'No, Cynric,' he said. 'Let her go.'x pLAQue on botI} your Rouses 'Who was it?' Cynric asked, sounding disappointed.
Bartholomew had the feeling his book-bearer was enjoying this nocturnal escapade.
"I do not know, but I think she means us no harm,' he said, climbing slowly over the fence.
'What did she want?'
Bartholomew was silent for a moment before telling Cynric what she had said.
Cynric rubbed his hands together gleefully. 'Should not be too difficult to do,' he said. He screwed up his eyes as he thought. 'Yes. It is possible to climb up the back of Bene't Hostel. It is all covered with ivy that they have never bothered to cut. They throw their rubbish in the back yard, and one of the garderobe chutes empties there. No one bothers to go there because it is so filthy, so I think we should have no problems.'
'We?' queried Bartholomew nervously. "I cannot drag you into this 'You cannot keep me out of it! And anyway, I am much better at this sort of thing than you are.'
Bartholomew had to acknowledge that he was right, but he did not feel comfortable with the notion of dragging Cynric into anything unsavoury or dangerous.
He stared out into the mist in the direction in which the woman had gone. The fog thinned slightly for a few moments, and Bartholomew could see the King's Head opposite.
As he watched, a figure emerged. Bartholomew tensed. It looked like Oswald Stanmore. He blinked, and the figure had gone. He shook himself. He was imagining things. Stanmore would be tucked up safe and warm in his bed in Trumpington by now, and would never be seen frequenting a disreputable place like the King's Head. Bartholomew was obviously tired and prone to an overactive imagination. He took hold of Cynric's sleeve and tugged, indicating the way back down the High Street towards home.
Cynric was already making plans for entering Bene't's yard the next night, and Bartholomew, seeing his eyes gleam with excitement, did not have the heart to tell him he could not go. He was not even sure whether he wanted to go himself. The mist clung to their clothes as they walked, and seemed to muffle the usual sounds of the night. Distantly, Bartholomew heard wailing. Another plague death? Or a cat hunting among the piles of rubbish? He was glad when the walls of Michaelhouse loomed up out of the fog, and too tired to speculate any further on his well-wisher's intentions. He fell asleep in his clothes listening to the regular breathing of Gray in the other bed.
Early the next day, Bartholomew received a message from the barber-surgeon Robin of Grantchester saying that he had convened a meeting with representatives from the town to discuss what they were going to do about the settlement near All Saints-next-the-Castle, where all had lain dead for many weeks. Rumours abounded that the dead walked down into Cambridge at night, and were spreading the pestilence. The meeting was acrimonious, and the real issue about what should be done about the community beyond the Castle was sidestepped until Bartholomew rapped on the table with the hilt of Stanmore's dagger to make the voices subside.
'Everyone who lived in settlement beyond the Castle is either dead or has left,' he said. "I have seen that there are bodies rotting in virtually every house. While I do not believe they walk in the town at night, the area should be cleared in the interests of health. I propose we burn it down.'
Horrified faces stared at him, open-mouthed.
'With the bodies still inside?' whispered Stephen Stanmore.
'Unless you would like to go and fetch them out,' said Bartholomew.
'But that is sacrilege!' said Father William, aghast.
'Those people must be buried decently.'
'So fetch them, and then we will burn the houses.'
There was a silence, and then mutterings of reluctant assent. Clerics and medics alike accepted that there was no other safe way to deal with the problem, but no one had wanted to be the one to suggest such an unpopular solution.
Bartholomew had a hasty meal with William, and set off for the settlement. Two lay-brothers had volunteered to help, and people came out of their houses to watch them pass. The burning did not take long: the houses were flimsy and, despite the rain that had drenched them during the past few weeks, fired easily.
When the flames died down, Bartholomew found he was shaking, and wondered if he had really condemned the spirits of the people to walk in perpetual torment as the rector of St Clement's had claimed. William scattered holy water about, and Bartholomew watched it hiss and evaporate as it touched the still-hot embers of the houses.
Bartholomew knew he would never want to visit this part of the town again.
'That was a foul day's work,' William remarked as they returned to Michaelhouse. 'But it had to be done.
The rector was wrong: the souls of those people will go wherever they were destined to be, and nothing you have done today will change that. Put it from your mind, and think of other things.'
Bartholomew smiled gratefully. William was most certainly not a person to give false assurances; if anything, he tended the other way, and his words made Bartholomew's mind easier.
"I heard you helped Mistress Tinker to give birth to another child,' said William.
Bartholomew thought back to his delight at seeing the baby born and remembered the purse he had taken to give her. He asked William if he would give it to the mother when he baptised the child the following day.
William raised his eyebrows.
'Not your own child, is it?' he asked.
Bartholomew was taken aback. What twisted minds these University people had! What made them read sinister motives into even the most innocent of acts?
William caught his look and changed the subject. 'Have you seen Brother Michael today?'
Bartholomew had not seen Brother Michael for some days and was growing anxious. He had even looked up in the attic that morning, to satisfy himself that the murderer had not been at work again. He was about to voice his concerns to William, when he saw Colet being escorted out of St Botolph's Church by two monks. Colet was laughing uncontrollably, and drooling even more than usual. His eyes, instead of being blank, were wild and starting from his head.
'What has happened?' Bartholomew watched in pity as Colet cackled to himself.
'He acts so around this time of day,' one of the monks said, 'and we have to take him home.
His mind has gone. There is nothing you can do, Doctor.'
Agatha would not let Bartholomew into the kitchen, saying he smelled of the 'fires of death'. She took his clothes away to be laundered, and made him wash thoroughly in water she had liberally peppered with herbs to take away the smell. Although the water was cold, Bartholomew felt better when the smell of burning had gone. He sat shivering next to the kitchen fire, eating stale marchpanes.
Cynric drew a stool up next to him. He glanced around to make sure Agatha could not hear, but she was busy trying to persuade William to go through the same process as Bartholomew, and was unlikely to be distracted from her purpose until William had bent to her will.
"I have been out and about,' he said in a low voice.
'The steward at Bene't's has been given the night off tonight, and told he can visit his mother. They are also short of candles, and the Sub-Principal has suggested that all lights be extinguished at eight o'clock until they can replenish their stocks. You know what all this means?'
Bartholomew could guess. The steward was being invited to leave the premises overnight, and the students, deprived of light, would probably go to bed early since there was little they could do in the dark. All this suggested that his well-wisher was right, and that there would be a clandestine meeting at Bene't Hostel that night. He had not given the matter much thought during the day since he had had so much else to think about, but now he needed to come to a decision.
He slipped out through the back of the kitchen and made his way to the orchard, remembering that the last time he had done this was when Aelfrith had spoken to him. Now, it was bitterly cold, and the branches of the trees were grey-brown and bare. He sat for a while with his eyes clo
sed, trying to concentrate on the silence of the orchard and not the roaring in his head from the fires.
He began to think about whether he should go to Bene't Hostel to spy. Was it safe, or was it a trap? Who was this woman who claimed to wish him well? He rubbed a hand through his hair, and stood, hugging his arms around his body to keep warm. But when he thought about Philippa, he knew he would eavesdrop on the meeting.
After all, Cynric would be there, and if anyone could enter and leave places unseen it was Cynric. He began to walk slowly back through the College heading for his room, but was intercepted by a breathless Cynric.
'There you are!' he said, his tone slightly accusatory.
'You had better come quick. Henry Oliver is here, and he is terrible sick of the plague.'
10
Bartholomew and Cynric hurried through the College, they could hear Henry Oliver's enraged yells coming from the commoners' room. Cynric told Bartholomew that two students had found him lying outside the King's Head tavern, and had brought him back so he could be cared for in the plague ward. Oliver, it seemed, had other ideas, and had kicked and struggled as much as his weakened body would allow, demanding to be taken to his own room.
The Benedictines were having a difficult time trying to quieten him down, and his shouts and curses were disturbing the other patients. One of the monks was almost lying on top of him to keep him in the bed.
When Oliver saw Bartholomew standing in the doorway, his struggles increased.
'Keep him away from me,' he screamed. 'He will kill me!'
Slowly Bartholomew approached the bed, and laid his hand gently on the sick student's head. Oliver shrank away, pushing himself as far back against the wall as he could.
'Come, now, Henry,' Bartholomew said softly. 'No one is going to hurt you. You are ill and need help, and this is the best place for you to get it.'
'No!' Oliver yelled, his eyes darting frantically round the room. 'You will kill me here!'
'Now why would I do that?' asked Bartholomew, reaching out to turn Oliver's head gently, so he could inspect the swellings in his neck.
Oliver's breath came in short agonised gasps. 'The Master told me,' he whispered, flashing a terrified glance at Bartholomew.
'Swynford?' asked Bartholomew, astonished. 'Swynford told you I would kill you?'
Oliver shook his head. 'Master Wilson. Wilson said you would kill him. And you did!' He sank back against the wall, exhausted. Bartholomew looked at him thunderstruck, while the monk knelt to begin taking off Oliver's wet clothes.
The Benedictine smiled briefly at Bartholomew.
'Delirious,' he said. 'They claim all sorts of things, you know. Poor Jerome over there keeps saying he was responsible for the murder of Montfitchet!'
Bartholomew groaned. It was all happening too fast.
Did this mean that Jerome, in his feverish delirium, was declaring that he was the murderer? And why had Wilson told Oliver that Bartholomew was going to kill him?
His energy spent, Oliver was unresisting while the monk and Bartholomew put him to bed. He began to squirm and struggle again when Bartholomew examined him, but not with the same intensity as before. The swellings were as soft as rotten apples in his armpits and groin, and Bartholomew knew that lancing them would bring no relief. While the monks tended to the other patients, Bartholomew tried to make Oliver drink some water.
Oliver spat the water from his mouth, and twisted away from Bartholomew.
'Poison!' he hissed, his eyes bright with fever.
Bartholomew took a sip from the water cup himself, and offered it again to Oliver, who took it reluctantly, but drank thirstily.
'Now,' said Bartholomew. 'You must rest.'
He stood to leave, but Oliver caught at the edge of his sleeve. 'Master Wilson said he was in fear of his life from you, Physician,' he said. 'My aunt believes you killed him.'
Bartholomew had had enough of Oliver and his unpleasant accusations. 'Well, she is wrong,' he said.
'And how would she know anyway, since Wilson never left his room to talk to anyone, and your aunt never leaves her Priory?'
Oliver sneered and spat onto the floor. 'He went to see her, he said.
'Wilson visited your aunt?'
'Of course!' Oliver said, his voice dripping contempt.
'Most days, between Compline and Matins.'
'In the middle of the night?' said Bartholomew, amazed. 'Wilson visited your aunt in the middle of the night?'
'They were lovers,' said Oliver, 'although what she ever saw in that fat pig I will never know.'
'He was going to take major orders,' said Bartholomew, bemused, 'vowing to abstain from physical relationships with women.'
Oliver gave a short bark of laughter. 'My aunt had already taken such a vow,' he said, 'but what did that matter?'
Bartholomew stared at the student. Oliver glowered back at him spitefully, and once again, Bartholomew wondered what he had done to earn himself such an intense dislike. Oliver, however, was growing exhausted, and Bartholomew did not want to tire him further with more questions. He went to sit with Jerome, who was still fighting his illness with a spirit of defiance that Bartholomew never guessed he had. Jerome's skeletal hand gripped his.
"I did it,' he muttered. "I killed Montfitchet. I made him drink the wine when he said he had already had enough. Jocelyn and I made him drink the Master's health, and he died. His death is on my head.'
'Did you know the wine was drugged?' asked Bartholomew.
The old man shook his head slowly, his eyes filling with tears. 'No, I did not. But that does not absolve me,' he whispered.
Bartholomew rose to leave. 'Father William will come to you,' he said. 'He will absolve you.' He felt a sudden urge just to leave Michaelhouse and Cambridge and go to York or Lincoln where he could practise medicine in peace, and escape from the vile intrigues and affairs of the University. Even Father Jerome, who had probably never harmed anyone in his life, had been drawn into its murky depths, and would die believing he had committed a crime in which he had played no knowing part.
As he left the commoners' room and made his way back to the kitchen, he thought about Oliver's words.
Oliver had said that Wilson had left the College almost every night to visit his mistress, the Abbess. That certainly explained how he might have caught the plague when, in everyone's eyes, he had isolated himself from the outside world. Bartholomew and Cynric had slipped unnoticed in and out of College the night before, so there was no reason why Wilson could not have done the same.
But it still made no sense. Bartholomew had already established that Wilson could not have been the murderer, because Augustus's body had been dumped in the stables after Wilson had been buried. Did Wilson believe Bartholomew was the murderer? Did he talk to him on his deathbed so that Bartholomew would fall into some kind of trap and be exposed? But that made no sense either, because if Wilson believed Bartholomew to be capable of committing so grave a sin as murder, why did he ask him to ensure that his tomb was built?
Why not Michael, or William?
He went to huddle near the kitchen fire, elbowing Cynric to one side so that they could share the warmth.
They could not risk going too early in case they were seen, so Bartholomew dozed until Cynric announced it was time to leave. The Welshman made Bartholomew change his white shirt and dispensed with cloaks and scholar's robes because they were difficult in which to climb. Both wore two pairs of woollen leggings and two dark tunics to protect them against the cold. When he was satisfied that they were well prepared for a long chilly wait on a narrow window-sill, Cynric led the way out of the College.
Bartholomew was amazed at the way the nimble Welshman could blend into the shadows, and felt clumsy and graceless by comparison. When they reached Bene't Hostel, it was in total darkness, but Cynric insisted on waiting and watching for a long time before he decided it was safe. He slipped down a narrow passageway like a cat, Bartholomew following as quietly as he could. The pa
ssageway had originally led to the yard at the back of the hostel, but had been blocked off by a wall when the yard had become more of a refuse pit.
The wall had not been built of the best materials, and Bartholomew found it easy to gain hand- and footholds in the crumbling mortar, and climb to the top. Cynric pressed him back into the shadows, where they waited yet again to ensure it was safe to continue. At last Cynric motioned that they could drop over the wall into the yard below. Bartholomew was used to foul smells, but the stench that rose from the deep layer of slime on the floor of the yard made his eyes water. Cynric quickly led the way to a row of straggly shrubs that grew against the wall of the hostel.
Bartholomew cursed under his breath as he skidded on something slippery and almost fell. Cynric grabbed at his arm, and they waited in tense silence until they were certain that no one had heard. They reached the bushes where they could hide from anyone looking out of the windows, and Bartholomew smothered an exclamation of disgust as his outstretched hand touched a rotten slab of meat that had been thrown there.
Cynric pushed his way through the bushes until he reached the ivy that climbed the wall of the house. It was ancient and sturdy, and Bartholomew nodded that he could climb up it without difficulty. They had agreed that Bartholomew would climb to the window-sill, while Cynric would keep watch down the passageway from the top of the wall for any indication that the well-wisher had led them into a trap. If that were the case, they would effect an escape by climbing up the ivy, and over the roofs.
Gingerly, Bartholomew set his foot on the vine, and began to climb. The slop drain was apparently directly above, for the ivy was treacherously slick, and all manner of kitchen waste was caught on its branches.
Bartholomew tried not to think about it, and continued upwards. Glancing down, he could not see Cynric. He must already have slid into his vantage point in the shadows at the top of the wall.
The sound of soft singing came through the slop drain. Bartholomew prayed that it was not a scullery boy who would throw the kitchen waste down on his head. Cautiously, he climbed a little further, noting that the singer's words were slurred and his notes false.
A Plague On Both Your Houses Page 26
