A Plague on Both Your Houses (32 page)

had claimed there were devils in his room wanting to burn him alive. It was clear now: someone had climbed through the trap-door into Augustus’s room, locked the door, and tried to set the bed alight. Whoever it was had escaped the same way when Bartholomew and Michael had broken the door down. But that still did not mean that Michael was innocent. He could easily have let himself out of

the attic through the other trap-door and run round to Augustus’s staircase to be in time to help Bartholomew batter the door. It would even explain why Michael had been virtually fully dressed in the middle of the night.

Cynric was taking food from the kitchen to the hall

for the main meal of the day. Bartholomew walked briskly across the yard, and went up the stairs to the hall. It was cold and gloomy. Cynric had lit some candles, but they only served to make the room seem colder and darker

as they flickered and fluttered in the draughts from the windows.

Bartholomew took some leek soup from a cauldron

and sat next to Jocelyn of Ripon, more for company than from any feeling of friendship. Jocelyn made room for

him and began telling him how the landowners were

having to pay high wages to labourers to make them

work on the farms. Because so many labourers had died

from the plague, those left were in great demand and

were able to negotiate large payments.

Jocelyn rubbed his hands gleefully as he described

the plight of the rich landowners. He then outlined his plans for gathering groups of people together and selling their labour en masse. This would mean that the labourers would have a good deal of sway over the landowners

and could obtain better pay and working conditions. If one landowner treated them unfairly, they would go to

another who would be willing to make them a better

offer. Jocelyn saw himself in the position of negotiator for these groups of people. Bartholomew, uncharitably, wondered what percentage of the profits the avaricious Jocelyn would take for his efforts. He tried to change the subject.

‘Do you have plans to travel back to Ripon?’

‘Not while there is money to be made here,’

Jocelyn said.

Bartholomew tried again. ‘What made you come

to Cambridge last year?’ he asked, taking a piece of

salted beef that had less of a green sheen to it than

the others.

Jocelyn looked irritated at being sidetracked, and

poured himself another generous cup of College wine.

“I contacted Master Swynford. We are distantly related by marriage, and I came here because I plan to start a grammar school in Ripon, and I wanted to learn how it

might best be done. I have a house that I can use, and because it will be the only grammar school for miles

around, I know it will be successful.’

Bartholomew nodded. He knew all this, because

Swynford had talked about it when he had asked

the other Fellows whether his relative could come to

stay in Michaelhouse in return for teaching grammar.

Jocelyn’s plan had sounded noble, but, having met him, Bartholomew was convinced that the school would be

founded strictly as an economic venture and would have little to do with promoting the ideals of education.

As the most senior member present, it was

Bartholomew’s responsibility to say the Latin grace

that ended all meals in College. This done, he escaped to his room.

Gray had not been able to buy all the medicines

that Bartholomew needed, and there was no choice but

to walk to Barnwell Priory to see what he could borrow from their infirmarian. Bartholomew waited for Gray to eat, and then set off for the Priory in the rain.

‘You need not come,’ said Bartholomew, when Gray

started grumbling. ‘You can stay in College and help in the sickroom.’

“I do not mind going to the Priory, and I want to

learn about the medicines. I just do not like all this walking. Miles last night, and miles today. Why do you not get a horse?’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘Not again, Samuel! I do not

have a horse because I do not need one. By the time the thing was saddled and ready to go, I could have walked where I was going.’

‘Well, what about when you go to Trumpington?’

Gray demanded petulantly.

Bartholomew felt his exasperation turning to irritation.

“I usually borrow or hire one.’

‘But you cannot hire them now, not with all the

stable-men dead of the plague. And Stephen Stanmore

will never lend you another after what happened to the last one.’

Bartholomew whipped round and grabbed Gray by

the front of his gown. ‘Look! You do not like walking.

You do not like my patients. You do not approve of

what I charge them. Perhaps you should find yourself

another master under which to study if you find my

affairs so disagreeable!’

He released the student, and walked on. After a few

paces, he heard Gray following him again. He glanced

round, and Gray looked back at him sullenly, like a

spoilt child. Gray sulked all the way to the Priory, until listening to Bartholomew and the infirmarian discussing the plague took his mind away from his moodiness.

Bartholomew regretted his outburst; the lad had saved

his life after all. He made an effort to include Gray in the discussion, and tried to ensure that Gray understood which medicines he was taking from the infirmarian and what they were for.

Bartholomew and the infirmarian left Gray packing

the herbs and potions into a bag, and walked out into

the drizzle.

‘How many monks have you lost?’ asked Bartholomew.

The infirmarian bowed his head. ‘More than half,

and Father Prior died yesterday. Perhaps our communal

way of life promotes the sickness in some way. You have heard that all the Dominicans are dead? But what else

should we do? Forsake our Rule and live in isolation

like hermits?’

There was no answer to his question.

When Gray was ready, they took their leave of

the infirmarian, and walked back along the causeway

to the town. Gray had recovered completely from

his attack of the sulks, and chattered on about

what he planned to do once he had completed

his training. Bartholomew grew dispirited listening to him. Did people think of nothing other than making

money?

Gray tugged at his cloak suddenly. ‘We should go

to St Radegund’s!’ he said.

‘Whatever for? They will refuse us entry.’

‘Maybe Philippa went back there after she left your

sister’s house.’

Bartholomew stared at him. Gray was right! Why

had he not considered it earlier? Gray had already

set off down the causeway, and was hammering at

the convent door by the time Bartholomew caught

up with him. While they waited for the door to be

answered, Bartholomew fretted, wiping the rain from

his face impatiently. Gray hopped from foot to foot in an attempt to keep warm. Bartholomew looked at the

door, and, despite his preoccupation, saw that several tendrils of weed had begun to grow across it. The nuns were taking their isolation seriously.

The small grille in the door was. snapped open.

‘What?’ came a sharp voice.

“I want to speak with the Abbess,’ said Bartholomew.

His voice sounded calm, but his thoughts were in

turmoil. Perhaps he would find Philippa safe and

sound back in the convent, and all his worrying would

be over.

‘Who are you?’ snapped the voice again.

‘Matthew Bartholomew from Michaelhouse.’

The air rang with the retort of the grille being

slammed shut vigorously. They waited a few moments,

but nothing happened.

Gray looked almost as disappointed as Bartholomew”I felt. ‘Oh, well. That is that,’ he said.

Abruptly, the grille shot open again, and Bartholomew

could see that this time there were two people on the

other side.

‘Well?’ came the first voice, impatient and

aggressive.

Bartholomew was so surprised that the Abbess had

come to the door, that he was momentarily stuck

for words.

‘Is it Henry?’ the Abbess’s voice was deep for a

woman, and she was tall enough that she had to bend

her head slightly to look through the grille. Her reasons for coming to answer the door were suddenly clear to

Bartholomew. She thought he was coming to bring her

news of her nephews, the Oliver brothers.

‘Henry is well, Mother,’ Bartholomew replied. He

moved nearer to the door so that he could see her more clearly.

‘Come no closer!’ she said, her voice hard and

distant. “I hear that you walk freely among the contagion.

I do not want you to bring it here. What do you want

of me?’

Bartholomew was taken aback by her hostility, but

it was not the first time he had been repulsed because of his contact with plague victims, and doubtless it would not be the last.

“I came to ask whether you had news of Philippa

Abigny,’ he said, watching the beautiful, but cold, face of the Abbess carefully.

Bartholomew saw a flash of anger in the ice-blue

eyes. ‘How dare you come here to ask that when you

stole her away from us! You have fouled her reputation by your actions.’

He had expected such a response, although he had

not imagined it would be given with such venom. But he did not wish to get into an argument with the Abbess

about whether he had sullied Philippa’s reputation, and so he tried to remain courteous.

“I am sorry if you think that,’ he said, ‘but you have not answered my question.’

‘Do you think I am so stupid as to answer?’ The

Abbess virtually spat the words out. ‘You stole her away once. If I told you she was here, you would try to do the same again.’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘You misunderstand

my intentions. She came with me of her own free will,

although I wished her to go back to where she would

be protected from the plague. I only want to know that she is safe.’

‘Then you can continue in your agony of doubt,’

said the Abbess. ‘For I will not tell you of the news I have, nor of her whereabouts.’

‘Then do you know where she is?’ Bartholomew

cried.

The Abbess stepped back from the grille and smiled

at him with such coldness that Bartholomew felt himself shudder. He was suddenly reminded of the looks of

hatred Henry used to throw at him. What a family, all

consumed with hate and loathing! He saw a large shadow fall over the Abbess, and watched her turn towards it, the coldness evaporating from her smile in an instant.

Bartholomew glimpsed the hem of a highly decorated

black cloak, and knew that Elias Oliver was there.

‘Where is she?’ Bartholomew shouted. The Abbess

began to walk away, tall and regal, smiling at the tall figure beside her and ignoring Bartholomew. Bartholomew

rattled the door in frustration, but the grille was slammed shut, and no amount of shouting and battering would

induce the nuns to open it again.

Bartholomew slumped against the wall in defeat.

Gray sat down beside him.

‘Do not fret so,’ he said. “I have an idea.’

Bartholomew fought to regain control of his temper.

Did the wretched woman know where Philippa was, or

was she merely pretending in order to have revenge

for his ‘stealing’ her? He had had very little to do with the nuns of St Radegund’s. They lived secluded in their cloisters, and even when he had visited Philippa, he had seen little of the Priory or its inmates.

Gray stood up and set off round the Priory walls.

Bartholomew followed, sharply reminded of what had

happened when he had last followed Gray around the

walls of the convent. Gray slipped in and out of trees until he reached a point where the walls were totally

obscured by thick undergrowth. Without hesitating, he

led the way down a tiny path until he reached a door

in the wall. He knocked twice, softly.

Bartholomew watched in amazement as the door

opened and a young woman in a nun’s habit peeped

out. Seeing Gray, she checked no one was looking, and

stepped out, closing the door carefully behind her.

‘This is my cousin, Sister Emelda,’ said Gray, turning to Bartholomew.

The young woman smiled shyly at Bartholomew,

and then looked at Gray. “I knew you would come!

I cannot stay long, though, or I will be missed.’ She

glanced around her, as if expecting the spectre of the Abbess to appear through the trees. Gray nodded, and

passed her something wrapped in a cloth. Emelda took

it quickly, and secreted it in her robes. She reached up and kissed him quickly on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she

whispered.

Gray flushed. ‘The doctor has something to ask

you,’ he said, to cover his embarrassment.

Emelda smiled at Bartholomew again. “I know you

from when you used to come to court Philippa. Poor

philippa! She hated it here, especially in the winter

months, and even more when you stopped coming.’

‘Is she here now?’ he asked.

Emelda quickly shook her head. ‘No. She has not

been seen since you took her away. If she were here, I would know, because I do the cooking, and food is very carefully rationed. I would know if there were another person hidden away.’

‘Have you heard anything from her?’

Again, a shake of the head.

‘Do you know if the Abbess has heard of her

whereabouts?’

‘She has not! And she is very angry about it’ Emelda

giggled. ‘It is hard to keep secrets in a small community like this, and I know that she has those beastiy nephews of hers trying to find out where Philippa is. I hope you find her before they do.’