A Plague on Both Your Houses (38 page)

Oliver’s breath came in short agonised gasps. ‘The

Master told me,’ he whispered, flashing a terrified glance at Bartholomew.

‘Swynford?’ asked Bartholomew, astonished. ‘Swynford

told you I would kill you?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘Master Wilson. Wilson said

you would kill him. And you did!’ He sank back

against the wall, exhausted. Bartholomew looked at

him thunderstruck, while the monk knelt to begin

taking off Oliver’s wet clothes.

The Benedictine smiled briefly at Bartholomew.

‘Delirious,’ he said. ‘They claim all sorts of things, you know. Poor Jerome over there keeps saying he was

responsible for the murder of Montfitchet!’

Bartholomew groaned. It was all happening too fast.

Did this mean that Jerome, in his feverish delirium, was declaring that he was the murderer? And why had Wilson told Oliver that Bartholomew was going to kill him?

His energy spent, Oliver was unresisting while the

monk and Bartholomew put him to bed. He began to

squirm and struggle again when Bartholomew examined

him, but not with the same intensity as before. The swellings were as soft as rotten apples in his armpits and groin, and Bartholomew knew that lancing them would bring

no relief. While the monks tended to the other patients, Bartholomew tried to make Oliver drink some water.

Oliver spat the water from his mouth, and twisted

away from Bartholomew.

‘Poison!’ he hissed, his eyes bright with fever.

Bartholomew took a sip from the water cup himself,

and offered it again to Oliver, who took it reluctantly, but drank thirstily.

‘Now,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You must rest.’

He stood to leave, but Oliver caught at the edge

of his sleeve. ‘Master Wilson said he was in fear of his life from you, Physician,’ he said. ‘My aunt believes you killed him.’

Bartholomew had had enough of Oliver and his

unpleasant accusations. ‘Well, she is wrong,’ he said.

‘And how would she know anyway, since Wilson never

left his room to talk to anyone, and your aunt never

leaves her Priory?’

Oliver sneered and spat onto the floor. ‘He went to

see her, he said.

‘Wilson visited your aunt?’

‘Of course!’ Oliver said, his voice dripping contempt.

‘Most days, between Compline and Matins.’

‘In the middle of the night?’ said Bartholomew,

amazed. ‘Wilson visited your aunt in the middle of the night?’

‘They were lovers,’ said Oliver, ‘although what she

ever saw in that fat pig I will never know.’

‘He was going to take major orders,’ said

Bartholomew, bemused, ‘vowing to abstain from

physical relationships with women.’

Oliver gave a short bark of laughter. ‘My aunt had

already taken such a vow,’ he said, ‘but what did that matter?’

Bartholomew stared at the student. Oliver glowered

back at him spitefully, and once again, Bartholomew

wondered what he had done to earn himself such an

intense dislike. Oliver, however, was growing exhausted, and Bartholomew did not want to tire him further with

more questions. He went to sit with Jerome, who was

still fighting his illness with a spirit of defiance that Bartholomew never guessed he had. Jerome’s skeletal

hand gripped his.

“I did it,’ he muttered. “I killed Montfitchet. I made him drink the wine when he said he had already had

enough. Jocelyn and I made him drink the Master’s

health, and he died. His death is on my head.’

‘Did you know the wine was drugged?’ asked

Bartholomew.

The old man shook his head slowly, his eyes filling

with tears. ‘No, I did not. But that does not absolve me,’

he whispered.

Bartholomew rose to leave. ‘Father William will

come to you,’ he said. ‘He will absolve you.’ He felt a sudden urge just to leave Michaelhouse and Cambridge

and go to York or Lincoln where he could practise

medicine in peace, and escape from the vile intrigues

and affairs of the University. Even Father Jerome, who had probably never harmed anyone in his life, had been drawn into its murky depths, and would die believing

he had committed a crime in which he had played no

knowing part.

As he left the commoners’ room and made his way

back to the kitchen, he thought about Oliver’s words.

Oliver had said that Wilson had left the College almost every night to visit his mistress, the Abbess. That certainly explained how he might have caught the plague when, in everyone’s eyes, he had isolated himself from the outside world. Bartholomew and Cynric had slipped unnoticed

in and out of College the night before, so there was no reason why Wilson could not have done the same.

But it still made no sense. Bartholomew had already

established that Wilson could not have been the murderer, because Augustus’s body had been dumped in

the stables after Wilson had been buried. Did Wilson

believe Bartholomew was the murderer? Did he talk to

him on his deathbed so that Bartholomew would fall

into some kind of trap and be exposed? But that made

no sense either, because if Wilson believed Bartholomew to be capable of committing so grave a sin as murder,

why did he ask him to ensure that his tomb was built?

Why not Michael, or William?

He went to huddle near the kitchen fire, elbowing

Cynric to one side so that they could share the warmth.

They could not risk going too early in case they were

seen, so Bartholomew dozed until Cynric announced it

was time to leave. The Welshman made Bartholomew

change his white shirt and dispensed with cloaks and

scholar’s robes because they were difficult in which to climb. Both wore two pairs of woollen leggings and two dark tunics to protect them against the cold. When he

was satisfied that they were well prepared for a long

chilly wait on a narrow window-sill, Cynric led the way out of the College.

Bartholomew was amazed at the way the nimble

Welshman could blend into the shadows, and felt clumsy and graceless by comparison. When they reached Bene’t

Hostel, it was in total darkness, but Cynric insisted on waiting and watching for a long time before he decided it was safe. He slipped down a narrow passageway like a cat, Bartholomew following as quietly as he could. The passageway had originally led to the yard at the back of the hostel, but had been blocked off by a wall when the yard had become more of a refuse pit.

The wall had not been built of the best materials, and Bartholomew found it easy to gain hand-and footholds

in the crumbling mortar, and climb to the top. Cynric

pressed him back into the shadows, where they waited

yet again to ensure it was safe to continue. At last Cynric motioned that they could drop over the wall into the

yard below. Bartholomew was used to foul smells, but

the stench that rose from the deep layer of slime on the floor of the yard made his eyes water. Cynric quickly led the way to a row of straggly shrubs that grew against the wall of the hostel.

Bartholomew cursed under his breath as he skidded

on something slippery and almost fell. Cynric grabbed at his arm, and they waited in tense silence until they were certain that no one had heard. They reached the bushes where they could hide from anyone looking out of the

windows, and Bartholomew smothered an exclamation

of disgust as his outstretched hand touched a rotten slab of meat that had been thrown there.

Cynric pushed his way through the bushes until he

reached the ivy that climbed the wall of the house. It was ancient and sturdy, and Bartholomew nodded that

he could climb up it without difficulty. They had agreed that Bartholomew would climb to the window-sill, while Cynric would keep watch down the passageway from the

top of the wall for any indication that the well-wisher had led them into a trap. If that were the case, they

would effect an escape by climbing up the ivy, and over the roofs.

Gingerly, Bartholomew set his foot on the vine,

and began to climb. The slop drain was apparently

directly above, for the ivy was treacherously slick, and all manner of kitchen waste was caught on its branches.

Bartholomew tried not to think about it, and continued upwards. Glancing down, he could not see Cynric. He

must already have slid into his vantage point in the

shadows at the top of the wall.

The sound of soft singing came through the slop

drain. Bartholomew prayed that it was not a scullery

boy who would throw the kitchen waste down on his

head. Cautiously, he climbed a little further, noting

that the singer’s words were slurred and his notes false.

One of the scholars, objecting to an early night, must have slipped down to the pantry to avail himself of the wine and ale stored there. From his voice, it would take a thunderbolt to disturb him, not someone climbing

stealthily outside.

He climbed higher, until he saw the lancet windows

of the hall just above him. For an awful moment, he

thought the woman had misinformed him, for there was

no deep window-sill on which he could wait and listen, but then he realised that he was too far to one side, and needed to move to his right. This proved more difficult than he had anticipated, and he had to climb down past the kitchen drain before he could find a stem of the ivy large enough to bear his weight.

At last he saw the window-sill above him, and he was

able to grasp its edge with both hands and haul himself up. The shutters were firmly closed, but he could just see the merest flicker of light underneath them, suggesting that someone was there. He almost fell when a branch

he had been holding snapped sharply in his hand. He

held his breath and waited for the shutters to be flung open and his hiding place discovered, but there was no sound from within, and gradually he relaxed.

He eased himself to one side of the sill, his back

propped up against the carved stone window-frame. He

learned that, by huddling down a little, he could see

a fraction of the main table in the large hall through a split in the wood of the shutter. But, although one

of the Sub-Principal’s precious candles burned, there

seemed to be no one there to appreciate it. The meeting was evidently not due to start for a while. Bartholomew tried to make himself more comfortable. A chill wind was beginning to blow, and, although the sky was clear and it seemed unlikely to rain, he knew that, despite Cynric’s precautions, he was going to be very cold before he could go home.

He heard the church clock strike the hour twice

before anything happened. He was beginning to wonder

whether he had been sent on a wild-goose chase, and was considering giving up. It was freezing on the window-sill, and the bitter wind cut right through his clothes. He felt that if he did not climb down the vine soon, he would

be too cold to do so at all.

Suddenly, he became aware that something was

happening. Huddling down to peer through the split

wood, he saw Master Burwell pacing around the hall,

and heard him giving orders to Jacob Yaxley, who had

been ousted from his room to make way for the plague

ward. Yaxley was lighting more candles and sweeping

the remains of the scholars’ evening meal off the table onto the rushes. Burwell walked across Bartholomew’s

line of vision and seemed to be talking to someone else.

The wind rattled one of the shutters, and Bartholomew

swore softly. If this happened, he would not be able to hear what was going on in the meeting. Carefully, he

broke off a piece of vine, and jammed it under the

loose wood. The wind gusted again, and Bartholomew

saw with satisfaction that he seemed to have solved that problem at least.

The clock struck the hour again, and the activity

in the hall increased dramatically. There was a growing murmur of voices, and Bartholomew could see a number

of people filing into the hall. He was surprised: he had been expecting a small gathering of perhaps four or

five people, but there were at least fifteen men, with a promise of more to come.

He heard someone banging softly on the table to

bring the meeting to order.

‘Gentlemen. I would not have called you here in this

manner unless there was an important reason,’ Burwell

began. “I am afraid that our cause has suffered a grave setback.’

There was a mumble of concerned voices, and

Burwell waited for them to die down before continuing.

‘We have heard that the Acting Master of

Michaelhouse has established contact with Oxford.’

The voices this time were louder, and held

questions.

Burwell raised his hand. “I do not need to spell

out the implications of this to you, gentlemen. We have been uncertain of Master Alcote’s loyalties, and this

proves we were correct. Our spies have intercepted

messages from him telling which hostels were the

weakest and most likely to flounder under pressure.

Oxford will now see that pressure will be brought to

bear against these places, and the University will be

undermined as they fall.’

The room erupted into confusion again, and

Burwell had to bang on the table to bring the meeting

back under control.

‘What do you suggest we do?’ asked one man.

Although he had his back to Bartholomew, he recognised the wiry black hair as belonging to the Principal of Mary’s Hostel, Neville Stayne.

Burwell sighed. ‘We could take Alcote from the

equation,’ he said. Bartholomew saw Stayne nod his

head in approval, but there were voices of dissent.