A Plague on Both Your Houses (48 page)

‘We must leave here as soon as we can,’ said Abigny.

‘Cynric is keeping watch outside.’

He opened the door a crack and peered out. ‘They

have gone into the house,’ he whispered, ‘and the candles are out. Come on.’

The night was clear, and the yard was lit brightly by

the moon. Bartholomew hoped Stephen’s dogs would

not begin to bark, for anyone looking out of the

windows of the house would surely see them in the

yard. Cynric appeared out of nothing, and beckoned

them to follow, moving like a cat through the shadows.

To Bartholomew, he, Abigny, and Michael sounded like

a herd of stampeding pigs compared to Cynric, and he

kept glancing at the house, certain that he would see

someone looking out because of the noise.

Finally, they reached the huge gates, where the

smaller person stepped forward with a key to unlock

the wicket gate. Cynric pushed it open, and all five of them slipped outside.

In the moonlight, Bartholomew saw the face of the

small person as she turned to go back inside.

‘Rachel Atkin!’ he said in surprise.

‘Shhh!’ she said, glancing fearfully about her. ‘Go

now, quickly. I must get back to bed before anyone

realises I am missing.’

‘You were my well-wisher!’ he said, light dawning suddenly.

‘You must have overheard Stephen talking

She put her hand over his mouth. ‘Go,’ she said

again. ‘Master Abigny will explain.’

Before he could say anything else, she had slipped

back through the wicket gate, and they could hear it

being locked from the inside.

Cynric led the way through the dark streets and

into Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew sank gratefully

into Agatha’s chair.

Michael sat heavily on a stool next to him, wiping

the sweat from his eyes, and snatched the bottle that

Cynric was handing to Bartholomew.

‘My need is greater than yours, Physician,’ he said,

downing a good quarter of the bottle in the first gulp.

Bartholomew sat back in the chair and asked Cynric

for some water. Although he wanted to drain it in a single draught, he sipped it slowly, because he knew that the cold water would be likely to give him stomach cramps

after so long without drinking.

He leaned forward and touched Abigny on the

hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And Cynric, too. How did

you know?’

Cynric closed the shutters on the windows, and sat

near Bartholomew so he could poke at the fire. Michael took another hearty swig from his bottle - another of

Master Wilson’s, Bartholomew noted.

‘Your friend told us,’ said Abigny. ‘Rachel.’

Bartholomew was amazed. Once he had arranged

for Rachel to work for Stephen, he had not given her

another thought. He had seen her around Stephen’s

house several times, and had been told that she was

settling in well, but that was all.

Cynric took up the tale. ‘She was grateful for what

you did for her when her son was killed - she could not have paid for a decent funeral for him, and you saw to it, as well as finding her work and a place to live. She is a silent sort, who people come not to notice after

a while.’ Cynric paused, and Bartholomew wondered

whether Cynric saw some of himself in Rachel Atkin.

‘She overheard conversations between the Stanmores

organising a secret meeting, and she knew you were

seeking information about Philippa. She heard them

mention your name and so thought you might learn

something to your advantage if you eavesdropped. She

knew what the back of Bene’t Hostel looked like because she and her son were sometimes hired to clean the yard when the smell got too unbearable. You know the rest:

we met her by the plague pits and we listened in on the meeting.’

Abigny continued. ‘Cynric grew worried about you

when you did not return Wednesday night. He was still

concerned that the Stanmores might be involved and

felt that, in the light of what he had been through

with you the night before, you would not have gone

to Peterborough without telling him. He did the only

thing he could think of and waylaid Mistress Atkin on

her way to the market. She already knew that meetings

took place in the rooms under the stables when Oswald

was away, and so they considered it a possibility that you were being kept there.’

Cynric interrupted. ‘I also saw Michael given a note

on Thursday, and I followed him to Stanmore’s business premises. He also did not return.’

‘Cynric, in the absence of anyone else he could

trust, asked me to help,’ concluded Abigny.

‘How long were we in that wretched place anyway?’

said Bartholomew, leaning down to rub some warmth

into his cold feet.

‘It is now almost Saturday morning. When Gray

came back with your brother-in-law and said that they

had been sent on a wild goose chase regarding Edith’s

supposed sore arm, Cynric guessed that the hostel men

had been up to something.’

Abigny was full of questions, and despite his tiredness, Bartholomew felt that he and Cynric were owed

answers. Michael began the long, elaborate explanation that had Bartholomew dozing in the warmth of the fire, and Abigny and Cynric mesmerised. Eventually, Michael

rose, and Bartholomew started awake.

“I am afraid we are going to have to go through all this again,’ he said. ‘The Bishop will arrive this morning.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘We have been talking for

days.’

Michael waved a fat white finger at him. ‘Which is

far preferable to what Swynford and Colet had in mind

for you.’

There was no disputing that Michael was right. They

stood outside the kitchen for a while, Bartholomew

enjoying the clear, crisp smell of night, and looking

at the sky he had thought he might never see again.

Cynric yawned hugely. “I had better get some sleep.

The University Debate is due to start in a couple of hours, and I have been invited to earn a shilling by being a deputy beadle and keeping an eye out for pickpockets in the

crowd. That is, unless you want me to stay with you,’ he added suddenly, looking at Bartholomew anxiously.

Bartholomew smiled and shook his head. ‘You will

enjoy yourself at the Debate, so go,’ he said. He looked up at the sky, and a thought occurred to him. “I thought the Debate had been cancelled because of the plague.’

Michael sniffed. ‘It is an important occasion with

people coming for miles to listen. Why would the town

cancel an event from which it can make money? What

is the containment of the Death when there are goods

to be sold, beds to be rented, and deals to be made?’

Bartholomew woke to darkness. At first he thoughthe was still in the cellar, but he was warm and comfortable and knew he was in his bed in Michaelhouse. He remembered

leaving the window shutters open when he went to sleep - he had been in darkness so long that he felt shutting out any daylight would be a terrible sin. But the shutters were closed now. He snuggled further down under the

bedclothes. Perhaps Abigny had closed them after he

had gone to sleep; perhaps he had slept right through

the day, and it was now night again.

He tensed suddenly. Someone was in the room

with him.

‘Giles? Michael?’ he said, raising himself on one

elbow.

There was a scraping noise, and a shutter was

thrown open. Bartholomew gazed in horror at the

victorious smiles of Swynford and Stephen, each holding an unsheathed sword.

‘We have come for you,’ said Swynford sweetly. ‘We

have decided upon the plan for your death and we have

come to carry it out. Your escaping and returning here was no great problem, since we had decided to kill you here anyway. You merely saved us the bother of bringing you here ourselves.’

Bartholomew listened intently. It was daytime, but

the College was strangely quiet. He could hear shouting, carried distantly on the wind. Swynford heard it, too, and cocked his head to one side.

‘The University Debate at St Mary’s Church,’ he said.

‘Always a lively affair. The entire College is there as usual, including your faithful Welsh servant. Giles Abigny is one of the leading participants this year - quite an honour for Michaelhouse; do you not think? Meanwhile, Brother Michael has had a message asking him to meet the Bishop at the Carmelite Friary in Newnham, and, like a good

lackey, he has gone scurrying off. When he arrives, he will find Master Yaxley waiting with a surprise for him.

I had already suggested to Alcote that the servants be given the day off. After all, the scholars will be at the Debate, so why would servants be needed?’

Bartholomew was, once again, dazzled by the ruthless

efficiency of these men.

‘All the scholars and servants have gone,’ said

Swynford, re-emphasising his point. ‘Except you, and

the man who will kill you. The Bishop will arrive just in time to try to cover it all up with another tissue of lies.

Of course, it will be much more difficult a second time, and questions will be asked in all kinds of circles.’

Bartholomew stared at him uncomprehendingly.

‘Alcote!’ said Swynford impatiently. ‘Who has still not left his room, even though he is Acting Master. Two birds with one stone. A petty quarrel between two Fellows

that erupts into a fight with knives. In the struggle, a lamp will be knocked over, and Michaelhouse will

burn. Wilson gave me the idea for this,’ he added

conversationally. ‘You and Alcote will die in the fire, as well as your patients in the plague ward and the monks caring for them.’

Bartholomew pushed the blankets back and climbed

out of bed, keeping a wary eye on Swynford and

Stephen.

‘It is no good expecting a second rescue,’ said

Swynford. ‘Jocelyn, out of kindness, took your patients a large jug of wine a while ago. He will ensure that they all drink some, including the Benedictines who are with them. By now, they should all be sleeping peacefully. It worked so well last time that we could not resist trying it again. In case they wake, he has locked the door of the room to make sure that none will come to cause us

trouble.’

Bartholomew looked at them in disgust and reached

for his gown. Swynford poked at his hand with the sword.

‘You will not be needing that,’ he said. ‘Shirt and leggings are good enough.’ He gave Bartholomew a sharp prod to

make him leave the room and walk across the courtyard.

Swynford was right. It was deserted.

Stephen took a grip on his arm to stop him from

running away, and jabbed the point of the short sword

into his side. “I will use this willingly if you make more trouble,’ he hissed. ‘You have hindered our cause too

much already.’

Bartholomew was marched across the yard and up

the stairs to the hall. Colet was there already, pointing a crossbow at the petrified Alcote. A pathetic look of relief came over Alcote’s face when he saw Swynford.

‘This mad physician brought me here,’ he began,

and stopped short when he saw the sword Swynford

held, and how it was pointed at Bartholomew. He put

his hands over his face, and began to weep silently.

‘It was Robert,’ Bartholomew could hear him moan.

‘Robert killed them all.’

Swynford set about preparing the room to make

a convincing show of a struggle. He knocked benches

over, threw plates and cups onto the floor, and ripped one or two wall-hangings down. When he was satisfied,

he turned to his victims.

‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Let

me think.’

‘Your plan is fatally flawed,’ said Bartholomew.

The hand-rubbing stopped. ‘Nonsense,’ Swynford

said, but there was hesitation in his voice.

‘Alcote would never consider taking me on in a

fight! Look at him! No one would believe that he would fight me.’

‘True,’ Swynford said. ‘Itwould be an uneven match.

He probably wounded you with a crossbow first,’ he said, nodding to Colet, who raised the instrument and pointed it at Bartholomew.

‘Even worse,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Everyone knows

that Alcote cannot tell one end of such a weapon from

another, and certainly would not be able to wind it and loose a quarrel at me before I could overpower him.’

‘Well, perhaps he dashedyour brains outwith a heavy

instrument,’ said Swynford, growing exasperated.

‘Like what?’ said Bartholomew, gesturing round. ‘A

pewter cup? A piece of fish?’

‘It really does not matter, Rob,’ said Colet. ‘So what if this all looks like the elaborate plot it is? Anyone working out what really happened will believe what we tell them - that the Oxford men are becoming bold again. What

a formidable force they must be to sneak into the heart of a College and murder two of its Fellows in broad

daylight.’

Swynford’s face slowly broke into a smile, and he

nodded.

‘Come on, let us get it done so we can leave,’ said

Colet. He took a lamp from a table, lit it, and dashed it onto the floor. The rushes immediately caught fire, and Alcote screamed as the flames danced towards him.

Bartholomew twisted suddenly and drove his elbow into

Stephen’s stomach with all his strength. Stephen gasped and dropped to his knees. Bartholomew kicked the

sword away from him and leapt onto a table to escape

a lunge from Swynford. Colet swung round and aimed

the crossbow. Running along the table, Bartholomew felt the missile pluck at his shirt as it sped harmlessly by.