A Plague on Both Your Houses (43 page)

man to kill Bartholomew. And then they would be able

to slay Stanmore.

Bartholomew was so preoccupied with his feelings

of loathing for Stephen that he almost missed the sound of footsteps coming towards the door. Startled, he bolted back into the other room, wincing as his haste made

him careless and he knocked a candle from its holder.

The three men did not hear, however, and stood in the

doorway conversing in low tones.

‘Tonight it is, then,’ came the familiar voice.

Bartholomew risked opening the door a crack to see

his face, but he had already started off down the stairs, and all Bartholomew saw was the hem of a cloak.

Bartholomew itched to be away to warn Stanmore

of the impending threat on their lives, but Stephen

and Burwell lingered at the top of the stairs, discussing the possibility of increasing hostel rents. Bartholomew silently urged them to conclude their tedious conversation so that he could leave. A dreadful thought occurred

to him. Supposing Abigny arrived and found him? Then

his death would be immediate, for how could they let

him go after what he had heard? And, Bartholomew

thought, Abigny must be involved, for how could he

spend so much time at Bene’t’s and be unaware of what

was happening?

‘Here.’ Bartholomew heard the tinkle of coins as

money was passed from Burwell to Stephen, followed

by the rustle of cloth as Stephen secreted them in

his cloak.

‘This is important to you,’ said Burwell suddenly.

‘More than just wealth.’

Bartholomew risked looking at them through the

crack in the door. He saw Stephen shrug, but noted that he was unable to meet Burwell’s eyes. “I have worked for my brother all my life,’ he said, ‘but it will not be me who will inherit the business when he dies. It will be Richard.

And what then? What of my children? The Death has

made it necessary for me to consider alternative sources of income.’

Burwell looked surprised. ‘But I understand that

young Richard is anxious to follow in his uncle’s footsteps and become a leech.’

Stephen faltered for a moment. ‘People change,’

he said. ‘And I do not, cannot, rely on my nephew’s

charity for the rest of my life. What if I were to be

taken by the pestilence? I must leave some funds

to safeguard my children. It is no longer viable

to rely on relationships and friendships to secure

a future. Only this works.’ He held a gold coin

between his thumb and forefinger and raised it for

Burwell to see.

‘And you would sacrifice your brother for this?’

mused Burwell. In the shadows of his chamber,

Bartholomew closed his eyes and rested his head

against the wall.

‘Yes,’ said Stephen softly, ‘because by this time

tomorrow I might be in the death pits. What if Oswald

and I were to die, and Richard? How could the womenfolk maintain the business? Even if they were allowed to try, and that in itself is unlikely because the Guilds would not permit it, they would be easy prey for all manner of rogues. They would be gutter fodder within the month.’

He turned to face Burwell. “I do not relish what I am

about to do, but my future and the future of my children is more important than Oswald.’

Bartholomew listened as their voices faded down the

stairs. He was almost beside himself with anxiety. Where had the third man gone while Stephen and Burwell

chattered? Was Oswald already in danger? The two men

stopped to talk again by the front door before finally taking their leave of each other. Bartholomew forced

himself to wait several moments before hurrying down

the stairs. Looking down the High Street, he saw Abigny walking towards him. Bartholomew ignored him, and fled in the opposite direction towards Stanmore’s shop.

He raced through the gates into Stanmore’s yard, his

feet skidding as he fought to keep his balance on the

slippery mud. He was about to go into the house to

seek Stanmore out when he saw him entering the stable

with a tall figure that looked very familiar. It was Robert Swynford.

Bartholomew was relieved beyond measure. Good.

Now Swynford was back, he could take over the College, and Alcote would be spared being discredited, or worse, at the hands of the hostels. Breathlessly, Bartholomew ran over to the stable, pushed the door open and staggered inside. Stanmore stood just inside the door with

his back to Bartholomew, but turned when he crashed

in. Bartholomew’s stomach flipped over when he saw

it was not Stanmore at all, but Stephen. Bartholomew

cursed himself for a fool as he realised Stephen was still wearing Oswald’s cloak. Stephen and Swynford seemed

as disconcerted to see him as Bartholomew Was to see

Stephen, but Swynford recovered almost immediately

and shook Bartholomew by the hand, saying how pleased he was to be back in the town and asking how the College was faring.

Bartholomew, smiling politely, began to back out of

the stable, but Stephen was quicker. He made a sudden

movement with his hand, and Bartholomew found a

long-bladed dagger pointing at him. Bartholomew gazed

in panic before trying to bluff it out: Stephen did not know Bartholomew had heard him speaking with Burwell and

the other man at Bene’t’s. ‘What are you doing? Where

is Oswald?’

‘At Trumpington seeing to Edith. Which is where

you were supposed to be,’ Stephen said coldly. ‘Why did you not go?’

“I had to stay with Father Jerome. I sent Gray,’

Bartholomew replied, bewildered.

Stephen laughed without humour. ‘You have been

a problem to us almost every step of the way. I tried hard to keep you out of all this, but you have been remarkably uncooperative!’

Bartholomew tried to move away as the knife waved

menacingly close, but he was hemmed in by walls on one side, and Stephen and Swynford on the other.

“I thought we had agreed to be honest with each

other this morning,’ Bartholomew said, looking from

Swynford to Stephen.

The knife waved again, and Bartholomew felt it

catch on his robe. He gazed at Stephen in horror.

‘Was it you?’ he whispered. ‘Was it you who killed

Sir John and the others?’

Stephen grinned nastily and looked at Swynford,

who eyed Bartholomew impassively.

‘We cannot allow him to interfere any more than he

has already,’ Swynford said. ‘There is too much to lose.’

Stephen nodded, and Bartholomew wondered whether

they meant to kill him there and then in the stable.

Stephen obviously thought so, for he took a step towards Bartholomew, tightening his grip on the knife.

‘Not here!’ snapped Swynford. ‘What will your

brother say if he finds blood in his stable and the

physician missing? Put him downstairs.’

‘Downstairs?‘said Stephen, lunging at Bartholomew,

who had made a slight move to one side. ‘Are you

serious?’

‘There are rooms with stout doors,’ said Swynford.

‘We must plan his death carefully or the Bishop might

discover some streak of courage in his yellow belly and order some kind of enquiry.’

Bartholomew was lost. Swynford the murderer? He

looked desperately towards the stable door, but Stephen guessed what was in his mind, and prodded him hard

with the knife. ‘You should have gone to see Edith,’ he said, edging Bartholomew towards the end of the stable.

‘Oswald and Richard went, and they will be safely out of the way until our meeting has finished.’

Stephen shoved Bartholomew against the back wall,

while Swynford cleared some straw from the floor, and

indicated that Bartholomew should pull up the trap-door he had uncovered. Bartholomew did not move. Stephen

moved towards him, brandishing the knife threateningly, but Bartholomew still did not move.

‘Open it,’ said Swynford impatiently.

‘Open it yourself,’ said Bartholomew. If they did

not want Oswald Stanmore to find blood on his stable

floor, what did he have to fear from Stephen’s knife?

“I do not want to kill you here,’ Swynford said, as his cold, hard eyes flashed, ‘but I will if necessary. Blood can be cleaned away, and a knife wound can always be hidden with other injuries, as you have probably guessed was the case with Sir John. Now, unless you wish your death to be long and painful, open the door.’

Bartholomew slowly bent to pull open the trap-door.

Stanmore had shown him the small storerooms and

passages under the stables when he had been a boy. They had been built by a previous merchant to hide goods from the King’s tax-collectors. As far as Bartholomew knew, Stanmore had never used the underground rooms, and

they had lain empty for years.

The door was made of stone, and was heavy.

Bartholomew hauled at it and stood back as he let

it fall backwards with a crash that echoed all over the yard. Stephen and Swynford looked at each other.

‘That was rash,’ said Swynford. ‘One more trick like

that and I will kill you myself.’

Swynford took a lamp from a shelf, and lit it. He held out a hand for Bartholomew to precede him down the

wooden stairs that disappeared into the darkness below.

Bartholomew climbed down cautiously, wondering if this were to be his last journey. Swynford followed him, and Stephen brought up the rear.

Bartholomew was prodded along one of the musty

corridors and told to open the door to the largest

chamber. To his surprise, it was already lit with candles and filled with people. A hard shove in the small of his back sent him stumbling into the middle of the room.

‘We have something of a problem, gentlemen,’ said

Swynford calmly.

‘Why did you bring him here?’ It was no surprise to

Bartholomew to see Burwell and Yaxley there, standing

shoulder to shoulder with Neville Stayne from Mary’s

Hostel. Jocelyn of Ripon, too, was present, his face

creased into its perpetual scowl.

‘What did you expect us to do?’ snapped Stephen.

‘Send him home? We did our best to make sure he was

out of the way. It is not our fault he failed to answer a call of mercy from his own sister!’

‘What do we do with him now?’ asked Burwell.

‘We will keep him here until I think of a way to get

rid of him that cannot be traced back to us,’ said Swynford.

‘We have done it before, and we can do it again.’

‘Then it was you who killed Sir John and poisoned

Aelfrith!’ exclaimed Bartholomew.

‘No. That was me.’ It was the voice he had heard

at Bene’t’s but could not identify. Bartholomew spun

round and looked into the face of Gregory Colet.

Bartholomew was rendered speechless, and could

only gaze dumbly as Colet sauntered round the room

and perched himself on the edge of the table. He saw

Bartholomew’s expression of disbelief, and laughed.

“I was convincing as the drooling fool, wasn’t I?’

he said, crossing his legs and looking at Bartholomew.

You were quite a nuisance, though. You would insist

on visiting me when I had a great many other things to do. And I had to keep wearing these,’ he said, pulling distastefully at his filthy clothes. ‘You were supposed to have given up on me and left me to my own devices.’

‘Why?’ whispered Bartholomew, looking at his

friend. ‘What brought you to this?’

Swynford snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘Enough

of this! We have better things to do than to satisfy the curiosity of this meddling fool.’

Bartholomew was bundled out of the room and into

a long chamber down the corridor by Yaxley, Jocelyn, and a man he had seen at Garret Hostel. They made him sit

down on the floor at the far end and backed out of the room, slamming the door behind them. Bartholomew

heard bolts shooting across on the other side. He sat in the darkness trying to comprehend what had happened

to him. Stephen and Colet, whom he had believed to

be friends, were so deeply embroiled in whatever foul

plans were afoot, that they were prepared to kill him

for them. And Colet had killed Sir John and Aelfrith!

He leaned his head back against the wall, and tried

to think rationally. But it would do him no good to

speculate. What he needed to do was to think of a way

out. There was no window in the chamber and it was

pitch black. Bartholomew felt his way along the walls, searching for other possible exits or even a weapon.

There was nothing. He discovered there were several

large crates in the room, but other than that the room was empty. He pushed against the door with all his strength, but it was made of thick oak bound with iron, and he

knew from his childhood visits to the cellars that there were two huge bolts and a stout bar on the outside.

He sat down again despondently. Unbidden, an

image of Philippa came into his mind. Was she involved too? Would she be the one to offer to make his death

look like an accident? He leaned back against the wall again and closed his eyes. He could hear raised voices from the room down the corridor. He was glad they were arguing with each other: such an unholy alliance should not be free from dissent and strife. The meeting did not last long, and it was no more than half an hour later

when it finished and he could hear people leaving.

The heavy stone trap-door was dropped into place

with a hollow thump, and Bartholomew’s prison was as

dark and silent as the grave. He found it strange at first, and then disconcerting. Michaelhouse was usually noisy during the day, with scholars coming and going, and at night there was always some sound - students debating