A Plague On Both Your Houses

9

February 1349

January ended in a succession of blizzards that coated everything in white. With February came wetter, warmer weather that turned the snow into icy brown muck that seeped into shoes and chilled the feet. Bartholomew still trudged around the houses of plague victims, incising buboes where he could, but mostly doing little more than watching people die. He and Gray had visited the last of Abigny's known haunts, and then revisited his favourite ones, but had learned nothing. Philippa and Abigny seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Bartholomew heard that Stanmore's older sister, her husband, and all seven of their children were dead, while at Michaelhouse he buried Roger Alyngton, two more students, and four of the servants. Colet still sat in St Botolph's Church and drooled his days away.

Bartholomew had lain in wait for him one day, and dragged him along when he went to visit his patients hoping to shock him back to rationality — but his patients had been disconcerted, and Colet had become so distressed that Bartholomew was forced to take him home.

It was mid-afternoon, but already growing dark because of the overcast skies, when Bartholomew and Gray were met on the way home by Master Burwell, who asked them to attend a student who was dying.

Bartholomew did all he could, but the student died without regaining consciousness. Three other Bene't Hostel students were ill, and Bartholomew helped Burwell set up a separate room in which they could be cared for. It was a large room compared to the others, and Jacob Yaxley, Master of Law, who had had it to himself since the death of his room-mates, clearly resented being moved. He muttered and grumbled as his students helped him carry his books and papers to another chamber.

As they walked back to the College, Bartholomew thought he saw one body, all wrapped in its shroud, move, and went to investigate. He took his knife and slit open the crude sheet. The woman inside was still alive, although barely. Her neighbour shouted that the woman had sewn herself into the winding sheet when she knew she had the plague, because there was no one left to do it for her.

'What about you?' Bartholomew shouted.

The neighbour crossed himself quickly, and slammed the window shut. The woman muttered incoherently as Bartholomew carried her back inside.

He had heard from Michael that some people, the last surviving members of their families, were preparing themselves for burial with their dying strength but he had dismissed it as yet another plague story intended to horrify. He sat back on his heels, patting the woman's hand abstractedly, unable to stop his mind running through the dreadful outcomes of such actions: supposing the cart had come while she was still alive, and she had been smothered in earth or burned by the quicklime? He wondered if others had not already suffered that fate. The woman slipped away quietly while he was thinking, and he and Gray resewed the shroud and left her on her doorstep again.

It was dark by the time they arrived back at Michaelhouse. Bartholomew went to see his patients in the commoners' room. Jerome had recovered from the plague, but it had weakened him, and he was dying slowly from the wasting disease in his chest. As Bartholomew entered the room, he saw Father William was helping one of the Benedictine novices to sew someone into a blanket.

A quick glance around the room told him it was Nicholas, at fifteen Michaelhouse's youngest student, who looked that morning as if he might recover. Bartholomew sat heavily on a stool.

'His end was so quick that there was no time to call you,' William said. The fanatical gleam that was usually in his eyes had dulled, and he looked exhausted. "I have listened to so many dreadful confessions that hell will soon be running out of space.'

Bartholomew wondered if the Franciscan were making a joke, but there was no humour in his face.

'Then perhaps there will be an overspill into heaven,' he replied, standing up.

William grabbed at his sleeve and pulled him down again, whispering angrily in his ear. 'That is heresy, Doctor, and I advise you against such fanciful remarks!'

'So is your belief that hell has limited space,'

Bartholomew retorted. He remembered the rumours when William had first arrived at Michaelhouse that he had been an inquisitor for the Church.

William let go of Bartholomew's sleeve. 'Do not worry,' he said, and Bartholomew saw the gleam come back into his eye as his mind ran over the implications of Bartholomew's reply. "I will not entrap you in a theological debate. But I miss the company of Aelfrith.

There was a man with a lively mind!'

Bartholomew agreed, and wished Aelfrith were alive, so that he could confide his thoughts and feelings to him at that moment. He could have trusted Aelfrith — unlike William or Alcote or Michael — with his concerns about the plague and the College. And thinking of Michael, Bartholomew had not seen him since the previous day.

He asked if William had.

A curious expression passed over William's face.

'No,' he said. 'He has gone somewhere. He has left me with quite a burden, you know.'

Bartholomew thought it curious that Michael had told no one where he was going, but let it pass. He stood up from his stool, stretched his aching limbs, and helped William to carry Nicholas downstairs and across the courtyard to the stables. They placed the body near the door and left as quickly as possible. Bartholomew knew he would never enter the stables again without thinking about Augustus.

The following day, as he walked back along the High Street with Gray, Bartholomew felt the first huge drops of rain from a storm that had been threatening all morning. Gray hailed a student he knew, who invited them into Mary's Hostel to shelter from the worst of the rain. Like Bene't Hostel, Mary's was warm, steamy, and smelled of boiled vegetables. The student brought them spiced wine, and Bartholomew began to relax from the warmth of the fire and the effects of the wine.

He was virtually asleep when he became aware that Gary was introducing him to someone. Embarrassed, he jumped to his feet, and bowed to the scholar who was being presented to him. From Gray's words, he found it was the new Principal of Mary's, Neville Stayne.

Bartholomew had known the previous Principal quite well, but he had died of the plague before Christmas.

His successor was a man in his forties with a shock of oddly wiry black hair that seemed to want to be as far away from his scalp as possible.

Stayne gestured for him to sit again, and perched on a stool next to him, asking him about the progress of the plague in the town. After a while, Stayne brought the subject round to Giles Abigny, who, it seemed, had also spent a good deal of time at Mary's. The members of the hostel were anxious for his safety.

'Have you any idea where he might be?' asked Bartholomew, expecting the same range of speculation and unfounded rumour he had been given everywhere else.

The fire popped and crackled, and Stayne watched it for a moment before answering. "I do not know where he is now, but I believe I saw him two nights ago in Cambridge.'

Bartholomew's stomach lurched. 'Where? What happened?'

'Well, I think I saw him coming out of the alehouse near the Dominican Friary the night before last. I had heard about him taking his sister off somewhere, and so seeing him stuck in my mind.' The Principal leaned back and closed his eyes as he tried to recall what he had seen. 'He was wearing a heavy cloak, and he turned when I called his name. Then he began to walk away from me quickly. He turned a corner, and I ran after him, but when I got there, the street was empty.' He shrugged.

'That is all, I am afraid. If asked to swear in a court of law, I would not be able to say it was definitely Giles.

But it certainly looked like him, and he did turn and then run away when I called his name. Draw your own conclusions.'

Bartholomew and Gray took their leave as soon as the rain had eased. Stayne closed the door behind them and waited. From the small chamber to one side of the hallway, Burwell emerged. The two men spoke together in low tones for a short time, and then Burwell left, his face grim.

There were two alehouses near the Dominican Friary, but no one in either could remember Giles Abigny. When Bartholomew began to describe him, the fat landlord shook his head.

'We are on a main road, and our trade is excellent, even with this pestilence. I cannot remember everyone who buys ale from me. He may have been here, but I cannot be certain.'

The landlord at the other alehouse knew Abigny and was more helpful, but said Abigny had most definitely not been there two nights before. He smiled ruefully, and said that Abigny had once been caught cheating at a game of dice with two of the locals, and had not dared to show his face again for fear of what might happen to him.

They walked back to Michaelhouse, and, after a silent meal, Bartholomew went to the sick-room. The dim light of the grey winter afternoon made it feel gloomy, and Bartholomew stoked up the fire. He was sure that Wilson would have been appalled at the waste of fuel on dying men. He smiled to himself as a picture of Wilson in hell, telling the Devil not to waste wood on his fires, sprang into his mind. He felt someone touch him on the shoulder, and looked up to see William bending over him. He felt slightly uncomfortable. Was the ex-inquisitor reading his mind and seeing heretical thoughts within?

William beckoned him outside, and stood waiting in the chilly hallway outside Augustus's room.

'We have been sent a message from the Chancellor at last,' he said. 'He has chosen Robert Swynford to be our next Master.'

'No great surprise, and he will make a good Master,'

Bartholomew said. 'Will he come back from the country?'

William shook his head. 'Robert also sent a message saying that there has been plague in the house of his relatives and most of the menfolk have died. He asks our indulgence that we allow him to remain away for a few weeks until he is sure the women will be properly cared for. He has asked Alcote to act as his deputy until then.'

Bartholomew wondered if leaving the College in the care of a man who had just been deprived of the position might not be a risky move. Then he thought of Robert Swynford's easy grace and confidence, and knew that he would have no problem whatsoever in wresting delegated power back from Alcote.

'But Alcote is hiding in his room like Wilson was,' said Bartholomew. 'How can he run the College?' "I assume Swynford has not been told that,' said William. 'Alcote has asked for various documents to be sent to him, so it seems he will at least see to the administration.'

Bartholomew went outside for some air and to stretch limbs cramped from bending over his patients all afternoon. The rain had stopped, and the clouds were beginning to clear. The porter saw him and scuttled over, stopping a good ten feet from Bartholomew, a large pomander filled with powerful herbs pressed to his face.

Bartholomew realised that he had not seen the porter's face since the day he had returned from the house of Agatha's cousin and announced to Michaelhouse that the plague had come. The man held a note that he placed on the ground so he would not have to go nearer to Bartholomew than necessary. When he saw Bartholomew pick it up, he scurried back into the safety of his lodge. Bartholomew watched as he slammed the door. Perhaps the porter was right, and Bartholomew did carry a dangerous miasma around with him. He felt well enough, but how did he know he did not carry the contagion with him, in his breath, his clothes? He sighed heavily and turned his attention to the scrap of parchment in his hand which, in almost illegible writing, said that he was needed at the tinker's house near the river.

Bartholomew collected his cloak and bag of medicines, and set off. A wind was getting up, and it seemed to be growing colder by the moment. Bartholomew wondered whether the river would freeze over, as it had done the year before. As first, he had welcomed this, because it had cut down the smell. But then people just threw rubbish onto the ice rather than into the water, and it was not long before the smell was worse than it had been when the river was running.

He reached the river, and turned to walk along the row of shacks where the river people lived. He recalled that the last patient he had seen before the plague had been the tinker's little girl, and he remembered that he had seen her body buried in one of the first plague pits to be dug. The last house in the row belonged to the tinker, but only one child stood outside to greet him this time.

Entering the single room, he walked over to the pile of rags in one corner that served as a bed, and crouched down to look at the person huddled there.

He was pleasantly surprised to see a healthy woman lying on the bed.

She appeared startled to see him, and exchanged a puzzled glance with the child who had followed him in.

'You sent for me,' said Bartholomew, kneeling on the earth floor. 'What can I do?'

The woman exchanged another look with the child, who shook her head. "I would not send for you for this, Doctor,' the woman said. 'My baby is coming. The midwife is dead, and I had to send my lad to fetch a woman to help me. I do not need a physician.'

Bartholomew returned her puzzled look. 'But you sent me a note…'

He stopped as the woman tensed with a wave of contractions. When she relaxed again, she blurted out,

"I did no such thing. I cannot write, and nor can my children. I do not need a physician.'

And could not pay for one was the unspoken addendum. Bartholomew shrugged. 'But since I am here, and since your time is close, perhaps I can help.

And I will require no payment,' he added quickly, seeing concern flitting across the woman's face.

Bartholomew sent the child to fetch some water and cloths, and not a minute too soon, for the top of the baby's head was already showing. Between gasps, the tinker's wife told him how the other women who lived nearby were either dead or had the pestilence, and she had sent her son to fetch her sister from Haslingfield.

But since that was several miles, she had known help might come too late. Physicians usually left childbirth to the midwives, and Bartholomew was only ever called if there was a serious problem, usually when it was far too late for him to do much about it. He was not surprised to find that he was enjoying doing something other than dealing with plague victims. When the baby finally slid into his hands all slippery and bawling healthily, he was more enthusiastic over it than were the exhausted mother and her wide-eyed daughter.

'It is a beautiful girl,' he said, giving the baby to the mother to nurse, 'perfectly formed and very healthy.' He pulled back the cloth so he could look at her face, and exchanged grins with the mother. He took one of the tiny hands in his. 'Look at her fingernails!' he exclaimed.

The tinker's wife began to laugh. 'Why, Doctor, anyone would think a newborn baby was something special to hear you going on!' she said. 'You would not be like this if it was your ninth in twelve years!'

Bartholomew laughed with her. "I would be happy to help with any more babies you might have, Mistress Tinker,' he said, 'and would consider it a privilege to be asked.'

Bartholomew left the house feeling happier than he had since the plague had started. He made his way back along the river, whistling softly to himself. As he turned the corner to go back to College, a figure stepped out of the shadows in front of him, wielding what looked to be a heavy stick.

Bartholomew stopped in his tracks and glanced behind him, cursing himself for his foolishness. Another two shadowy forms stood there similarly armed. The note! It had been a trap! He swallowed hard, a vision of Augustus's mutilated body coming to mind. His stomach was a cold knot of fear. He had a small knife that he used for medical purposes, but it would be useless against three men armed with staves. He twisted the strap of his bag around his hand, and suddenly raced forward, swinging the bag at the figure in front of him as he did so. He felt it hit the man, and heard him grunt as he fell. Bartholomew kept going, hearing the footsteps of the two behind him following.

He fell heavily to the ground as a fourth figure shot out of some bushes in the lane and crashed into him. He twisted round, and saw one of the men who had followed raise his stick high into the air for a blow that would smash his head like an egg. He kicked out at the man's legs, and saw him lose his balance. Bartholomew tried to scramble to his feet, but someone else had grabbed him by his cloak and was trying to pull it tight around his throat.

Bartholomew struggled furiously, lashing out with fists and feet, and hearing from the obscenities and yelps that a good many of his blows were true.

He brought his knee up sharply into the groin of one man, but he could not hold out for ever against four. He looked up, and saw for the second time an upraised stick silhouetted against the dark sky, but now he was pinned down and unable to struggle free. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow that he was certain would be the last thing he would know.

The blow never came. Instead, the man toppled onto him clutching his chest, and Bartholomew felt a warm spurt of blood gush over him. He squirmed out from underneath the inert body, and made a grab for the cloak of one of his attackers who was now trying to run away. The man kicked backwards viciously, and Bartholomew was forced to let go. He heard their footsteps growing fainter as they ran up the lane, while others came closer.

He drew his knife, knowing that he did not have the strength to run a second time, and prepared to sell his life dearly should he be attacked again. He squinted as a lamp was thrust into his face.

'Matt!' Bartholomew felt himself hauled to his feet, and looked into the anxious face of Oswald Stanmore.

'Matt!' Stanmore repeated, looking down the lane after Bartholomew's attackers. 'What happened? Who is this?' He pushed at the body of the man who had fallen with his foot.

Bartholomew saw that Stanmore's steward, Hugh, was with him, armed with a crossbow. Stanmore kept looking around, as if he expected the attackers to come again.

"I was sent a note to see a patient by the river,'

Bartholomew said, still trying to recover his breath, 'and these men attacked me.'

'You should know better than to go to the river after dark,' said Stanmore. 'The Sheriff caught three of the robbers that have been menacing the town there only last week. Doubtless these are more of the same.' He glanced around. 'Who sent you the note? Surely you can tie note and attackers together?'

Bartholomew showed him the now-crumpled message.

'The tinker did not write this,' he said.

Stanmore took it from him and peered at it. 'The tinker most certainly did not,' he said, 'for he died last month. I heard that only two of his children live, and his wife is expecting her ninth, poor woman.'

Bartholomew bent to look at the man on the ground.

He was dead, the crossbow bolt embedded deeply in his chest. Bartholomew rifled hurriedly through his clothes, hoping for something that would identify him. There was a plain purse, filled with silver coins, but nothing else.

Bartholomew shook the purse at Stanmore. 'He was paid this money to attack me,' he said. He thought about the tinker's baby: it would make a fine gift for her baptism.

Stanmore began to lead the way cautiously up the lane towards Michaelhouse. Bartholomew caught his sleeve as they walked. 'What were you doing here?' he asked, keeping a wary eye on the trees at the sides of the lane.

Stanmore raised the lamp to look into some deep shadows near the back of Michaelhouse. 'A barge came in today,' he said, 'and I have been sitting with the captain negotiating the price of the next shipment.' He nodded at his steward. 'When I am at the wharf after dark, I always tell Hugh to bring his crossbow. You never know who you might meet around here.'

Bartholomew clapped Stanmore on the shoulder. 'I did not say thank you,' he said. 'Had you been a second later, you would have been rescuing a corpse!'

They reached Michaelhouse, and Stanmore joined Bartholomew for a cup of spiced wine in the hall, while Hugh was despatched to take the news to the Sheriff.

Father William was there too, trying to read by the light from the candles, and several students talked in low voices in another corner.

Stanmore stretched out his legs in front of the small fire. 'These robbers are getting bold,' he said. 'They have only picked on the dead and dying up until now.

This is the first time I have heard them attacking the healthy.'

Bartholomew put the purse on the table. He quickly told Stanmore about the blacksmith, and how he had been paid to do Bartholomew harm during the riot.

Stanmore listened, his mouth agape in horror.

'For the love of God, Matt! What have you got yourself mixed up in? First this blacksmith business, then Philippa, and now this!'

Bartholomew could only look as mystified as his brother-in-law.

When Hugh returned, Stanmore rose to leave, declining Bartholomew's offer of a bed for the night.

'No thank you, Matt!' he said, looking round at the College. 'Why should I spend a night in this cold and wretched place when I can have roaring fires and bright, candle-lit rooms with Stephen?'

Bartholomewr went back to his own room, and undressed ready for bed. He had to wash and hang up his clothes in the dark, because scholars were not usually given candles for their rooms. It was considered wasteful, when they could use the communal ones in the hall, or, more usually, the conclave. He tidied the room as best he could, and lay on the creaking bed, rubbing his feet together hard in a vain attempt to warm them up. Stanmore was right: Michaelhouse was cold and gloomy. He tried to get comfortable, wincing as the wooden board dug into a place where one of his attackers had kicked him.

So, who had tried to kill him? Both the blacksmith and the dead man had been paid about five marks in silver in leather purses. Were they connected? They had to be: surely there was not more than one group of people who would pay to have him killed! Bartholomew shifted uncomfortably. He could hear Michael's Benedictine room-mates chanting a psalm in the room above. Then, somewhere in the lane outside, a dog barked twice. A gust of wind rattled the shutters, and rain pattered against them. He curled up in a ball, and attempted to wrap the bedclothes round his frozen feet. He tried to concentrate, but his thoughts kept running together.

Next he knew, it was morning.

It was overcast and wet. Bartholomew went to the church for mass, where he was the only one present other than Father William. The Franciscan babbled the Latin at such high speed that Bartholomew barely heard most of it. He wondered whether William could really be sincere at such a pace, or whether he believed God liked His masses fast so He could get on with other things. Bartholomew would have asked him had he not been reluctant to be drawn into a protracted debate.

Remembering his obligation to Wilson, Bartholomew went to look at the spot the lawyer had chosen for his glorious tomb. Bartholomew had already asked one of the Castle stonemasons to order a slab of black marble, although he wondered when he would be able to hire someone to carve it. The Master Mason had died of the plague, and the surviving masons were overwhelmed by the repair work necessary to maintain the Castle. As he gazed at Wilson's niche, he thought it unfair that good men like Augustus and Nicholas should lie in a mass grave, while Wilson should have a grand tomb to commemorate him.

Bartholomew left the church and stepped into the street, closing the door behind him. He pulled his hood up against the rain, and set off to check the plague pits.

On his way, he met Burwell, who greeted him with a smile and told him that there had been no new cases of plague in Bene't Hostel for two days.

As they talked, a beggar with dreadful sores on his face approached, pleading for alms. Bartholomew knew the beggar prepared his 'sores' every morning with a mixture of chalk, mud, and pig's blood. The beggar suddenly recognised Bartholomew under his hood, and backed off in dismay, as Bartholomew grasped Burwell's hand to prevent him from giving his money away.

As Bartholomew turned to explain to Burwell, he saw the purse in the hand he held. It was made of fine leather, and had 'BH' embellished on it in gold thread.

Bartholomew had one just like it in his pocket. He felt his stomach turn over, although there was no reason why the Sub-Principal of Bene't Hostel should not have one of its purses. Burwell looked at him curiously. 'Doctor?' he said.

'Sores painted on fresh every day,' mumbled Bartholomew, hoping Burwell had not noticed his reaction, and if he had, did not guess why.

Burwell looked up at the sky as the church bell rang out the hour, and drew his hood over his head. 'Well, I must be about my business, and I know you must be busy.' He started to walk away, and then stopped.

'When you next see that rascal, Samuel Gray, could you tell him that he still owes us money for his fees last term?'

Bartholomew was a little angry at Gray. He should have cleared his debts with the hostel before changing to a new teacher. It was just another example of the double life the student seemed to lead. Bartholomew wondered what else he kept hidden. Since he was passing, Bartholomew went into St Botolph's Church to look for Colet. The Physician sat in his usual place, staring at the candles and twisting the golden lion round his fingers again and again.

When Bartholomew tried to talk to him, Colet fixed him with a vacant stare, and Bartholomew was in no doubt that Colet no longer knew who he was. His beard was encrusted with dried saliva, and his clothes were filthy. Bartholomew wondered if he should try to do something for him, but Colet did not seem to be in any discomfort. He decided to wait for a day or so and reconsider it then.

He left the church and continued along the High Street. As he passed the King's Head, Henry Oliver emerged and gave him such a look of undisguised enmity that Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks.

Oliver began to walk towards him. Bartholomew waited, taking the small knife out of his bag and keeping it hidden under his cloak so that Oliver would not see it.

'Found your lady yet, Doctor?' he said, his voice little more than a hiss.

Bartholomew wanted to push him into the stone trough that was full of water for horses, just behind him.

'Why do you ask?' he said, his voice betraying none of the anger that welled up inside him.

Oliver shrugged nonchalantly and gave a cold little smile. 'Just curious to know whether she continues to hide from you.'

Bartholomew smiled back. 'She still hides from me,' he said, wondering what Oliver thought he was going to gain from this cat-and-mouse game. 'Now, if you will excuse me, pleasant though it is to talk with you, the plague pit calls.'

He walked away, wondering what on earth could be the matter with the young man, and decided to speak to Swynford about it when he returned to College. The unpleasantness had gone on quite long enough.

As he approached the plague pit, an urchin darted up to him and mumbled something before turning to race away. Bartholomew, quick as lightning, grabbed him and held him as he struggled frantically, kicking at Bartholomew with his small bare feet. Bartholomew waited until the child's frenzy was spent and spoke gently.

"I did not hear what you said. Say it again.'

'A well-wisher has sommat to tell you if you come here at ten tonight,' he stammered, looking up at Bartholomew with big frightened eyes. 'But you got to come alone.'

Bartholomew stared at him. Was this another ploy to get him into a place where he could be dispatched as he almost had been the night before? 'Who told you to tell me this?'

The brat struggled again. "I don't know. It was a man all wrapped up. He asked if I knew you — you came to my ma when she was sick — so I said yes, and he told me to tell you that message and to run away after. He gave me a penny.' He thrust out his hand to show it. Bartholomew let the child go and watched him scamper down the muddy street.

Now what? he thought. As if the plague, the College and Philippa were not enough to worry about!

The rain had eased off during the day, and, as night fell, patches of blue began to appear in the sky. But by the time Bartholomew returned to Michaelhouse after attending his patients, it was so late that most of the scholars were already in bed.

He went to the kitchen where Cynric dozed in front of the dying fire, and rummaged in the pantry until he found the remains of a loaf of bread and some hard cheese. While he ate, Cynric stoked up the fire, and set some wine to mull for them both.

Bartholomew considered whether he should go to meet his 'well-wisher' at the plague pit. It seemed an odd choice for a rendezvous, but it would certainly be private, for no one in his right mind would frequent that place of desolation and despair in the dead of night. He glanced at the hour candle. He would need to make up his mind fairly quickly, for the meeting was in less than an hour.

Perhaps the mysterious sender really did wish him well, and would have information about Philippa. He tried to consider it logically. The people who attacked him would hardly expect that he would accept a second invitation to meet an unknown person in the dark in some god-forsaken spot after what had happened to him the previous night. Therefore, his 'well-wisher' must be someone who did not know about the attack. Of course, his attackers might use the same line of reasoning as he had just done. He stared into the fire and tapped his fingers on the table as his mind wrestled with the problem.

Abruptly, he stood. He was going. He would arm himself this time, and would be alert to the possibility of danger, unlike the previous night. He had spent hours in taverns and hostels trying to learn something about the disappearance of Giles and Philippa: it was possible that his well-wisher might have the information he wanted, and he did not wish to miss out on such an opportunity by being overly cautious.

Cynric looked at him sleepily. 'You going out again?' he asked. His eyes snapped open as Bartholomew took a large double-edged butchery knife from its hook on the wall and slipped it under his cloak.

'Now what are you going to do with that?' he said.

He sat up straight in Agatha's fireside chair, his interest quickened. 'Not roistering about the town?' "I have a meeting,' said Bartholomew. He saw no reason why he should not tell Cynric where he was going.

At least then, if he were attacked, Cynric could tell the Sheriff it had been planned, and was not some random skirmish by the robbers as Stanmore plainly believed had happened the previous evening.

Cynric grabbed his cloak from where it lay in a bundle on the floor. 'At this time of night? After what happened to you yesterday? I had better come too, to keep you from mischief.'

'No,' said Bartholomew, thinkingabout the message.

It told him to come alone, and he did not want to run the risk of frightening off a potential informant.

Cynric threw his cloak around his shoulders, and stood next to Bartholomew. 'We have known each other for a long time,' he said quietly, 'and I have seen that there has been something amiss with you since Sir John died. Perhaps I can help. I know you are anxious about the Lady Philippa. Is that what this meeting is about?'

Bartholomew gave a reluctant smile. He had forgotten how astute the small Welshman could be. He nodded and said, 'But I have been told to come alone.'

Cynric dismissed this with a wave of his hand. 'The day someone sees Cynric ap Huwydd when he does not want to be seen will be the day he dies. Do not worry, boy, I will be there, but none will know it other than you. Now, where are we going?'

Bartholomew relented. He was nervous about the meeting, and it would be reassuring to have Cynric nearby. If nothing else, at least he could run for help if things took a nasty turn. 'But you must be cautious,' he said. "I have no idea who we are meeting, or what they want. If there is trouble, run for help. Do not come yourself or you may get hurt.'

Cynric shot him a disbelieving look. 'What do you take me for, boy? You should know me better than that.

I learned something of ambush tactics in the Welsh mountains, you know.' "I am sorry. It is just that so many people have met untimely deaths in the College and I do not want to lose anyone else.'

'Like Augustus, Paul and Montfitchet, you mean?' asked Cynric. Bartholomew looked at him askance.

'Just because I have no degree, like you scholars, does not mean I have no sense,' said Cynric. "I know they were murdered, despite the lies that fat Wilson put about. I will keep my mouth shut,' he added quickly, seeing Bartholomew's expression of concern. "I have done until now. But you should know that you are not alone in this.'

It was a long speech for Cynric, who indicated that the subject was closed by pinching out the candles and selecting a knife of his own.

Bartholomew slipped out of the kitchen door and across the courtyard. He walked briskly up St Michael's Lane and turned into the High Street. It was not easy to walk in the dark. The night had turned foggy, blocking out any light the moon might have given, and it was almost impossible to see the pot-holes and rubbish until he had stepped into them. At one point, he stumbled into a hole full of stinking water that reached his knees.

Grimacing with distaste at the smell of urine and offal that came from it, he picked himself up and continued.

From Cynric there was not a sound, but Bartholomew knew he was there.

At last he reached the field where the plague pits had been dug. A crude wooden fence had been erected around the field to prevent dogs from entering and digging up the victims. Bartholomew climbed over it and looked around. The mounds from the two full pits rose from the trampled grass like ancient pagan barrows. The other pit gaped like a great black mouth, and Bartholomew could make out the paler layer at the bottom where the lime had been spread over the last bodies to be laid there.

He tried to detect whether there was anyone hiding in the hedges at the sides of the field, but he could see nothing moving. A sound behind him made him spin round and almost lose his balance.

His heart beat wildly and he felt his knees turn to jelly. He grabbed at the fence with one hand, while the other groped for the long knife that he had tucked into his belt.

A figure stood outside the fence, heavily cloaked and hooded. It made no attempt to climb over, and when Bartholomew took a step forward, it held up its hand.

'Stay!'

It was a woman's voice. Bartholomew's heart leapt.

'Philippa!' he exclaimed.

The figure was still for a moment, and then shook her head. 'Not Philippa. I am sorry.'

Bartholomew's hopes sank. It was not Philippa's voice: it was deeper, older, and with an accent that suggested the speaker came from the Fens rather than the town.

The woman looked around her quickly. "I am glad you came, but it is not safe for us to meet like this.'

She glanced around again, and leaned over the fence so she would not have to speak so loudly. 'There is a meeting tomorrow at Bene't Hostel. I cannot say what it is about, but you should try to find out because I think it will affect you. The best way would be for you to go to the back of the house and climb to the window in the room they use for the hall. There is a deep sill there, and you will be able to hear what is being said through the shutters. You must take utmost care, for these are dangerous men. But I think you will be safer knowing than not knowing what they say.'

Bartholomew was totally confused. 'Is this about Philippa?' he asked.

The figure took a step away. "I cannot say. You will have to listen and work it out for yourself.'

'But who are you?' Bartholomew asked.

The woman took another step away. 'Please! I will lose everything if anyone finds out I met with you tonight.

Now I must go. Please do not follow me. I ask you this because I took a risk for you tonight.'

Bartholomew assented. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'

The woman stopped and he could feel her looking at him from the depths of her hood. 'You have done enough,' she said softly, and slipped away into the mist.

Bartholomew looked after her, totally mystified.

What kind of meeting held at Benet Hostel could possibly have any relevance to him? And how was he supposed to climb up the back of the building and eavesdrop like some spy? Was this a ploy to discredit him, to get him into some dreadfully compromising position so that he could be dismissed from the University? Were there Oxford scholars plotting against him? Wilson and Aelfrith would probably think so, but there was something about the Oxford plot that Bartholomew could not accept. He understood why Wilson and Aelfrith had believed in it, but he still felt that the entire business was far more important to Cambridge than Oxford, and that Oxford would not waste time on it.

Cynric materialised in front of him, making him jump almost as much as he had when the woman had appeared. Cynric put his hand on his shoulder.

'Easy, boy! Not so jumpy. Shall I follow her?'

Bartholomew dug his nails into the fence, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. The woman had taken a risk to give him information she considered to be important to him, and had asked him not to put her in further danger by following her home.

'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 closed, 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.'