A Plague On Both Your Houses

by Susanna GREGORY

  Bartholomew sat for a while, pondering what Aelfrith had told him. He still found it difficult to believe that Oxford and Cambridge scholars would play such dangerous games, and he would not accept that Augustus's body had been stolen by the Devil. The sun was hot, and he thought back to what he had said to Aelfrith. Bodies did not just disappear, so Augustus's corpse must have been either hidden or buried. If it were hidden, the heat would soon give it away; if it were buried, perhaps it would never be found.

  The bell began to ring for the afternoon service at St Michael's, and Bartholomew decided to go to pray for the souls of his dead friends.

  Bartholomew made his way slowly back from the church down St Michael's Lane. A barge from the Low Countries had arrived at the wharf earlier that day, and all the small lanes and alleys leading from the river to the merchants' houses on Milne Street were full of activity.

  At the river the bustle was even more frenzied. A Flemish captain stood on the bank roaring instructions in dreadful French to his motley collection of sailors who yelled back in a variety of languages. At least two were from the Mediterranean, judging from their black curly hair and beringed ears, and another wore an exotic turban swathed around his head. Further up-stream, fishermen were noisily unloading baskets of eels and the slow-moving water was littered with tails and heads that had been discarded. Overhead, the gulls swooped and screeched and fought, adding to the general racket.

  Behind the wharves were the rivermen's houses, a dishevelled row of rickety wooden shacks that leaked when it rained, and often collapsed when it was windy.

  Bartholomew saw an enormous rat slink out of one house and disappear into the weeds at the edge of the river where some small children were splashing about.

  'Matt!' Bartholomew turned with a smile at the sound of his brother-in-law's voice. Sir Oswald Stanmore strode up to him. 'We were worried about you. What has been happening at Michaelhouse?'

  Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. "I do not know. The clerics are mumbling about evil walking the College, but Wilson thinks it was only Augustus.'

  Stanmore rolled his eyes. 'Wilson is afool. You should have heard him pontificating to us last night, telling us everything we would ever need to know about the wool trade, and about French cloth. The man would not know French cloth from homespun. But we have heard terrible rumours about Michaelhouse! How much did you all drink last night?'

  Ever practical, Stanmore had put everything down to drunkenness, not such an unreasonable assumption considering the amount of wine that had flowed.

  'Nathaniel the Fleming seems to have had his share too,' said Bartholomew, turning as one of the swimming children emitted an especially piercing shriek.

  Stanmore laughed. "I told him last night he would need your services this morning. Did he call you?'

  Bartholomew nodded, and told him what had happened. Stanmore threw up his hands in despair.

  'Lord save us, Matt! I provide you with one of the wealthiest men in the town as a patient, and you cannot even subdue your unorthodox thoughts long enough to treat him. I know,' he said quickly, putting up a hand to quell the coming objection, 'what you believe, and I understand, even applaud, your motives. But for the love of God, could you not even try to placate Nathaniel? You need to be far more careful now Wilson is Master, Matt.

  Even a child can see that he loathes you. You no longer have the favoured protection of Sir John, and securing a patient such as Nathaniel might have served to keep his dislike at bay for a while.'

  Bartholomew knew Stanmore was right. He gave a rueful smile.

  'Edith told me to call on you today to make certain you were well,' Stanmore continued. 'What have you done to your leg? What debauchery did your feast degenerate into once the sobering effects of your town guests had gone?' He was smiling, but his eyes were serious.

  'Tell Edith I am fine. But I do not understand what is happening at Michaelhouse. The Bishop is due to arrive today and will take matters in hand.'

  Stanmore chewed his lower lip. "I do not like it, Matt, and neither will Edith. Come to stay with us for a few days until all this dies down. Edith is missing Richard; if you came, it would take her mind off him for a while.'

  Richard, their only son, had left a few days before to study at Oxford, and the house would be strangely empty without him. Bartholomew was fond of his sister and her husband, and it would be pleasant to spend a few days away from the tensions of the College. But he had work to do: there were students who had returned before the Michaelmas term so that they could be given extra tuition, and he had his patients to see. And anyway, if he left now, Wilson would probably see it as fleeing the scene of the crime, and accuse him of the murders.

  Regretfully he shook his head.

  "I would love to, I really would. But I cannot. I should stay.' He grabbed Stanmore's arm. 'Please do not tell Edith all you hear. She will only worry.'

  Stanmore smiled under standingly. 'Come to see us as soon as you can, and talk to her yourself.' He looked round as loud shouts came from a group of apprentices, followed by a splash as someone fell in the river. "I must go before they start fighting again. Take care, Matt. I will tell Edith you will visit soon.'

  As Bartholomew made his way back up the lane, he saw a small cavalcade of horses trot into Michaelhouse's yard, and knew that the Bishop had arrived. Servants hurried to stable the horses, while others brought chilled ale and offered to shake dust out of riding cloaks. Wilson hurried from his new room to meet the Bishop, soberly dressed in a simple, but expensive, black gown.

  The two men stood talking for a while, while students, commoners, and Fellows watched out of the unglazed windows. Eventually, Wilson led the way into the main building, through the hall and into the smaller, more private conclave beyond. Alexander was sent to fetch wine and pastries, and the College waited.

  First, the servants were sent for. Then it was the turn of the students, and then the commoners. It was nearing the time for the evening meal when the Fellows were summoned. The Bishop sat in the Master's chair, which had been brought from the hall, while his clerks and assistants were ranged along the benches on either side of him. Wilson sat directly opposite, and, judging from his pallor and sweaty jowls, had not had an easy time of it.

  The Bishop stood as the Fellows entered and beckoned them forward to sit on the bench with Wilson. Bartholomew had met the Bishop before, a man who enjoyed his physical comforts, but who was able to combine a deep sense of justice with his equally deep sense of compassion. He was known to be impatient with fools, severe with those who told him lies, and had no time at all for those unwilling to help themselves.

  Although Bartholomew thought he probably would not enjoy an evening in the Bishop's company, he respected his judgement and integrity.

  The Fellows sat on either side of Wilson, Bartholomew at the end so he could stretch his stiff knee. He felt as if he were on trial. The Bishop started to speak.

  'Master Wilson and Fellows of Michaelhouse,' he began formally. 'It is my right, as Bishop of this parish, to investigate the strange happenings of last night. I must tell you now that I am far from satisfied with the explanation I have been given.' He paused, and studied the large ring on his finger that contained his official seal. 'These are difficult times for the Church and for the University. There is news that a terrible pestilence is sweeping the land, and may be here before Christmas, and relations between the Church and the people are far from ideal. Neither the University nor the College can afford to have scandals. Much damage was done to both following the unfortunate death of Master Babington.

  You cannot allow another unsavoury incident to occur if you wish your College to survive.

  'Now, two College members have been murdered, perhaps by another, although I do not care to guess who the perpetrator of the crime might be. The College has been searched, and has revealed nothing. All the commoners, students, and servants have alibis- assuming that Brother Paul was slain during or after the feast. The commoners
were all together, and each can vouch for every one of the others. Since the regular term's lectures have not yet begun, there are only fifteen students in residence, and all, like the commoners, can give alibis for each other. The servants had a hard night of work, and one missing pair of hands would have been immediately noticed. After the feast, they all retired exhausted to bed, and the good Mistress Agatha, who was kept awake by a grieving woman, swears that none left the servants' quarters until woken by the Steward this morning.

  'That leaves the Fellows. Please understand that I am accusing no one, but you will each tell me where you were last night, and with whom. Master Wilson, perhaps you would set the example and begin.' "Me?' said Wilson, taken aback. 'But I am the Master, I…'

  'Your movements, please, Master Wilson,' said the Bishop coldly.

  Wilson blustered for a few moments, while the Bishop waited like a coiled snake for him to begin.

  'After Doctor Bartholomew told us that Augustus was dead, I felt it inappropriate to continue at the feast.

  Father William, Master Alcote, and Master Swynford left with me. Bartholomew and Brother Michael had already retired, and Master Abigny stayed, although I did not condone this.' A glint of pleasure crossed his features at having expressed his disapproval of Abigny to the Bishop.

  'On the contrary, Master Wilson,' the Bishop intervened smoothly, "I hope you did condone it. After all, you were going to leave students in your hall with seemingly unlimited quantities of wine, and a riot narrowly averted earlier in the day. I would consider it an act of prudence to leave a Fellow to oversee affairs. Why did you not end the feast?'

  Bartholomew hid a smile. He knew that many students disliked Wilson and he had been trying to win them round with his generosity with the wine. He would not have wished to negate any positive points he might have gained by ending the feast when the students were still enjoying themselves.

  Wilson opened and shut his mouth a few times, before Swynford intervened. 'We discussed that, my Lord Bishop. We felt that Augustus would not wish such a joyous occasion to be brought to an early conclusion on his account'

  The Bishop looked at Swynford narrowly before returning his attention to Wilson. 'And what did you do after you left the hall, Master Wilson?' he continued.

  "I walked with Master Alcote to our room. I only moved into the Master's room today; last night I was in my old room. We talked for a while about Augustus, and then we went to sleep.'

  'Does this tally with your memory?' the Bishop asked Alcote.

  The nervous little man nodded, looking even more like a hen than usual. 'Yes, we talked until the candle expired, and then went to sleep. Neither of us went out, or knew any more, until the next morning.'

  'Father Aelfrith?' "I left the hall and went straight to Augustus's room, where I stayed all night. At some point, I heard a noise and went to check Brother Paul, who had been ill. He was asleep, and none of the other commoners had yet returned. I went back to my prayers, and was hit on the head from behind. I heard nothing and saw nothing.

  The next thing I recall was being helped up by Doctor Bartholomew.'

  'Master Swynford?' "I left the hall with Father William, and Masters Alcote and Wilson. I saw Brother Michael and Doctor Bartholomew walking together across the courtyard to their staircase. I went straight to my room and went to sleep. I am afraid that because I room alone, I have no alibi,' he said with an apologetic smile.

  'Who else lives on your staircase?' the Bishop enquired.

  'Father William lives downstairs from me.'

  'Father, what were your movements?' "I left the hall and went directly to my room. I saw Master Swynford go past moments later and disappear up the stairs. I share a room with three others of my Order, students, who left the feast when I did. All four of us prayed throughout the night for Augustus's soul, as did Father Aelfrith.'

  'If Master Swynford had left his room during the night, would you have heard him?' "I believe so, my Lord Bishop,' said William, after a moment's consideration. 'The night was humid. We did not want our voices to disturb others who were sleeping, and so the window shutters were closed, but the door was open to allow us some air. I am certain we would have heard if Master Swynford came down the stairs.'

  'There is your alibi, Master Swynford,' said the Bishop. 'Doctor Bartholomew, where were you?' "I went back to my room, checked on the blacksmith — he had had his leg broken in the skirmish outside the gates,' he added hastily, seeing the Bishop raise his eyebrows. "I was tired and went to sleep straight away. I do not know when Giles returned. I rose while it was still quite dark, and, seeing the candle in Augustus's room, went to offer to relieve Father Aelfrith. I fought with someone and was pushed down the stairs. I could find no trace of him when I went to look, and then discovered that what I had assumed to be Augustus's body lying on the floor was actually Father Aelfrith, and Augustus had gone.'

  'So you have no one who can confirm where you were all night?' asked the Bishop.

  Bartholomew shook his head and saw Wilson exchange smug glances with Alcote.

  'Brother Michael?' said the Bishop.

  Michael shrugged. 'Like our physician, I have no alibi. We walked to our staircase together. I saw him check the disgusting man with the broken leg, and go into his own room. I went upstairs. My room-mates were enjoying Master Wilson's good wine in the hall, and were still enjoying it when dawn broke this morning. I was alone all night.'

  'And finally you, Master Abigny. What have you to say?' "I was in the company of Michael's two room-mates and the other students until I was too drunk to stay awake any longer,' Abigny announced cheerfully, ignoring Wilson's look of anger. 'The same two Benedictines took time from their roistering to help me to my room, where I remember nothing until woken by Alexander with stories of missing bodies and murder.' He sat back indolently, and Bartholomew knew that his entire demeanour was carefully calculated to annoy Wilson as much as possible.

  'Let us summarise,' said the Bishop, ignoring Abigny's display. 'Everyone's movements can be vouched for except Bartholomew, Aelfrith, and Michael. Aelfrith could not have hit himself on the head from behind, and Bartholomew saw him lying on the floor before he engaged in his struggle.

  'So, what we have left is a mystery. There is no doubt that evil deeds were committed, and that two men died. I find it difficult to believe that Doctor Bartholomew would mistake a living man for a corpse, but these things happen, especially after copious amounts of Master Wilson's good wine.' He raised his hand to stall the objection that Bartholomew was about to voice. He had had very little to drink the night before, chiefly because he did not feel Wilson's succession of Sir John good cause for celebration.

  'Augustus, whether dead or alive, has gone. We may never know whether he was innocent or guilty of murder.

  It is imperative that this business is done with as quickly as possible. Neither your College nor the University can afford to have gossip about missing corpses and murders.

  You know what would happen — wealthy families would decline to send their sons here, and the University would eventually cease to exist altogether.'

  Bartholomew shot a quick look at Aelfrith sitting next to him, echoes of their conversation coming back to him. Perhaps Aelfrith was right, and the whole affair was a plot by rivals to strike at the very foundations of the University.

  The Bishop looked at each of the Fellows in turn before continuing. 'Neither you nor I has a choice in this matter. I have already spoken with the Chancellor and he agrees with me as to the course of action that must be taken. I repeat that you have no choice in this matter. There will be a funeral service for Augustus the day after tomorrow. It will be said that his body was discovered in the orchard, where he had been hiding.

  The excitement of the installation was too much for him, and had addled his wits. There are, I believe, medical conditions that make a living man appear as a corpse.

  Augustus was afflicted by this and was pronounced dead by the College physician. He
later awoke from this trance, and struck Aelfrith from behind while he was praying.

  He ran down the stairs and slipped through the College buildings to the orchard, where he later died. Brother Paul, who had become depressed with his illness, took his own life. The other commoner…' The Bishop waved his hand impatiently.

  'Montfitchet,' offered Wilson in a small voice, the enormity of what was being asked shaking him out of his usual smugness.

  'Montfitchet, yes. Montfitchet died of his own excesses. The commoners have already attested to that. The man made a pig of himself all night, despite complaining of stomach pains caused by his gluttony. And that, Fellows of Michaelhouse, is what the world will be told happened here. There will be no rumours of evil in the College,' he said, looking hard at the Franciscans, 'and no tales of dead bodies walking in the night to murder their colleagues.'

  He sat back to indicate that he had finished speaking.

  The conclave was totally silent, as the Fellows let his words sink in. The clerks, usually furiously scribbling when the Bishop spoke, sat ominously still. No record was being made of this meeting.

  Bartholomew looked at the Bishop aghast. So, the Church and the University were prepared to cover the whole thing up, to smother the truth in a thick blanket of lies.

  'No!' he cried, leaping to his feet, wincing as his injured knee took his weight. Ttwould be wrong! Brother Paul was a good man, and you cannot condemn him to a grave in unconsecrated soil and allow his and Montfitchet's murderer to walk free!'

  The Bishop rose, his eyes hard with anger, although his face remained calm.' Brother Paul will be buried in the churchyard, Doctor,' he said. "I will grant him a special dispensation in view of his age and state of mind.'

  'But what of his murderer?' Bartholomew persisted, unappeased.

  'There was no murderer,' said the Bishop softly.

  'You heard what I said. One suicide, and two deaths by misadventure.'