A Plague on Both Your Houses (23 page)

anyway, but in the silence that followed, his face grew anxious and he watched Bartholomew intently.

“I see.’ Bartholomew was suddenly very tired, and

could not stop his eyes from closing. Then he was

shaken awake again. ‘Will you have me?’ the student

asked insistently.

Bartholomew struggled to free himself from Gray’s

grip, but was as weak as a kitten. ‘Why me? What have

I done to deserve this?’ he said, his voice heavy with sleepiness.

Gray looked at him narrowly, trying to assess whether

there was a hidden insult in the question. ‘There are not many of you left,’ he said rudely.

Bartholomew heard Cynric laughing. He could feel

himself drifting into a deep and restful slumber. Gray’s voice brought him awake again.

‘Will you have me? I have a good degree, you

can ask Hugh Stapleton. Oh …’ his voice trailed off.

Stapleton was dead. ‘Master Abigny!’ he exclaimed

jubilantly. ‘You can ask him, he knows me!’ He gave

Bartholomew another gentle shake.

Bartholomew reached up and grabbed a handful of

Gray’s tunic, pulling him down towards the bed. ‘You will never be a good physician unless you can learn when to let your patients rest,’ he whispered, ‘and you will never be a good student unless you learn not to manhandle

your master.’

Releasing Gray’s clothing, he closed his eyes and

was instantly asleep. Gray looked at Cynric. ‘Was that a yes or a no?’ he asked.

Cynric, still smiling, shrugged and left the room,

closing the door softly behind him. Gray stood looking down at Bartholomew for several minutes before tidying the bedclothes and blowing out the candle. He lay down on the pallet bed Cynric had given him and stared into the darkness. He knew that Bartholomew would live now, so

long as he rested and regained his strength.

Bartholomew coughed in his sleep, and Gray raised

himself on one elbow to peer over at him. He believed he had taken no risk in tending Bartholomew, for he was

one of the plague’s first victims in Cambridge and had survived. He did not think he would catch the disease

a second time, and had been making a good deal of

money by offering to tend plague victims in the houses of rich merchants. But that was nothing compared to what

he may have earned by nursing Bartholomew. He had

heard about Bartholomew’s methods and ideas, and had

longed to study with him when he was an undergraduate, but the physician already had as many students as he

could manage.

Gray knew exactly what he wanted from life. He

intended to become an excellent physician and have a

large number of very wealthy patients. Perhaps he might even become the private physician of some nobleman.

Regardless, he intended to find himself a position that would bring him wealth and enough free time to be able to enjoy it. He knew Bartholomew worked among the

poor, but to Gray that meant he would gain far more

experience of diseases than from a physician who tended the rich. He would be happy to work among the poor

during his medical training, but then he would be off

to make his fortune in York or Bristol, or perhaps even London.

Gray smiled to himself and lay back down, his arms

behind his head. He and Cynric had been caring for

Bartholomew continuously for five days and nights, and several times had thought their labours were in vain.

Brother Michael had actually given Bartholomew last

rites before the fever suddenly broke.

Once Bartholomew had slept almost twenty-four hours

without waking, his recovery was rapid. He was out of his bed and taking his first unsteady steps around the College yard within a day, and felt ready to begin his work again within three days. Michael, Cynric, and Gray urged him to rest more, but Bartholomew insisted that tossing restlessly on his bed was more tiring than working. Bartholomew decided that all plague victims in the College should be in one room so that they could have constant attention.

He set about converting the commoners’ dormitory into

a hospital ward, relocating the few surviving commoners elsewhere. Brother Michael’s Benedictine room-mates

willingly offered their services, and Bartholomew hoped that this arrangement might reduce the risks to others.

As soon as he could, Bartholomew went to see

Gregory Colet. As he walked through the wet streets to Rudde’s Hostel, he was shocked at the piles of rubbish and dead animals that littered them. There were three

bodies, crudely wrapped in filthy rags, at the doors of St Michael’s Church that Bartholomew judged to have

been there for several days. Around them, several rats lay dead and dying, some half-buried in mud and refuse.

Brother Michael walked beside him, his cowl

pulled over his head in an attempt to mask the

stench.

‘What has happened here, Michael?’ said Bartholomew

in disbelief. He watched a ragged band of

children playing on a huge pile of kitchen waste outside Garret Hostel, occasionally stopping to eat some morsel that they considered edible. On the opposite side of the street, two large pigs rooted happily among a similar pile of rubbish. He shook his head in despair at the filth and disorder.

Michael shrugged. ‘There is no one left to do

anything. Now that Colet has given up, you and Robin

of Grantchester are the only medics here. All the others are dead or gone.’

‘What about the priests? Can they not see that the

streets need to be cleared and the bodies removed?’

Michael laughed without humour. ‘We are in the

business of saving souls,’ he said, ‘notbodies. And anyway, so many clerics have died that there are barely enough to give last rites. Did you know that there are only three Dominicans left here?’

Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. The large

community of Dominicans had continued to work

among the poor after the outbreak of the plague, and

it seemed that their adherence to their way of life may have brought about their virtual demise.

Gregory Colet was not in his room at Rudde’s,

and the porter told them that he would be in one of

the churches, usually St Botolph’s. Bartholomew had

always admired St Botolph’s, with its slate-grey stone and windows faced with cream ashlar, but as Michael

pushed open the great oak door and led the way inside

it felt damp and cold. The stained glass that he had

coveted for St Michael’s Church no longer seemed to

imbue it with soft colour, but served to make it dismal.

The feeling of gloom was further enhanced by the sound of muted chanting. Candles were lit in the sanctuary and half a dozen monks and friars from various Orders knelt in a row at the altar. Colet sat to one side, his back against a pillar and his eyes fixed on the twinkling candles. One of the monks saw Bartholomew and Michael and came

down the aisle to meet them.

Michael introduced him to Bartholomew as Brother

Dunstan of Ely. Dunstan expressed pleasure to see

Bartholomew well again.

‘God knows we need you now,’ he said, his eyes

straying to Colet.

‘What is wrong with him?’ Bartholomew asked.

Dunstan tapped his temple. ‘His mind has gone.

He heard that Roper had died and that you had the

sickness, and he gave up. He sits here, or in one of the other churches, all day and only goes home to sleep. I think he may be willing himself to die.’

Michael crossed himself quickly while Bartholomew

looked at Dunstan in horror.

‘No! Not when there are so many others that are

being taken who want to live!’

Dunstan sighed. ‘It is only what I think. Now I must

go. We have so many masses to say for the dead, so much to do …’

Michael followed Dunstan to the altar rail, leaving

Bartholomew looking at Colet, still gazing at the candles with vacant eyes. Bartholomew knelt down and touched

Colet on the shoulder. Reluctantly Colet tore his eyes from the candles to his friend. He gave the faintest

glimmer of a smile.

‘Matt! You have escaped the Death!’

He began to look back towards the candles again,

and Bartholomew gripped his shoulder.

‘What is wrong, Gregory? I need your help.’

Colet shook his head. ‘It is too late. You and I

can do no more.’ He became agitated. ‘Give it up,

Matthew, and go to the country. Cambridge will be a

dead town soon.’

‘No!’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘It is far from

over. People have recovered and others have escaped

infection. You cannot give up on them. They need you

and so do I!’

Colet shook Bartholomew’s hand away, his agitation

quickly disappearing into a lethargic gloom. “I can do no more,’ he said, his voice barely audible.

‘You must!’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘The streets are

filthy, and the bodies of the dead have not been collected in days. I cannot do it all alone, Gregory. Please!’

Colet’s dull eyes looked blankly at Bartholomew

before he turned away to look at the candles. ‘Give it up,’ he whispered. ‘It is over.’

Bartholomew sat for a moment, overwhelmed by

the task he now faced alone. Robin of Grantchester

might help, but he would do nothing without being

paid and Bartholomew had very little money to give

him. He glanced up and saw Michael and Dunstan

watching him.

‘You can do nothing here,’ said Dunstan softly,

looking at Colet with pity. ‘It is best you leave him be.’

Depressed at Colet’s state of mind, Bartholomew ate a

dreary meal in Michaelhouse’s chilly hall, and then went to visit the building where Stanmore had his business.

Stephen greeted Bartholomew warmly, looking so like

his older brother that Bartholomew almost mistook him.

Bartholomew was urged inside and made to sit near a

roaring fire while Stephen’s wife prepared some spiced wine. Stephen reassured him that everyone was well at

Trumpington, but there was a reservation in his voice

that made Bartholomew uneasy.

‘Are you sure everyone is well?’ he persisted.

‘Yes, yes, Matthew. Do not worry,’ he said, swirling

the wine in his cup, and assiduously refusing to look

Bartholomew in the eye.

Bartholomew leaned over and gripped his wrist.

‘Has anyone there had the plague? Did it come with

Philippa?’

Stephen sighed. ‘They told me not to tell you,

because they did not want you to go rushing over

there before you were well enough. Yes. The plague

struck after you brought Philippa. She became ill before you were scarcely gone from the house. Then Edith was

stricken, and three of the servants. The servants died, but Philippa and Edith recovered,’ he said quickly as

Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘Sit down again and listen.

They were not ill as long as you. They got those revolting swellings like everyone else, but they also got black spots over their bodies.’

He paused, and Bartholomew felt his heart sink.

‘They are well now,’ Stephen said again, ‘but …’ His voice trailed off.

‘But what?’ said Bartholomew. His voice was calm

and steady, but he had to push his hands into the folds of his robe so that Stephen would not see them shaking.

‘The spots on Edith healed well enough, but Mistress

Philippa has scars.’

Bartholomew leaned back in his chair. Was that it?

He looked perplexed, and Stephen tried to explain.

‘There are scars on her face. She will not let anyone

see them, and she refuses to speak to anyone. She wears a veil all the time, and they have to leave her food outside the door … where are you going?’

Bartholomew was already at the door, drawing his

hood over his head. ‘Can I borrow a horse?’ he said.

Stephen grabbed his arm. ‘This is difficult for me

to say, Matt, but she specifically asked that you not be allowed to see her. She does not want to see anyone.’

Bartholomew shook him off. “I am a physician.

There may be something I can do.’

Stephen grabbed him again. ‘She does not want you to go, Matt. She left a note saying that you were not to come. No one has seen her for the past week.

Leave her. In time she will come round.’

‘Can I borrow a horse?’ Bartholomew asked again.

‘No,’ said Stephen, maintaining his grip.

‘Then I will walk,’ said Bartholomew, pushing him

away and striding out into the yard. Stephen sighed,

and shouted for an apprentice to saddle up his mare.

Bartholomew waited in silence, while Stephen chattered nervously. ‘Richard is back,’ he said. Bartholomew

relented a little, and smiled at Stephen.

‘Thank God,’ he said softly. ‘Edith must be so

happy.’

‘As a monk in a brothel!’ said Stephen grinning.

The apprentice walked the horse over and Bartholomew

swung himself up into the saddle. Stephen darted into

his house and returned with a long blue cloak. ‘Wear

this, or you will freeze.’

Bartholomew accepted it gratefully. He leaned down

to touch Stephen lightly on the shoulder, and was gone, kicking the horse into a canter that was far from safe on the narrow streets.

Once out of the town, he had to slow down out

of consideration for Stephen’s horse. The road to

Trumpington had been well travelled, and the snow

had been churned into a deep slush. The weather was

warmer than it had been before Christmas, and the

frozen mud had thawed into a mass of cold, oozing

sludge. The horse slipped and skidded, and had to be

urged forward constantly. Bartholomew was beginning