A Plague on Both Your Houses (35 page)

at last,’ he said. ‘He has chosen Robert Swynford to be our next Master.’

‘No great surprise, and he will make a good Master,’

Bartholomew said. ‘Will he come back from the

country?’

William shook his head. ‘Robert also sent a message

saying that there has been plague in the house of his

relatives and most of the menfolk have died. He asks

our indulgence that we allow him to remain away for

a few weeks until he is sure the women will be properly cared for. He has asked Alcote to act as his deputy

until then.’

Bartholomew wondered if leaving the College in

the care of a man who had just been deprived of the

position might not be a risky move. Then he thought of Robert Swynford’s easy grace and confidence, and knew

that he would have no problem whatsoever in wresting

delegated power back from Alcote.

‘But Alcote is hiding in his room like Wilson was,’

said Bartholomew. ‘How can he run the College?’

“I assume Swynford has not been told that,’ said

William. ‘Alcote has asked for various documents to

be sent to him, so it seems he will at least see to the administration.’

Bartholomew went outside for some air and to

stretch limbs cramped from bending over his patients

all afternoon. The rain had stopped, and the clouds were beginning to clear. The porter saw him and scuttled over, stopping a good ten feet from Bartholomew, a large

pomander filled with powerful herbs pressed to his face.

Bartholomew realised that he had not seen the porter’s face since the day he had returned from the house of

Agatha’s cousin and announced to Michaelhouse that

the plague had come. The man held a note that he

placed on the ground so he would not have to go

nearer to Bartholomew than necessary. When he saw

Bartholomew pick it up, he scurried back into the safety of his lodge. Bartholomew watched as he slammed the

door. Perhaps the porter was right, and Bartholomew

did carry a dangerous miasma around with him. He felt

well enough, but how did he know he did not carry the

contagion with him, in his breath, his clothes? He sighed heavily and turned his attention to the scrap of parchment in his hand which, in almost illegible writing, said that he was needed at the tinker’s house near the river.

Bartholomew collected his cloak and bag of medicines,

and set off. A wind was getting up, and it seemed

to be growing colder by the moment. Bartholomew

wondered whether the river would freeze over, as it

had done the year before. As first, he had welcomed

this, because it had cut down the smell. But then people just threw rubbish onto the ice rather than into the water, and it was not long before the smell was worse than it had been when the river was running.

He reached the river, and turned to walk along the

row of shacks where the river people lived. He recalled that the last patient he had seen before the plague had been the tinker’s little girl, and he remembered that he had seen her body buried in one of the first plague pits to be dug. The last house in the row belonged to the

tinker, but only one child stood outside to greet him

this time.

Entering the single room, he walked over to the

pile of rags in one corner that served as a bed, and

crouched down to look at the person huddled there.

He was pleasantly surprised to see a healthy woman

lying on the bed.

She appeared startled to see him, and exchanged

a puzzled glance with the child who had followed

him in.

‘You sent for me,’ said Bartholomew, kneeling on

the earth floor. ‘What can I do?’

The woman exchanged another look with the child,

who shook her head. “I would not send for you for this, Doctor,’ the woman said. ‘My baby is coming. The

midwife is dead, and I had to send my lad to fetch a

woman to help me. I do not need a physician.’

Bartholomew returned her puzzled look. ‘But you

sent me a note …’

He stopped as the woman tensed with a wave of

contractions. When she relaxed again, she blurted out, “I did no such thing. I cannot write, and nor can my

children. I do not need a physician.’

And could not pay for one was the unspoken

addendum. Bartholomew shrugged. ‘But since I am

here, and since your time is close, perhaps I can help.

And I will require no payment,’ he added quickly, seeing concern flitting across the woman’s face.

Bartholomew sent the child to fetch some water

and cloths, and not a minute too soon, for the top of

the baby’s head was already showing. Between gasps, the tinker’s wife told him how the other women who lived

nearby were either dead or had the pestilence, and she had sent her son to fetch her sister from Haslingfield.

But since that was several miles, she had known help

might come too late. Physicians usually left childbirth to the midwives, and Bartholomew was only ever called

if there was a serious problem, usually when it was far too late for him to do much about it. He was not surprised to find that he was enjoying doing something other than dealing with plague victims. When the baby finally slid into his hands all slippery and bawling healthily, he

was more enthusiastic over it than were the exhausted

mother and her wide-eyed daughter.

‘It is a beautiful girl,’ he said, giving the baby to the mother to nurse, ‘perfectly formed and very healthy.’ He pulled back the cloth so he could look at her face, and exchanged grins with the mother. He took one of the tiny hands in his. ‘Look at her fingernails!’ he exclaimed.

The tinker’s wife began to laugh. ‘Why, Doctor,

anyone would think a newborn baby was something

special to hear you going on!’ she said. ‘You would

not be like this if it was your ninth in twelve years!’

Bartholomew laughed with her. “I would be happy

to help with any more babies you might have, Mistress

Tinker,’ he said, ‘and would consider it a privilege to be asked.’

Bartholomew left the house feeling happier than he

had since the plague had started. He made his way back along the river, whistling softly to himself. As he turned the corner to go back to College, a figure stepped out of the shadows in front of him, wielding what looked to be a heavy stick.

Bartholomew stopped in his tracks and glanced

behind him, cursing himself for his foolishness. Another two shadowy forms stood there similarly armed. The

note! It had been a trap! He swallowed hard, a vision of Augustus’s mutilated body coming to mind. His stomach

was a cold knot of fear. He had a small knife that he used for medical purposes, but it would be useless against

three men armed with staves. He twisted the strap of

his bag around his hand, and suddenly raced forward,

swinging the bag at the figure in front of him as he did so. He felt it hit the man, and heard him grunt as he

fell. Bartholomew kept going, hearing the footsteps of the two behind him following.

He fell heavily to the ground as a fourth figure shot

out of some bushes in the lane and crashed into him. He twisted round, and saw one of the men who had followed raise his stick high into the air for a blow that would smash his head like an egg. He kicked out at the man’s legs, and saw him lose his balance. Bartholomew tried to scramble to his feet, but someone else had grabbed him by his

cloak and was trying to pull it tight around his throat.

Bartholomew struggled furiously, lashing out with fists and feet, and hearing from the obscenities and yelps

that a good many of his blows were true.

He brought his knee up sharply into the groin of

one man, but he could not hold out for ever against

four. He looked up, and saw for the second time an

upraised stick silhouetted against the dark sky, but now he was pinned down and unable to struggle free. He

closed his eyes, waiting for the blow that he was certain would be the last thing he would know.

The blow never came. Instead, the man toppled

onto him clutching his chest, and Bartholomew felt

a warm spurt of blood gush over him. He squirmed

out from underneath the inert body, and made a

grab for the cloak of one of his attackers who was

now trying to run away. The man kicked backwards

viciously, and Bartholomew was forced to let go. He

heard their footsteps growing fainter as they ran up

the lane, while others came closer.

He drew his knife, knowing that he did not have

the strength to run a second time, and prepared to sell his life dearly should he be attacked again. He squinted as a lamp was thrust into his face.

‘Matt!’ Bartholomew felt himself hauled to his feet,

and looked into the anxious face of Oswald Stanmore.

‘Matt!’ Stanmore repeated, looking down the lane

after Bartholomew’s attackers. ‘What happened? Who is

this?’ He pushed at the body of the man who had fallen with his foot.

Bartholomew saw that Stanmore’s steward, Hugh,

was with him, armed with a crossbow. Stanmore kept

looking around, as if he expected the attackers to

come again.

“I was sent a note to see a patient by the river,’

Bartholomew said, still trying to recover his breath, ‘and these men attacked me.’

‘You should know better than to go to the

river after dark,’ said Stanmore. ‘The Sheriff caught

three of the robbers that have been menacing the

town there only last week. Doubtless these are more

of the same.’ He glanced around. ‘Who sent you

the note? Surely you can tie note and attackers

together?’

Bartholomew showed him the now-crumpled message.

‘The tinker did not write this,’ he said.

Stanmore took it from him and peered at it. ‘The

tinker most certainly did not,’ he said, ‘for he died last month. I heard that only two of his children live, and his wife is expecting her ninth, poor woman.’

Bartholomew bent to look at the man on the ground.

He was dead, the crossbow bolt embedded deeply in his

chest. Bartholomew rifled hurriedly through his clothes, hoping for something that would identify him. There was a plain purse, filled with silver coins, but nothing else.

Bartholomew shook the purse at Stanmore. ‘He

was paid this money to attack me,’ he said. He thought about the tinker’s baby: it would make a fine gift for her baptism.

Stanmore began to lead the way cautiously up the

lane towards Michaelhouse. Bartholomew caught his

sleeve as they walked. ‘What were you doing here?’ he

asked, keeping a wary eye on the trees at the sides of the lane.

Stanmore raised the lamp to look into some deep

shadows near the back of Michaelhouse. ‘A barge came

in today,’ he said, ‘and I have been sitting with the captain negotiating the price of the next shipment.’ He nodded at his steward. ‘When I am at the wharf after dark, I always tell Hugh to bring his crossbow. You never know who you might meet around here.’

Bartholomew clapped Stanmore on the shoulder. ‘I

did not say thank you,’ he said. ‘Had you been a second later, you would have been rescuing a corpse!’

They reached Michaelhouse, and Stanmore joined

Bartholomew for a cup of spiced wine in the hall, while Hugh was despatched to take the news to the Sheriff.

Father William was there too, trying to read by the light from the candles, and several students talked in low voices in another corner.

Stanmore stretched out his legs in front of the small

fire. ‘These robbers are getting bold,’ he said. ‘They have only picked on the dead and dying up until now.

This is the first time I have heard them attacking the healthy.’

Bartholomew put the purse on the table. He quickly

told Stanmore about the blacksmith, and how he had

been paid to do Bartholomew harm during the riot.

Stanmore listened, his mouth agape in horror.

‘For the love of God, Matt! What have you got

yourself mixed up in? First this blacksmith business,

then Philippa, and now this!’

Bartholomew could only look as mystified as his

brother-in-law.

When Hugh returned, Stanmore rose to leave,

declining Bartholomew’s offer of a bed for the night.

‘No thank you, Matt!’ he said, looking round at the

College. ‘Why should I spend a night in this cold and

wretched place when I can have roaring fires and bright, candle-lit rooms with Stephen?’

Bartholomewr went back to his own room, and

undressed ready for bed. He had to wash and hang

up his clothes in the dark, because scholars were not

usually given candles for their rooms. It was considered wasteful, when they could use the communal ones in

the hall, or, more usually, the conclave. He tidied the room as best he could, and lay on the creaking bed,

rubbing his feet together hard in a vain attempt to warm them up. Stanmore was right: Michaelhouse was cold

and gloomy. He tried to get comfortable, wincing as

the wooden board dug into a place where one of his

attackers had kicked him.

So, who had tried to kill him? Both the blacksmith

and the dead man had been paid about five marks in

silver in leather purses. Were they connected? They had to be: surely there was not more than one group of people who would pay to have him killed! Bartholomew shifted

uncomfortably. He could hear Michael’s Benedictine

room-mates chanting a psalm in the room above. Then,

somewhere in the lane outside, a dog barked twice. A

gust of wind rattled the shutters, and rain pattered