A Plague On Both Your Houses

by Susanna GREGORY

  'That is your own choice, Father,' responded Wilson disparagingly, his tone making it clear that he would have no hesitation in taking his patronage elsewhere.

  Bartholomew studiously avoided Wilson's gaze, not trusting himself to speak civilly. He saw clearly that many of the objections that Wilson had raised to his appointmentfour years before would now be voiced; indeed, would be used against him at every opportunity, and perhaps Wilson would succeed in bringing about his dismissal from the College. Wilson gazed at Bartholomew in a hostile manner for several moments before continuing.

  'Father William, would you arrange to have the bodies moved to the church? Then you and Brother Michael must do what is necessary for their souls. Master Alcote, I would like you to take the news to the Bishop, for we will need his services when our murderer is caught.'

  Since, like most scholars at the University, Augustus had taken minor orders, any crimes of which he might be accused would be dealt with by Church, rather than secular, law. 'Master Swynford, Master Abigny, perhaps you would oversee the search. Make sure that every nook and cranny is investigated. Augustus must be found!'

  The Fellows scurried off to do his bidding.

  Bartholomew and Aelfrith made their way down the stairs together, heading for Bartholomew's room. As they reached the courtyard, Bartholomew went to look at the ground under Augustus's window. If anyone had managed to squeeze out of the first-floor window and jump, there would be some evidence, but there was nothing to be seen. There were a few tendrils of bindweed creeping up the wall: had someone leaped from the window, the plants would have been damaged or displaced. Bartholomew saw nothing that indicated anyone had made an escape from Augustus's window.

  He stood up slowly, wincing at his stiffening knee.

  Wilson gave him a cold glance as he left, guessing what he was doing and disapproving of it. Bartholomew knew that Wilson would regard his action as a direct challenge to his authority, but was disturbed by Wilson's eagerness to accept the first excuse that came along and to dismiss any facts that confounded it.

  Aelfrith waited, his hands folded in the voluminous sleeves of his monastic robes. 'Our new Master seems to dislike you, my son,' he said.

  Bartholomew shrugged, and began to limp towards his room. Aelfrith caught up with him, and offered his arm for support. The tall friar was surprisingly strong, and Bartholomew was grateful for his help.

  They arrived at the tiny chamber Bartholomew used to store his medicines. It had been used originally to store wood, but Sir John had ordered it cleaned for Bartholomew's use because he thought it was not healthy for him to sleep with the smell of his medicines.

  The blacksmith still slept on the pallet bed, snoring noisily. Bartholomew had forgotten about him. He would have to send Cynric to ask his family to come to collect him. Aelfrith wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of stale wine fumes, and went to Bartholomew's own room next door. Abigny had thrown the shutters open before he had left, and the room was bright and sunny. Neither Bartholomew nor Abigny had many possessions — a few clothes, some writing equipment, and Bartholomew had a book he had been given by his Arab master when he had completed his training; all were stored out of sight in the large chest that stood at one end of the room.

  Aelfrith looked around approvingly. The room was clean, with fresh rushes and herbs scattered on the floor, and a servant had already put the bedding out of the window to air. Bartholomew had been taught that dirt and disease went hand in hand — his insistence on cleanliness was another reason he was regarded as an oddity.

  He sank down onto a stool. He had not realised what a wrench he had given his knee, and he knew it would slow him down for a few days. He made to stand again, remembering that he should be tending Aelfrith's head. Aelfrith pushed him back down firmly.

  'Tell me what you need, Matthew, and I will get it. I am sure you can doctor me as well sitting as standing.'

  As Aelfrith fetched water, linen, and some salves, Bartholomew thought about Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet.

  He had been fond of Paul, and only now did the shock of his cruel death register. He took a shuddering breath, and blinked away tears.

  Aelfrith drew a stool up next to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. Bartholomew smiled weakly, and began to tend to the wound in the friar's scalp. It was a nasty gash, and Bartholomew was not surprised that Aelfrith had been rendered unconscious. He could easily have been insensible for several hours. Aelfrith, like Bartholomew, was showing signs of delayed shock, with shaking hands and sudden tiredness.

  Bartholomew inspected the ragged edges of the wound, and prodded gently to ensure no splinters were left that might fester. Satisfied that it was clean, he bathed it carefully, and tied a neat bandage around the tonsured head. Aelfrith rose to leave. He leaned out of the window, looked both ways, and closed the shutters and the door.

  "I am too befuddled to think now,' he said in a low voice, 'but I am appalled at the wickedness that has been perpetrated in this house of learning. Our Master is mistaken in his explanation, and I, like you, know that Augustus was dead last night. I believe there is sinister work afoot, and I suspect that you think the same. Now, I will say no more, but you and I will meet later today to talk when we are both more ourselves. Trust no one, Matthew. Keep your counsel to yourself.'

  His calm grey eyes looked steadily at Bartholomew.

  Bartholomew's blood ran cold and he suddenly felt inutterably tired. He was a physician, dedicated to healing, and here he was being sucked into some vile intrigue where the taking of life appeared to be of little consequence. Aelfrith seemed to detect Bartholomew's feelings, for he gave one of his rare smiles, his eyes kindly.

  'Rest now, Matthew. We will deal with this together, you and I.'

  He was gone before Bartholomew could respond.

  Bartholomew put cold wraps around his knee and hobbled over to his bed to lie down. It was gloomy in the room with the shutters closed, but he could not be bothered to get up to open them again. He thought of the drugged commoners. He should really go to see to them. And he should check the blacksmith's leg. And Agatha would be wondering what to do with the woman he left with her last night. And he had promised his sister he would visit today. With his thoughts tumbling around inside his head, Bartholomew fell into a restless doze.

  Bartholomew awoke, the sun full on his face, to the sound of the bell ringing to announce that the meal was about to be served in the hall. Like most of the Colleges and hostels, the main meal at Michaelhouse was between ten and eleven o'clock in the morning, with a second, smaller meal around four, and bread and ale for those that wanted it later in the evening.

  He was disoriented for a moment, since he seldom slept during the day. Then the events of the morning came flooding back to him, and some of the brightness went out of the sunshine. Abigny had returned and opened the shutters, and was sitting at the table writing.

  He turned when he heard Bartholomew moving, his face lined with concern.

  'At last!' he said, "I have never known you to sleep a day away before. Are you ill?'

  Bartholomew shook his head. His knee felt better already from the rest. He sat quietly for a moment, listening to the scratching of Abigny's quill as he finished what he was writing, and Brother Michael's footsteps as he moved about in the room above. Brother Michael shared a room with Michaelhouse's two Benedictine students, but Michael's footsteps were distinct from the others' because of his weight. After a few moments, he came thundering down the stairs, bent on being the first to the meal. Bartholomew heard him puffing as he hurried across the courtyard.

  Upstairs, the other brothers moved about much more quietly, their sandalled feet making little sound.

  Suddenly, something clicked in Bartholomew's memory.

  As he had lain at the bottom of the stairs, after being pushed, he had heard footsteps, presumably those of his attacker. He could not tell where they came from, but they had been very distinct. The south wing, where the com
moners roomed, was better built than the north wing where Bartholomew lived-he had climbed the stairs that morning without making a sound, which was why he had taken his attacker by surprise. While Bartholomew could usually hear sounds from the upstairs rooms in the north wing, he had noticed that the south wing was very much quieter, and the ground-floor residents were seldom disturbed by the people above them.

  So how was it that he had heard footsteps? Had he imagined it? Bartholomew had the feeling that if he could work out why hearing the footsteps bothered him, he would be much nearer to solving the mystery.

  For now, the answer eluded him, and he told himself that mysterious footsteps in the night were the least of his concerns compared to the murders of his colleagues.

  He hauled himself up, splashed some water on his face, tried to restore some order to his unruly black hair, and made his way out. Abigny watched him.

  'Well, you are in a mess,' he observed. 'No gallivanting off today, Physician. And I was going to ask you to come to St Radegund's with me to see my sister!'

  Bartholomew glowered at him. Abigny's sister had been committed to the care of the nuns at St Radegund's following the death of her father a year before. It had not taken Abigny long to observe that his pretty, fair-haired sister and his scholarly chamber-mate seemed to find a lot to talk about. Philippa would give her brother no peace when he visited without Bartholomew in tow, though, for the life of him, Abigny could not imagine what his sister, who had spent the greater part of her life in convents, could ever have in common with the world-wise Bartholomew.

  'Well, perhaps I should invite her to Michaelhouse,' he said playfully. 'You brought a woman here yesterday.

  I must tell Philippa about that; I am sure she would find it most amusing.'

  Bartholomew shot him another withering glance.

  "I am going,' Abigny said cheerfully, and waved folded piece of parchment at Bartholomew. 'One advantage that a philosopher has over a physician is that he can write decent love poetry. So first, I am away to deliver this little work of genius to the woman of my dreams!'

  ' On which poor soul do you intend to prey this time?' asked Bartholomew drily. Abigny's innocent, boyish looks had cost many a girl her reputation, and Abigny seemed to move from relationship to relationship with staggering ease. He was playing with fire, for if Wilson had any inkling of what Abigny was doing, the philosopher would be forced to resign his fellowship and would have grave problems finding a teaching position elsewhere.

  'That lovely creature from the Laughing Pig over in Trumpington,' replied Abigny, tapping Bartholomew on the shoulder gleefully. 'Now, do not look like that!

  I met her at the house of your very own sister, so she must be a woman of stainless reputation.'

  'At Edith's?' queried Bartholomew. Edith's large household in the village of Trumpington, two miles away, was run with the style and elegance that befitted her husband's wealth and status. Bartholomew could not imagine how Abigny had met a tavern-maid there.

  'Three weeks ago, at the farewell meal she had for young Richard going to Oxford,' said Abigny, seeing Bartholomew's confusion. "I met her in the kitchens where she was delivering eggs. She has invited me to sample the fine ale that she has been brewing.'

  'Giles, have a care! If you are caught frequenting drinking houses, Wilson will drop on you like a stone.

  He wishes himself rid of you only slightly less than he wishes himself rid of me.'

  'Oh, come, Master Physician,' laughed Abigny, 'not so gloomy on such a wonderful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I am in love!'

  Bartholomew looked dubiously at Abigny's piece of parchment. 'Can this barmaid read?' he asked.

  Abigny laughed again. 'Of course not! So she will never know that the words here are actually a list of books I made for my students last term, now embellished with a few decorated capitals for appearance's sake. Parchment is expensive!'

  Bartholomew noted that Abigny was wearing his best robe and hose, implying that his intentions towards the barmaid were serious, if not honourable. Abigny set off, jauntily waving his hat in the air before disappearing through the door. He put his head back a moment later.

  'By the way,' he said, 'your smelly patient has gone. I sent Cynric to tell his family to come and remove him. I could not bear to have him lying about here all day! He said to tell you he would keep his side of the bargain whatever that might mean.'

  He had disappeared a second time before Bartholomew had a chance to reply. Bartholomew saw that Alcote had emerged from his room on the next staircase, and, since his window shutters were open, had probably heard their entire conversation.

  Of all the Fellows, Alcote was the one who most strongly disapproved of women having anything to do with the College. Bartholomew wondered if he had once been married and the experience had driven him to extremes.

  Alcote was a small, fussy man who reminded him of a hen.

  He was impatient with his less-able scholars, and most of his students lived in fear of his scathing criticisms.

  Bartholomew made his way slowly round the courtyard, Alcote walking silently next to him.

  'Has Augustus's body been found?' Bartholomew asked.

  Alcote looked sharply at him. 'Augustus has not been found yet,' he said. 'We are still searching and will bring him to justice, never fear. He could not possibly have left the College grounds, because the porters at the main gates were awake all night owing to the racket the students were making in the hall, and they are positive no one went past them. And your woman kept Mistress Agatha awake all night weeping, and she says no one went out of the back gate.'

  'How are the commoners?'

  Alcote smiled gloatingly. 'Waking with dreadful heads and sick stomachs, and it serves them right,' he said. 'Next time they will beware of the sin of gluttony.'

  Bartholomew stopped and grasped Alcote's wrist.

  'Are they really sick? Why did no one wake me? I may be able to give them something to relieve the symptoms.'

  Alcote freed his wrist. 'There is nothing you can do. They will live.'

  Aelfrith joined them. 'How is your head?' Bartholomew asked.

  'My years of learning must have given me a tough skull,' said Aelfrith with a smile, 'for I feel no ill effects at all.'

  They reached the main building and climbed the wide spiral stairs to the hall. The borrowed tapestries that had adorned the walls the night before had been removed, but evidence of the festivities was still apparent in the scraps of food that littered the rushes on the floor, and in the smell of spilled wine.

  'Master Abigny?' asked Wilson, his voice loud in the otherwise silent hall.

  'Visiting his sister,' replied Brother Michael. It had become a standard excuse. Sir John had not been too particular about whether his Fellows chose to eat in College or not, but, judging from the way Wilson's mouth set in a firm line of displeasure, from now on Fellows would be required to attend meals in hall.

  Alcote whispered something to Wilson that made the master's eyes glitter with anger. Bartholomew had no doubt that Alcote was telling him about what he had overheard. Spiteful little man, he thought, and turned to see Michael raising his eyes heavenwards, much to the amusement of the students at the end of the table.

  'Silence!' Wilson banged a pewter goblet on the table, making everyone jump, and the giggles of the students stopped instantly. Wilson glared around. 'Two of our members lie foully murdered,' he said. 'It is not a time for frivolous laughter.' Some of the students hung their heads. Gentle Paul would be missed. Throughout the summer he had sat in the sun in the courtyard and had been only too happy to while away the hours by debating with the students to help them develop their skills in disputation, and by patiently explaining points of grammar, rhetoric, and logic to those who had stayed on to try to catch up.

  Wilson intoned the long Latin grace, and then nodded to the Bible scholar to begin the recital that would last throughout the meal. Sir John had encouraged academic debate, and ha
d chaired some very lively discussions, all aimed to hone and refine the College's reputation of academic excellence. Wilson was more traditional in approach, and considered it fitting for scholars to listen to tracts from the Bible while they ate, so that they could improve their spiritual standing.

  Bartholomew studied his colleagues. Brother Michael, on his right, hunched over his trencher, greedily cramming pieces of meat into his mouth.

  Bartholomew offered him the dish of vegetables seeped in butter, and received, as always, a look of disbelief.

  Michael firmly believed that vegetables would damage his digestion and lived almost entirely on large quantities of meat, fish, and bread.

  Bartholomew thought back to Michael's odd behaviour of the night before. Was it illness as he had claimed, or did he know something about Augustus's death? Bartholomew had never seen the fat monk in such a state, but whatever had upset him was obviously not affecting his appetite now.

  Aelfrith sat between Bartholomew and Father William. When speaking was permitted at meals, the Franciscans would usually discuss theology in Latin.

  Bartholomew compared the two men. Aelfrith was tall and thin, with a sallow face and grey eyes that were often distant. Bartholomew did not find him a warm man, but he was compassionate, discreetly generous to many of Bartholomew's poorer patients, and devoted to his teaching. Father William was of a similar height, but much heavier. Like Aelfrith, he was in his late forties, but his hair was thick and brown. His eyes often burned with the passion of the fanatic, and Bartholomew could believe the rumours that he had been appointed to search out heresy by his Order, and had been sent to Cambridge because he was over-zealous.

  Wilson was the oldest Fellow, probably just past fifty, and was a singularly unattractive individual. His dry brown hair released a constant dusting of dandruff that adorned all his gowns, and his complexion was florid with a smattering of spots that reached right down to his array of chins. Swynford leaned towards him and whispered. Swynford was distantly related to the powerful Dukes of Norfolk, and held considerable sway in University circles. In a place where a College depended on the seniority and authority of its Fellows and Master, Michaelhouse owed much of its influence to Swynford. Wilson would need to keep him happy.