'Philippa!' he said, his voice no more than a whisper.
'She is well, but worried about you, as is your sister.'
The student had appeared, and was leaning over him, dark rings under his eyes, and his hair even more rumpled than Bartholomew remembered.
'What are you doing here?' Bartholomew croaked.
'Tsk, man! The lad has been looking after you day and night! Show a little gratitude.'
Bartholomew gave a weak grin. 'Cynric! Thank God! I thought you might be gone.' He reached for Cynric's hand to assure himself his imagination was not playing tricks.
Cynric, touched, became brusque. 'Lie still, or those incisions will start bleeding again.'
'What incisions? Did Gregory Colet come?'
'Master Colet has given up on the world, and spends his days on his knees with the monks. It is young Samuel who has been looking after you.'
Bartholomew looked appalled, and winced as he tried to move his arms to check where the swellings on his neck would have been. "I feel as though I have been savaged by a dog,' he groaned. 'What has he done to me?'
'He cut the swellings open to drain them. Just as you have been doing to others, Master Physician. Now you know how it feels,' said Cynric, ruefully rubbing his own lacerated neck.
Bartholomew looked at the student. 'Who are you?' he asked, wondering why a fit and healthy young man would opt to care for a plague victim he did not know.
'Samuel Gray,' said the student, promptly.
'Yes, from Bene't Hostel. But that is not what I meant. What do you want from me?'
Gray looked at the floor. "I followed you to Trumpington, and then back in the snow. When you returned from seeing the miller's boy, I came here while you went off to see to Cynric. I was waiting for you, but you were such a long time, I fell asleep.' He looked up and met Bartholomew's eyes. "I was Master Roper's student, and he is dead, so I would like to study under you.'
His speech over, he tried to look nonchalant, as if Bartholomew's response was not that important to him anyway, but in the silence that followed, his face grew anxious and he watched Bartholomew intently.
"I see.' Bartholomew was suddenly very tired, and could not stop his eyes from closing. Then he was shaken awake again. 'Will you have me?' the student asked insistently.
Bartholomew struggled to free himself from Gray's grip, but was as weak as a kitten. 'Why me? What have I done to deserve this?' he said, his voice heavy with sleepiness.
Gray looked at him narrowly, trying to assess whether there was a hidden insult in the question. 'There are not many of you left,' he said rudely.
Bartholomew heard Cynric laughing. He could feel himself drifting into a deep and restful slumber. Gray's voice brought him awake again.
'Will you have me? I have a good degree, you can ask Hugh Stapleton. Oh…' his voice trailed off.
Stapleton was dead. 'Master Abigny!' he exclaimed jubilantly. 'You can ask him, he knows me!' He gave Bartholomew another gentle shake.
Bartholomew reached up and grabbed a handful of Gray's tunic, pulling him down towards the bed. 'You will never be a good physician unless you can learn when to let your patients rest,' he whispered, 'and you will never be a good student unless you learn not to manhandle your master.'
Releasing Gray's clothing, he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep. Gray looked at Cynric. 'Was that a yes or a no?' he asked.
Cynric, still smiling, shrugged and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Gray stood looking down at Bartholomew for several minutes before tidying the bedclothes and blowing out the candle. He lay down on the pallet bed Cynric had given him and stared into the darkness. He knew that Bartholomew would live now, so long as he rested and regained his strength.
Bartholomew coughed in his sleep, and Gray raised himself on one elbow to peer over at him. He believed he had taken no risk in tending Bartholomew, for he was one of the plague's first victims in Cambridge and had survived. He did not think he would catch the disease a second time, and had been making a good deal of money by offering to tend plague victims in the houses of rich merchants. But that was nothing compared to what he may have earned by nursing Bartholomew. He had heard about Bartholomew's methods and ideas, and had longed to study with him when he was an undergraduate, but the physician already had as many students as he could manage.
Gray knew exactly what he wanted from life. He intended to become an excellent physician and have a large number of very wealthy patients. Perhaps he might even become the private physician of some nobleman.
Regardless, he intended to find himself a position that would bring him wealth and enough free time to be able to enjoy it. He knew Bartholomew worked among the poor, but to Gray that meant he would gain far more experience of diseases than from a physician who tended the rich. He would be happy to work among the poor during his medical training, but then he would be off to make his fortune in York or Bristol, or perhaps even London.
Gray smiled to himself and lay back down, his arms behind his head. He and Cynric had been caring for Bartholomew continuously for five days and nights, and several times had thought their labours were in vain.
Brother Michael had actually given Bartholomew last rites before the fever suddenly broke.
Once Bartholomew had slept almost twenty-four hours without waking, his recovery was rapid. He was out of his bed and taking his first unsteady steps around the College yard within a day, and felt ready to begin his work again within three days. Michael, Cynric, and Gray urged him to rest more, but Bartholomew insisted that tossing restlessly on his bed was more tiring than working. Bartholomew decided that all plague victims in the College should be in one room so that they could have constant attention.
He set about converting the commoners' dormitory into a hospital ward, relocating the few surviving commoners elsewhere. Brother Michael's Benedictine room-mates willingly offered their services, and Bartholomew hoped that this arrangement might reduce the risks to others.
As soon as he could, Bartholomew went to see Gregory Colet. As he walked through the wet streets to Rudde's Hostel, he was shocked at the piles of rubbish and dead animals that littered them. There were three bodies, crudely wrapped in filthy rags, at the doors of St Michael's Church that Bartholomew judged to have been there for several days. Around them, several rats lay dead and dying, some half-buried in mud and refuse.
Brother Michael walked beside him, his cowl pulled over his head in an attempt to mask the stench.
'What has happened here, Michael?' said Bartholomew in disbelief. He watched a ragged band of children playing on a huge pile of kitchen waste outside Garret Hostel, occasionally stopping to eat some morsel that they considered edible. On the opposite side of the street, two large pigs rooted happily among a similar pile of rubbish. He shook his head in despair at the filth and disorder.
Michael shrugged. 'There is no one left to do anything. Now that Colet has given up, you and Robin of Grantchester are the only medics here. All the others are dead or gone.'
'What about the priests? Can they not see that the streets need to be cleared and the bodies removed?'
Michael laughed without humour. 'We are in the business of saving souls,' he said, 'notbodies. And anyway, so many clerics have died that there are barely enough to give last rites. Did you know that there are only three Dominicans left here?'
Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. The large community of Dominicans had continued to work among the poor after the outbreak of the plague, and it seemed that their adherence to their way of life may have brought about their virtual demise.
Gregory Colet was not in his room at Rudde's, and the porter told them that he would be in one of the churches, usually St Botolph's. Bartholomew had always admired St Botolph's, with its slate-grey stone and windows faced with cream ashlar, but as Michael pushed open the great oak door and led the way inside it felt damp and cold. The stained glass that he had coveted for St Michael's Church no longer seemed to imbue it wi
th soft colour, but served to make it dismal.
The feeling of gloom was further enhanced by the sound of muted chanting. Candles were lit in the sanctuary and half a dozen monks and friars from various Orders knelt in a row at the altar. Colet sat to one side, his back against a pillar and his eyes fixed on the twinkling candles. One of the monks saw Bartholomew and Michael and came down the aisle to meet them.
Michael introduced him to Bartholomew as Brother Dunstan of Ely. Dunstan expressed pleasure to see Bartholomew well again.
'God knows we need you now,' he said, his eyes straying to Colet.
'What is wrong with him?' Bartholomew asked.
Dunstan tapped his temple. 'His mind has gone.
He heard that Roper had died and that you had the sickness, and he gave up. He sits here, or in one of the other churches, all day and only goes home to sleep. I think he may be willing himself to die.'
Michael crossed himself quickly while Bartholomew looked at Dunstan in horror.
'No! Not when there are so many others that are being taken who want to live!'
Dunstan sighed. 'It is only what I think. Now I must go. We have so many masses to say for the dead, so much to do…'
Michael followed Dunstan to the altar rail, leaving Bartholomew looking at Colet, still gazing at the candles with vacant eyes. Bartholomew knelt down and touched Colet on the shoulder. Reluctantly Colet tore his eyes from the candles to his friend. He gave the faintest glimmer of a smile.
'Matt! You have escaped the Death!'
He began to look back towards the candles again, and Bartholomew gripped his shoulder.
'What is wrong, Gregory? I need your help.'
Colet shook his head. 'It is too late. You and I can do no more.' He became agitated. 'Give it up, Matthew, and go to the country. Cambridge will be a dead town soon.'
'No!' said Bartholomew vehemently. 'It is far from over. People have recovered and others have escaped infection. You cannot give up on them. They need you and so do I!'
Colet shook Bartholomew's hand away, his agitation quickly disappearing into a lethargic gloom. "I can do no more,' he said, his voice barely audible.
'You must!' pleaded Bartholomew. 'The streets are filthy, and the bodies of the dead have not been collected in days. I cannot do it all alone, Gregory. Please!'
Colet's dull eyes looked blankly at Bartholomew before he turned away to look at the candles. 'Give it up,' he whispered. 'It is over.'
Bartholomew sat for a moment, overwhelmed by the task he now faced alone. Robin of Grantchester might help, but he would do nothing without being paid and Bartholomew had very little money to give him. He glanced up and saw Michael and Dunstan watching him.
'You can do nothing here,' said Dunstan softly, looking at Colet with pity. 'It is best you leave him be.'
Depressed at Colet's state of mind, Bartholomew ate a dreary meal in Michaelhouse's chilly hall, and then went to visit the building where Stanmore had his business.
Stephen greeted Bartholomew warmly, looking so like his older brother that Bartholomew almost mistook him.
Bartholomew was urged inside and made to sit near a roaring fire while Stephen's wife prepared some spiced wine. Stephen reassured him that everyone was well at Trumpington, but there was a reservation in his voice that made Bartholomew uneasy.
'Are you sure everyone is well?' he persisted.
'Yes, yes, Matthew. Do not worry,' he said, swirling the wine in his cup, and assiduously refusing to look Bartholomew in the eye.
Bartholomew leaned over and gripped his wrist.
'Has anyone there had the plague? Did it come with Philippa?'
Stephen sighed. 'They told me not to tell you, because they did not want you to go rushing over there before you were well enough. Yes. The plague struck after you brought Philippa. She became ill before you were scarcely gone from the house. Then Edith was stricken, and three of the servants. The servants died, but Philippa and Edith recovered,' he said quickly as Bartholomew leapt to his feet. 'Sit down again and listen.
They were not ill as long as you. They got those revolting swellings like everyone else, but they also got black spots over their bodies.'
He paused, and Bartholomew felt his heart sink.
'They are well now,' Stephen said again, 'but…' His voice trailed off.
'But what?' said Bartholomew. His voice was calm and steady, but he had to push his hands into the folds of his robe so that Stephen would not see them shaking.
'The spots on Edith healed well enough, but Mistress Philippa has scars.'
Bartholomew leaned back in his chair. Was that it?
He looked perplexed, and Stephen tried to explain.
'There are scars on her face. She will not let anyone see them, and she refuses to speak to anyone. She wears a veil all the time, and they have to leave her food outside the door… where are you going?'
Bartholomew was already at the door, drawing his hood over his head. 'Can I borrow a horse?' he said.
Stephen grabbed his arm. 'This is difficult for me to say, Matt, but she specifically asked that you not be allowed to see her. She does not want to see anyone.'
Bartholomew shook him off. "I am a physician.
There may be something I can do.'
Stephen grabbed him again. 'She does not want you to go, Matt. She left a note saying that you were not to come. No one has seen her for the past week.
Leave her. In time she will come round.'
'Can I borrow a horse?' Bartholomew asked again.
'No,' said Stephen, maintaining his grip.
'Then I will walk,' said Bartholomew, pushing him away and striding out into the yard. Stephen sighed, and shouted for an apprentice to saddle up his mare.
Bartholomew waited in silence, while Stephen chattered nervously. 'Richard is back,' he said. Bartholomew relented a little, and smiled at Stephen.
'Thank God,' he said softly. 'Edith must be so happy.'
'As a monk in a brothel!' said Stephen grinning.
The apprentice walked the horse over and Bartholomew swung himself up into the saddle. Stephen darted into his house and returned with a long blue cloak. 'Wear this, or you will freeze.'
Bartholomew accepted it gratefully. He leaned down to touch Stephen lightly on the shoulder, and was gone, kicking the horse into a canter that was far from safe on the narrow streets.
Once out of the town, he had to slow down out of consideration for Stephen's horse. The road to Trumpington had been well travelled, and the snow had been churned into a deep slush. The weather was warmer than it had been before Christmas, and the frozen mud had thawed into a mass of cold, oozing sludge. The horse slipped and skidded, and had to be urged forward constantly. Bartholomew was beginning to think he would have to lead it, when the path became wider, and he was able to pick his way around the larger morasses.
He tried not to think about what he might encounter when he reached Edith's house. He thought, instead, of Gray's amazement when he discovered that Bartholomew did not own a horse. He wondered, not for the first time since his recovery, whether Gray was the kind of person he wanted to teach.
Bartholomew knew that he owed Gray his life. It was doubtful whether Bartholomew would have recovered without Gray's clumsy surgery and constant care. The student had taken quite a risk in lancing the swellings himself; he had not done it before, and had only seen Master Roper do it once. Bartholomew would bear the scars of Gray's inexperience for the rest of his life.
But Bartholomew remained unsure of Gray. He did not like the fact that it had been Gray who had been sent to bring him to meet Philippa, and did not like the feeling of being in debt to the flippant young man. In fact, he did not like Gray. He was confident to the point of arrogance, arid was perpetually estimating how much each patient should pay as opposed to how much Bartholomew charged. Bartholomew's charges usually fell short of the cost of the medicines, and he was constantly aware of Gray's disapproving presence in the background. It was like
having Wilson with him.
At last he reached the village and Edith's house.
Richard came racing out to meet him, and Bartholomew was almost knocked off his feet with the force of the embrace. Richard was only seventeen, but was already almost as tall as Bartholomew. Richard chattered on in his excitement, forgetting the dignity, as befitting an undergraduate at Oxford, that he had been trying to cultivate.
Bartholomew listened, Richard's descriptions bringing back vivid memories of his own time in Oxford.
Edith hurried out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron before giving him a hug, and Stanmore came to slap him on the shoulders.
'Matt, you look thin and pale,' Edith said, holding him at arm's length. She hugged him again. 'It was horrible,' she whispered, so that only he could hear.
'We heard you were ill, and there was nothing we could do. I was so afraid for you.'
'Well, I am fine now. But you have been ill, too?'
Edith waved a hand dismissively. 'A couple of days in bed, that is all. But you should not have come.' Her face grew fearful, and she clung onto his arm. 'We told Stephen not to tell you,' she said.
'My lord, Matt! What on earth have you been doing with Stephen's horse?' Stanmore, for whom horses were a passion, was looking in horror at the bedraggled, mud-spattered mare.
Bartholomew groaned. He had not realised what a state the horse was in. 'Stephen will have my hide. Can you clean it up?'
Richard went off with the stable boy to supervise, and Bartholomew followed his sister and her husband into the house. Once away from Richard, all three grew serious. Edith explained how she had gone to check on Philippa immediately after Bartholomew had left, and had found her feverish. Edith had become ill the same night, and the three servants by the following day. The fever had not seemed as intense as that of some of the plague victims, but had included a rash of black spots.
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