A Plague On Both Your Houses mb-1

by Susanna GREGORY

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

  It is God's pestilence, and we should not try to fight His will by trying to reduce its effects.'

  Bartholomew looked at him, aghast. 'Where on earth did you conceive that notion? You cannot believe that any more than I do.'

  'But it is true, it is true,' Colet sang to himself, rocking back and forth.

  'In that case,' Bartholomew said sharply, 'why are you hanging on to that ridiculous lion?'

  He immediately regretted his words. Colet stopped rocking and began to cry. Bartholomew grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. 'Help me! I cannot do it all alone. Have you seen the streets? There are piles of rubbish everywhere, and the dead have not been collected in days.'

  Colet snuffled into his blanket. 'If you stay with me, I will lend you my lion.'

  Bartholomew closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. Poor Colet. He had been one of the best physicians in Cambridge, and was now reduced to little more than a drooling idiot. He had acquired a large practice of rich patients, including some of the most influential men in the town, as well as teaching at Rudde's Hostel. Because of this, he was wealthy and had the ears of many powerful men. In short, he was at the beginning of what would have been a brilliant career.

  Bartholomew made one last try. 'Come with me today. Help me with the sick.'

  Colet shrank backwards against the pillar, fear stark on his face. 'No, Master Roper, I cannot go out there with you. I have heard there are people with the plague!' He began to twist the lion through his fingers again, staring unseeingly at the row of kneeling monks. He seemed to have forgotten Bartholomew was there at all.

  Bartholomew went back to Michaelhouse. After a moment's hesitation, he opened the chest where Abigny kept his belongings and rummaged around.

  Nothing appeared to have gone: Abigny, it seemed, had not intended to flee Michaelhouse. Bartholomew stood for a moment looking out over the yard as he thought about what he should do first. His instinct told him to drop everything and go to the taverns and hostels in search of news of Abigny. Reluctantly, he put that aside; his first duty was to organise collection of the bodies and cleaning of the streets.

  Stanmore had said already that he would put out a general message that good wages would be paid to anyone willing to rid the streets of rubbish. Since there were a number of people without employment because their masters had died, he anticipated that there would not be too much of a problem in attracting applicants.

  Even if it did not prevent the spread of the plague, it would reduce the spread of other, equally fatal, diseases.

  Bartholomew's task was to arrange a better system of collecting the dead. Since he had been ill, the number of deaths seemed to have levelled off somewhat, although this did not mean that the plague had lessened its grip on the town. He walked to the Castle to see the Sheriff, who, pale-faced and grieving for his wife, was pliable to Bartholomew's demands. Bartholomew wondered if his mind had gone the same way as Colet's. He left the Sheriff morosely polishing his helmet and repeated his instructions to an able-looking sergeant-at-arms. The sergeant gave a hearty sigh.

  'We cannot collect the dead,' he said. 'We have lost a third of the men already, and we do not have enough to patrol the town for these bloody robbers, let alone for collecting bodies. We cannot help you. Did you know that everyone in the little settlement near All Saints-next-the-Castle is dead? Not a soul has survived.

  The men are terrified of the place and believe that it is full of ghosts. Even if I did have the men to help, they would probably rather hang than collect the dead.'

  Bartholomew left feeling depressed. He went to the settlement the sergeant had told him about and wandered through the pathetic little shacks that had been people's homes. The sergeant was right: there was not a living soul in the community. He left quickly, gagging on the smell of putrefaction.

  There were more bodies in Bridge Street, although the area around St John's Hospital was relatively clean thanks to the Austin Canons. Bartholomew talked to the Canons and they agreed, albeit reluctantly, to pick up bodies they saw on the way to the plague pits when they took their own dead there. He walked on to St Edmund's Priory and obtained a similar agreement there, along with the promise of a lay-brother to supervise the filling of the plague pits.

  Bartholomew's plans to keep the town free from plague-ridden bodies were beginning to come together.

  He still needed volunteers to drive the carts each day and collect up the piles of dead. He knew the risk of infection was great, but it was a job that had to be done.

  He stood looking at the plague pit that he and Colet had organised almost two weeks before. It was so full that there was scarcely room to add the quicklime over the last layer of corpses, let alone cover it with earth afterwards.

  He shivered. It was a desolate spot, even though it lay only a short distance from the town gates. The wind seemed colder near the pit, and whistled softly through the scrubby trees and bushes that partially shielded it from the road. He went to a nearby tavern and offered to buy ale for any who would help him dig a new pit. At first, there was no response. Then a man stood, and said he would buy ale for any who could dig faster or deeper than he could. This met with catcalls and hoots, but the man strode out of the tavern rolling up his sleeves, and others followed.

  In a short time, a new pit was dug, larger than the previous one and about twice as deep. Men competed with each other to show off their strength while, more sedately, women and even small children helped, ferrying stones from the pit to the ever-growing pile of earth to one side. Bartholomew took his turn in digging and heaving great stones out of the way. During a brief respite, Bartholomew went to speak to the man who had instigated the competitive spirit.

  'Thank you, Master Blacksmith,' he said. "I thought I might have to dig it alone.'

  The blacksmith grinned, revealing the yellow-black teeth that Bartholomew remembered from the night of the riot. 'It will cost you in ale,' he said.

  When the new pit had been dug, Bartholomew's helpers began to drift away. He handed over all the money he had to buy the promised ale and was pleasantly surprised to receive half of it back again with mutters that it was too much. He shovelled lime into the pit, and watched as it bubbled and seethed in the water at the bottom. The blacksmith helped him bury the first bodies, a pathetic line of ten crudely-wrapped shapes.

  Bartholomew covered them with more lime, and leaned on the spade wiping the sweat from his eyes.

  The blacksmith came to stand beside him. "I am sorry,' he said, and pushed something into Bartholomew's hand. Bartholomew, bewildered, looked at the greasy black purse in his hand, and then back at the blacksmith. Abruptly the blacksmith turned away and began to walk back to the tavern. Bartholomew caught up with him, and swung him round.

  'What is this?'

  The blacksmith refused to meet Bartholomew's eyes.

  "I did not want to do it. I told them it was wrong,' he mumbled, trying to head for the tavern. Bartholomew held him fast.

  'What was wrong? What are you talking about? I do not want your money.'

  The blacksmith looked up at the low clouds scudding overhead in the growing dusk. 'It is the money I got for the riot,' he said. "I kept it all this time. I only spent enough to get some of my lads drunk enough to be brave on the night, and some to bury Mistress Atkin's son. It is Judas money and I do not want it.'

  Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment.

  'What are you talking about?' he said. 'Did someone pay you to start the riot?'

  The blacksmith looked Bartholomew full in the face, his eyes round. 'Yes, they paid me to get some of the lads excited. You know how it was that day — that pompous bastard throwing his wealth around while us poor folk stood and watched and waited for scraps like dogs.' He spat on the ground. 'They seemed to know how it would be, and they paid me to make sure there was a fight. Once the fight was starte
d, I was to find you and warn you off.'

  He paused, and searched Bartholomew's face, earnestly looking for some reaction to his confession.

  Bartholomew thought back to the riot, of his last-minute dash into the College with the enraged mob behind him, and of Abigny telling him that Henry Oliver had ordered Francis Eltham to lock him out. Surely the whole thing had not been staged to get at him? Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief. What could he have done that people wanted him dead? He racked his brain for patients who might have died in his care, wondering whether his unorthodox treatment might have seemed to have killed when leeches might have saved, but he could think of none. Unbidden, Sir John's benign face came into his mind. But what had Sir John done, or Augustus and Aelfrith, to warrant their murders? He recalled Henry Oliver's looks of hatred at him since the riot every time they inadvertently met.

  The blacksmith, watching Bartholomew's brows drawn down in thought, continued. 'It seemed like an easy way to earn some decent money at first, and trade had been poor, with the threat of the Death coming. I did a good job, getting people roused up against Michaelhouse. But it went wrong. It all got out of control before I could do anything, and the two lads died. Then you helped Rachel Atkin, and you set my leg.

  I have felt wrong ever since, which is why I have not spent the money. My broken leg was God's judgement on me for my actions. The men who gave me the money came to see me while my leg was mending, and I told them that I had warned you as they asked, just to get them out of my house.'

  'Get who out?' asked Bartholomew, the whole mess slowly revolving in his mind, a confused jumble.

  The blacksmith shook his head. "I wish I knew, because I would tell you. These are evil men, and you.

  I would wish you to be on your guard against them.'

  'Where did they approach you?'

  The blacksmith nodded over to the tavern. 'In there.

  I was having a quiet drink, and I got a message telling me that if I went outside, I could be a rich man. I went, and there were two men. They told me to cause a bit of a fight on the day of old fatso's ceremony, and to get you alone and warn you off.'

  'What exactly did they say?'

  The blacksmith closed his eyes and screwed up his face as he sought to recall the exact words. 'They said that I should just say to you "stay away". Those were their very words!' he said triumphantly, pleased at his feat of memory.

  'What were these people like?' "I could not say. Only one spoke, but I do not recall his voice. He was quite big, about your size, I would say.

  The other was smaller, but both of them wore thick cloaks with hoods, and I could not see their faces.'

  Bartholomew and the blacksmith stood side by side in the darkness for several moments before the blacksmith spoke again. 'If I knew who they were, I would tell you. The only thing I can think of, and it is not much, is that the purse they gave me is nice. See?'

  Bartholomew took a few steps to where he could see the purse in the faint light from the tavern windows.

  The purse had been fine in its time, but weeks in the blacksmith's grubby hands had begrimed its soft leather and all but worn away the insignia sewn in gold on the side. Bartholomew examined it more closely, turning it this way and that to try to make the gold thread catch the light. As he did so, the insignia suddenly stood out clearly. 'BH' — the initials of Bene't Hostel! He had seen Hugh Stapleton with a purse almost identical when he had been out with Abigny once.

  He tipped the money out of the purse into his hand. About five marks, an enormous sum of money for a blacksmith. He turned round again. 'You keep this,' he said, pushing the money towards the blacksmith and slipping the empty purse into his belt. 'What is done is done. Thank you for telling me all this. I had no idea that I had such powerful enemies.'

  The blacksmith gave a short laugh devoid of humour.

  'Oh, they are powerful right enough. I could tell that just by the way they spoke to me. They are people used to ordering others about.' He put a mud-stained hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. "I wish I had told you this before, but you seemed to be doing well enough. I do not want the money, though. I might go to hell if I take it knowing what it was for — and these days, a man cannot be sure of getting the chance to confess before he is taken.' He looked in distaste at the silver coins in his rough hand.

  Before Bartholomew could stop him, he flung them all in the direction of the pit. Bartholomew saw some of them glitter as they plunged into its steaming depths.

  The blacksmith smiled. 'It is all right now,' he said quietly. 'The blood money is where it belongs.'

  Bartholomew offered his thanks again, and made for home. He hoped that all the coins had disappeared into the quicklime. He did not want to think of people climbing into the pit to fetch them out.

  He walked slowly, breathing in the cold night air in an attempt to clear his reeling mind. He was wholly confused. Someone had tried to warn him to stay away the same night that Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet were murdered. But stay away from what? Had it been Hugh Stapleton who had issued the warning? Were there others with Bene't Hostel purses? Was it Abigny who had hired the blacksmith, since he was so often at Bene't Hostel and was apparently involved in something that had led him to pretend to be Philippa? But Michael had witnessed that it had been Abigny who had kept Francis Eltham from closing the gates until Bartholomew was safely inside. Gray had been at Bene't's too. Was he involved? It did not make sense. He wished Sir John or Aelfrith were alive so that he could tell them the whole insane muddle and they could help him to sort it out.

  He had already decided not to confide in his family, but who else could he trust? Michael? Bartholomew did not understand the monk's role in the death of Augustus, nor his position in the wretched Oxford plot. Abigny was clearly involved and, anyway, he had fled. The loathing he felt for Wilson was mutual, and how could he trust a man who skulked in his room and left the College to its own devices when it needed a strong Master? He considered the Chancellor and the Bishop, but what did he have to tell them? There was only his word that Aelfrith had been poisoned, and that Augustus had been dead when he disappeared. And the Chancellor and Bishop were unlikely to be impressed with him for producing the blacksmith as a witness, a self-confessed rabble-rouser and a man notorious for his drunkenness. With a heavy sigh, Bartholomew arrived at the same conclusion he had reached at Stanmore's house: that there was no one with whom he could speak, and he would have to reason through the muddle of facts alone.

  Having reached St Michael's Church, he walked across the churchyard and stood looking down at the pile of earth that marked Aelfrith's grave.

  'Why?' he whispered into the night. "I do not understand.'

  He rethought the blacksmith'swords as he crouched down in the long grass that grew over Aelfrith's mound.

  He had no reason to believe the man was lying. Were the mysterious men at the tavern ordering Bartholomew to stay away from Augustus? The blacksmith suggested that one of the men was educated and used to giving orders.

  Could it have been Wilson, suspecting that something might happen to Augustus and wishing to conceal the entire matter before it had occurred? He had certainly tried to hide the truth later.

  Bartholomew stood, and stretched his aching limbs.

  It had been a long day, and the more he thought about it, the more loose ends there were and the murkier the matter became. He was tired and wanted to concentrate on finding Philippa. She might be in danger, and his feeble attempts at trying to unravel University business would not help her. Wearily he walked down the lane to Michaelhouse, intending to ask Gray to help him search the taverns for news of Abigny.

  When he reached his room, there was no sign of Gray, and Bartholomew was uncertain how to begin questioning people in taverns. He knew that the wrong questions would not bring him the information he needed, and might even be dangerous. He heard a creak of floorboards in the room above, and an idea began forming in his mind. Philippa's disappearance was no secret, an
d it was only natural that he would want to find her. Why should he not enlist Michael's help for that? He would not need to reveal that he knew anything of the alleged Oxford plot, only that he wished to find Philippa.

  Grateful that he had something positive to do, he slipped out of his room and up the stairs to Michael's chamber. He pushed open the door and saw that Michael's bed was empty. The two Benedictines who shared his room were sleeping, one of them twitching as if disturbed by some nightmare. Disappointed, he turned to leave.

  As he closed the door, a scrap of parchment fluttered to the floor from one of the high shelves, caught by a sudden draught from the door downstairs. Bartholomew picked it up, and strained to read the words in the darkness. They were in Michael's bold, round hand, the letters ill-formed and clumsy with haste. 'Seal must still be in College. Will look with Wilson.'

  Bartholomew stared at it. Michael had obviously written this message and been unable to deliver it, or had been disturbed while he was writing. Whatever the reason, it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Michael was embroiled in all this intrigue. Bartholomew felt his hands shaking. Michael may have been the very one who had paid the blacksmith to warn him away.

  He gasped in shock as the note was snatched from his hand. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not heard Michael coming from the room opposite.

  He saw the monk's face in the gloom of the hallway.

  It was contorted with rage, and he was controlling himself with difficulty. Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. He had not been prying in Michael's room, and had not searched for the scrap of parchment, but there was no reason for Michael to believe that.

  Words would be meaningless now: what could be said? Bartholomew pushed his way past Michael into the hallway. In the room opposite, he could hear the muffled voices of the three students that lived there.

  One of them must have become ill and called for help.

  Bartholomew poked his head round the door and saw the student writhing on his pallet bed, his room-mates staring at him fearfully in the light of a flickering tallow candle. Bartholomew felt the sick boy's head, and told the others to carry him to the commoners' dormitory.