A Plague on Both Your Houses (37 page)

suggested the speaker came from the Fens rather than

the town.

The woman looked around her quickly. “I am glad

you came, but it is not safe for us to meet like this.’

She glanced around again, and leaned over the

fence so she would not have to speak so loudly. ‘There is a meeting tomorrow at Bene’t Hostel. I cannot say

what it is about, but you should try to find out because I think it will affect you. The best way would be for you to go to the back of the house and climb to the window in the room they use for the hall. There is a deep sill there, and you will be able to hear what is being said through the shutters. You must take utmost care, for these are dangerous men. But I think you will be safer knowing

than not knowing what they say.’

Bartholomew was totally confused. ‘Is this about

Philippa?’ he asked.

The figure took a step away. “I cannot say. You will

have to listen and work it out for yourself.’

‘But who are you?’ Bartholomew asked.

The woman took another step away. ‘Please! I will

lose everything if anyone finds out I met with you tonight.

Now I must go. Please do not follow me. I ask you this because I took a risk for you tonight.’

Bartholomew assented. ‘Is there anything I can do

for you?’

The woman stopped and he could feel her looking

at him from the depths of her hood. ‘You have

done enough,’ she said softly, and slipped away into

the mist.

Bartholomew looked after her, totally mystified.

What kind of meeting held at Benet Hostel could possibly have any relevance to him? And how was he supposed to

climb up the back of the building and eavesdrop like

some spy? Was this a ploy to discredit him, to get him into some dreadfully compromising position so that he could be dismissed from the University? Were there Oxford

scholars plotting against him? Wilson and Aelfrith would probably think so, but there was something about the

Oxford plot that Bartholomew could not accept. He

understood why Wilson and Aelfrith had believed in it, but he still felt that the entire business was far more important to Cambridge than Oxford, and that Oxford

would not waste time on it.

Cynric materialised in front of him, making him

jump almost as much as he had when the woman had

appeared. Cynric put his hand on his shoulder.

‘Easy, boy! Not so jumpy. Shall I follow her?’

Bartholomew dug his nails into the fence, taking

deep breaths to calm himself down. The woman had

taken a risk to give him information she considered to be important to him, and had asked him not to put her

in further danger by following her home.

‘No, Cynric,’ he said. ‘Let her go.‘x pLAQue on botI} your Rouses ‘Who was it?’ Cynric asked, sounding disappointed.

Bartholomew had the feeling his book-bearer was enjoying this nocturnal escapade.

“I do not know, but I think she means us no harm,’

he said, climbing slowly over the fence.

‘What did she want?’

Bartholomew was silent for a moment before telling

Cynric what she had said.

Cynric rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘Should

not be too difficult to do,’ he said. He screwed up his eyes as he thought. ‘Yes. It is possible to climb up the back of Bene’t Hostel. It is all covered with ivy that they have never bothered to cut. They throw their rubbish in the back yard, and one of the garderobe chutes empties there. No one bothers to go there because it is so filthy, so I think we should have no problems.’

‘We?’ queried Bartholomew nervously. “I cannot

drag you into this

‘You cannot keep me out of it! And anyway, I am

much better at this sort of thing than you are.’

Bartholomew had to acknowledge that he was right,

but he did not feel comfortable with the notion of

dragging Cynric into anything unsavoury or dangerous.

He stared out into the mist in the direction in which

the woman had gone. The fog thinned slightly for a few moments, and Bartholomew could see the King’s Head

opposite.

As he watched, a figure emerged. Bartholomew

tensed. It looked like Oswald Stanmore. He blinked,

and the figure had gone. He shook himself. He was

imagining things. Stanmore would be tucked up safe

and warm in his bed in Trumpington by now, and

would never be seen frequenting a disreputable place

like the King’s Head. Bartholomew was obviously tired

and prone to an overactive imagination. He took hold

of Cynric’s sleeve and tugged, indicating the way back down the High Street towards home.

Cynric was already making plans for entering

Bene’t’s yard the next night, and Bartholomew, seeing

his eyes gleam with excitement, did not have the heart to tell him he could not go. He was not even sure whether he wanted to go himself. The mist clung to their clothes as they walked, and seemed to muffle the usual sounds of the night. Distantly, Bartholomew heard wailing. Another

plague death? Or a cat hunting among the piles of

rubbish? He was glad when the walls of Michaelhouse

loomed up out of the fog, and too tired to speculate any further on his well-wisher’s intentions. He fell asleep in his clothes listening to the regular breathing of Gray in the other bed.

Early the next day, Bartholomew received a message from the barber-surgeon Robin of Grantchester saying that he had convened a meeting with representatives from the

town to discuss what they were going to do about the

settlement near All Saints-next-the-Castle, where all had lain dead for many weeks. Rumours abounded that the

dead walked down into Cambridge at night, and were

spreading the pestilence. The meeting was acrimonious, and the real issue about what should be done about

the community beyond the Castle was sidestepped

until Bartholomew rapped on the table with the hilt

of Stanmore’s dagger to make the voices subside.

‘Everyone who lived in settlement beyond the Castle

is either dead or has left,’ he said. “I have seen that there are bodies rotting in virtually every house. While I do not believe they walk in the town at night, the area should be cleared in the interests of health. I propose we burn it down.’

Horrified faces stared at him, open-mouthed.

‘With the bodies still inside?’ whispered Stephen

Stanmore.

‘Unless you would like to go and fetch them out,’

said Bartholomew.

‘But that is sacrilege!’ said Father William, aghast.

‘Those people must be buried decently.’

‘So fetch them, and then we will burn the houses.’

There was a silence, and then mutterings of reluctant

assent. Clerics and medics alike accepted that there was no other safe way to deal with the problem, but no one had wanted to be the one to suggest such an unpopular

solution.

Bartholomew had a hasty meal with William, and set

off for the settlement. Two lay-brothers had volunteered to help, and people came out of their houses to watch

them pass. The burning did not take long: the houses

were flimsy and, despite the rain that had drenched

them during the past few weeks, fired easily.

When the flames died down, Bartholomew found he

was shaking, and wondered if he had really condemned

the spirits of the people to walk in perpetual torment as the rector of St Clement’s had claimed. William scattered holy water about, and Bartholomew watched it hiss and

evaporate as it touched the still-hot embers of the houses.

Bartholomew knew he would never want to visit this

part of the town again.

‘That was a foul day’s work,’ William remarked as

they returned to Michaelhouse. ‘But it had to be done.

The rector was wrong: the souls of those people will go wherever they were destined to be, and nothing you have done today will change that. Put it from your mind, and think of other things.’

Bartholomew smiled gratefully. William was most

certainly not a person to give false assurances; if

anything, he tended the other way, and his words

made Bartholomew’s mind easier.

“I heard you helped Mistress Tinker to give birth

to another child,’ said William.

Bartholomew thought back to his delight at seeing

the baby born and remembered the purse he had taken

to give her. He asked William if he would give it to the mother when he baptised the child the following day.

William raised his eyebrows.

‘Not your own child, is it?’ he asked.

Bartholomew was taken aback. What twisted minds

these University people had! What made them read

sinister motives into even the most innocent of acts?

William caught his look and changed the subject. ‘Have you seen Brother Michael today?’

Bartholomew had not seen Brother Michael for

some days and was growing anxious. He had even looked

up in the attic that morning, to satisfy himself that the murderer had not been at work again. He was about to

voice his concerns to William, when he saw Colet being escorted out of St Botolph’s Church by two monks. Colet was laughing uncontrollably, and drooling even more

than usual. His eyes, instead of being blank, were wild and starting from his head.

‘What has happened?’ Bartholomew watched in pity

as Colet cackled to himself.

‘He acts so around this time of day,’ one of

the monks said, ‘and we have to take him home.

His mind has gone. There is nothing you can do,

Doctor.’

Agatha would not let Bartholomew into the kitchen,

saying he smelled of the ‘fires of death’. She took

his clothes away to be laundered, and made him wash

thoroughly in water she had liberally peppered with

herbs to take away the smell. Although the water was

cold, Bartholomew felt better when the smell of burning had gone. He sat shivering next to the kitchen fire, eating stale marchpanes.

Cynric drew a stool up next to him. He glanced

around to make sure Agatha could not hear, but she

was busy trying to persuade William to go through the

same process as Bartholomew, and was unlikely to be

distracted from her purpose until William had bent to

her will.

“I have been out and about,’ he said in a low voice.

‘The steward at Bene’t’s has been given the night off

tonight, and told he can visit his mother. They are also short of candles, and the Sub-Principal has suggested that all lights be extinguished at eight o’clock until they can replenish their stocks. You know what all this means?’

Bartholomew could guess. The steward was being

invited to leave the premises overnight, and the students, deprived of light, would probably go to bed early since there was little they could do in the dark. All this suggested that his well-wisher was right, and that there would be a clandestine meeting at Bene’t Hostel that night. He

had not given the matter much thought during the day

since he had had so much else to think about, but now

he needed to come to a decision.

He slipped out through the back of the kitchen and

made his way to the orchard, remembering that the last time he had done this was when Aelfrith had spoken to

him. Now, it was bitterly cold, and the branches of the trees were grey-brown and bare. He sat for a while with his eyes closed, trying to concentrate on the silence of the orchard and not the roaring in his head from the fires.

He began to think about whether he should go to Bene’t Hostel to spy. Was it safe, or was it a trap? Who was this woman who claimed to wish him well? He rubbed a hand

through his hair, and stood, hugging his arms around

his body to keep warm. But when he thought about

Philippa, he knew he would eavesdrop on the meeting.

After all, Cynric would be there, and if anyone could

enter and leave places unseen it was Cynric. He began

to walk slowly back through the College heading for his room, but was intercepted by a breathless Cynric.

‘There you are!’ he said, his tone slightly accusatory.

‘You had better come quick. Henry Oliver is here, and

he is terrible sick of the plague.’

BARTHOLOMEW AND CYNRIC HURRIED

through the College, they could hear Henry

Oliver’s enraged yells coming from the

commoners’ room. Cynric told Bartholomew that two

students had found him lying outside the King’s Head

tavern, and had brought him back so he could be cared

for in the plague ward. Oliver, it seemed, had other

ideas, and had kicked and struggled as much as his

weakened body would allow, demanding to be taken

to his own room.

The Benedictines were having a difficult time trying

to quieten him down, and his shouts and curses were

disturbing the other patients. One of the monks was

almost lying on top of him to keep him in the bed.

When Oliver saw Bartholomew standing in the doorway,

his struggles increased.

‘Keep him away from me,’ he screamed. ‘He will

kill me!’

Slowly Bartholomew approached the bed, and laid

his hand gently on the sick student’s head. Oliver shrank away, pushing himself as far back against the wall as

he could.

‘Come, now, Henry,’ Bartholomew said softly. ‘No

one is going to hurt you. You are ill and need help, and this is the best place for you to get it.’

‘No!’ Oliver yelled, his eyes darting frantically round the room. ‘You will kill me here!’

‘Now why would I do that?’ asked Bartholomew,

reaching out to turn Oliver’s head gently, so he could inspect the swellings in his neck.