A Plague on Both Your Houses (36 page)

against them. He curled up in a ball, and attempted

to wrap the bedclothes round his frozen feet. He tried to concentrate, but his thoughts kept running together.

Next he knew, it was morning.

It was overcast and wet. Bartholomew went to the church for mass, where he was the only one present other than Father William. The Franciscan babbled the Latin at

such high speed that Bartholomew barely heard most

of it. He wondered whether William could really be

sincere at such a pace, or whether he believed God

liked His masses fast so He could get on with other

things. Bartholomew would have asked him had he not

been reluctant to be drawn into a protracted debate.

Remembering his obligation to Wilson, Bartholomew

went to look at the spot the lawyer had chosen for his glorious tomb. Bartholomew had already asked one of

the Castle stonemasons to order a slab of black marble, although he wondered when he would be able to hire

someone to carve it. The Master Mason had died of the

plague, and the surviving masons were overwhelmed by

the repair work necessary to maintain the Castle. As

he gazed at Wilson’s niche, he thought it unfair that

good men like Augustus and Nicholas should lie in a

mass grave, while Wilson should have a grand tomb to

commemorate him.

Bartholomew left the church and stepped into the

street, closing the door behind him. He pulled his hood up against the rain, and set off to check the plague pits.

On his way, he met Burwell, who greeted him with a

smile and told him that there had been no new cases

of plague in Bene’t Hostel for two days.

As they talked, a beggar with dreadful sores on

his face approached, pleading for alms. Bartholomew

knew the beggar prepared his ‘sores’ every morning

with a mixture of chalk, mud, and pig’s blood. The

beggar suddenly recognised Bartholomew under his

hood, and backed off in dismay, as Bartholomew

grasped Burwell’s hand to prevent him from giving

his money away.

As Bartholomew turned to explain to Burwell, he

saw the purse in the hand he held. It was made of fine leather, and had ‘BH’ embellished on it in gold thread.

Bartholomew had one just like it in his pocket. He felt his stomach turn over, although there was no reason why the Sub-Principal of Bene’t Hostel should not have one of its purses. Burwell looked at him curiously. ‘Doctor?’

he said.

‘Sores painted on fresh every day,’ mumbled Bartholomew, hoping Burwell had not noticed his reaction,

and if he had, did not guess why.

Burwell looked up at the sky as the church bell rang

out the hour, and drew his hood over his head. ‘Well,

I must be about my business, and I know you must be

busy.’ He started to walk away, and then stopped.

‘When you next see that rascal, Samuel Gray, could

you tell him that he still owes us money for his fees

last term?’

Bartholomew was a little angry at Gray. He should

have cleared his debts with the hostel before changing to a new teacher. It was just another example of the

double life the student seemed to lead. Bartholomew

wondered what else he kept hidden. Since he was passing, Bartholomew went into St Botolph’s Church to look for

Colet. The Physician sat in his usual place, staring at the candles and twisting the golden lion round his fingers again and again.

When Bartholomew tried to talk to him, Colet fixed

him with a vacant stare, and Bartholomew was in no

doubt that Colet no longer knew who he was. His beard

was encrusted with dried saliva, and his clothes were

filthy. Bartholomew wondered if he should try to do

something for him, but Colet did not seem to be in

any discomfort. He decided to wait for a day or so and reconsider it then.

He left the church and continued along the High

Street. As he passed the King’s Head, Henry Oliver

emerged and gave him such a look of undisguised

enmity that Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks.

Oliver began to walk towards him. Bartholomew waited,

taking the small knife out of his bag and keeping it hidden under his cloak so that Oliver would not see it.

‘Found your lady yet, Doctor?’ he said, his voice

little more than a hiss.

Bartholomew wanted to push him into the stone

trough that was full of water for horses, just behind him.

‘Why do you ask?’ he said, his voice betraying none of the anger that welled up inside him.

Oliver shrugged nonchalantly and gave a cold little

smile. ‘Just curious to know whether she continues to

hide from you.’

Bartholomew smiled back. ‘She still hides from me,’

he said, wondering what Oliver thought he was going

to gain from this cat-and-mouse game. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, pleasant though it is to talk with you, the plague pit calls.’

He walked away, wondering what on earth could be

the matter with the young man, and decided to speak

to Swynford about it when he returned to College. The

unpleasantness had gone on quite long enough.

As he approached the plague pit, an urchin

darted up to him and mumbled something before

turning to race away. Bartholomew, quick as lightning, grabbed him and held him as he struggled

frantically, kicking at Bartholomew with his small bare feet. Bartholomew waited until the child’s frenzy was

spent and spoke gently.

“I did not hear what you said. Say it again.’

‘A well-wisher has sommat to tell you if you come

here at ten tonight,’ he stammered, looking up at

Bartholomew with big frightened eyes. ‘But you got

to come alone.’

Bartholomew stared at him. Was this another ploy

to get him into a place where he could be dispatched

as he almost had been the night before?

‘Who told you to tell me this?’

The brat struggled again. “I don’t know. It was a

man all wrapped up. He asked if I knew you - you

came to my ma when she was sick - so I said yes, and

he told me to tell you that message and to run away

after. He gave me a penny.’ He thrust out his hand to

show it. Bartholomew let the child go and watched him

scamper down the muddy street.

Now what? he thought. As if the plague, the College

and Philippa were not enough to worry about!

The rain had eased off during the day, and, as night fell, patches of blue began to appear in the sky. But by the time Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse after attending

his patients, it was so late that most of the scholars were already in bed.

He went to the kitchen where Cynric dozed in

front of the dying fire, and rummaged in the pantry

until he found the remains of a loaf of bread and

some hard cheese. While he ate, Cynric stoked up

the fire, and set some wine to mull for them both.

Bartholomew considered whether he should go to

meet his ‘well-wisher’ at the plague pit. It seemed an odd choice for a rendezvous, but it would certainly be private, for no one in his right mind would frequent that place of desolation and despair in the dead of night. He glanced at the hour candle. He would need to make up

his mind fairly quickly, for the meeting was in less than an hour.

Perhaps the mysterious sender really did wish him

well, and would have information about Philippa. He

tried to consider it logically. The people who attacked him would hardly expect that he would accept a second

invitation to meet an unknown person in the dark in

some god-forsaken spot after what had happened to him

the previous night. Therefore, his ‘well-wisher’ must be someone who did not know about the attack. Of course,

his attackers might use the same line of reasoning as

he had just done. He stared into the fire and tapped

his fingers on the table as his mind wrestled with the problem.

Abruptly, he stood. He was going. He would arm

himself this time, and would be alert to the possibility of danger, unlike the previous night. He had spent hours in taverns and hostels trying to learn something about the disappearance of Giles and Philippa: it was possible that his well-wisher might have the information he wanted,

and he did not wish to miss out on such an opportunity by being overly cautious.

Cynric looked at him sleepily. ‘You going out again?’

he asked. His eyes snapped open as Bartholomew took a

large double-edged butchery knife from its hook on the wall and slipped it under his cloak.

‘Now what are you going to do with that?’ he said.

He sat up straight in Agatha’s fireside chair, his interest quickened. ‘Not roistering about the town?’

“I have a meeting,’ said Bartholomew. He saw no

reason why he should not tell Cynric where he was going.

At least then, if he were attacked, Cynric could tell the Sheriff it had been planned, and was not some random

skirmish by the robbers as Stanmore plainly believed

had happened the previous evening.

Cynric grabbed his cloak from where it lay in a

bundle on the floor. ‘At this time of night? After what happened to you yesterday? I had better come too, to

keep you from mischief.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, thinkingabout the message.

It told him to come alone, and he did not want to run the risk of frightening off a potential informant.

Cynric threw his cloak around his shoulders, and

stood next to Bartholomew. ‘We have known each other

for a long time,’ he said quietly, ‘and I have seen that there has been something amiss with you since Sir John died. Perhaps I can help. I know you are anxious about the Lady Philippa. Is that what this meeting is about?’

Bartholomew gave a reluctant smile. He had forgotten

how astute the small Welshman could be. He nodded

and said, ‘But I have been told to come alone.’

Cynric dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘The

day someone sees Cynric ap Huwydd when he does not

want to be seen will be the day he dies. Do not worry, boy, I will be there, but none will know it other than you. Now, where are we going?’

Bartholomew relented. He was nervous about the

meeting, and it would be reassuring to have Cynric

nearby. If nothing else, at least he could run for

help if things took a nasty turn. ‘But you must

be cautious,’ he said. “I have no idea who we are

meeting, or what they want. If there is trouble,

run for help. Do not come yourself or you may

get hurt.’

Cynric shot him a disbelieving look. ‘What do you

take me for, boy? You should know me better than that.

I learned something of ambush tactics in the Welsh

mountains, you know.’

“I am sorry. It is just that so many people have met

untimely deaths in the College and I do not want to lose anyone else.’

‘Like Augustus, Paul and Montfitchet, you mean?’

asked Cynric. Bartholomew looked at him askance.

‘Just because I have no degree, like you scholars,

does not mean I have no sense,’ said Cynric. “I know

they were murdered, despite the lies that fat Wilson put about. I will keep my mouth shut,’ he added quickly,

seeing Bartholomew’s expression of concern. “I have

done until now. But you should know that you are not

alone in this.’

It was a long speech for Cynric, who indicated that

the subject was closed by pinching out the candles and selecting a knife of his own.

Bartholomew slipped out of the kitchen door and

across the courtyard. He walked briskly up St Michael’s Lane and turned into the High Street. It was not easy to walk in the dark. The night had turned foggy, blocking out any light the moon might have given, and it was

almost impossible to see the pot-holes and rubbish until he had stepped into them. At one point, he stumbled

into a hole full of stinking water that reached his knees.

Grimacing with distaste at the smell of urine and offal that came from it, he picked himself up and continued.

From Cynric there was not a sound, but Bartholomew

knew he was there.

At last he reached the field where the plague pits

had been dug. A crude wooden fence had been erected

around the field to prevent dogs from entering and

digging up the victims. Bartholomew climbed over it

and looked around. The mounds from the two full

pits rose from the trampled grass like ancient pagan

barrows. The other pit gaped like a great black mouth, and Bartholomew could make out the paler layer at the

bottom where the lime had been spread over the last

bodies to be laid there.

He tried to detect whether there was anyone

hiding in the hedges at the sides of the field, but

he could see nothing moving. A sound behind him

made him spin round and almost lose his balance.

His heart beat wildly and he felt his knees turn to

jelly. He grabbed at the fence with one hand, while

the other groped for the long knife that he had tucked into his belt.

A figure stood outside the fence, heavily cloaked

and hooded. It made no attempt to climb over, and when Bartholomew took a step forward, it held up its hand.

‘Stay!’

It was a woman’s voice. Bartholomew’s heart leapt.

‘Philippa!’ he exclaimed.

The figure was still for a moment, and then shook

her head. ‘Not Philippa. I am sorry.’

Bartholomew’s hopes sank. It was not Philippa’s

voice: it was deeper, older, and with an accent that