A Plague on Both Your Houses (27 page)

As he closed the door, a scrap of parchment fluttered

to the floor from one of the high shelves, caught by a sudden draught from the door downstairs. Bartholomew picked it up, and strained to read the words in the darkness. They were in Michael’s bold, round hand,

the letters ill-formed and clumsy with haste. ‘Seal must still be in College. Will look with Wilson.’

Bartholomew stared at it. Michael had obviously

written this message and been unable to deliver it, or had been disturbed while he was writing. Whatever the

reason, it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Michael was embroiled in all this intrigue. Bartholomew felt his hands shaking. Michael may have been the very one

who had paid the blacksmith to warn him away.

He gasped in shock as the note was snatched from

his hand. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not heard Michael coming from the room opposite.

He saw the monk’s face in the gloom of the hallway.

It was contorted with rage, and he was controlling himself with difficulty. Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. He had not been prying in Michael’s room, and had not searched for the scrap of parchment, but there was no reason for Michael to believe that.

Words would be meaningless now: what could be

said? Bartholomew pushed his way past Michael into

the hallway. In the room opposite, he could hear the

muffled voices of the three students that lived there.

One of them must have become ill and called for help.

Bartholomew poked his head round the door and saw

the student writhing on his pallet bed, his room-mates staring at him fearfully in the light of a flickering tallow candle. Bartholomew felt the sick boy’s head, and told the others to carry him to the commoners’ dormitory.

He went back down the stairs to his own room and

closed the door. His hands still shook from the fright he had had when Michael had snatched the note away.

He should not be surprised by what he had learned,

bearing in mind Michael’s very odd behaviour on the

night of Augustus’s death. At the unpleasant interview with the Bishop, Michael had had no alibi for the night of the murders. Perhaps it was he who had struck down

poor Paul and drugged the commoners after all.

So what should he do now? Should he tell Wilson?

Or the Chancellor? But what could he tell them? He

had not a single solid scrap of evidence to lay against Michael except the note, and that was doubtless a pile of ashes by now.

He froze as the door of his room swung slowly

open and Brother Michael stood there holding a

fluttering candle. The light threw strange shapes on

the walls and made Michael look even larger than

he was, as his voluminous robes swung about him. He

stood in the doorway without saying a word for several moments. Bartholomew began to feel the first tendrils

of fear uncoiling in his stomach.

Wordlessly, Michael closed the door, and advanced

on Bartholomew, who stood, fists clenched, prepared

for an attack. Michael gave an odd smile, and touched

one of Bartholomew’s hands with a soft, clammy finger.

Bartholomew flinched and felt as though Michael must

be able to hear his heart pounding in the silence of

the room.

“I warned you to beware, Matthew,’ he said in a low

whisper that Bartholomew found unnerving.

Bartholomew swallowed. Was Michael’s warning the

one the blacksmith had been paid to give? Or was Michael merely referring to his words outside their staircase the night of Augustus’s murder, and in the courtyard the

following day?

‘By prying you have put yourself in danger,’ Michael

continued in the same chilling tone.

‘So what are you going to do?’ Bartholomew was

surprised at how calm his own voice sounded.

‘What do you expect me to do?’

Bartholomew did not know how to answer this. He

tried to get a grip on his fear. It was only Michael!

The fat monk may have been bulkier and stronger, but

Bartholomew was quicker and fitter, and since neither

of them had a weapon, Bartholomew was sure he would

be able to jump out the window before Michael could

catch him. He decided an offensive stance might serve

him to better advantage.

‘What have you been meddling in?’ he demanded.

‘What have you done with Philippa?’

‘Philippa?’ Michael’s sardonic face showed genuine

astonishment. He regained his composure quickly.

‘Now there, my friend, I have sinned only in my

mind. The question is, what have you been meddling

in?’

They stood facing each other, Bartholomew tensed

and ready to react should Michael make the slightest

antagonistic move.

Suddenly the door flew open and Gray burst in, his

face bright with excitement in the candlelight.

‘Doctor Bartholomew! Thank God you are here!

Brother Michael, too. You must come quickly. Something is going on in Master Wilson’s room.’

He darted across the room, and grabbed Bartholomew

by his sleeve to pull him out the door.

Bartholomew and Michael had time to exchange

glances, in which each reflected the other’s confusion.

They quickly followed Gray across the courtyard, and

Brother Michael began to pant with the exertion.

‘We will say no more of this,’ he said in an undertone to Bartholomew. ‘You will tell no one of what you read on the note, and I will tell no one that you read it.’

He stopped and clutched Bartholomew’s shirt. ‘Do you

agree, on your honour?’

Bartholomew felt as though his brain was going to

explode, so fast were the questions pouring through it.

‘Do you know anything about Philippa?’ he asked. He

watched Michael’s flabby face wrinkle with annoyance

at what he obviously perceived as an irrelevancy.

“I know nothing of her, nor of her wastrel brother,’

he said. ‘Do you swear?’

“I will swear, if you promise to me you know nothing

of Philippa’s disappearance, and if you hear anything, no matter how trivial it might seem, you will tell me.’

Gray bounded back to them. ‘Come on! Hurry!’

he cried.

‘Oh, all right, I promise,’ Michael said irritably.

Bartholomew turned to go, but Michael held him fast.

‘We are friends,’ he said, ‘and I have tried to keep you out of all this. You must forget what you saw, or your life and mine will be worth nothing.’

Bartholomew pushed the monk’s sweaty hand

away from his shirt. ‘What dangerous games are you

playing, Michael? If you live in such fear, why are you involved?’

‘That is none of your business,’ he hissed. ‘Now

swear!’

Bartholomew raised his hand in a mocking salute. “I

swear, o meddling monk,’ he said sarcastically. Michael looked angry.

‘You see? You think this is trivial! Well, you will

learn all too soon what you are dealing with if you do not take care. Like the others!’

He turned and hurried to where Gray was fretting

at the foot of Wilson’s staircase, leaving Bartholomew wondering what the obese monk was involved in to have

him scared almost out of his wits.

‘Come on, come on#! called Gray, almost hopping

from foot to foot in his impatience.

Bartholomew followed Michael and Gray up the

stairs, and the three of them stood in the little hallway outside Wilson’s room. Bartholomew moved away from

Michael, not totally convinced that this was not some

plot cooked up by Michael and Gray to harm him.

‘What is it?’ whispered Michael.

Gray motioned for him to be quiet. Bartholomew

had not been up this staircase since Sir John had died, and he felt odd standing there like a thief in the dark. Gray put his ear to the door and indicated that the others should do likewise. At first, Bartholomew could hear nothing, and then he could make out low moaning noises, like

those of an animal in pain. Then he heard some

muttering, and the sound of something tearing. He

moved away so that Michael could hear, almost ready

to walk away and leave them there. He did not feel

comfortable listening at the Master’s door like this; what Wilson got up to in his own room, however nasty, was his own business, and Bartholomew wanted none of it.

All three leapt into the air as a tremendous crash

came from inside the room. Michael leaned against

the wall, his hand on his chest, gasping for breath.

Gray stared at the door with wide eyes. Suddenly,

Bartholomew became aware of something else. He

crouched down near the bottom of the door and

inspected it carefully. There was no mistake. Something was on fire in Wilson’s room!

Yelling to the others, he pounded on the door, just

as terrified screams started to come from within. Brother Michael shoved his bulk against the door, and the leather hinges gave with a great groan. It swung inwards, and

Bartholomew rushed inside. He seized a pitcher of water from atop a chest, and dashed it over the figure writhing on the floor. He was aware of Michael and Gray tearing the coverings from the walls to beat out the flames that licked across the floor. Bartholomew used a rich woollen rug to smother the flames that continued to dance over Wilson.

It was all over in a few seconds. The fire, it seemed, had only just started and so had not gained a firm hold.

Gray went round carefully pouring Wilson’s stockpile of wine and ale over the parts that still smouldered. They had averted what could have been a terrible disaster.

Bartholomew carefully unrolled Wilson from the

rug. One or two tendrils of smoke rose from his clothes, but the fire was out. Michael helped Bartholomew lift

their Master onto the bed, where Bartholomew began

to examine him. Michael wandered around the room

picking up pieces of charred paper, watching them

crumble in his hands, and muttering something about

the College accounts.

The commotion had brought others running to

see what had happened. Alcote was first; Jocelyn of

Ripon, Father Jerome, Roger Alyngton, and the surviving commoners, were close on his heels. They stopped dead

when they saw the Master lying on the bed in his burned gown and Bartholomew kneeling next to him.

‘What have you done?’ Alcote demanded.

Gray intervened, and Bartholomew admired his

poise and confidence. “I was just returning from Bene’t’s, and I saw flickering coming from the Master’s room. I

was worried there was a fire, so I went up the stairs and listened outside the door. I could not smell any smoke, but I could hear someone crying. He was crying with

so much pain that it almost hurt to hear. I went to

fetch Doctor Bartholomew, because I thought maybe

the Master had lost his mind like poor Gregory Colet,

and the Doctor might be able to help. Brother Michael

was with him, so he came too.’

Michael took over. “I heard no crying,’ he said, ‘but

moaning. Then there was a crash, which must have been

the Master knocking that table over, and the table had the lamp on it. We were just in time to put out the flames. It seems the Master was busy burning documents.’ He held

up a handful of charred remains for Alcote to see.

Alcote stepped dubiously inside the room. The

floor was awash with spilled ale and wine, and cinders of Wilson’s parchments lay everywhere. ‘Why was he

burning his documents?’ he demanded. ‘Why did he

knock the table over? It is heavy. He could not knock

it over with ease.’

‘He probably fell against it,’ said Bartholomew,

looking up from his patient. ‘He has the plague.’

Alcote gasped and shot back outside the room,

fumbling for a piece of his robe with which to cover his mouth and nose. ‘The plague? But that is not possible!

He has been in his room since it started and no one has touched him!’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He has it nevertheless.

Come and look.’

Alcote shrank back further still, and disappeared

into the group of students that had assembled outside.

Bartholomew rose from Wilson’s bed.

‘It is all over,’ he said to the onlookers. ‘There was a fire, but it is out now. Go back to your beds.’ He nodded to Gray, indicating that he should disperse them. Alyngton and Jerome stared in horror at one of Wilson’s burned

feet that stuck out of the end of the bed. Jocelyn bent down to pick up one of the pieces of burned paper.

“I have heard the plague turns people’s minds. Poor

man. He has burned the College accounts!’ He took the

arms of his fellow commoners, and led them away gently.

Bartholomew wondered if Jocelyn had been a soldier,

for he was remarkably unmoved by the ghoulish foot

that poked out, red and blistered.

Michael closed the door and came to peer over

Bartholomew’s shoulder. ‘How is he?’ he asked.

Bartholomew bent to listen to Wilson’s heart again.

It still beat strongly, but his injuries were terrible. The fire had caught the edge of his gown, and had spread quickly up to his waist before Bartholomew had been able to put out the flames. Wilson’s legs were a mass of blackened flesh and bleeding blisters, and even now his toes felt hot to Bartholomew’s hand. As if that were not enough, Wilson had great festering buboes under his arms, on

his neck, and in his groin. One had burst, and a trickle of pus and blood dripped onto his burned legs.

‘Will he live?’ asked Michael, deliberately not looking at Wilson’s legs.

Bartholomew moved away, so that if some part of

Wilson’s brain were conscious, he would not be able