A Plague on Both Your Houses (25 page)

Philippa or Giles who had been living in Edith’s house for at least the last seven days.

Richard, with an adolescent’s unabashed curiosity,

had crouched behind the chest in the hallway to glimpse her as she emerged to collect the trays of food that had been left. Even with hindsight, he was unable to say

whether the person who came from the room, heavily

swathed in cloak and veil, was man or woman.

Bartholomew considered Richard’s recital of events.

What could be happening? Giles had behaved oddly ever

since the death of Hugh Stapleton. Had he completely

lost his mind and embarked on some fiendish plot to

deprive Philippa of potential happiness because he had lost his? Had he secreted her away somewhere, either

because he thought she would be safer with him, or

because he meant her harm?

Richard and Bartholomew made a careful search

of the garret room, but found nothing to provide them

with clues to solve the mystery. There were some articles of clothing that Edith had lent her, and the embroidery, but virtually nothing else. The room had its own privy that emptied directly into the moat, but there was nothing

to indicate how long Giles had been pretending to be

Philippa.

Bartholomew thought carefully. There was not the

slightest chance that Abigny would return to College

if he thought Bartholomew might be there. He would

hide elsewhere, so Bartholomew would need to visit

all Abigny’s old haunts - a daunting task given his

dissolute lifestyle. Abigny had a good many friends

and acquaintances, and was known in virtually every

tavern in Cambridge, despite the fact that scholars were not permitted to frequent such places. Bartholomew

grimaced. The company Abigny kept was not the kind

he relished himself - whores and the rowdier elements

of the town. Gray would probably know most of these

places, Bartholomew thought uncharitably; after all, he had mentioned he knew Abigny.

A clatter in the yard brought Bartholomew to his

feet again. Richard darted out of the door to meet his father, with Bartholomew and Edith close on his heels.

‘Got clean away,’ said Stanmore in disgust. ‘We

met a pardoner who had been on the road from

Great Chesterford. He said he saw a grey mare and

rider going like the Devil down towards the London

road. We followed for several miles, but he will be well away by now. Even if the horse goes lame or tires, he

will be able to hire another on the road. Sorry, Matt.

He has gone.’

Bartholomew had expected as much, but was disappointed nevertheless. He clapped Stanmore on the

shoulder. ‘Thank you for trying anyway,’ he said.

‘Poor Stephen,’ said Stanmore, handing his horse

over to the stable-boy. ‘He was attached to that mare.

And his best cloak gone with it! I suppose I must lend him one of mine until he can have another made.’

Bartholomew walked slowly back into the house.

Stanmore was right. Given such a good start, Abigny

was safely away. If he hired a fresh horse, reverted to another disguise, and joined a group of travellers as was the custom, it would be unlikely that Bartholomew would ever trace him. London was a huge sprawl of buildings

and people, and it would be like looking for a needle

in a haystack.

Edith put her hand on his arm. ‘There is nothing

you can do now,’ she said. ‘Stay here tonight, and Oswald will ride into town with you tomorrow.’

Bartholomew shook his head, trying not to compare

Edith’swarm and comfortable house with his chilly room at Michaelhouse. “I must get back tonight. Colet has lost his mind, and there is much still to be done.’

‘Then at least drink some warmed wine before you

go,’ said Stanmore. Before Bartholomew could object,

Stanmore had taken his arm and was leading him up the

flagged stairs to the solar. Richard followed. A fire burned steadily in the hearth, and the woollen rugs scattered on the floor muffled their footsteps. A sudden gust of wind rattled the shutters, and Bartholomew shivered.

‘You will need help with the town,’ said Stanmore.

‘Stay here tonight and we will discuss what must

be done.’

Bartholomew smiled at his brother-in-law’s guile.

They all knew he had overstretched himself on his first real day out. He would have been most disapproving had a patient done the same thing, and Edith was correct

in that there was nothing he could do to help Philippa that night. He sat on a stool near the fire and picked up a stick to poke at the flames. Richard drew up a stool next to him, and Stanmore settled himself in a large

oak chair covered in cushions and furs. For a while, no one spoke.

‘How has Trumpington fared with the plague?’

asked Bartholomew eventually, stretching outspread

hands towards the fire.

‘Twenty-three dead,’ replied Stanmore, ‘and another

two likely to follow. Our priest died on Sunday, and

one of the Gilbertine Canons is staying here until

a replacement can be found.’ He shook his head

wearily. ‘What is happening, Matt? The priests say

this is a visitation from God, but they are dying just like those they accuse of sinning. The physicians can

do nothing. I sent for Gregory Colet when Edith and

Philippa became ill, since you, too, were stricken. He told me to put hot tongs in their mouths to draw the

demons out. When I asked him to do it, because I was

so concerned for Edith I would have tried anything, he refused because he said he was afraid the demon would

enter him. What kind of medicine is that?’

Bartholomew stared into the fire. ‘Colet has lost his

mind. I suppose seeing so many die must have been too

much for him to bear.’

‘Colet?’ exclaimed Richard in disbelief. ‘Surely not!

He always seemed so … cynical.’

‘Perhaps that is why he has become so afflicted,’

said Bartholomew glumly. “I cannot understand it. And

I do not understand the plague. Agatha walks among

the victims daily and is fit and well; Francis Eltham and Henri d’Evene hid themselves away and were taken. The

old and sick cling to life, while the young and healthy die within hours. Some recover, some do not.’

‘Then perhaps the priests are right,’ said Stanmore.

‘But why do they die too? Take Aelfrith. I heard he is dead, and he was as saintly a man as you could hope

to meet.’

‘The plague did not take him,’ said Bartholomew,

and then could have kicked himself for his thoughtless indiscretion. He drew breath to make amends, but it

was too late.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Stanmore. ‘Michael said

the Death took him.’

Bartholomew hesitated. It would be a relief to tell

Stanmore all he knew-aboutSirJohn, Aelfrith, Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet, and about the plot to suppress

Cambridge University. But men had been killed, and it

was likely that others would follow: the plague had not prevented Aelfrith from being murdered. Bartholomew

could not risk Stanmore’s safety merely to satisfy his own longing for someone with whom to share his thoughts.

Edith entered the solar with a servant who carried a jug of steaming wine. She stood next to her husband, and

Bartholomew’s resolve strengthened. He had no right

to put Stanmore’s life or Edith’s happiness at stake.

After all, he had already lost five friends and colleagues to murder, many more to the plague, Colet to madness,

and Giles and possibly Philippa to something he did

not yet understand. There was only his family left. He changed the subject, asking Stanmore about his ideas

for dealing with the plague in the town.

By the time Stanmore had finished outlining his

plans for clearing the town of the plague dead, the

day was too far advanced for Bartholomew to think of

returning to Michaelhouse - as Stanmore had known

it would be. Bartholomew spent the night in the solar, wrapped in thick, warm blankets, enjoying the rare luxury of the fire.

Bartholomew rose early the next day feeling much

stronger. He rode into Cambridge with Stanmore,

who offered to break the news of the stolen horse to

Stephen. Bartholomew dismounted at St Botolph’s and

went to see Colet. He had to step over two bodies that had been dumped next to the door to await collection

by the plague-cart. He buried his nose and mouth in

his cloak against the smell and slipped into the dim

church.

The monks were still there, different ones than last

time, praying in a continuous vigil for deliverance from the plague and saying masses for the dead. Colet was

there too. He sat on a bench wrapped in a blanket to

protect himself from the damp chill of the church and

playing idly with a carved golden lion that he wore on a long chain around his neck.

‘Look at this, Matt,’ he said, turning his face with

its vacant grin to Bartholomew. ‘Is it not pretty? It will protect me from the plague.’

Bartholomew sat beside him, and looked at the

carving. He had seen others wearing similar icons, and had heard from Agatha that some rogue had been selling them in the town, claiming that anyone who wore one

would be protected from the pestilence.

‘It will not work, Gregory,’ he said. ‘We need to

clean up the streets and bury the dead more quickly.’

Colet stared at him, and a thin drool of saliva slipped from his mouth onto the blanket. ‘We should not do that.

It is God’s pestilence, and we should not try to fight His will by trying to reduce its effects.’

Bartholomew looked at him, aghast. ‘Where on

earth did you conceive that notion? You cannot believe that any more than I do.’

‘But it is true, it is true,’ Colet sang to himself,

rocking back and forth.

‘In that case,’ Bartholomew said sharply, ‘why are

you hanging on to that ridiculous lion?’

He immediately regretted his words. Colet stopped

rocking and began to cry. Bartholomew grabbed him

firmly by the shoulders. ‘Help me! I cannot do it all

alone. Have you seen the streets? There are piles of

rubbish everywhere, and the dead have not been

collected in days.’

Colet snuffled into his blanket. ‘If you stay with me, I will lend you my lion.’

Bartholomew closed his eyes and leaned back

against the wall. Poor Colet. He had been one of the

best physicians in Cambridge, and was now reduced to

little more than a drooling idiot. He had acquired a

large practice of rich patients, including some of the most influential men in the town, as well as teaching at Rudde’s Hostel. Because of this, he was wealthy and had the ears of many powerful men. In short, he was at the beginning of what would have been a brilliant career.

Bartholomew made one last try. ‘Come with me

today. Help me with the sick.’

Colet shrank backwards against the pillar, fear stark

on his face. ‘No, Master Roper, I cannot go out there with you. I have heard there are people with the plague!’ He began to twist the lion through his fingers again, staring unseeingly at the row of kneeling monks. He seemed to have forgotten Bartholomew was there at all.

Bartholomew went back to Michaelhouse. After a

moment’s hesitation, he opened the chest where

Abigny kept his belongings and rummaged around.

Nothing appeared to have gone: Abigny, it seemed,

had not intended to flee Michaelhouse. Bartholomew

stood for a moment looking out over the yard as he

thought about what he should do first. His instinct told him to drop everything and go to the taverns and hostels in search of news of Abigny. Reluctantly, he put that aside; his first duty was to organise collection of the bodies and cleaning of the streets.

Stanmore had said already that he would put out

a general message that good wages would be paid to

anyone willing to rid the streets of rubbish. Since there were a number of people without employment because

their masters had died, he anticipated that there would not be too much of a problem in attracting applicants.

Even if it did not prevent the spread of the plague, it would reduce the spread of other, equally fatal, diseases.

Bartholomew’s task was to arrange a better system

of collecting the dead. Since he had been ill, the number of deaths seemed to have levelled off somewhat, although this did not mean that the plague had lessened its grip on the town. He walked to the Castle to see the Sheriff, who, pale-faced and grieving for his wife, was pliable to Bartholomew’s demands. Bartholomew wondered if his

mind had gone the same way as Colet’s. He left the

Sheriff morosely polishing his helmet and repeated his instructions to an able-looking sergeant-at-arms. The

sergeant gave a hearty sigh.

‘We cannot collect the dead,’ he said. ‘We have

lost a third of the men already, and we do not have

enough to patrol the town for these bloody robbers, let alone for collecting bodies. We cannot help you. Did

you know that everyone in the little settlement near All Saints-next-the-Castle is dead? Not a soul has survived.

The men are terrified of the place and believe that it is full of ghosts. Even if I did have the men to help, they would probably rather hang than collect the dead.’

Bartholomew left feeling depressed. He went to the

settlement the sergeant had told him about and wandered through the pathetic little shacks that had been people’s homes. The sergeant was right: there was not a living soul in the community. He left quickly, gagging on the smell of putrefaction.