A Plague on Both Your Houses (4 page)

or spend the night in the Castle, and the groans of the people who had been crushed against the gates.

‘Michaelhouse!’ Bartholomew recognised the voice

of the Sheriff, and went to help open the gates.

The Sheriff had been compelled to use his garrison

to break up many a fight between the University and the townspeople, and was heartily sick of it. Since he was unlikely to be able to rid himself of the townspeople, he often felt he would like to rid himself of the University and all its bickering and warring factions. Students from Norfolk, Suffolk, and Huntingdonshire fought scholars

from Yorkshire and the north, and they all fought the

students from Wales, and Ireland. Masters and scholars who were priests, friars, or monks were always at odds with those who were not. And there was even dispute between the different religious Orders, the large numbers of

Franciscan, Dominican, Augustinian, and Carmelite

friars, who begged their livings, at loggerheads with

the rich Benedictines and the Austin Canons who ran

the Hospital of St John.

As the gates opened, he glowered in at the assembly,

making no attempt to enter. The Senior Proctor, the man who kept law and order in the University, stood next to the Sheriff, his beadles - men who were University constables - ranged behind him. Master Wilson hurried forward, his gorgeous purple gown billowing about him.

‘My Lord Sheriff, Master Proctor,’ he began, ‘the

townies have attacked us totally unprovoked!’

“I admire a man who takes such care to seek the truth

before speaking,’ Bartholomew said in an undertone

to Abigny. Wilson’s was also an imprudent remark,

considering many of his guests were townspeople.

Abigny snorted in disgust. ‘He should have known

better than to try to distribute money today. He must

have known what might happen.’

“I suggested he should let the priests give it out

at mass on Sunday,’ said Bartholomew, watching with

distaste as Wilson regaled the Sheriff with claims that the townspeople had attacked the College out of pure

malice.

‘But that might have entailed some of the credit

passing to the priests and not to him,’ said Abigny nastily.

He gestured outside. ‘See to your patients, Physician.’

Bartholomew remembered the groans and shrieks as

the crowd had surged against Michaelhouse’s wall, chastened that he had not thought to see to the injured sooner.

By the gate, a beadle stood by two prostrate forms, while more beadles bent over others further down the lane.

‘Dead, Doctor,’ said the beadle, recognising Bartholomew.

Bartholomew knelt to examine the bodies.

Both were young men, one wearing the short coat of

an apprentice. He pressed down on the young man’s

chest, feeling the sogginess that meant his ribs were

broken and the vital organs underneath crushed. The

neck of the second man was broken, his head twisted at an obscene angle. Death would have come instantly to

both of them. Bartholomew crossed himself, and paused

at the gate to shout for Brother Michael to do what he could for their unshriven souls.

The other beadles moved aside to allow Bartholomew

to examine the injured. Miraculously, there

were only four of them, although Bartholomew was sure

others had been helped home by friends. None of the

four was in mortal danger. One middle-aged man had a

superficial head wound that nevertheless bled copiously.

Bartholomew gave him a clean piece of linen to stem

the bleeding, and moved on to examine the next one.

The woman seemed to have no injuries, but was deeply

in shock, her eyes wide and dull, and her whole body

shaking uncontrollably.

‘Her son is over there.’ Bartholomew saw that the

speaker was the blacksmith, lying against the wall with his leg at an awkward angle. He followed the blacksmith’s

nod and saw that he meant one of the men who had

died. He turned back to the woman and took her cold,

clammy hands in his.

‘Where is her husband? Can we send for someone

to come to take her home?’

‘Her husband died last winter of the ague. The lad

was all she had. Doubtless she will starve now.’

‘What is her name?’ Bartholomew asked, feeling

helpless.

‘Rachel Atkin,’ the blacksmith replied. ‘What do

you care?’

Bartholomew sighed. He saw cases like Rachel’s

almost every day, old people and women with children

deprived of those who could provide for them. Even

giving them money, which he did sometimes, did no

more than relieve the problem temporarily. Poverty was one of the aspects of being a physician he found most

difficult to deal with. Often, he would tend to an injury or an illness, only to find that his patient had died from want of good food or warmth.

He released the woman’s hands, and went to

examine the blacksmith’s leg. It was a clean break,

with no punctured skin. It only needed to be set,

and, given time and rest, would heal well enough.

As he gently squeezed and probed the break, testing

for splinters of bone, the blacksmith leaned towards

him. Bartholomew realised that the ale fumes on his

breath probably accounted for the fact that he did

not scream, as many patients might, when his leg was

examined. He should set it as soon as possible for the same reason.

‘Why did you interfere?’ the blacksmith slurred.

Bartholomew ignored him, and went to look at the

last injury, a man complaining of pains in his back.

‘It was under control,’ the blacksmith continued.

‘We knew what we were doing.’

“I am sure you did,’ said Bartholomew absently,

running his hands down the man’s spine. He straightened up. ‘Just bruised,’ he said to the man, ‘go home and rest, and in a few days it will feel better.’ He turned to the blacksmith. “I can set your leg now, or you can go to a surgeon. I do not care which you choose.’

The blacksmith looked dubious, and narrowed his

eyes. “I have heard of you, Physician. You tell the other doctors that they should not use leeches …’

There was a muted snigger from the listening beadles,

and Bartholomew cut the blacksmith off abruptly

by standing and preparing to leave. He had no desire

to enter into a medical debate with the man. He knew

his medical teaching was regarded with suspicion, even fear, by some people, but no one could deny that fewer patients died under his care than that of his colleagues.

His success where they had failed often drove desperate people to him, and those he had healed usually rallied to his defence when others questioned or criticised his methods.

‘And how much will it cost me?’ sneered the

blacksmith, seizing a corner of Bartholomew’s gown to

prevent him from walking away.

Bartholomew looked down at him. ‘A shroud and

a gravedigger for the woman’s son.’

The blacksmith met his eyes, peering up to see if

he could detect any trickery there. After a moment’s

thought, he nodded, and lifted his arms so that the

beadles could help him into Michaelhouse, where

Bartholomew had a small surgery.

Bartholomew quickly bandaged the first man’s head,

and sent him home. The woman still sat on the ground,

staring into space. The beadles had lifted the bodies of the young men onto a cart to be taken to StMichael’s Church, while Brother Michael had finished his prayers and was walking back into the College. Coming to a decision,

Bartholomew reached down and took the woman by the

hand, pulling her to her feet. He ignored the surprised looks of the porters at the gate, and made for the kitchens, Rachel Atkin in tow.

All the College servants were furiously busy preparing for Master Wilson’s feast. Bartholomew pushed

his way through the kitchens to the servants’ living

quarters beyond. Agatha, the enormous laundress, sat

there, folding napkins in readiness for the feast. She looked up as he entered, her bushy grey eyebrows

coming together as she saw the woman.

‘Now what?’ she demanded, struggling to heave her

considerable bulk to her feet. ‘What troubles have you brought me this time, you young scoundrel?’

Bartholomew smiled. Women were not generally

employed in the Colleges, but Agatha was quite an

exception. Sir John had hired her when he first came

to Michaelhouse, Instantly recognising her abilities

for organisation and efficiency. She had gradually

established herself as undisputed leader of the College staff, and the College owed its smooth and generally

conflict-free running to Agatha.

‘You are always saying that you need an assistant,’

he said, smiling at her. ‘Could you take this one, just for a few days?’

‘She is stark staring mad!’ Agatha bellowed, peering

suspiciously into Rachel Atitin’s face.

‘No, not mad, just grieving for her son,’ said

Bartholomew gently. Rachel began to look around her

vacantly. ‘Will you give her a chance? Not tonight - she should sleep. But maybe for a few days?’

‘Are you insane?’ Agatha shouted. ‘What will Windbag

Wilson say when he hears you have brought a woman into the College? He only tolerates me because he knows in his heart that I am twice the man that he will ever be. He will be after your blood, Master Matthew. I have heard that he is going to demand that all the Fellows take major

holy orders like Michael and the Franciscans. He will

have something to say about women in the College, you

can be sure of that!’

‘Just for a few days until I can think of something

else. Please, Agatha?’

Agatha hid a smile, and put her hands on her ample

hips. She had had a soft spot for the dark-haired physician ever since he had arrived at the College to teach medicine four years before and had cured her of a painful swelling on her foot. She had been dubious of accepting his help because he had abandoned the usual implements of his

trade - leeches, star-charts, and urine examination and had even been known to practise surgery, a task

normally left to barbers. But Bartholomew’s treatment

of Agatha’s foot had worked, and Agatha was not a woman to question something that improved the quality of her life so dramatically.

She eyed the woman impassively noting her old

but clean dress, and the careful darns. ‘Out of the

question! You will be expecting me to share my own

room with her next!’

‘No, I …’ began Bartholomew, but stopped as

Agatha elbowed him out of the way, and steered Rachel

towards one of the small rooms in which the servants

slept. He needed to say no more. Rachel Atkin was in

good hands for now, and he was sure he and Agatha

could work out something between them later.

He dodged his way back through the frenetic activity

of the kitchens and walked across the courtyard towards his room. The Sheriff and Wilson had gone, but students and servants were scurrying back and forth as the bell rang to announce that the feast was about to begin.

The blacksmith lay on the pallet in the tiny chamber

Bartholomew used to store his medicines, and where

the College’s three precious medical books were kept

chained to the wall. Engaging the help of two burly

porters, Bartholomew pulled and heaved on the leg

until he was certain the bones were in correct alignment.

The porters exchanged grimaces of disgust as the sound of grating bone filled the room. But the blacksmith had apparently taken several healthy swigs from the jug of wine that stood on the table and was virtually unconscious by the time Bartholomew began: with the exception of

one or two grunts, he lay motionless through the entire proceeding. Bartholomew bound the leg tightly between

two sticks of wood, and checked his patient for signs of shock or fever.

The porters left, and Bartholomew covered the

blacksmith with his cloak and left him to sleep. His family could collect him in the morning. He went into the room that he shared with Abigny, and slumped on

his bed, suddenly feeling drained. What a day! He had

sat through Wilson’s interminable installation, narrowly averted a riot, almost been locked out of the College to face an enraged mob, attended four patients, and set a broken leg.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes,

feeling a warm lethargy creep over him. It would be

pleasant to drift off to sleep. The courtyard outside was quiet now, and he could just hear the murmur of voices coming from the feast in the hall. His place at the high table would be empty and he would be missed. He should go or Wilson would take his absence as a personal insult, and would try to make life unbearable for him. He sat still for a few minutes, and then forced himself to stand up. He need only stay until the speeches were over. Speeches!

He almost sat down again at the thought of listening to Master Wilson pontificate, but he had not eaten since

breakfast, and the smells of cooking from the kitchen

had been delicious.

He brushed hastily at the dust and mud that clung

to his best gown, and straightened the black robe underneath.

He walked across the courtyard, stopping on the

way to look in on Augustus. The commoners shared a

large dormitory on the upper floor of the southern

wing, but because Augustus talked to himself and kept

the others awake, he had been given a small room of

A pLAGUE ON BOTl) YOUR l)OUSeS

his own, an unusual privilege for any College member,