A Plague on Both Your Houses (50 page)

understand it,’ he said. “I still do not know why some live while others die, and I have no more idea how it

spreads now than I did when it first came.’

‘Perhaps there is nothing to understand,’ said

Michael, watching the Proctor organising his beadles

in the yard for the arrest of the hostel men. ‘Perhaps we are all doomed.’

‘No, Brother. There are those that have remained

healthy, like you and Agatha, and there are those who

have recovered. We will survive it.’ He shivered, and

wondered whether he should ask Cynric to build a fire.

He glanced through the open door where Gray and a

few other industrious students were clearing the floor of debris, and decided that he had had enough of fires for one day.

‘Matt!’ Philippa exploded into the solar, followed

more sedately by Abigny. ‘Thank God you are safe!

We saw the smoke coming from Michaelhouse, and I

thought

Bartholomew rubbed his hands over his face, leaving

smears of black. “I owe you and Giles an apology,’ he said.

“I misjudged you both, and Giles has saved my life.’

‘Yes. I was there when Cynric came to him with

his dilemma, and I told them the answer was quite

simple,’ said Philippa. “I told them to enlist the help of Rachel Atkin and to go to see whether you and Michael

were being held prisoner under Stephen’s stables as

she surmised. They were considering leaving it until

tonight, but I said to go there and then. I would have gone myself, but I am not so foolish as to risk the success of such a mission merely to satisfy my own curiosity.’

Bartholomew stared at her wonderingly, and then

hugged her, first gently, then harder. He could feel

her laughing as she tried to catch her breath, and

was reminded of how carefree they had been in the

summer.

Abigny and Michael watched with obvious delight,

and Bartholomew became embarrassed. Still with an

arm across her shoulders, he spoke to Abigny.

‘Thank you again for last night,’ he said.

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Abigny cheerfully. ‘All

in a day’s work for a philosopher.’ He became serious

again. “I spoke to Elias Oliver on our way here. He is grief-stricken at the loss of his brother and aunt, and more than prepared to spill his heart. He says it was

Henry who organised the riot, and Henry who tried to

kill you in the lane. He also told me that both Wilson and Master Yaxley of Bene’t Hostel were seeing the Abbess, although neither knew of the other.’

‘Really?’ said Brother Michael with gleeful fascination.

‘Whatever next!’

So that explains how the blacksmith came to be

paid with money in a Bene’t Hostel purse, thought

Bartholomew. It must have been Yaxley’s, although it

had been rash of Henry to pay the blacksmith with a

marked purse. Perhaps he disapproved of his aunt’s illicit relationships, and was hoping that Bartholomew would

begin to suspect Yaxley. He remembered the blacksmith

bearing down on Elias Oliver during the riot, and almost stabbing him in the process. No wonder the Olivers had glowered so, when they were almost victims of their own plotting.

‘Elias also said that Wilson had been in quite a

panic one night, saying that he feared the physician,’

said Abigny. ‘The Abbess and her two dear nephews

thought he meant you, and that you were going to kill

him. But by “the physician” Wilson must have meant

Colet, not you at all.’

‘And you had nothing to do with this University

business?’ asked Bartholomew.

Abigny looked at him as though he were mad. “Me? Get mixed up with that crowd of calculating, power-hungry maniacs?’ he said in disbelief. ‘No fear!

I have more sense, and frankly, Matt, I would have

thought you had, too. I am appalled that you allowed

yourself to become embroiled in such filthy matters.’

‘One of the keys to the whole affair was the presence

of the trap-door. If you think back to when we found

Paul’s body, it was you who suggested that there might be a secret door …’

Abigny laughed. ‘That just goes to show, Physician,

that you need a philosopher to sort out all your mysteries!

So, I immediately lit upon the essence of the problem, did I? What an amazing mind I have.’ He preened for a while.

“I do not even remember saying it,’ he admitted. “I was just throwing out ideas and trying to think through the thing logically. I had no idea the College was furnished with such devices, and if I did mention it, it was purely owing to my sense of logic’

Bartholomew sighed. At last. All the loose ends

had come together. One stupid error in all this was his assumption that Philippa’s disappearance was connected to the University business, whereas the reality was that they were totally unrelated. There were tenuous links Wilson and Yaxley sharing the Abbess’s favours, Abigny’s

frequenting of Bene’t Hostel - but that was all.

He held out his hand to Philippa, who took it and

pressed it to her lips. He smiled at the black smudges that his hand left on her white skin, and tried to wipe them off. He only made them worse. Philippa began to

giggle, and out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew saw Abigny bundle a goggle-eyed Michael out of the room

and close the door, leaving him alone with Philippa.

‘Why did you not tell me you had been married as

a child?’ he said, recalling what Abigny had told him some days ago, now.

“I thought you might not marry me if you thought

I were a rich widow,’ she said.

Bartholomew stared at her. ‘Are you serious?’

She nodded. ‘You told me so many times you did not

want to treat rich patients for the money that I thought you might prefer a poor wife. The irony of all this silly mess was that I was thinking I would give all the property to the convent anyway,’ she said. ‘To please you.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘You will never believe the

problems caused by my failing to understand what money means to people,’ he said.

Philippa squeezed next to him on the window seat.

‘So tell me,’ she said.

It WAS MARCH, AND ALTHOUGH THE PLAGUE STILL raged, and reports of enormous numbers of deaths remained common, Bartholomew felt that it was

beginning to relinquish its hold on Cambridge. The

death toll was lower than it had been in January and

February, and, with the coming of spring, many felt a

new hope.

Colet, Stephen, Jocelyn, Yaxley, Burwell, Stayne,

and five others were taken for trial at the Tower of

London. They were accused of treason for attempting

to undermine the University, particularly King’s Hall, which was endowed with royal money. All were executed

at Smithfield, although the news of their deaths did

not reach Cambridge until three weeks later. Oswald

Stanmore was at London for the trial, and told

Bartholomew that Stephen was fully repentant for his

wrongdoings. Colet was less so, and sent Bartholomew a package. Inside was the golden lion. When Bartholomew

explained its significance to Philippa, she dropped it in disgust, and walked away. Bartholomew looked at it for a moment and then followed her. The small child that

found it lying in the mud in the High Street sold it to a passing traveller for a penny later that day.

The University began to settle back into the business

of teaching. Although officially closed because of the plague, there were still students who wanted to learn, and scholars who wanted to teach. Bartholomew was

as busy as ever, teaching, seeing his patients, trying to control Gray, and visiting Philippa, now living with Stephen’s wife in Milne Street.

One bright day when the air was filled with the

fresh smells of spring, masking even the stench of the river, Bartholomew and Michael walked to Newnham,

Bartholomew to see to a wheezing cough, and Michael

to persuade children to join his depleted choir. The

sun shone, and the first lambs of the year gambolled

about the fields. Michael and Bartholomew completed

their business, and turned homeward. They walked in

silence, enjoying the clean air and the feel of the sun through their clothes.

When they reached the small footbridge, Bartholomew

stopped and looked down into the swirling

waters underneath. Michael stood next to him, leaning

his ample forearms on the handrail.

‘Sir John’s seal caused a lot of deaths, and it was

basically worthless,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael looked at him askance. ‘What brought that

up?’ he said. After a while, watching Bartholomew drop blades of grass onto the water he said, ‘The seal was

nothing. It could only be used by Sir John for the King’s business, and as soon as he was dead, the seal was defunct.

It was given unwarranted significance by evil men for evil reasons. Sir John would have been horrified if he knew what trouble it would cause.’

Bartholomew reached into his pocket and handed

something to Michael, whose eyes widened in shock.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked in wonder, turning

Sir John’s intricate seal to the sun so he could look at it closely.

‘Sir John gave it to me on the night he died,’

said Bartholomew, ‘although I did not realise it at

the time.’

Michael gazed at Bartholomew in stupefaction.

‘How?’ he managed to ask.

‘He must have slipped it into the sleeve of my gown,’

said Bartholomew. ‘You know how those sleeves are for

us non-clerics? They are sewn up at the bottom, with slits for the arms half-way up. The ring was there for quite a while before I thought to look.’

‘But what made you look?’

Bartholomew gazed over the meadows, edged with

the pale yellow of primrose. ‘Sir John did not leave it with Augustus, and it was not found on his body when he was killed. It was with him when we had dinner. I saw it on the cord around his neck. The only logical conclusion was

that he must have given it to Swynford or Aelfrith when we parted after dinner. Sir John would not have given

it to Aelfrith because Aelfrith was already involved and would be an obvious target, and I know he was always a little wary of Swynford. He often wondered why a man

with Swynford’s connections and wealth should deign

to become a poor University teacher. Then I wondered

whether Sir John had passed the seal to me. I searched through all my clothes, and there it was, lying in a corner at the bottom of my sleeve.’

‘And Wilson accused you of being a poor logician!’

said Michael, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Now I think about it, it is the only obvious answer. Sir John trusted you above all the other Fellows, and would have been

far more likely to give you the seal than anyone else.

Thank God no one else thought the same, or you may

have gone the same way as Augustus!’

‘Sir John must have had some misgivings about

his meeting that night, and decided to leave the seal

behind.’

‘Unfortunately, his misgivings were not strong

enough,’ said Michael sadly. ‘If they were, he would

never have gone to the meeting, and he most certainly

would not have put you at risk by hiding the seal with you. And he would never have visited Augustus if he

could have foreseen the consequences. I suppose he

intended to recover it from you when he returned.’

Bartholomew scuffed some small stones from the

bridge into the water with the toe of his boot and

watched as they disappeared with tiny splashes. “I

think Sir John may have believed that the purpose

of the meeting that night was to entice him out of

the College so that his room could be searched, not

so that he could be murdered. I think he knew that the person he was meeting would guess he would not wear

the seal as usual because of the unusual circumstances of the rendezvous - during the night in a remote place.

I expect he thought he would be able to retrieve it from my sleeve himself before anyone else had had the time

to reason where he may have hidden it.’

‘When did you work all this out?’ asked Michael.

‘When Wilson told me to find it,’ said Bartholomew.

“I told no one, because I did not know whom I could

trust, and I did not want anyone else to die for it. So, I kept my silence.’

Michael started to laugh, looking at the seal in

wonder. ‘You are a dark horse, Matt! So many people

looked for this wretched thing, and all the time it was with you! Why have you chosen now to tell me about it?’

Bartholomew shrugged, watching the sunlight

dance on the river. “I have told no one else, not

even Philippa.’ He turned to Michael. “I suppose I

thought you would like to know.’

Michael held the ring between his thumb and

forefinger and looked at it intently. ‘Who would think that such a tiny thing would cause so much harm?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, ‘the ring did not do the

harm. The people who used it did.’

Michael was silent for a while, still looking at the

small gold ring with its intricate knots and ties. ‘So what are you going to do with it?’ he asked.

Bartholomew sighed and turned his face up to the

sun, his eyes closed. ‘Give it to you, for your Bishop.’

‘To me?’ exclaimed Michael. He looked at it a little

longer, then shook Bartholomew’s arm to make him

open his eyes.

‘Watch,’ he said. He pulled back his arm, and flung

the ring as far as he could down the fast-flowing river.

They saw it flash once in the sunlight before it dropped soundlessly midstream, and was gone from sight. They