A Plague On Both Your Houses

by Susanna GREGORY

  Augustus turned his milky blue eyeson Bartholomew and gave him a toothless grin as he was gently escorted out of the dim hall into the bright August sunshine.

  'This is a sad day for the College,' he crowed to Bartholomew, drawing irritable looks from some of the other scholars.

  'Hush, Augustus,' said Bartholomew, patting the veined old hand. 'What is done is done, and we must look to the future.'

  'But such sin should not go unpunished,' the old man continued. 'Oh, no. It should not be forgotten.'

  Bartholomew nodded patiently. Augustus's mind had become even more muddled after the death of Sir John. 'It will not be forgotten,' he said reassuringly.

  'Everything will be well.'

  'Fool!' Augustus wrenched his arm away from Bartholomew, who stared at him in surprise. 'Evil is afoot, and it will spread and corrupt us all, especially those who are unaware.' He took a step backwards, and tried to straighten his crooked limbs. 'Such sin must not go unpunished,' he repeated firmly. 'Sir John was going to see to that.'

  'What do you mean?' asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

  'Sir John had begun to guess,' said Augustus, his faded blue eyes boring into Bartholomew. 'And see what happened.'

  'The man is senile.' Robert Swynford's booming voice close behind him made Bartholomew jump.

  Augustus began to sway back and forth, chanting a hymn under his breath. 'See? He does not know what rubbish he speaks.' He put his arm over Augustus's shoulders and waved across for Alexander the Butler to come to take him back to his quarters. Augustus flinched away from his touch.

  "I will take him,' said Bartholomew, noting the old man's distress. 'He has had enough for today. I will make a posset diat will ease him.'

  'Yes, all the pomp and ceremony has shaken his mind even more than usual,' said Swynford, eyeing Augustus with distaste. 'God preserve us from a mindless fool.'

  'God preserve us from being one,' snapped Bartholomew, angered by Swynford's intolerance. He was surprised at his retort. He was not usually rude to his colleagues. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that Wilson's installation and old Augustus's words had unsettled him.

  'Come, Matt,' said Swynford, dropping his usual bluff manner. 'It has been a hard time for us all. Let us not allow the ramblings of a drooling old man to spoil our chances of a new beginning. The man's mind has become more unhinged since Sir John died. You said so yourself only yesterday.'

  Bartholomew nodded. Two nights before, the entire College had been awakened by Augustus, who had locked himself in his room and was screaming that there were devils trying to burn him alive. He had the window shutters flung open, and was trying to crawl out. It had taken Bartholomew hours to calm him, and then he had had to promise to stay in Augustus's room for the rest of the night to ensure the devils did not return. In the morning, Bartholomew had been prodded awake by an irate Augustus demanding to know what he was doing uninvited in his quarters.

  Augustus stopped swaying and looked at Bartholomew, a crafty smile on his face. 'Just remember, John Babington, hide it well.'

  Swynford tutted in annoyance. 'Take him to his bed, Alexander, and see that one of the servants stays with him. The poor man has totally lost the few remaining wits he had.'

  Alexander solicitously escorted Augustus towards the north wing of the College where the commoners lived. As they went, Bartholomew could hear Augustus telling Alexander that he would not need any supper as he had just eaten a large rat he had seen coming out of the hall.

  Swynford put his hand on Bartholomew's shoulder and turned him towards St Michael's. 'Tend to him later, Matt. We should take our places in the church.'

  Bartholomew assented, and together they walked up St Michael's Lane to the High Street. Throngs of people milled around outside the church, attracted no doubt by hopes of more scattered pennies.

  They elbowed their way through the crowd, earning hostile glances from some people. The last fight between the scholars and the townspeople had been less than a month before, and two young apprentices had been hanged for stabbing a student to death. Feelings still ran high, and Bartholomew was glad when he reached the church doors.

  Father William had already begun to celebrate the mass, gabbling through the words at a speed that never failed to impress Bartholomew. The friar glanced across at the late-comers as they took their places at the altar rail, but his face betrayed no sign of annoyance. Brother Michael, for all his mumblings during the College ceremony, had rehearsed his choir well, and even the clamour of the people waiting outside lessened as angelic voices soared through the church.

  Bartholomew smiled. Sir John had loved the choir, and often gave the children extra pennies to sing while he dined in College. Bartholomew wondered whether Master Wilson would spare a few pennies for music to brighten the long winter evenings. He stole a glance at Wilson to see if there was any indication that he was appreciating the singing. Wilson's head was bowed as he knelt, but his eyes were open and fixed on his hands. Bartholomew looked closer, and almost laughed aloud. Wilson was calculating something, counting on his fat, bejewelled fingers. His mind was as far from Michael's music or William's mass as Augustus's would have been.

  The church became stuffy from the large number of people packed into it, and an overwhelming number of smells began to pervade: strongly scented cloth, sweat, incense, feet, and, as always, the rank stink of the river underlying it all. Occasionally, a cooling breeze would waft in through one of the glassless windows, bringing a momentof relief to those inside. Despite Father William's speedy diction, the ceremonial mass was long, and, for those townspeople who did not know Latin, incomprehensible.

  Students and citizens alike became bored: first they shuffled, trying to ease legs aching from standing, and then, restlessly, they began to whisper to each other.

  Finally, the mass ended, and Wilson led the way out of the church and back to College for the celebratory feast. The sky that had been a brilliant blue for most of the day had started to cloud over. Bartholomew shivered, finding the fresh air chilly after the closeness of the church.

  Outside, the crowd of townspeople had grown, drawn by the pomp and splendour. Bartholomew could see that their mood was surly, resentful of the wealth that bespoke itself in the gowns of many of the scholars, and of their assumed superiority. As Wilson's procession filed out of the church, Bartholomew could hear whispered comments about idle scholars draining the town of its affluence, comments that became more than whispers as the crowd grew in confidence.

  Aware that such an ostentatious display of Michaelhouse wealth might serve to alienate the townspeople, Wilson had ordered tiiat coins be distributed among the poor to celebrate his new post. Cynric and the other book-bearers, who had been told to give out the small leather bags containing pennies, were almost mobbed as the crowd surged towards them. Immediately, any semblance of order was lost, as handfuls of money were grabbed by those strong enough to push their way to the front. Fists began to fly, and the book-bearers beat a hasty retreat, leaving the crowd to fight over the coins.

  Bartholomew saw students begin to group together, some of them holding sticks and small knives. Hastily he ordered them back to their Colleges or hostels. It would take very little to spark off a town brawl. Even the sight of a group of students, armed and spoiling for a fight, could be enough to start a full scale riot.

  Most of the studentsleft, many looking disappointed, but Bartholomew saw two of Michaelhouse's students, the Oliver brothers, darting here and there. Within a few minutes they had assembled a group of at least thirty black-gowned scholars, some from Michaelhouse, but most from other Colleges and hostels.

  He groaned to himself. He strongly suspected that the Oliver brothers had been involved in starting the last town brawl. And what better time for another than now? The townsfolk were already massed, many angry that they had not managed to grab any of Wilson's money, and resentment still festered regarding the hanging of the two apprentices. It would take only a shouted insult from a s
tudent to a townsperson, and all hell would break loose. Some would just use fists, but others, especially the Oliver brothers, would use knives and sharpened sticks, and the injuries, like last time, would be horrific. Why anyone would want to start such a scene was beyond Bartholomew's imagination, but there were the students, already furtively sharing out the illicit weapons they had concealed in their robes.

  Cynric stood behind him. 'Cynric! Fetch the Proctor and warn him that there may be trouble,'

  Bartholomew said urgently.

  'As quick as I can,' Cynric whispered, grabbing Bartholomew's sleeve, 'but watch out for yourself. This looks ugly.' When Bartholomew turned to look at him, he had already gone, moving quickly in and out of the lengthening shadows with all the stealth of a cat.

  The light was failing quickly now, and it was difficult to distinguish faces. The Oliver brothers, however, could be identified in virtually any light. Well over six feet tall, they both sported long fair hair that fell to their shoulders and were renowned for their flamboyant clothes. Even in the gloom, Bartholomew could see gold thread glittering on the gown of Elias, the elder of the two.

  'All Michaelhouse scholars have been invited to attend Master Wilson's feast,' said Bartholomew pleasantly to Elias. 'It should be a night to remember. I am sure you will enjoy it.'

  Nephews of the influential Abbess of St Radegund's Convent, Michaelhouse had been enticed to accept the Olivers as students in exchange for a small house on Foul Lane. They were not noted for their dedication to learning: Elias could barely read and write, although his younger brother showed a natural quickness of mind that could have been trained in scholarly matters had he shown the slightest willingness to learn.

  'We have promised to visit our aunt tonight.' Henry Oliver had approached unnoticed. The slow-witted Elias gave him a grateful look, and Bartholomew, not for the first time, had to admire young Oliver's cunning. How could a teacher of Michaelhouse forbid a devoted nephew from visiting the venerable Abbess of St Radegund's? 'This is a very special day for our new Master,' said Bartholomew. "I know he would appreciate both of you being present to share it with him.'

  Henry Oliver narrowed his eyes. 'But we have promised our aunt,' he said in a mock-pleading manner. "I could not bear to have the noble lady disappointed.'

  'I am sure she will not be,' insisted Bartholomew, 'when you explain why.' Hiding his irritation at Oliver's ploy — after all, the Abbess of St Radegund's was no frail old crone living solely for visits from her kin, but a healthy, strong-minded woman in early middle age he took Oliver firmly by the arm and began walking towards St Michael's Lane. Behind them, the students muttered, but, deprived of their leader, reluctantly began to disperse, those from Michaelhouse falling in behind Bartholomew and Henry.

  Bartholomew felt, rather than saw, the shower of small stones that followed them. Henry slowed, and tried to turn back, but Bartholomew dragged him round the corner into St Michael's Lane, and increased his speed as much as he could without actually breaking into a run.

  He stole a glance behind him, and saw that a good part of the crowd from outside the church had followed them, and Bartholomew and his students were outnumbered at least five to one.

  'We should all have stayed together,' Henry Oliver hissed, squirming in Bartholomew's grasp. 'Now, what chance do we have!'

  'Every chance if we do not retaliate,' Bartholomew returned, nevertheless unnerved by the continuing hail of small stones that rained down upon them.

  They neared the College gates, and Bartholomew wondered whether the last of the students would be able to escape the crowd. He let go of Henry, and pushed him towards the College. 'Go quickly!' he said urgently, 'And make sure the gates are ready to be fastened once all the students are inside.'

  Henry needed no second bidding; he was no fool and knew when courage in a fight became stupidity. He set off down the lane with his fellow students streaming behind him. Bartholomew saw that a group of four scholars, Elias Oliver included, had been slow to follow him, and were now being jostled and shoved by those at the front of the advancing crowd. A sturdy man in a blacksmith's apron gave Elias a hard push, almost sending him sprawling.

  Elias bunched his fists, his face a mask of anger. One of the other students pulled him forward as Bartholomew silently urged them not to fight back.

  The first of the four broke into a run. He reached the College gates, and was hauled through them by those already safe inside. Bartholomew noticed that Henry had the sturdy oak gates all but closed already, just a crack remaining to allow the stragglers in before they would be slammed shut on the mob outside.

  As Elias drew level with Bartholomew, the blacksmith drew a wicked-looking blade from his apron, and jabbed wildly with it. Bartholomewwrenched Elias outof the path of the slicing blade and, abandoning all further pretence of calm, yelled for the last three students to run for their lives. White-faced, they obeyed, only just staying ahead of the mob, which surged after them. Gasping for breath, the three, with Bartholomew at the rear, shot through the gates, which were slammed shut; heavy bars were shot across as the mob crashed into them.

  Bartholomew heard screams and yells, and knew that the people in the front were being crushed against the gates and walls by those behind. A student slumped to the ground as a further barrage of stones flew over the high walls. Master Wilson came scurrying out of the hall, flanked by his Fellows and guests, to see what all the commotion was about, and stopped short as he saw the lethal volley of missiles raining over the walls.

  'A fitting end to a miserable day.' Bartholomew turned, and saw Giles Abigny helping to hold the gate against the battering from outside. He winced as a particularly heavy thump jarred it. Leaving his post to be filled by the students that came pouring from the dormitories at the sound of the affray, most already in their cleanest gowns in anticipation of the feast to come, he motioned Bartholomew into a doorway where they could not be overheard, his fresh face unusually serious.

  'We should pick our scholars more carefully, Matt. Young Henry Oliver was all set to slam the door before you were inside, and would have done had I not been there.'

  Bartholomew looked at him in disbelief. 'You must be mistaken, he…'

  'No mistake, Matt. I heard him say to that spotty student of yours, the one from Fen Ditton who always has a cold…'

  'Francis Eltham?'

  'Indeed. I heard him tell Eltham to make sure that the gate was closed before you reached it. I ensured it remained open, but Oliver was furious. Look at him now.'

  Bartholomew easily spotted the Oliver brothers among the milling students — they stood a head taller than the rest. Now that the immediate danger was over, the scholars had regained their confidence, and were shouting taunts to the people outside. Henry Oliver did not join in. He stood glowering, his face distorted with anger. Bartholomew saw him raise a bunched fist, and Eltham shrank back. As if he felt their eyes on him, Oliver turned his head slowly and stared back. Bartholomew felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he felt the venom of his stare. Abruptly, Oliver turned away, and stalked off towards his room.

  'What have you done to deserve that?' wondered Abigny, disconcerted at such raw hatred.

  'Prevented him from starting a riot, I suppose,' said Bartholomew. "I had no idea he was so dedicated to causing chaos.'

  The shouting outside the gates increased, and then faltered. Bartholomew heard horses' hooves, and knew that the Sheriff and his troops had arrived, and were beginning to disperse the crowd. The battering on the College gates stopped, and the only sounds were the Sheriffs men telling people they could either go home or spend the night in the Castle, and the groans of the people who had been crushed against the gates.

  'Michaelhouse!' Bartholomew recognised the voice of the Sheriff, and went to help open the gates.

  The Sheriff had been compelled to use his garrison to break up many a fight between the University and the townspeople, and was heartily sick of it. Since he was unlikely to be able to r
id himself of the townspeople, he often felt he would like to rid himself of the University and all its bickering and warring factions. Students from Norfolk, Suffolk, and Huntingdonshire fought scholars from Yorkshire and the north, and they all fought the students from Wales, and Ireland. Masters and scholars who were priests, friars, or monks were always at odds with those who were not. And there was even dispute between the different religious Orders, the large numbers of Franciscan, Dominican, Augustinian, and Carmelite friars, who begged their livings, at loggerheads with the rich Benedictines and the Austin Canons who ran the Hospital of St John.

  As the gates opened, he glowered in at the assembly, making no attempt to enter. The Senior Proctor, the man who kept law and order in the University, stood next to the Sheriff, his beadles — men who were University constables — ranged behind him. Master Wilson hurried forward, his gorgeous purple gown billowing about him.

  'My Lord Sheriff, Master Proctor,' he began, 'the townies have attacked us totally unprovoked!' "I admire a man who takes such care to seek the truth before speaking,' Bartholomew said in an undertone to Abigny. Wilson's was also an imprudent remark, considering many of his guests were townspeople.

  Abigny snorted in disgust. 'He should have known better than to try to distribute money today. He must have known what might happen.' "I suggested he should let the priests give it out at mass on Sunday,' said Bartholomew, watching with distaste as Wilson regaled the Sheriff with claims that the townspeople had attacked the College out of pure malice.