Since no one knew how the plague spread, Bartholomew did not want bad humours seeping from the bodies into the river from where some people, despite his warnings, drew their drinking water. There were fields outside the Gate that were well away from the river and its ditches, and away from homes.
As he reached the gates at Michaelhouse, the porter greeted Bartholomew cautiously, a huge pomander stuffed with herbs over his mouth.
'Brother Michael asks if you will go to his room,' he said, backing away as far as possible.
Bartholomew nodded. He did not blame the man.
Perhaps Bartholomew was doing more harm than good by visiting the sick in their homes. Perhaps he was aiding the spread of the Death by carrying it in his clothes or in the air around him.
Slowly he climbed the stairs to Michael's room and pushed open the door. Brother Michael knelt next to his bed giving last rites to Father Aelfrith.
'Oh, no!' Bartholomew sank down onto a stool and waited for Michael to finish. 'When?'
'He was well enough this morning, but collapsed in the yard just as I came home,' said Michael, his voice muffled.
Bartholomew went over to the bed, and rested his hand on Aelfrith's brow. He was barely breathing, but seemed to have been spared the terrible agony that some victims went through. It was a risk, visiting the sick and giving last rites, and physicians and clerics had all known that they too might be stricken. Seeing Aelfrith so near the end reminded Bartholomew, yet again, of his own mortality. His thoughts went to Philippa, hopefully secure in the convent, and of their brief spell of happiness at the end of summer.
"I will go again to see if I can find William,' said Michael, furtively rubbing a sleeve over his eyes.
Bartholomew tried to make Aelfrith more comfortable.
He had found that stretching the arms out helped relieve pressure on the swellings, and so caused the patient less pain. He was surprised to find that Aelfrith had no swellings. He looked again more carefully, inspecting his neck and his groin. There was no trace of swelling anywhere, and none of the black spots that afflicted some victims, although there was evidence that he had been violently sick. Bartholomew hoped this was not some new variation of the plague.
Aelfrith's eyes fluttered open. He saw Bartholomew and tried to speak. Bartholomew bent closer to hear him, straining to hear the voice that was no more than a rustle of breath.
'Not plague,' he whispered. 'Poison. Wilson.'
He closed his eyes, exhausted. Bartholomew wondered whether the fever had made him delirious. Aelfrith waved his hand weakly in the air. Bartholomew took it and held it. It was cold and dry. Aelfrith's eyes pleaded with Bartholomew, who bent again to listen.
'Wilson,' he whispered again.
Bartholomew, his mind dull from tiredness and grief, was slow in understanding. 'Are you saying that Wilson poisoned you?' he asked.
Aelfrith's lips drew back from his teeth in an awful parody of a smile. And then he died. Bartholomew leaned close and smelled Aelfrith's mouth. He moved back sharply. There was an acrid odour of somethingvile, and he noticed that Aelfrith's tongue was blistered and swollen. He had been poisoned! By Wilson?
Bartholomew could not see how, because the lawyer had not left his room for days. Bartholomew sometimes saw him watching the comings and goings in the courtyard through his window, although he would slam the shutter if Bartholomew or any of the clerics so much as glanced up at him.
Bartholomew felt all the energy drain out of him as the significance of Aelfrith's death dawned on him.
Another murder! And now of all times! He thought that the plague would have superseded all the dangerous political games that had been played in the summer.
And what was Aelfrith doing in Michael's room anyway?
Had Michael poisoned him? He began to look around for cups of wine or food that Michael may have enticed Aelfrith to take, but there was nothing.
He almost jumped out of his skin as the door flew open and Michael came back with Father William in tow.
'Sweet Jesus, we are too late,' groaned Michael, visibly sagging.
'Too late for what?' asked Bartholomew, his tone sharp from the fright he had just had.
'For Father William to give him the Host,' said Michael.
"I thought you had already done that,' said Bartholomew. Surely Michael would not have poisoned the Host? He would surely be damned if he had chosen that mode of execution for one of God's priests.
"I am a Benedictine, Matt,' said Michael patiently.
'He wanted to have the last rites from one of his own Order. I looked for William, but could not find him. I gave Aelfrith last rites because he was failing fast and I thought he might die before William was back.'
Bartholomew turned his attention back to Aelfrith.
Was he being unfair to Michael? He thought back to Michael's reaction at the death of Augustus. Was Michael one of those scholars so dedicated to the future success of Cambridge that he would kill for it? Or was he one of those who wanted to see Cambridge fail and Oxford become the foremost place of learning in the land? Or had Wilson slipped out of his room in the dark and left poison for Aelfrith? Was Aelfrith telling him he should go and tell Wilson that he had been poisoned?
Bartholomew was just too tired to think properly.
Should he go to Wilson? Or would the wretched man think Bartholomew was trying to give him the plague?
Bartholomew could not blame people like Wilson, Swynford, and Alcote who hid away to save themselves. Had he not been a physician, he might well have done the same thing. The College had divided down the middle, four Fellows going among the plague victims to do what they could, and four remaining isolated. In the other colleges, the division was much the same.
He felt his mind rambling. What should he do?
Should he tell Michael and William that Father Aelfrith had been poisoned, and had not died of the plague at all? And then what? The Bishop had his hands too full with his dying monks to be able to investigate another murder. And he probably would not want to investigate it. He would order it covered up, like the others. Well, let us save the Bishop ajourney, then, thought Bartholomew wearily. He would say nothing. He would try to see Wilson later, and he would try to question Michael. He wondered why someone had gone to the trouble of committing murder now of all times, when they could all be dead anyway by the following day.
Michael and William had wrapped Aelfrith in a sheet while Bartholomew had been thinking, and together they carried him down the stairs. Bartholomew followed them.
What should he do about Aelfrith's burial? He had not died of the plague and so there was no reason why he should be put in the plague pit. He decided to ask Cynric to help him dig a grave in St Michael's churchyard.
The stable was being used as a temporary mortuary in which dead College members awaited collection by the plague carts. Bartholomew saw that there were already two others there, and closed his eyes in despair.
'Richard of Norwich and Francis Eltham,' said Michael in explanation.
'Not Francis!' exclaimed Bartholomew. 'He was so careful!' Eltham had been like Wilson and had shut himself in his room. His room-mates had left Cambridge, so he had been alone.
'Not careful enough,' Michael said. 'This Death has no rhyme nor reason to it.'
Father William sighed. "I must go to Shoemaker Row. The sickness is in the home of Alexander's sister and they are waiting for me.'
He disappeared into the night, leaving Michael and Bartholomew alone. Bartholomew was too drained to be anxious about Michael's possible murderous inclinations, and too tired to talk to the fat monk about Aelfrith's dying words. Bartholomew wished he had spoken again to Aelfrith about his suspicions, but Aelfrith had taken his oath to the Bishop seriously and had never again mentioned the business to Bartholomew.
Next to him, Michael sniffed loudly, his face turned away from Bartholomew. They stood silently for a while, each wrapped in his own thoughts, until Michael gave a huge sigh.
"I have not eaten all day, Matt. Did you ever think I would allow that to happen?' he said in a frail attempt at humour. He took Bartholomew's arm, and guided him towards the kitchen. Michael lit a candle and they looked around. The big room was deserted, the great fireplace cold. Many of the staff had left the College to be with their families, or had run away northwards in an attempt to escape the relentless advance of the plague. Pots had been left unwashed and scraps of old food littered the stone-flagged floor. Bartholomew wrinkled his nose in disgust as a large rat wandered boldly into the middle of the floor.
As Michael and Bartholomew watched, it started to twitch and shudder. It emitted a few high-pitched squeals before collapsing in a welter of black blood that flowed from between its clenched teeth.
'Now even the rats have the plague,' said Michael, his enthusiasm for foraging for food in the kitchen wavering.
'Now why would God send a visitation down upon rats?' said Bartholomew mockingly. 'Why not eels or pigs or birds?'
Michael gave him a shove. 'Perhaps he has, Physician.
When did you last have the time to watch birds and fish?'
Bartholomew gave him a weak smile, and sat at the large table while Michael rummaged in the storerooms.
After a few minutes, he emerged with a bottle of wine, some apples, and some salted beef.
'This will do,' he said, settling himself next to Bartholomew. 'This is a bottle of Master Wilson's best claret. It is the first time I have been able to get near it without Gilbert peering over my shoulder.'
Bartholomew looked askance. 'Stealing the Master's wine? Whatever next, Brother!'
'Not stealing,' said Michael, uncorking the bottle and taking a hearty swig. 'Testing it for him. After all, how do we know that the plague is not spread by claret?'
And how do we know that it was not claret that poisoned Aelfrith? thought Bartholomew. He put his head in his hands. He liked Michael, and hoped he was not one of the fanatics of whom Aelfrith had warned him. He suddenly felt very lonely. He would have given anything for a few moments alone with Philippa.
'You must eat,' said Michael gently, 'or you will be no good to yourself or to your patients. Drink some wine, and then try some of this beef. I swear to you, Matt, it is no older than eight months, and only a little rancid.'
Bartholomew smiled. Michael was trying to cheer him up. He took the proffered piece of meat and choked some of it down. He rifled through the apples, looking for one that was not home to families of maggots. Finding one, he presented it solemnly to Michael, who took it with equal gravity and cut it in half.
'Never let it be said that Michaelhouse scholars do not share their good fortunes,' he said, presenting a piece to Bartholomew. 'When do you think this will be over?' he asked suddenly.
'The plague or the murders?' said Bartholomew.
The strong wine on his empty stomach had made him answer without thinking.
Michael stared at him. 'Murders?' he asked, nonplussed.
Understanding suddenly showed in his eyes.
'Oh no, Matt! Do not start on that! We swore an oath!'
Bartholomew nodded. He had told no one, not even his sister or Philippa, about the conversation he had had with the Bishop, despite probing of varying degrees of subtlety by Wilson, Alcote, and Michael.
'But we know the truth,' he said quietly.
Michael was horrified. 'No! No, we do not,' he insisted. 'We never will. We should not be talking of this!' He looked over his shoulder as if he expected the Bishop to be there.
Bartholomew stood up and walked over to the window, where he stood staring out into the darkness of the yard.
'But murder is murder, Brother,' he said softly. He turned to look at Michael, whose fat face still wore an expression of disbelief.
'Perhaps so,' Michael said, nervously, 'but it is over and done.'
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. 'Is it?' he asked gently, watching Michael for any slight reaction that might betray guilt.
'Of course!' Michael snapped. 'Over and done!'
Bartholomew turned back to the window. Michael had always loved the intricate affairs of the College, and took a strange delight in the petty plays for power.
On occasions, Bartholomew and Abigny had found his persistent speculations tiresome, and had actively avoided his company. Bartholomew wondered whether his refusal to discuss them now meant that he took the Bishop's oath very seriously and really believed that the murders were over, or whether he had other reasons for maintaining his silence. Did he know that Aelfrith had been murdered? Bartholomew decided he would gain nothing by questioning Michael further, except perhaps to arouse his suspicions. If Michael did know more than he was telling, then Bartholomew would be foolish indeed to allow his suspicions to show.
Michael went to sit next to the fire in the large chair from which Agatha usually ran her domain. He shifted his bulk around until he was comfortable, stretching his feet out as if the fire were blazing. Bartholomew went back to the bench and lay flat, folding his hands over his stomach, looking up at the cobwebs on the ceiling. He would rest just a little while before going to his bed.
'Not only have I missed a good many meals,' said Michael, 'but I have been too busy to complain about my perpetually cold feet!'
'Missed meals will do you no harm, my fat monk,' said Bartholomew drowsily. It was freezing in the kitchen, and they were both wet from being out in the rain all day.
They should not lie around in the cold, but should go back to their respective beds and sleep in the warm.
'When will it end?' asked Michael again, his voice distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
Did he mean the plague or the murders in the College? wondered Bartholomew a second time, his thoughts beginning to tumble through his tired brain again. He asked himself why he was lying in a cold kitchen alone with someone whom he thought might know more than was safe about at least one murder.
'Why was Aelfrith in your room?' Bartholomew asked sleepily. Gradually, he was relaxing for the first time in days; it was a pleasant feeling, and he felt himself beginning to fall asleep.
'Mmm?' said Michael. 'Oh, I took him there. He collapsed in the yard. His room was locked, so I took him to mine.'
'Locked?' asked Bartholomew, now struggling to stay awake.
'Yes,' came Michael's voice from a long way off. "I thought it was odd, too. But locked it was, and I could not get in. Perhaps one of his students saw him collapse and did not want him brought to their room.'
Bartholomew thought about that. It was possible, and he knew that Aelfrith's three Franciscan novices had been concerned that the work he was doing among the plague victims might bring the disease to them.
'When do you think this plague will end?' he asked in response, wriggling slightly to ease the ache in his back.
'When the Lord thinks we have learned,' said Michael.
'Learned what, for God's sake?' asked Bartholomew, settling down again. 'If this continues, perhaps there will be no one left to learn anything.'
'Perhaps not,' said Michael. 'But if He wanted us all to die, He would not have bothered to send the signs.'
'What signs?' Bartholomew felt his eyes begin to close, no matter how hard he struggled to keep them open. He tried to remember when he had last slept; a couple of hours two nights before? 'When the plague first started in the Far East, there were three signs,' began Michael. Bartholomew gave up on keeping his eyes open, and just listened.
'On the first day, it rained frogs and serpents. On the second day, there was thunder so loud that people hearing it were sent mad, and lightning that came as sheets of fire. On the third day a great pall of black smoke issued from the earth, blotting out the sun and all the light. On the fourth day, the plague came.
'There have been other signs too,' Michael continued after a moment. 'In France, a great pillar of fire was seen over the Palace of the Popes in Avignon. A ball of fire hung over Paris. In Italy, when the plague arrived, it came with a terrible e
arthquake that sent noxious fumes all over the surrounding country and killed all the crops.
Many died from famine as well as the plague.'
'There have been no such signs here, Brother,' said Bartholomew, almost asleep. 'Perhaps we are not so evil as the French or the Italians.'
'Perhaps not,' said Michael. 'Or perhaps God does not want to waste His signs on the irredeemable.'
Bartholomew woke with a start. He was cold and very stiff, and still lying on the bench. Wincing, he eased himself up, wondering why he had not gone to bed to wake warm and rested. Daylight was flooding in through the window, and there was a crackle of burning wood.
He looked behind him.
'Oh, you are awake, lazy-bones,' grunted Agatha.
'Sleeping in the kitchen indeed! Master Wilson will not be impressed.'
The kitchen had been cleaned since the previous night: the food swept away and the dead rat removed.
One of the fireplaces had been cleared out and a warm blaze replaced the cold ashes. Stiffly, Bartholomew went to sit beside it on a stool, smelling the fresh oatcakes cooking on the circular oven next to the fire. Brother Michael still slept in Agatha's chair, black circles under his eyes and his mouth dangling open. Bartholomew's suspicions of the night before seemed unreasonable.
Even if Michael had been connected with the death of Aelfrith in some way, he obviously meant Bartholomew no harm, when he could easily have dispatched him as he lay sleeping on the bench.
Bartholomew stretched himself and filched an oatcake when he thought Agatha was not looking.
The sudden movement woke Michael, who sat looking around stupidly. 'What time is it?' he asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes and rubbing his cold hands together.
'A little before eight, I would say,' said Agatha. 'Now you sit down,' she continued, pushing Michael back in his chair. "I have made you some oatcakes — if this greedy physician has not eaten them all.'
'But I have missed Prime,' said Michael, horrified.
'And I did not say Matins and Lauds last night.'
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