A Plague on Both Your Houses (20 page)

lord, Matthew,’ he said. “I never thought we would

laugh again. Give me the oatcakes, Mistress Agatha. I

had nothing but maggoty apples last night.’

Agatha pulled the oatcakes out of the oven and

plumped herself down on a stool next to Bartholomew.

“I am gone for three days to tend to my relatives, and the College falls apart,’ she said. ‘Filth in the kitchens, rats in the rooms, and the food all gone.’

Michael coughed, his mouth overfull of fresh warm

oatcake. ‘The servants have mostly left,’ he said. ‘That great lump of lard in the Master’s room will not stir

himself to take charge as he should, and the College

is ruled by chaos.’

‘Not any more,’ said Agatha grandly, ‘for I am back.

And make no mistake, young sirs, no pestilence is going to get me! I have been three days going from house to

house, seeing my relatives die, and I am still free from the pestilence. Some of us will not be taken!’

Bartholomew and Michael stared at her in astonishment.

‘You may be right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Gregory

Colet and I wondered whether some people may have

a natural resistance to the plague.’

‘Not resistance, Master Bartholomew,’ said Agatha

proudly, ‘I am one of God’s chosen.’ She shifted her

ample skirts importantly. ‘He strikes down those that

anger him, and spares those he loves.’

‘That cannot be, Mistress,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why

would God strike down children? And what of the monks

and friars who risk themselves to give comfort to the

people?’

‘Monks and friars!’ spat Agatha. “I have seen the

lives they lead: wealth, rich foods, women, and fine

clothes! God will direct them to hell first!’

‘Thank you for your kind words, Mistress,’ said

Michael, eyeing her dolefully. ‘And how long would

you say I have before God banishes me to hell?’

Agatha grinned sheepishly. “I did not say he would

take you all. But what other reason can there be that

some die and some live? The physicians do not know.

Gregory Colet told me I may be right, and the priests

believe some are chosen to live and others to die.’

‘Perhaps some people have a balance of humours

in their bodies that gives them a resistance to the plague,’

mused Bartholomew, taking another oatcake.

‘And have you compared the humours of those that

live with those that die?’ asked Michael.

Bartholomew nodded, frustrated. ‘But I can see no

pattern in it as yet.’

Michael patted his shoulder. ‘Well, perhaps the

balance is too fine to be easily seen,’ he said. ‘But if your theory is true, I do not want to know for it would mean that I am doomed - to live or die - as my body

directs, and that nothing I do - no matter how I pray

or try to live a godly life, will make a difference. And then I would be without hope and without God.’

Bartholomew raised his hands. ‘It would be no kind

of answer anyway,’ he said.

“I want to know how to cure

this foul disease, not forecast for people whether they will live or die.’

Michael stood up, stuffing the rest of the oatcakes

in his scrip for later. ‘As much as I like your company, sitting here discussing the causes of the Death with two people who have no more idea why it has come than I

have will benefit no one. I must say my prayers and visit the people.’

He marched out of the kitchen, and Bartholomew

heard his strong baritone singing a psalm as he went to the porter’s lodge. He also glimpsed Wilson’s white face at his window, surveying the domain he dared not rule.

‘You can stay a while, if you do not mind me

clattering,’ said Agatha. Bartholomew recognised this

as a rare compliment, for Agatha did not approve of

idle hands in the kitchen. She was already beginning

to reimpose her order on the chaos, for the boys who

worked in the scullery had been set to work washing

floors, and Cynric and Alexander were collecting the

bedclothes of those who had died to be taken to the

laundry.

‘Thank you, Mistress, but I must meet with Gregory

Colet to see that the new pit is dug.’

He left Agatha to her work, and went to draw some

water from the well. Back in the room where he stored

his medicines, he washed quickly in the freezing water and changed his clothes. His clean ones were not quite dry, but it was going to rain again anyway, he thought. As he emerged from the storeroom, he saw Father William

and hailed him over. He looked tired, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

‘Nathaniel the Fleming has the plague,’ he said. “I

have been called to give him last rites.’

‘Not leeches?’ asked Bartholomew, his own weariness

making him obtuse.

William looked askance at him. ‘Doctor Colet has

already leeched him, but the poisons were too deep in

his body to draw out.’ He reached a meaty hand towards Bartholomew. ‘What of Aelfrith? Will you see him taken to the plague pit?’

Bartholomew looked up at the pale blue sky. Did

William know? Should he tell him? What if William

and Wilson were in league, and had poisoned Aelfrith

together? Bartholomew looked at the friar’s face, grey with fatigue, and recalled also that Aelfrith and William had been close friends. ‘Shall I bury him in the

churchyard instead?’ he asked, to buy himself more

time to think.

William looked startled. ‘Can we? Is it not safer for

the living to bury him in lime in the plague pits?’

“I do not see why,’ Bartholomew said, watching

William closely. ‘Others were buried in the churchyard before the plague came in earnest.’

William pursed his lips. “I have been thinking about

that. Perhaps it is their corrupted flesh lying in hallowed ground that is causing the contagion to spread. Perhaps the way to stop the Death is to exhume them all and

rebury them in the plague pits.’

Now it was Bartholomew’s turn to be startled. Here

was a theory he had not encountered before. He mulled

it over in his mind briefly, reluctant to dismiss any chance of defeating the plague without due thought, no matter how unlikely a solution it might seem. But he shook his head. “I suspect that would only serve to put those that perform the exhumation at risk, if not from the plague, then from other diseases. And I cannot see that they are a danger to the living.’

William looked at him dubiously. ‘Will you bury

Aelfrith, then? In the churchyard?’

Bartholomew nodded, and then hesitated. IfWilliam

were involved in Aelfrith’s murder, incautious questioning would only serve to endanger his own life, and if

he were not, it would be yet another burden for the

exhausted friar. ‘Were you … surprised that he was taken?’ Bartholomew asked, before realising how clumsy the question was.

William looked taken aback. ‘He was fit enough at

the midday meal,’ he replied. ‘Just tired like us all, and saddened because he had heard the deathbed confession

of the Principal of All Saints’ Hostel. Now you mention it, poor Aelfrith was taken very quickly. It was fortunate that Brother Michael was near, or he might have died

un shriven.’

He began to walk away, leaving Bartholomew less

certain than ever as to whether he was involved. Were

his reactions, his words, those of a killer? And what of Wilson? What was his role in Aelfrith’s death?

Before leaving, he decided to see Abigny briefly.

He pushed the door open slowly, and a boot flew across the room and landed at his feet. Bartholomew pushed

the door all the way open and peered in.

‘Oh. It is you, Matt. I thought it was that damned

rat again. Did you see it? It is as big as a dog!’ Abigny untangled himself from his bed. ‘What a time I had

last night, Physician. What delights I sampled! None

of the young ladies want to meet their maker without

first knowing of love, and I have been only too happy

to oblige. You should try it.’

‘Giles, if you are sampling the delights of as many

poor ladies as you say, I hope you do not plan to

visit Philippa,’ said Bartholomew anxiously. ‘Please do not visit her if you are seeing people who may be

infected.’

‘Poppycock! She will die if it is her time,’ said Abigny, pulling on some of his brightest clothes. Bartholomew

knew only too well that this meant he was planning on

impressing some female friends.

‘And you will die before it is yours if you take the

pestilence to her!’ he said with quiet menace. He had

always found Abigny rather shallow and selfish, although he could be an entertaining companion, but he had

always believed the philosopher to be genuinely fond

of his sister. Through the past few black weeks, it had been the thought of Philippa’s face that had allowed

Bartholomew to continue his bleak work. He could

not bear to think of her falling prey to the filthy

disease.

Abigny stopped dressing and looked at Bartholomew.

‘Matthew, I am sorry,’ he said with sincerity.

‘You should know better than to think I would harm

Philippa. No, I do not have the plague …’ He raised his hand to stop Bartholomew from coming further into

the room. ‘Hugh Stapleton died last night’

Bartholomew leaned against the door. Stapleton

had run Bene’t Hostel, and had been a close friend

of Abigny’s. Abigny spent more time at the Hostel

than he did at Michaelhouse, and regularly took his

meals there.

“I am sorry, Giles,’ he said. He had seen so many die

over the last several days, including Aelfrith, that it was difficult to sound convincing. He wondered whether he

would be bereft of all compassion by the time the plague had run its course.

Abigny nodded. “I am away to enjoy the pleasures

of life, and I will not see Philippa,’ he said. “I was with Hugh when he died, and he told me to enjoy life while

I had it. That is exactly what I am going to do.’

He flung his best red cloak over his shoulders and

walked jauntily out of the yard. Bartholomew followed

him as far as the stable where Father Aelfrith’s body lay.

While Abigny enjoyed life, Bartholomew had a colleague to bury. He glanced up and saw Wilson lingering at the window. Had he killed Aelfrith?

‘Father Aelfrith is dead,’ Bartholomew yelled up at

him, drawing the attention of several students who were walking around the yard to the hall. ‘Will you come to see him buried, Master Wilson?’

The shadowy shape disappeared. Bartholomew took

a spade from the stable and walked to St Michael’s

churchyard.

CHRISTMAS

CAMBRIDGE WAS USUALLY A TIME for celebration and for a relaxing of the rules that governed scholars’ lives. Fires would be lit in the

conclave, and students and Fellows could gather round

and tell each other stories, or even play cards. Since it was dark by four o’clock in the evening, a night by the fire in a candle-lit conclave was a pleasant change from the usual practice of retiring to dark, unheated rooms.

But the plague was still raging in Cambridge at

Christmas, and few felt like celebrating. Bedraggled

groups of children stood in the snow singing carols for pennies. Food was scarce because many of the farmers

who grew the winter vegetables or tended the livestock were struck with the plague. Many who were fit did not wish to risk a journey into the town, where they might come into contact with infected people.

The cart patrolling the streets collecting the dead

became a common sight. Old women who had lost entire

families followed it around, offering prayers for the dead in return for money or food. Houses stood empty, and at night, after the curfew bell had rung and the depleted and exhausted patrols of University beadles and Sheriffs men slept, small bands of vagrants and thieves would loot the homes of the dead and the sick. The thieves soon

became bolder, coming in from surrounding villages

and even attacking during the daylight hours.

To make matters worse, it was a cold winter, with

gales howling across the flat land, bringing with them driving snow. On clear days and nights, the temperature dropped so low that sick people had to go out foraging for sticks to build fires to melt ice for water to drink.

The monks at Barnwell Priory lost a third of their

number, although St Radegund’s fared better and only

three nuns became ill. More than half of the monks at

the great monasteries at Ely and Norwich perished, and Bartholomew began to appreciate the Bishop’s point as

he saw more and more people die without being given

last rites. Some did not care, but only wished to end their agony; others died in terror of going straight to hell as a punishment for various petty sins. The church walls

were full of paintings of the damned being devoured

by demons in hell, so Bartholomew did not wonder that

people were afraid.

It was impossible to tell how many members the

University lost. At the first sign of the plague, some left the town and did not return. As the numbers of

deaths rose, harried clerks began to lose count, and

many people ended up in the plague pits without

any record being made. By January, King’s Hall lost

ten of its scholars, and Michaelhouse lost eleven.

Bartholomew had thought that perhaps the scholars

might fare better than the townspeople because they

were younger, fitter, and usually better fed. But the

plague struck indiscriminately, and by Christmas the