rented, and deals to be made?'

  Bartholomew wok
e to darkness. At first he thoughthe was still in the cellar, but he was warm and comfortable and knew he was in his bed in Michaelhouse. He remembered leaving the window shutters open when he went to sleep — he had been in darkness so long that he felt shutting out any daylight would be a terrible sin. But the shutters were closed now. He snuggled further down under the bedclothes. Perhaps Abigny had closed them after he had gone to sleep; perhaps he had slept right through the day, and it was now night again.

  He tensed suddenly. Someone was in the room with him.

  'Giles? Michael?' he said, raising himself on one elbow.

  There was a scraping noise, and a shutter was thrown open. Bartholomew gazed in horror at the victorious smiles of Swynford and Stephen, each holding an unsheathed sword.

  'We have come for you,' said Swynford sweetly. 'We have decided upon the plan for your death and we have come to carry it out. Your escaping and returning here was no great problem, since we had decided to kill you here anyway. You merely saved us the bother of bringing you here ourselves.'

  Bartholomew listened intently. It was daytime, but the College was strangely quiet. He could hear shouting, carried distantly on the wind. Swynford heard it, too, and cocked his head to one side.

  'The University Debate at St Mary's Church,' he said.

  'Always a lively affair. The entire College is there as usual, including your faithful Welsh servant. Giles Abigny is one of the leading participants this year — quite an honour for Michaelhouse; do you not think? Meanwhile, Brother Michael has had a message asking him to meet the Bishop at the Carmelite Friary in Newnham, and, like a good lackey, he has gone scurrying off. When he arrives, he will find Master Yaxley waiting with a surprise for him.

  I had already suggested to Alcote that the servants be given the day off. After all, the scholars will be at the Debate, so why would servants be needed?'

  Bartholomew was, once again, dazzled by the ruthless efficiency of these men.

  'All the scholars and servants have gone,' said Swynford, re-emphasising his point. 'Except you, and the man who will kill you. The Bishop will arrive just in time to try to cover it all up with another tissue of lies.