A Plague on Both Your Houses (10 page)

accused would be dealt with by Church, rather than

secular, law. ‘Master Swynford, Master Abigny, perhaps you would oversee the search. Make sure that every nook and cranny is investigated. Augustus must be found!’

The Fellows scurried off to do his bidding.

Bartholomew and Aelfrith made their way down the

stairs together, heading for Bartholomew’s room. As

they reached the courtyard, Bartholomew went to look

at the ground under Augustus’s window. If anyone had

managed to squeeze out of the first-floor window and

jump, there would be some evidence, but there was

nothing to be seen. There were a few tendrils of

bindweed creeping up the wall: had someone leaped

from the window, the plants would have been damaged

or displaced. Bartholomew saw nothing that indicated

anyone had made an escape from Augustus’s window.

He stood up slowly, wincing at his stiffening knee.

Wilson gave him a cold glance as he left, guessing what he was doing and disapproving of it. Bartholomew knew

that Wilson would regard his action as a direct challenge to his authority, but was disturbed by Wilson’s eagerness to accept the first excuse that came along and to dismiss any facts that confounded it.

Aelfrith waited, his hands folded in the voluminous

sleeves of his monastic robes. ‘Our new Master seems to dislike you, my son,’ he said.

Bartholomew shrugged, and began to limp towards

his room. Aelfrith caught up with him, and offered his arm for support. The tall friar was surprisingly strong, and Bartholomew was grateful for his help.

They arrived at the tiny chamber Bartholomew used

to store his medicines. It had been used originally to store wood, but Sir John had ordered it cleaned for

Bartholomew’s use because he thought it was not healthy for him to sleep with the smell of his medicines.

The blacksmith still slept on the pallet bed, snoring

noisily. Bartholomew had forgotten about him. He would have to send Cynric to ask his family to come to collect him. Aelfrith wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of stale wine fumes, and went to Bartholomew’s own room

next door. Abigny had thrown the shutters open before

he had left, and the room was bright and sunny. Neither Bartholomew nor Abigny had many possessions - a few

clothes, some writing equipment, and Bartholomew had

a book he had been given by his Arab master when he

had completed his training; all were stored out of sight in the large chest that stood at one end of the room.

Aelfrith looked around approvingly. The room was

clean, with fresh rushes and herbs scattered on the floor, and a servant had already put the bedding out of the

window to air. Bartholomew had been taught that dirt and disease went hand in hand - his insistence on cleanliness was another reason he was regarded as an oddity.

He sank down onto a stool. He had not realised

what a wrench he had given his knee, and he knew it

would slow him down for a few days. He made to stand

again, remembering that he should be tending Aelfrith’s head. Aelfrith pushed him back down firmly.

‘Tell me what you need, Matthew, and I will get it. I

am sure you can doctor me as well sitting as standing.’

As Aelfrith fetched water, linen, and some salves,

Bartholomew thought about Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet.

He had been fond of Paul, and only now did the

shock of his cruel death register. He took a shuddering breath, and blinked away tears.

Aelfrith drew a stool up next to him, and laid

a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Bartholomew

smiled weakly, and began to tend to the wound in

the friar’s scalp. It was a nasty gash, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Aelfrith had been rendered

unconscious. He could easily have been insensible for

several hours. Aelfrith, like Bartholomew, was showing signs of delayed shock, with shaking hands and sudden

tiredness.

Bartholomew inspected the ragged edges of the

wound, and prodded gently to ensure no splinters

were left that might fester. Satisfied that it was clean, he bathed it carefully, and tied a neat bandage around the tonsured head. Aelfrith rose to leave. He leaned

out of the window, looked both ways, and closed the

shutters and the door.

“I am too befuddled to think now,’ he said in a

low voice, ‘but I am appalled at the wickedness that has been perpetrated in this house of learning. Our Master is mistaken in his explanation, and I, like you, know that Augustus was dead last night. I believe there is sinister work afoot, and I suspect that you think the same. Now, I will say no more, but you and I will meet later today to talk when we are both more ourselves. Trust no one, Matthew. Keep your counsel to yourself.’

His calm grey eyes looked steadily at Bartholomew.

Bartholomew’s blood ran cold and he suddenly felt

inutterably tired. He was a physician, dedicated to

healing, and here he was being sucked into some

vile intrigue where the taking of life appeared to

be of little consequence. Aelfrith seemed to detect

Bartholomew’s feelings, for he gave one of his rare

smiles, his eyes kindly.

‘Rest now, Matthew. We will deal with this together,

you and I.’

He was gone before Bartholomew could respond.

Bartholomew put cold wraps around his knee and

hobbled over to his bed to lie down. It was gloomy in

the room with the shutters closed, but he could not be bothered to get up to open them again. He thought of

the drugged commoners. He should really go to see to

them. And he should check the blacksmith’s leg. And

Agatha would be wondering what to do with the woman

he left with her last night. And he had promised his sister he would visit today. With his thoughts tumbling around inside his head, Bartholomew fell into a restless doze.

Bartholomew awoke, the sun full on his face, to the

sound of the bell ringing to announce that the meal

was about to be served in the hall. Like most of the

Colleges and hostels, the main meal at Michaelhouse

was between ten and eleven o’clock in the morning,

with a second, smaller meal around four, and bread

and ale for those that wanted it later in the evening.

He was disoriented for a moment, since he seldom

slept during the day. Then the events of the morning

came flooding back to him, and some of the brightness

went out of the sunshine. Abigny had returned and

opened the shutters, and was sitting at the table writing.

He turned when he heard Bartholomew moving, his face

lined with concern.

‘At last!’ he said, “I have never known you to sleep

a day away before. Are you ill?’

Bartholomew shook his head. His knee felt better

already from the rest. He sat quietly for a moment,

listening to the scratching of Abigny’s quill as he finished what he was writing, and Brother Michael’s footsteps as he moved about in the room above. Brother Michael shared

a room with Michaelhouse’s two Benedictine students,

but Michael’s footsteps were distinct from the others’

because of his weight. After a few moments, he came

thundering down the stairs, bent on being the first to the meal. Bartholomew heard him puffing as he hurried

across the courtyard.

Upstairs, the other brothers moved about much

more quietly, their sandalled feet making little sound.

Suddenly, something clicked in Bartholomew’s memory.

As he had lain at the bottom of the stairs, after being pushed, he had heard footsteps, presumably those of

his attacker. He could not tell where they came from,

but they had been very distinct. The south wing, where the commoners roomed, was better built than the north

wing where Bartholomew lived-he had climbed the stairs that morning without making a sound, which was why he

had taken his attacker by surprise. While Bartholomew

could usually hear sounds from the upstairs rooms in

the north wing, he had noticed that the south wing was very much quieter, and the ground-floor residents were seldom disturbed by the people above them.

So how was it that he had heard footsteps? Had

he imagined it? Bartholomew had the feeling that if

he could work out why hearing the footsteps bothered

him, he would be much nearer to solving the mystery.

For now, the answer eluded him, and he told himself

that mysterious footsteps in the night were the least of his concerns compared to the murders of his colleagues.

He hauled himself up, splashed some water on his

face, tried to restore some order to his unruly black

hair, and made his way out. Abigny watched him.

‘Well, you are in a mess,’ he observed. ‘No

gallivanting off today, Physician. And I was going to

ask you to come to St Radegund’s with me to see

my sister!’

Bartholomew glowered at him. Abigny’s sister had

been committed to the care of the nuns at St Radegund’s following the death of her father a year before. It had not taken Abigny long to observe that his pretty, fair-haired sister and his scholarly chamber-mate seemed to find a lot to talk about. Philippa would give her brother no

peace when he visited without Bartholomew in tow,

though, for the life of him, Abigny could not imagine

what his sister, who had spent the greater part of her life in convents, could ever have in common with the

world-wise Bartholomew.

‘Well, perhaps I should invite her to Michaelhouse,’

he said playfully. ‘You brought a woman here yesterday.

I must tell Philippa about that; I am sure she would find it most amusing.’

Bartholomew shot him another withering glance.

“I am going,’ Abigny said cheerfully, and waved

folded piece of parchment at Bartholomew. ‘One

advantage that a philosopher has over a physician is

that he can write decent love poetry. So first, I am away to deliver this little work of genius to the woman of my dreams!’

‘ On which poor soul do you intend to prey this time?’

asked Bartholomew drily. Abigny’s innocent, boyish looks had cost many a girl her reputation, and Abigny seemed to move from relationship to relationship with staggering ease. He was playing with fire, for if Wilson had any inkling of what Abigny was doing, the philosopher would

be forced to resign his fellowship and would have grave problems finding a teaching position elsewhere.

‘That lovely creature from the Laughing Pig over

in Trumpington,’ replied Abigny, tapping Bartholomew

on the shoulder gleefully. ‘Now, do not look like that!

I met her at the house of your very own sister, so she must be a woman of stainless reputation.’

‘At Edith’s?’ queried Bartholomew. Edith’s large

household in the village of Trumpington, two miles

away, was run with the style and elegance that befitted her husband’s wealth and status. Bartholomew could

not imagine how Abigny had met a tavern-maid there.

‘Three weeks ago, at the farewell meal she had for

young Richard going to Oxford,’ said Abigny, seeing

Bartholomew’s confusion. “I met her in the kitchens

where she was delivering eggs. She has invited me to

sample the fine ale that she has been brewing.’

‘Giles, have a care! If you are caught frequenting

drinking houses, Wilson will drop on you like a stone.

He wishes himself rid of you only slightly less than he wishes himself rid of me.’

‘Oh, come, Master Physician,’ laughed Abigny, ‘not

so gloomy on such a wonderful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I am in love!’

Bartholomew looked dubiously at Abigny’s piece of

parchment. ‘Can this barmaid read?’ he asked.

Abigny laughed again. ‘Of course not! So she will

never know that the words here are actually a list of books I made for my students last term, now embellished with a few decorated capitals for appearance’s sake. Parchment is expensive!’

Bartholomew noted that Abigny was wearing his

best robe and hose, implying that his intentions towards the barmaid were serious, if not honourable. Abigny set off, jauntily waving his hat in the air before disappearing through the door. He put his head back a moment later.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘your smelly patient has gone. I sent Cynric to tell his family to come and remove him. I could not bear to have him lying about here all day! He said to tell you he would keep his side of the bargain whatever that might mean.’

He had disappeared a second time before

Bartholomew had a chance to reply. Bartholomew

saw that Alcote had emerged from his room on the

next staircase, and, since his window shutters were

A plAqUG ON BOTl) YOUR f}OUSeS

open, had probably heard their entire conversation.

Of all the Fellows, Alcote was the one who most strongly disapproved of women having anything to do with the

College. Bartholomew wondered if he had once been

married and the experience had driven him to extremes.

Alcote was a small, fussy man who reminded him of a hen.

He was impatient with his less-able scholars, and most of his students lived in fear of his scathing criticisms.

Bartholomew made his way slowly round the courtyard,

Alcote walking silently next to him.

‘Has Augustus’s body been found?’ Bartholomew

asked.

Alcote looked sharply at him. ‘Augustus has not

been found yet,’ he said. ‘We are still searching and will bring him to justice, never fear. He could not possibly have left the College grounds, because the porters at the main gates were awake all night owing to the racket the students were making in the hall, and they are positive no one went past them. And your woman kept Mistress