A Plague on Both Your Houses (12 page)

‘When did you start to feel the effects?’

‘It is difficult to say,’ d’Evene replied, with a shrug.

‘Perhaps half an hour? The older folks had already

dropped off to sleep, but Jerome, Roger Alyngton,

Jocelyn and I were still chatting. We were already merry, and I do not think any of us felt that the sudden soporific feeling was anything more than too much strong drink.

Although perhaps poor Montfitchet felt different.’

Bartholomew spoke to Alyngton, Father Jerome,

and two of the old men. None of them could add to

d’Evene’s story, although all claimed to have gone back to the dormitory together.

Bartholomew sat again, resting his back against the

pale apricot stone, his head tipped back and his eyes

closed against the brightness of the sun. A shadow fell across him, and he squinted up.

‘We must talk, Matthew, but not here. Meet me

shortly, in the orchard.’ Aelfrith, after a furtive glance round, glided off towards his room.

‘Give me a hand up, Brother,’ Bartholomew said

to Michael, emerging last from the hall, his jaws still working on a scrap of food. Michael extended a hand

and pulled. Bartholomew was momentarily taken aback

by the strength of Michael’s arm. He had always imagined the large monk to be flabby and weak, but Bartholomew

was hauled to his feet with effortless ease.

“I am away to Barnwell Priory this afternoon,’

Michael said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Want

to come? We could stop off at St Radegund’s on the

way.’ He gave a most unmonklike leer. Had Abigny told

everyone of Bartholomew’s interest in his sister?

“I cannot, Brother. I am going to talk to Aelfrith.’

Michael gave him an odd glance. ‘What about?’

‘This business about Augustus, I suppose,’ said

Bartholomew. ‘Do you believe me, Michael? Do you

think Augustus was dead last night?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Michael fervently, ‘Augustuswas dead.

I saw you do your usual checks, and I saw him myself.

Look, Matt,’ he said suddenly, seizing Bartholomew’s

wrist with a clammy hand, ‘you must be cautious.’ He

glanced about him, as furtive as Aelfrith had been. “I do not understand what is going on, but I am afraid.

Afraid for me and afraid for you.’

‘Afraid of what?’ asked Bartholomew in a hushed

voice.

“I do not know,’ said Michael, exasperated,

tightening his grip on Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Perhaps

it is the work of the Devil. Augustus thought so, and

now his body has disappeared.’

‘Come now, Brother,’ said Bartholomew reasonably.

‘You cannot believe that. You have always told me that the only Devil is man himself. And what do you mean about

Augustus and the Devil?’

Michael shook his head. “I do not know. He spoke

of it just before he died.’

‘When exactly?’

Michael shook his head again and released Bartholomew’s arm. “I do not remember. But you must

be cautious. Go to meet Aelfrith, but remember

what I say.’

He scurried off and disappeared into the dark

doorway of his staircase. Bartholomew watched him

thoughtfully. What was bothering Michael? What was

going on in the College?

WHEN BARTHOLOMEW RETURNED TO HIS ROOM, there was a message from one of the wealthy cloth merchants in Milne Street asking him

to visit. Bartholomew glanced up at the sun, trying to estimate whether he had sufficient time before he was

due to meet Aelfrith. He hesitated for a moment, but then set off, swinging his heavy bag of potions and instruments over his shoulder, aware that he should walk slowly to avoid straining his knee. Since the merchant had never asked for him before, Bartholomew imagined that his

brother-in-law must have recommended him.

He found the house, a rambling building gleaming

under fresh whitewash, and knocked at the door. A

servant directed him up the stairs and into a sumptuous room hung with cloth of blue and gold. There was even

glass in the windows, and the sun filtered through it

to make patterns on the wooden floor. Bartholomew

introduced himself, and sat on the bed to listen to

his new patient’s problem. It did not take him long

to discover that if Nathaniel the Fleming had been

more abstemious with Master Wilson’s wine at the

Michaelhouse feast the night before, he would not

have been lying in his bed complaining of pains in

his head and stomach cramps. Bartholomew listened

gravely to Nathaniel’s list of ailments, and prescribed large quantities of watered ale and a cold compress for his head. Nathaniel looked aghast.

‘But you have not consulted my stars. And should

you not leech me?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘There is no need

for leeches, and I do not need to read your stars to

understand the nature of your … affliction.’ He rose to take his leave.

‘Wait!’ Nathaniel, with a burst of energy that

made him wince, grabbed Bartholomew’s arm. ‘Oswald

Stanmore told me you were the best physician irr

Cambridge. Is watered ale and wet cloths all that

you prescribe? How do you know about the state of

my humours?’

Bartholomew felt a flash of impatience. ‘Of course, I

could spend the afternoon consulting charts and learning of your humours. But at the end of the day, my advice

to you would be the same: drink lots and apply a cool

cloth to soothe your head. Time will heal the rest.’

Nathaniel half rose from his bed. ‘But that is not

enough! What kind of physician are you that you choose not to use the tools of your trade?’

‘An honest one, Master Nathaniel,’ retorted Bartholomew.

“I do not seek to charge you for services you

do not need.’

‘But how do you know?’ argued Nathaniel. ‘And I

feel the need for leeches.’

‘Then I cannot help you,’ said Bartholomew, turning

to leave.

‘Then I will send for Master Colet,’ said Nathaniel.

‘He knows his leeches. You need not tend to me again.’

Bartholomew left, biting his tongue to prevent

himself from telling Nathaniel he was a fool. As he

clattered down Nathaniel’s fine staircase, he heard the merchant ordering a servant to fetch Colet. Clenching

his fists in frustration, he wondered whether he should have complied with Nathaniel’s request-applied leeches to his arm to remove the excess of humours, and read his stars to see what other treatment they might suggest. But the man only had a hangover! Why should Bartholomew

waste his time applying treatments that were unnecessary?

And why should Nathaniel pay for them? As he

walked home, his frustration and anger subsided. Once

again, he had lost the chance of a wealthy patient because he tried to give him what he knew was best, rather than what the patient expected. Sir John had been wise when he encouraged Bartholomew to work among the poor

- they seldom questioned his skills, even if they did not always follow his advice.

Bartholomew stopped at the kitchen for something

to drink, and by the time he had limped to the orchard, Aelfrith was already waiting. It was pleasant in the shade of the trees, with the rich scent of ripe apples. Bartholomew made his way to the ancient tree-trunk that lay against the wall, and had been used by countless students to

study in solitude or to enjoy a nap in the sun.

“I have made sure that we are the only ones here,’

Aelfrith said. “I want no one to overhear us.’

Bartholomew watched him warily, Michael’s warnings

ringing in his ears. Aelfrith took a deep breath.

‘There is an evil loose in the College,’ he said, ‘and we must try to stamp it out.’

‘What is the evil, and how do we stamp it out?’

Bartholomew asked. ‘And why all the secrecy?’

Aelfrith looked hard into Bartholomew’s eyes, as if

searching for something. “I do not want to tell you what I am about to,’ he said. ‘Until last night I would have said you were better not knowing. But now things have

changed, and I have been instructed to tell you for your own good.’

He paused and squinted up into the leafy branches

of the apple trees, as if his mind was wrestling with

itself. ‘There is an evil afoot that threatens not only the College, but the whole University, and perhaps

even all England,’ he blurted out. Bartholomew studied him. He was deeply agitated about something, and

perspiration beaded on his face. ‘Satan is trying to

destroy us.’

‘Oh come, Father,’ said Bartholomew, his patience

beginning to wane. ‘Surely you did not bring me here

to tell me that. You sound just like Augustus!’

Aelfrith’s head whipped round to look at him.

‘Exactly,’ he whispered. ‘Augustus saw, but his wits were gone, and he was unable to keep his secret. Look what

happened to him!’

‘What happened to him, Father?’ asked Bartholomew.

He had spoken to no one about his

suspicions that Augustus had been murdered. Perhaps

now he would hear them confirmed.

‘Augustus was taken by the Devil,’ Aelfrith said in

a whisper. Bartholomew tried not to show his irritation.

He personally concurred with Michael that the only

devils to exist were those within man himself, and he

had considered Aelfrith beyond common superstitions

about devils and demons.

‘Is that all?’ asked Bartholomew, beginning to rise.

Aelfrith tugged him back down. ‘No, that is not

all,’ he said coldly. ‘You must be patient. This is most difficult for me.’ He clasped his hands together, and

muttered some prayer, trying hard to compose himself.

Bartholomew picked up a fallen apple from the ground

and began to eat it. It was sharp, and not quite ripe.

‘It is a complex story, so you must be patient. You

must remember that I am telling you this because it may be necessary for your own safety, and not because I wish to entertain you.’

Bartholomew nodded, intrigued, despite himself.

‘A little more than a year ago, the master of King’s

Hall died. You probably remember. He is said to have

hanged himself, although the official story is that he fell down the stairs and broke his neck.’

Bartholomew remembered the incident well, and

had heard the rumours that his death had been suicide.

Had that been true, then the Master of King’s Hall would not have been buried in consecrated ground, as with Sir John. But he had died in the privacy of his own College, and his scholars had been able to hide the manner of his death from outside eyes. So he had been laid to rest in a fine alabaster tomb in All Saints’ Church. Sir John had chosen a public place for his suicide, and, however much the Fellows wished the details of his death silenced, it had become public knowledge within a few hours.

‘Within a few weeks, two more Fellows of King’s Hall

died, of summer ague. These three deaths disturbed the scholars of King’s Hall, but a new Master was elected, and life returned to normal. About the same time, one of the Deans at Peterhouse was found dead in the fish-ponds.

He was thought to have fallen in and drowned while in

his cups.’

Bartholomew wondered where all this was leading.

Aelfrith continued, ‘The Dean was a close friend, a

Franciscan like myself. He did not like alcoholic beverages; he said they clouded his thoughts. I do not believe

that he would have ever allowed himself to become drunk enough to drown in a fish-pond! A few days after the Dean, two Fellows at Clare lay dead from eating bad food.’

Bartholomew recalled the two deaths at Clare. He

had been called to help by Gregory Colet, the teacher

of medicine at Rudde’s Hostel, who had been a guest

of the Master of Clare that night. He and Colet had

been mystified by the case. The two Fellows had eaten

some oysters sent by the grateful parent of a successful student. Others, including Colet, had eaten the oysters, too, and although some complained of sickness, only

the two young men had died. Colet and Bartholomew

had stood by helplessly, and had watched them die.

‘For several months there were no further deaths,

but then, a few weeks ago, the Hall of Valence Marie,

founded this most recent year, lost two Fellows to summer ague. Now, I know as well as you do that deaths from

accidents and agues are not infrequent in Cambridge.

But add these deaths to our four at Michaelhouse, and we have an unnaturally high figure: twelve in the Colleges in the last year.’

‘So what exactly are you telling me?’ Bartholomew

asked, the unease that he had experienced in Augustus’s room the previous night returning.

‘That not all these deaths were natural, and that

some of them are connected.’

The feeling of unease intensified. ‘But why?’

‘Not everyone wants the University to flourish,’

Aelfrith said. ‘There are those who wish to control

it, or to stamp it out altogether. You know what

happened to the University at Stamford in 1334.

It was becoming a rival to Oxford and Cambridge,

and the King suppressed it. He closed down all the

hostels and forbade the masters to teach there. Many

tried to go back to Oxford or Cambridge, but found

that they were not granted licences to teach. If you

remember your history, you will know that Henry III

did the same to the University of Northampton in 1265.

The University of Oxford is larger, older, and more

powerful than Cambridge, but Cambridge is growing

and is increasing its influence

‘Are you saying that the University at Oxford is murdering our Fellows?’ Bartholomew said incredulously.