A Plague on Both Your Houses (39 page)

‘Who would succeed him? We might end up in a

worse state,’ asked another voice that Bartholomew did not recognise.

‘It is most likely that Swynford would return,’

Burwell said. ‘He is an unknown quantity to us: we do

not know where his loyalties lie, but since he is not

obviously for Oxford, like Alcote, it might be possible to talk to him and put forward our point of view.’

Bartholomew could see Stayne nodding again.

‘But how would we rid ourselves of Alcote’s mastership?’

another person asked.

Burwell spread his hands. ‘There are ways and

means,’ he said simply.

“I am concerned about the physician,’ said Stayne,

abruptly changing the subject. ‘He has been asking

questions at Mary’s about Abigny.’

‘We agreed that he would be left alone,’ someone

said firmly. Bartholomew felt physically sick as he

recognised the voice of his brother-in-law, Oswald

Stanmore. He struggled to get a better view of the

men seated at the table, and saw the blue sleeve

embroidered in silver thread that was unmistakably

Stanmore’s. Bartholomew’s shock made him clumsy,

and he fell back harder against the window-frame than

he had intended.

‘What was that?’ said Stayne, coming to his feet

and looking towards the window suspiciously. Burwell

joined him, and together they approached the window.

Bartholomew could see them standing only inches from

it. He held his breath. Stanmore, too, came over, and to Bartholomew’s horror, began to open the shutters. Now

he would be discovered! He heard Stanmore swear as

the shutter jammed. Bartholomew glanced down and

saw that the twig of ivy he had used to stop the shutter from rattling was preventing Stanmore from opening

the window.

‘It is stuck,’ Bartholomew heard him mutter. A

sudden gust of wind rattled the other shutter.

‘It is only the wind,’ Burwell said, relief in his voice.

‘We are all so nervous we are even afraid of the wind.

Come and sit down again.’

Bartholomew saw him put a hand on Stanmore’s

shoulder to lead him back to his seat. He let out a

shuddering breath, and tried to concentrate on what

was being said.

‘No harm comes to Bartholomew,’ said Stanmore

firmly, ‘or we are out of this. Your University can go to the Devil.’

‘Hush, hush,’ said Burwell placatingly. ‘We will leave it to you to keep him out of our way. But you must

understand that we cannot allow him to jeopardise the

social stability of this country, which is what his meddling might bring about if he exposes some of our actions and the University falls.’

“I will talk to him,’ mumbled Stanmore. “I can ask

him to join us.’

Stayne tutted angrily. ‘He will not! I believe he holds Us responsible for the death of Babington. He will not join us, and even if he did, I would not trust him.’

‘Let us not leap to conclusions,’ said Burwell, intervening smoothly. ‘Let Stanmore talk to Bartholomew,

and we will leave it at that. For now,’ he added

ominously.

Bartholomew felt as though he was listening to

arrangements for his own death and, despite the cold,

felt beads of sweat break out on his face and prickling at the small of his back. Was it Burwell’s group who

had paid the blacksmith and the men in the lane to kill him? How had Stanmore become involved in all this?

He had nothing to do with the University. Bartholomew

fought to quell the cold, sick feeling in his stomach, and concentrate on the meeting.

‘Bartholomew is not the main problem,’ Burwell

continued. ‘Michaelhouse is. Something is afoot at

Michaelhouse of which we know nothing. I heard that

Wilson never left his room, so how did the plague take him? How was it that the Michaelhouse Fellows arranged for him to be buried in the churchyard, and not in the plague pit? What of the rumours about the commoners

that died that were so firmly quashed last summer? And finally,’ he said, “I still do not accept that Babington killed himself. Neither did Father Aelfrith or Master

Wilson when I questioned them. I think Michaelhouse

is a rotten apple, and the quicker it folds in on itself and collapses, the better for us all.’

There were mutters of assent, and the meeting

went on to discuss various scraps of information that

had been gleaned via the spy networks: there had been

a convening of anti-Cambridge scholars at Bernard Hall in Oxford; one of Cambridge’s spies had been killed in a town brawl; and two new halls had been established in Oxford, but none in Cambridge.

‘We must not allow them to become too much bigger

than us,’ said Yaxley. ‘The bigger they become, the easier they will be able to crush us.’

‘We are putting pressure on that widow who lives in

the house near St Nicholas’s Church to bequeath it to us,’

said Burwell.‘That will become StNicholas Hostel, and we are in the process of altering the house by Trumpington Gate. It should be ready for new scholars in a matter of weeks.’

Heads nodded, and murmurs of approval were

given. Bartholomew saw Stayne glance at the hour

candle. ‘It is growing late,’ he said, ‘and we must end this meeting. So, we are all to keep a keen ear for potential houses that can be converted into hostels; Stanmore is to deal with his brother-in-law; and as for Michaelhouse, do we act, or let it drown in its own corruption?’

“I do not see what else we can do but watch,’ said

Burwell. ‘We know Father William sympathises with us

generally, and we know that Alcote and Bartholomew do

not. We do not know where Swynford or the Benedictine

stand, and that flighty boy - Abigny - has apparently

vanished. I suggest we wait and watch. We especially

watch Alcote and his dealings. I would like everyone

here to make that a priority.’

The meeting began to break up. Bartholomew saw

Stanmore clearly through the crack in the shutter, and watched him leave the hall, followed by Richard and

Stephen. Stephen looked unhappy and fiddled with

the silver clamp on the cloak Stanmore had lent him

when Abigny had stolen his. Richard looked solemn,

but Bartholomew could see the excitement in his eyes

at being included in such a meeting.

Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. He had

battled to keep his problems from Stanmore and his

family in the belief that it would keep them from harm, despite his increasing loneliness and desperation to talk to someone. Now it seemed he had made the right

decision, but for entirely the wrong reasons. Everyone was involved, even his young nephew.

He watched Yaxley and Burwell through the crack

in the shutter as they fussed about the hall hiding

evidence that the meeting had taken place. The rushes

were stamped down, furniture moved back into place,

and wax from the candles scraped away. Eventually, they were satisfied, and went to their beds, leaving the hall in darkness. Bartholomew sighed in relief, and began

to flex his frozen limbs. He was so cold and stiff, he wondered whether he would be able to climb down the

ivy and back up over the wall without falling and giving himself away. He rubbed his arms and legs vigorously for a few moments to try to warm them, and then began his

descent. He almost slipped twice, and discovered that it was much easier climbing up slime-covered vines than

down them. He really did lose his footing when he was

near the bottom, and landed with a crackle of dead,

broken branches in the bushes.

Cynric was there to help him up. ‘You will wake the

dead!’ he whispered irritably. ‘Try to be quieter.’

Bartholomew followed him across the disgusting

yard, even more slippery now that some of the filth

had turned to ice in the night air. Getting over the wall proved difficult, for Bartholomew could not feel his cold fingers sufficiently to find handholds in the stones. They managed eventually, and Cynric retraced his silent steps back through the shadows into Michaelhouse. The front

gates were closed, but Cynric, showing characteristic

foresight, had left the back gate unlocked, and they

made their way through the College vegetable gardens,

past the laundry, and into the College itself. It occurred to Bartholomew that Wilson must have made the same

journey when he returned from seeing his lover, the

Abbess.

Bartholomew sank gratefully into Agatha’s chair. His knees were still trembling from the shock of hearing that his family was involved in the University’s business, and that there were people who obviously wanted him out

of the way. How had he managed to manoeuver himself

into the position where he stood virtually alone against his family and friends? He had no wish to see the country short of trained clergy and educated men who would be

able to serve their people, and he had no wish to see the social order of England crumble because there was only one University from which these men could graduate.

It was probably fair to say that he actually approved of the aims of this clandestine group. But there remained something odd about the whole business, a sinister edge to it that Bartholomew could not define.

Cynric began to prod some life into the embers,

and they both stretched cold hands towards the meagre

flames. Bartholomew went into a storeroom and emerged

with one ofWilson’ s bottles of wine. Cynric took the bottle and pulled the cork out with his teeth. He took a hearty swig, and passed it to Bartholomew.

Bartholomew followed suit, grimacing at the

strength of the wine. Cynric grinned at him, and

took the bottle again. ‘This was the one Gilbert said

was the best,’ he said, peering at the label in the firelight.

‘This single bottle cost six marks; Wilson was saving it for when the Bishop came.’

Bartholomew took the bottle and studied it. The

parchment wrapped round it said it came from the

French Mediterranean, and so would be more expensive

than English wine, or wine from the north of France. He took another sip. It had a tarry flavour that Bartholomew was already beginning to like. He took a third swallow and passed it back to Cynric, who raised it into the air in a salute.

‘To Master Wilson, for leaving us his wine. And for

leaving us.’ He gave a short laugh, and drank. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what did you learn?’

Bartholomew began to relate what he had learned,

embarrassed that his voice cracked when he mentioned

the involvement of his family. Cynric sat quietly, not interrupting.

Eventually, Bartholomew faltered and stopped.

What more could he say? He started to tell Cynric that he would talk to Stanmore, and reason with him about

the University business, but got no further than the first few words. Would Stanmore then be forced to kill him,

as Sir John and Aelfrith had been killed because they

had been in the way? Or would it be Stephen or Richard who would perform that duty?

He rubbed his eyes hard, feeling an aching tiredness

underneath that made them burn. He was at his wits’ end, and knew no more what to do than would the great rat that sat boldly washing its whiskers in the middle of the kitchen floor. He watched as it snapped into alertness, standing on hind legs and sniffing the air, before scampering away to disappear down a hole in the corner. At the same time, there was a chill draught as the door was opened.

‘Matt?’ said Philippa softly, walking towards him

and dropping to her knees by his chair. She took one

of his hands in hers. ‘You look tired and miserable. Tell me what is wrong.’

Bartholomew looked in astonishment over her fair

head to Abigny, who stood in the doorway.

‘The last time we met, you were wearing a dress,’

Bartholomew said coldly, trying to control the sick,

churning feeling in his stomach.

“I was a damn fine woman!’ Abigny said proudly.

‘Fooled your family for almost four days. Would have

done for longer if you had not been so ungentlemanly

as to burst into a woman’s boudoir unannounced.’

Bartholomew half rose, pulling his hand away from

Philippa, but then sat back down again, uncertain what he had been intending to do. Abigny settled himself

comfortably on one of the benches.

‘We owe you an explanation,’ he said.

Bartholomew looked at him warily. “I should say you

do,’ he said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. When he dared to glance at Philippa again, she smiled at him lovingly, but without remorse. Chilled, he moved away

so that no part of her touched him.

‘Oh, Matt!’ she said, giving him a playful push. ‘Do

not sulk! You knew why I went!’

“I know nothing!’ he said with a sudden intensity. ‘I

left you with Edith, then there was some peculiar story about you refusing to see me, then Giles pretended to

be you for God knows how long, and then you both

disappeared!’

‘What?’ she said, her small face puckered. ‘No! Giles

explained it all to you. You know I would never give you cause for concern!’ She turned to her brother. ‘You did tell him. You told me you did!’ Her voice was accusing, and Abigny stood and backed away, his hands raised in

front of him in a placatory gesture.

“I decided against it. I thought it was best. You do

not know him like I do; he would have tried to see you, and then you both would have been in danger! I did

what I thought was right.’

Philippa stopped from where she had been advancing

on her brother, and looked back at Bartholomew