A Plague on Both Your Houses (17 page)

child who lay in a tangle of dirty blankets, and began his examination. The child was obviously frightened,

and Bartholomew found himself chattering about all

manner of inane subjects to distract her. The other

children clustered round, giggling at his banter.

The child was about six years old, and, as

Bartholomew had thought, was suffering from dehydration resulting from severe diarrhoea. He showed

the mother how to feed her with a mixture of boiled

water and milk and gave her specific instructions about the amounts she should be given. He discovered that

the child had fallen into the river two days earlier, and suspected that she had swallowed bad water.

The rain was falling persistently as he walked back

along the High Street towards Shoemaker Row, and

he was drenched by the time he reached Holy Trinity

Church. It was the third time he had been soaked in a

week, and he was running out of dry clothes. The only

fires Wilson allowed in the College were in the kitchens and, on very cold days, in the conclave, and there was not enough room for all the scholars to dry their clothes.

Bartholomew began to invent a plan to warm stones on

the hearths so that they might be wrapped round wet

clothes.

The house of Agatha’s cousin, a Mistress Bowman,

was a small half-timbered building, with whitewashed

walls and clean rushes on the floors. Mistress Bowman

ushered him in fearfully.

‘It is my son, Doctor. I do not know what is wrong

with him, but he is so feverish! He seems not to know

me!’ She bit back a sob.

‘How long has he been ill?’ asked Bartholomew,

allowing her to take his wet cloak.

‘Since yesterday. It came on so fast. He has been

down in London, you know,’ she said, a hint of pride in her voice. ‘He is a fine arrow-maker, and he has been

making arrows for the King’s armies in France.’

“I see,’ said Bartholomew, looking at her closely,

‘and when did he return from London?’

‘Two days ago,’ said Mistress Bowman.

Bartholomew took a deep breath and climbed up

the steep wooden stairs to the room above. He could

hear the laboured breathing of the man before he was

half-way up. Mistress Bowman followed him, bringing a

candle because, there being no glass in the windows,

the shutters were closed against the cold and it was

dark. Bartholomew took the candle and bent down

towards the man on the bed. At first, he thought his

dreadful suspicions were unfounded, and that the man

had a simple fever. Then he felt under the man’s arms

and detected the swollen lumps there like hard unripe

apples.

He gazed down at the man in horror. So this

was the plague! He swallowed hard. Did the fact that

he had touched the man mean that he would now

succumb to the disease himself? He fought down the

almost overwhelming urge to move away and abandon

him, to flee the house and return to Michaelhouse.

But he had discussed this many times with his fellow

physician, Gregory Colet, and both had come to the

conclusion - based on what little fact they could distil from exaggeration or rumour - that their chances of

contracting the plague were high regardless of whether they frequented the homes of the victims. Bartholomew

understood that some people seemed to have a natural

resistance to it - and those that did not would catch it whether they had the slightest contact with a victim, or whether they exposed themselves to it totally.

Would Bartholomew die now - merely from touching

the man who writhed and groaned in his delirious

fever? If so, the matter was out of his hands, and he

could not, in all conscience, abandon the victims of the foul disease to their suffering. He and Colet had agreed.

While, all over the land, physicians were fleeing towns and villages for secluded houses in the country, Bartholomew and Colet had decided to stand firm. Bartholomew had

nowhere to flee in any case - and all his family and

friends were in Cambridge.

Bartholomew braced himself and completed his

examination. Besides the swellings in the arms, there were similar lumps, the size of small eggs, in the man’s groin and smaller swellings on his neck. He was also

burning with fever, and screamed and writhed when

Bartholomew gently felt the buboes.

Bartholomew sat back on his heels. Behind him, Mistress Bowman hovered worriedly. ‘What is it, Doctor?’ she

whispered. Bartholomew did not know how to tell her.

‘Did he travel alone?’ he asked.

‘Oh, no! There were three of them. They all came

back together.’

Bartholomew’s heart sank. ‘Where do the others

live?’ he asked.

Mistress Bowman stared at him. ‘It is the pestilence,’

she whispered, looking down at her son with a mixture of horror and pity. ‘My son has brought the pestilence.’

Bartholomew had to be sure before an official

pronouncement was made, and before people started

to panic. He stood. “I do not know, Mistress,’ he said softly. “I have never seen a case of the pestilence before, and we should check the other lads before we jump to

conclusions.’

Mistress Bowman grabbed his sleeve. ‘Will he die?’

she cried, her voice rising. ‘Will my boy die?’

Bartholomew disentangled his arm and took both

her hands in his firmly. He stood that way until her

shuddering panic had subsided. “I do not know, Mistress.

But you will do him no good by losing control of yourself.

Now, you must fetch clean water and some linen, and

sponge his face to bring his fever down.’

The woman nodded fearfully, and went off to do

his bidding. Bartholomew examined the young man

again. He seemed to be getting worse by the minute,

and Bartholomew knew that he would soon see scores

of cases of such suffering - perhaps even among those

he loved - and be unable to do anything about it.

Mistress Bowman returned with her water and

Bartholomew made her repeat his instructions. “I do

not wish to frighten you,’ he said, ‘but we must be

careful. Do not allow anyone in the house, and do not

go out until I return.’ She had gathered her courage

while she had been busy, and nodded firmly, reminding

him suddenly of Agatha.

He left the house and went to Holy Trinity Church.

He asked the priest if he could borrow a pen and a scrap of parchment, and hurriedly scribbled a note to Gregory Colet at Rudde’s Hostel, telling him of his suspicions and asking him to meet him at the Round Church in

an hour. Outside, he threw a street urchin a penny and told him to deliver the note to Colet, who would give

him another penny when he received it. The lad sped

off while Bartholomew trudged to the house of one of

the other men who had travelled from London.

As he arrived, he knew that any attempt he might

make to contain the disease would be futile. Wails and howls came from within and the house was thronged

with people. He elbowed his way through them until

he reached the man lying on the bed. A glance told

Bartholomew that he was near his end. He could scarcely draw breath and his arms were stuck out because of

the huge swellings in his armpits. One had burst, and

emitted a smell so foul that some people in the room

covered their mouths and noses with scraps of cloth.

‘How long has he been ill?’ he asked an old woman,

who sat weeping in a corner. She refused to look at him, and went on with her wailing, rocking back and forth.

‘God’s anger is visited upon us!’ she cried. ‘It will

take all those with black, sinful hearts!’

And a good many others besides, thought Bartholomew.

He and Colet had listened carefully to all

the stories about the plague that flooded into Cambridge in the hope of learning more. For months, people had

spoken of little else. First, itwas thought that the infection would never reach England. After all, how could the foul winds that carried the disease cross the waters of the Channel? But cross they did, and in August, a sailor

died of the plague in the Dorset port of Melcombe,

and within days, hundreds were dead.

When the disease reached Bristol, officials tried to

cut the port off from the surrounding areas to prevent the disease from spreading. But the wave of death was

relentless. It was soon in Oxford, and then in London.

Bartholomew and his colleagues discussed it deep into

the night. Was it carried by the wind? Was it true that a great earthquake had opened up graves and the

pestilence came from the uncovered corpses? Was it a

visitation from God? What were they to do if it came to Cambridge? Colet argued that people who had been in

contact with plague victims should stay away from those who had not, but even as Colet’s words of warning rang in his ears, Bartholomew saw that such a restriction

was wholly impractical. Among the crowd was one of

Michaelhouse’s servants - even if Bartholomew avoided

contact with the scholars, the servant would be among

them. And what of those who had already fled?

Thomas Exton, the town’s leading physician,

declared that none would die if everyone stayed in the churches and prayed. Colet had suggested that applying leeches to the black swellings that were purported to

grow under the arms and in the groin might draw off

the poisons within. He said he meant to use leeches

until his fellow physicians discovered another treatment.

Bartholomew argued that the leeches themselves might

spread the infection, but agreed to try them if Colet

could prove they worked.

Bartholomew pulled himself out of his thoughts

and slammed the door, silencing wailing and whispering alike.

‘How long has this man been ill?’ he repeated.

There was a gabble of voices answering him, and

Bartholomew bent towards a woman dressed in grey.

‘He was ill when they came home the night before

last,’ she said. ‘He had been drinking in the King’s Head tavern on the High Street, and his friends brought him back when he began to shake with this fever.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. The King’s

Head was one of the busiest taverns in the town, and, if the rumours were true and infection spread on the wind, then those who had been in contact with the three young men were already in danger. A hammering on the door

stilled the buzz of conversation, and a thickset man in a greasy apron forced his way in.

‘Will and his mother are sick,’ he yelled. ‘And one

of Mistress Barnet’s babies has turned black!’

There was an immediate panic. People crossed

themselves, the window shutters were thrown open,

and some began to climb out screaming that the plague

was there. Rapidly, only the sick man, Bartholomew, and the woman in grey were left in the house. Bartholomew

looked at her closely, noting a sheen of sweat on her face.

He pulled her into the light and felt under her jaw. Sure enough, there were the beginnings of swellings in her

neck; she was already infected.

He helped her up the stairs to a large bed, and

covered her with blankets, leaving a pitcher of water

near her, for she was complaining of a fierce thirst. He went to look at the young man downstairs on his way

out, and saw that he was already dead, his face a dark purple and his eyes starting from his face. The white

shirt under his arms was stained with blood and with

black and yellow pus. The stench was terrible.

Bartholomew let himself out of the house. The

street was unusually silent as he made his way to the

Round Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Gregory

Colet was waiting anxiously.

‘Matt?’ he said, stepping towards him, his eyes

fearful.

Bartholomew held up his hand, warning him to

come no closer. ‘It has come, Gregory,’ he said softly.

‘The plague has come to Cambridge.’

The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind for

Bartholomew. At first, there were only a few cases,

and one of them even recovered. After five days,

Bartholomew began to hope that the pestilence had

passed them by, and that the people of Cambridge

might have escaped the worst of the fever, or that it

had burned itself out. Then, without warning, four

people became infected one day, seven the next day,

and thirteen the day after that. People began to die and Bartholomew found himself with more requests for help

than he could possibly answer.

Colet called an urgent meeting of the physicians

and surgeons, and Bartholomew described the symptoms

he had seen first-hand while he stood in the gallery of St Mary’s Church, as far away from the others as possible.

There was much to be done. Gravediggers needed to be

found, and collectors of the dead. There were few who

wanted such tasks, and there was an argument between

the medics on the one hand and the Sheriff on the

other about who should pay the high wages to entice

people to do it.

The number of cases of the plague continued to

rise dramatically. Some people died within a few hours of becoming ill, while others lasted for several days.

Others still seemed to recover, but died as their relatives began to celebrate their deliverance. Bartholomew

could see no pattern as to who lived and who died,