A Plague on Both Your Houses (34 page)

Had William not complained, then Bartholomew might

well have left the bodies to be collected by the dead-cart the following day, and no one would have known that

one of them had not died of the plague at all.

So the person who had brought Augustus’s body

to the stables must also have been the person who had

killed him. It could not have been Aelfrith, since he

was long dead. It could not have been Wilson, because

Augustus’s body had been placed in the stable after he had died - and Bartholomew was certain Gray was not

lying to him about removing the previous corpses. Was it Abigny? Had he come back from wherever he was hiding

when he had heard that Bartholomew knew about the

trap-door? Could it have been Swynford, back from his

plague-free haven? Was it Michael, who had reacted so

oddly at Augustus’s death? Was it William, who had

prompted him to look at the bodies in the first place, or Alcote, skulking in his room?

Gray was handing him the needle and thread so he

could sew up Augustus’s shroud again. But Bartholomew had one more task he needed to do.

‘Start taking the others out to the cart,’ he said. “I need to take a closer look.’

Gray’s eyes widened in horror, but he began to

drag the bodies outside to the cart as Bartholomew had instructed. Bartholomew knelt down by Augustus, and

slit the shroud down the side, pulling it back to reveal the grey, desiccated body. Augustus was still dressed in the nightshirt he had been wearing when Bartholomew

had last seen his body, but it was torn down the middle to reveal the terrible mutilations underneath. Bartholomew felt anger boil inside him. Whoever had taken the body had slashed it open, pulling out entrails, and slicing deeply into the neck and throat.

All Bartholomew could assume was that Augustus

had led the murderer to believe he had swallowed

that wretched ring of Sir John’s, and the murderer

had desecrated his body to find it. Bartholomew was

beginning to feel sick. Augustus’s blackened and dried entrails had been stuffed crudely back into his body with a total disregard for his dignity. The horrific mess made Bartholomew wonder whether the murderer would ever

have found the ring anyway.

He had seen enough. Hastily, he began to resew

the bundle, hiding the terribly mangled body from his

sight - and from Gray, who was becoming bolder and

inching forward. Bartholomew looked at Augustus’s

face. The warmth of the attic in the top of the house

in late summer must have sucked the moisture from

the body, for the face was dry and wizened rather than rotten. The skin had peeled back from the lips, leaving the teeth exposed, and the eyes were sunken, but it was unmistakably Augustus.

As Bartholomew covered up the face, he whispered

a farewell. His mind flashed back to Augustus’s funeral back in September, when a coffin filled with bags of earth had been reverently laid to rest in the churchyard. He sat back on his heels, staring down at the shapeless bundle in front of him, and wondered if the requiem mass

said for him by Aelfrith had truly laid his soul to rest.

Bartholomew had often looked at the simple wooden

cross in the churchyard, and wondered about the body

that should have lain beneath it. At least in the plague pit the old man would rest in hallowed ground and no

one would come again to desecrate his body.

February 1349

JANUARY ENDED IN A SUCCESSION OF BLIZZARDS THAT coated everything in white. With February came wetter, warmer weather that turned the snow into

icy brown muck that seeped into shoes and chilled

the feet. Bartholomew still trudged around the houses

of plague victims, incising buboes where he could, but mostly doing little more than watching people die. He

and Gray had visited the last of Abigny’s known haunts, and then revisited his favourite ones, but had learned nothing. Philippa and Abigny seemed to have vanished

into thin air.

Bartholomew heard that Stanmore’s older sister,

her husband, and all seven of their children were dead, while at Michaelhouse he buried Roger Alyngton, two

more students, and four of the servants. Colet still sat in St Botolph’s Church and drooled his days away.

Bartholomew had lain in wait for him one day, and

dragged him along when he went to visit his patients hoping to shock him back to rationality - but his patients

had been disconcerted, and Colet had become so distressed that Bartholomew was forced to take him home.

It was mid-afternoon, but already growing dark

because of the overcast skies, when Bartholomew and

Gray were met on the way home by Master Burwell,

who asked them to attend a student who was dying.

Bartholomew did all he could, but the student died

without regaining consciousness. Three other Bene’t

Hostel students were ill, and Bartholomew helped

Burwell set up a separate room in which they could

be cared for. It was a large room compared to the

others, and Jacob Yaxley, Master of Law, who had had

it to himself since the death of his room-mates, clearly resented being moved. He muttered and grumbled as

his students helped him carry his books and papers to

another chamber.

As they walked back to the College, Bartholomew

thought he saw one body, all wrapped in its shroud,

move, and went to investigate. He took his knife and

slit open the crude sheet. The woman inside was still

alive, although barely. Her neighbour shouted that the woman had sewn herself into the winding sheet when

she knew she had the plague, because there was no one

left to do it for her.

‘What about you?’ Bartholomew shouted.

The neighbour crossed himself quickly, and

slammed the window shut. The woman muttered

incoherently as Bartholomew carried her back inside.

He had heard from Michael that some people, the last

surviving members of their families, were preparing

themselves for burial with their dying strength but he had dismissed it as yet another plague story intended to horrify. He sat back on his heels, patting the woman’s hand abstractedly, unable to stop his mind running through the dreadful outcomes of such actions:

supposing the cart had come while she was still alive, and she had been smothered in earth or burned by

the quicklime? He wondered if others had not already

suffered that fate. The woman slipped away quietly while he was thinking, and he and Gray resewed the shroud

and left her on her doorstep again.

It was dark by the time they arrived back at

Michaelhouse. Bartholomew went to see his patients in

the commoners’ room. Jerome had recovered from the

plague, but it had weakened him, and he was dying slowly from the wasting disease in his chest. As Bartholomew

entered the room, he saw Father William was helping one of the Benedictine novices to sew someone into a blanket.

A quick glance around the room told him it was Nicholas, at fifteen Michaelhouse’s youngest student, who looked that morning as if he might recover. Bartholomew sat

heavily on a stool.

‘His end was so quick that there was no time to call

you,’ William said. The fanatical gleam that was usually in his eyes had dulled, and he looked exhausted. “I have listened to so many dreadful confessions that hell will soon be running out of space.’

Bartholomew wondered if the Franciscan were

making a joke, but there was no humour in his face.

‘Then perhaps there will be an overspill into heaven,’

he replied, standing up.

William grabbed at his sleeve and pulled him down

again, whispering angrily in his ear. ‘That is heresy, Doctor, and I advise you against such fanciful remarks!’

‘So is your belief that hell has limited space,’

Bartholomew retorted. He remembered the rumours

when William had first arrived at Michaelhouse that he had been an inquisitor for the Church.

William let go of Bartholomew’s sleeve. ‘Do not

worry,’ he said, and Bartholomew saw the gleam come

back into his eye as his mind ran over the implications of Bartholomew’s reply. “I will not entrap you in a

theological debate. But I miss the company of Aelfrith.

There was a man with a lively mind!’

Bartholomew agreed, and wished Aelfrith were alive,

so that he could confide his thoughts and feelings to him at that moment. He could have trusted Aelfrith - unlike William or Alcote or Michael - with his concerns about the plague and the College. And thinking of Michael,

Bartholomew had not seen him since the previous day.

He asked if William had.

A curious expression passed over William’s face.

‘No,’ he said. ‘He has gone somewhere. He has left me

with quite a burden, you know.’

Bartholomew thought it curious that Michael had

told no one where he was going, but let it pass. He

stood up from his stool, stretched his aching limbs, and helped William to carry Nicholas downstairs and across the courtyard to the stables. They placed the body near the door and left as quickly as possible. Bartholomew

knew he would never enter the stables again without

thinking about Augustus.

The following day, as he walked back along the High

Street with Gray, Bartholomew felt the first huge drops of rain from a storm that had been threatening all

morning. Gray hailed a student he knew, who invited

them into Mary’s Hostel to shelter from the worst

of the rain. Like Bene’t Hostel, Mary’s was warm,

steamy, and smelled of boiled vegetables. The student

brought them spiced wine, and Bartholomew began to

relax from the warmth of the fire and the effects of

the wine.

He was virtually asleep when he became aware that

Gary was introducing him to someone. Embarrassed, he

jumped to his feet, and bowed to the scholar who was

being presented to him. From Gray’s words, he found

it was the new Principal of Mary’s, Neville Stayne.

Bartholomew had known the previous Principal quite

well, but he had died of the plague before Christmas.

His successor was a man in his forties with a shock of oddly wiry black hair that seemed to want to be as far away from his scalp as possible.

Stayne gestured for him to sit again, and perched

on a stool next to him, asking him about the progress

of the plague in the town. After a while, Stayne brought the subject round to Giles Abigny, who, it seemed, had also spent a good deal of time at Mary’s. The members

of the hostel were anxious for his safety.

‘Have you any idea where he might be?’ asked

Bartholomew, expecting the same range of speculation

and unfounded rumour he had been given

everywhere else.

The fire popped and crackled, and Stayne watched

it for a moment before answering. “I do not know where he is now, but I believe I saw him two nights ago in

Cambridge.’

Bartholomew’s stomach lurched. ‘Where? What

happened?’

‘Well, I think I saw him coming out of the alehouse

near the Dominican Friary the night before last. I had heard about him taking his sister off somewhere, and

so seeing him stuck in my mind.’ The Principal leaned

back and closed his eyes as he tried to recall what he had seen. ‘He was wearing a heavy cloak, and he turned when I called his name. Then he began to walk away from me

quickly. He turned a corner, and I ran after him, but

when I got there, the street was empty.’ He shrugged.

‘That is all, I am afraid. If asked to swear in a court of law, I would not be able to say it was definitely Giles.

But it certainly looked like him, and he did turn and

then run away when I called his name. Draw your own

conclusions.’

Bartholomew and Gray took their leave as soon as

the rain had eased. Stayne closed the door behind them and waited. From the small chamber to one side of the

hallway, Burwell emerged. The two men spoke together

in low tones for a short time, and then Burwell left, his face grim.

There were two alehouses near the Dominican

Friary, but no one in either could remember Giles

Abigny. When Bartholomew began to describe him,

the fat landlord shook his head.

‘We are on a main road, and our trade is excellent,

even with this pestilence. I cannot remember everyone

who buys ale from me. He may have been here, but I

cannot be certain.’

The landlord at the other alehouse knew Abigny and

was more helpful, but said Abigny had most definitely not been there two nights before. He smiled ruefully, and said that Abigny had once been caught cheating at a game of dice with two of the locals, and had not dared to show his face again for fear of what might happen to him.

They walked back to Michaelhouse, and, after a

silent meal, Bartholomew went to the sickroom. The

dim light of the grey winter afternoon made it feel

gloomy, and Bartholomew stoked up the fire. He was

sure that Wilson would have been appalled at the waste of fuel on dying men. He smiled to himself as a picture of Wilson in hell, telling the Devil not to waste wood on his fires, sprang into his mind. He felt someone touch him on the shoulder, and looked up to see William

bending over him. He felt slightly uncomfortable. Was

the ex-inquisitor reading his mind and seeing heretical thoughts within?

William beckoned him outside, and stood waiting

in the chilly hallway outside Augustus’s room.

‘We have been sent a message from the Chancellor