A Plague on Both Your Houses (24 page)

to think he would have to lead it, when the path became wider, and he was able to pick his way around the larger morasses.

He tried not to think about what he might encounter

when he reached Edith’s house. He thought, instead, of Gray’s amazement when he discovered that Bartholomew

did not own a horse. He wondered, not for the

first time since his recovery, whether Gray was the kind of person he wanted to teach.

Bartholomew knew that he owed Gray his life. It was

doubtful whether Bartholomew would have recovered

without Gray’s clumsy surgery and constant care. The

student had taken quite a risk in lancing the swellings himself; he had not done it before, and had only seen

Master Roper do it once. Bartholomew would bear the

scars of Gray’s inexperience for the rest of his life.

But Bartholomew remained unsure of Gray. He

did not like the fact that it had been Gray who had

been sent to bring him to meet Philippa, and did not

like the feeling of being in debt to the flippant young man. In fact, he did not like Gray. He was confident to the point of arrogance, arid was perpetually estimating how much each patient should pay as opposed to how

much Bartholomew charged. Bartholomew’s charges

usually fell short of the cost of the medicines, and he was constantly aware of Gray’s disapproving presence

in the background. It was like having Wilson with him.

At last he reached the village and Edith’s house.

Richard came racing out to meet him, and Bartholomew

was almost knocked off his feet with the force of the

embrace. Richard was only seventeen, but was already

almost as tall as Bartholomew. Richard chattered on in his excitement, forgetting the dignity, as befitting an undergraduate at Oxford, that he had been trying to cultivate.

Bartholomew listened, Richard’s descriptions bringing

back vivid memories of his own time in Oxford.

Edith hurried out from the kitchen, wiping her

hands on her apron before giving him a hug, and

Stanmore came to slap him on the shoulders.

‘Matt, you look thin and pale,’ Edith said, holding

him at arm’s length. She hugged him again. ‘It was

horrible,’ she whispered, so that only he could hear.

‘We heard you were ill, and there was nothing we could do. I was so afraid for you.’

‘Well, I am fine now. But you have been ill, too?’

Edith waved a hand dismissively. ‘A couple of

days in bed, that is all. But you should not have

come.’ Her face grew fearful, and she clung onto

his arm. ‘We told Stephen not to tell you,’ she

said.

‘My lord, Matt! What on earth have you been doing

with Stephen’s horse?’ Stanmore, for whom horses were

a passion, was looking in horror at the bedraggled,

mud-spattered mare.

Bartholomew groaned. He had not realised what a

state the horse was in. ‘Stephen will have my hide. Can you clean it up?’

Richard went off with the stable boy to supervise,

and Bartholomew followed his sister and her husband

into the house. Once away from Richard, all three grew serious. Edith explained how she had gone to check on

Philippa immediately after Bartholomew had left, and

had found her feverish. Edith had become ill the same

night, and the three servants by the following day. The fever had not seemed as intense as that of some of the plague victims, but had included a rash of black spots.

Edith showed Bartholomew some faint pink marks on

her arm.

Philippa’s spots had been mainly on her face.

She had asked Edith for a veil, and since then had

locked herself in her room. That had been seven days

before. Edith had spent many hours trying to get her

to unlock the door, but she had eventually refused even to speak.

Bartholomew stood. ‘She will not see you, Matt,’

said Edith. ‘She left a note that you specifically should not come to see her. Poor girl. I cannot imagine that

she can be so badly scarred.’

Neither could Bartholomew. At least, not so badly

scarred that he would not still want her. He thought of Colet. What terrible things this pestilence was doing to people’s minds. He gave his sister the faintest of smiles before making his way up the stairs to Philippa’s room.

Edith did not try to stop him; she knew him too well.

At the back of her mind lingered the hope that the

sound of his voice might serve to pull Philippa out of her depression.

He stood outside the door for a few moments before

knocking. There was a rustle from inside the room, and then silence.

‘Philippa?’ he called softly. ‘It is Matthew. Please

open the door. There is no cause to be afraid.’

There was silence. He knocked again.

‘Philippa. If you open the door and talk to me, I

promise I will not try to touch you or look at you,’ he called. ‘Just give me a few moments with you.’

There was nothing. Bartholomew sat on the chest

that was in the hallway and reflected. He would not have normally considered invading someone’s privacy, but he wondered whether Philippa’s mind, somehow affected by

her illness, might mean that she was unable to look after herself properly. If this were the case, then she needed help, even though she might not know it herself.

Edith had married Stanmore when she was eighteen,

and had come to live in Trumpington. Bartholomew had

been eight, and whenever he had been permitted out

of the abbey school in Peterborough, he had come to

stay in Edith’s rambling house. He knew every nook

and cranny, and also knew that the lock on the door,

behind which Philippa hid, was faulty. He knew that a

sharp stick in the right place would open the door in an instant because he had played with the lock on many a

wet afternoon as a boy.

He decided to try once more. ‘Philippa. Why will you

not answer me? Just let me talk to you for a few moments, and I promise to leave when you ask.’

There was no sound at all, not even a rustle.

Bartholomew was worried, and was sure that there

must be more wrong with her than a few scars. He

took a sharpened piece of metal that was part of his

medical equipment, and pushed it into the lock the

way he had done so many years before with a stick.

He had not lost his touch, and the door sprung open

with ease.

Philippa jumped violently as he took a step towards

her, and Bartholomew stopped. She huddled on the

bed, swathed in the cloak he had given her when they

had walked from the convent to Trumpington. It was still spotted with mud. Her face was turned towards him, but was covered by a long piece of gauze so that he could

not make out any features. She was crouched over like

an old hag, a piece of embroidery on her lap.

Bartholomew felt his breath catch as he looked at

the embroidery. Philippa hated sewing and would do

almost anything to avoid it. She most certainly would

not be doing it voluntarily. He looked at her more

closely. Her posture was wrong: something in the way

she held herself was not right, and her feet were bigger than Bartholomew remembered.

“I asked you not to come.’ The voice was the merest

whisper, intended to deceive.

‘Who are you? Where is Philippa?’ Bartholomew

demanded. Her head came up with a jerk when she

realised she was found out, and Bartholomew caught the glint of eyes under the thick veil. He stepped forward to pull the veil off, but stopped short as she threw the embroidery from her lap and pointed a crossbow at his chest.

Bartholomew took a step back. How ironic, he thought,

to escape the plague and to die from a crossbow bolt.

The figure beckoned Bartholomew forward, waving

the crossbow in a menacing gesture when he did

not move.

‘Who are you?’ Bartholomew asked again. He wondered

whether he would die before he found out, and

whether the woman would have the courage to shoot

him as he stood there.

‘No questions, and turn around slowly,’ she said in

her dreadful whisper.

‘Where is Philippa?’ Bartholomew demanded, his

concern making him desperate.

‘One more question, and I will shoot you. Turn

round.’

The whisper held a menace that was chilling, and

Bartholomew had no doubt that this was not an idle

threat. He turned round slowly, knowing what was

coming next, and bracing himself for it.

He was not wrong. There was a sudden rustle of

clothes and the crossbow came crashing down, aimed

at his head. He half turned and was able to escape the full force of the blow, although it stunned him for vital seconds. The woman shot out of the door and tore down

the stairs. Bartholomew staggered to his feet and lurched after her. She tore across the courtyard to where Richard was talking to the stable-boy, with Stephen’s horse now clean and still saddled. Bartholomew could see what was going to happen.

‘Stop her!’ he yelled. He was too far behind to catch her, and ran instead towards the great oak gate, intending to close it so that she would not be able to escape.

Richard and the stable-boy gaped at the spectacle of

Philippa racing across the yard clutching a crossbow, and Richard only pulled himself together at the last minute.

He lunged at the would-be rider.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew was hauling at the gate with

all his might. Stanmore seldom closed his gate by the

look of the weeds that climbed about it, and it was stuck fast. He saw Richard hurled to the ground as the woman reached the horse. She was mounted in an instant, and

wrenched the reins away from the stable-boy in a great heave that all but pulled the lad’s arms out of their

sockets. Bartholomew felt the gate budge, and heaved at it with every ounce of his strength. The woman wheeled the horse around, trying to control its frenzied rearing and aim it for the closing gate.

Bartholomew felt the gate move again, and was aware

of blood pounding in his temples. The woman brought

the horse under control, and began to urge it towards

the gate. Bartholomew felt the gate shift another inch, but then he knew it would not be enough. The horse’s

iron-shod hooves clattered on the cobbled yard as it

headed towards the gate.

Bartholomew suspended his efforts as the horse came

thundering down on him. He made a futile attempt to

grab at the rider, but was knocked from his feet into a pile of wet straw. The rider swayed slightly, and, as she glanced back, the wind lifted the veil, giving Bartholomew a clear view of her face. Richard shot through the

gate after her, and raced down the track before realising a chase was hopeless. The rider turned the corner and

was gone from sight.

‘After her!’ Stanmore cried, and his yard became a

hive of activity as horses were saddled and reliable men hastily picked for pursuit. Bartholomew knew that by the time Stanmore was ready, their quarry would be long

gone. Still, it was always possible that the horse might stumble and throw its rider, especially that miserable horse, he thought. Edith hurried up to him as he picked himself up.

‘What happened? What did you say to her?’ she

cried.

‘Are you all right, Uncle Matt? I am sorry. He was just too strong for me.’ Richard looked forlorn at having

failed. Bartholomew put a hand on his shoulder.

‘For me too,’ he said with a resigned smile.

Edith looked from one to the other. ‘What are you

saying?’ she said. ‘He?’

Bartholomew looked at Richard. ‘Did you see his face?’

he asked.

Richard nodded. ‘Yes, but why was he here? Where

is Philippa?’

‘Who was it, if not Philippa?’ asked Edith, perplexed.

‘Giles Abigny,’ said Bartholomew and Richard

together.

BARTHOLOMEW LOOKED out OF THE WINDOW FOR at least the tenth time since Stanmore and his men had set off in pursuit of Abigny.

‘Perhaps it was Giles all along, and you just thought

it was Philippa you met outside the convent,’ Richard

said to him.

“I kissed her,’ said Bartholomew. Seeing his

nephew’s eyebrows shoot up, he quickly added, ‘And it was Philippa, believe me.’

Richard persisted in his theory. ‘But you could have

been mistaken, if you were tired, and …’

‘Giles has a beard,’ said Bartholomew, more

patiently than he felt. ‘Believe me, Richard, I would

have noticed the difference.’

‘Well, what do you think is going on?’ demanded

Richard. “I have been sitting here racking my brain

for answers, and all you have done is tell me they are wrong.’

“I do not know,’ said Bartholomew, turning to stare

into the fire. He saw Richard watching him and tried to pull himself together. He asked his nephew to tell him everything that had happened since he had left Philippa with the Stanmores ten days ago, partly to try to involve Richard and partly to make sure that the sequence of

events was clear in his own mind.

Philippa had become ill almost as soon as he had left, and either Edith or one of the servants had been with her through the two nights of her fever. On the morning of the third day, she seemed to have recovered, although

she was, of course, exhausted. In the evening, she had asked for a veil and had closed her door to visitors,

communicating by notes the day after that. Edith had

not kept any of them, and so Bartholomew was unable

to see whether the writing had been Philippa’s or her

brother’s. No one could prove whether it had been