A Plague On Both Your Houses

4

When Bartholomew returned to his room, there was a message from one of the wealthy cloth merchants in Milne Street asking him to visit. Bartholomew glanced up at the sun, trying to estimate whether he had sufficient time before he was due to meet Aelfrith. He hesitated for a moment, but then set off, swinging his heavy bag of potions and instruments over his shoulder, aware that he should walk slowly to avoid straining his knee. Since the merchant had never asked for him before, Bartholomew imagined that his brother-in-law must have recommended him.

He found the house, a rambling building gleaming under fresh whitewash, and knocked at the door. A servant directed him up the stairs and into a sumptuous room hung with cloth of blue and gold. There was even glass in the windows, and the sun filtered through it to make patterns on the wooden floor. Bartholomew introduced himself, and sat on the bed to listen to his new patient's problem. It did not take him long to discover that if Nathaniel the Fleming had been more abstemious with Master Wilson's wine at the Michaelhouse feast the night before, he would not have been lying in his bed complaining of pains in his head and stomach cramps. Bartholomew listened gravely to Nathaniel's list of ailments, and prescribed large quantities of watered ale and a cold compress for his head. Nathaniel looked aghast.

'But you have not consulted my stars. And should you not leech me?'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'There is no need for leeches, and I do not need to read your stars to understand the nature of your… affliction.' He rose to take his leave.

'Wait!' Nathaniel, with a burst of energy that made him wince, grabbed Bartholomew's arm. 'Oswald Stanmore told me you were the best physician irr Cambridge. Is watered ale and wet cloths all that you prescribe? How do you know about the state of my humours?'

Bartholomew felt a flash of impatience. 'Of course, I could spend the afternoon consulting charts and learning of your humours. But at the end of the day, my advice to you would be the same: drink lots and apply a cool cloth to soothe your head. Time will heal the rest.'

Nathaniel half rose from his bed. 'But that is not enough! What kind of physician are you that you choose not to use the tools of your trade?'

'An honest one, Master Nathaniel,' retorted Bartholomew.

"I do not seek to charge you for services you do not need.'

'But how do you know?' argued Nathaniel. 'And I feel the need for leeches.'

'Then I cannot help you,' said Bartholomew, turning to leave.

'Then I will send for Master Colet,' said Nathaniel.

'He knows his leeches. You need not tend to me again.'

Bartholomew left, biting his tongue to prevent himself from telling Nathaniel he was a fool. As he clattered down Nathaniel's fine staircase, he heard the merchant ordering a servant to fetch Colet. Clenching his fists in frustration, he wondered whether he should have complied with Nathaniel's request- applied leeches to his arm to remove the excess of humours, and read his stars to see what other treatment they might suggest. But the man only had a hangover! Why should Bartholomew waste his time applying treatments that were unnecessary?

And why should Nathaniel pay for them? As he walked home, his frustration and anger subsided. Once again, he had lost the chance of a wealthy patient because he tried to give him what he knew was best, rather than what the patient expected. Sir John had been wise when he encouraged Bartholomew to work among the poor — they seldom questioned his skills, even if they did not always follow his advice.

Bartholomew stopped at the kitchen for something to drink, and by the time he had limped to the orchard, Aelfrith was already waiting. It was pleasant in the shade of the trees, with the rich scent of ripe apples. Bartholomew made his way to the ancient tree-trunk that lay against the wall, and had been used by countless students to study in solitude or to enjoy a nap in the sun.

"I have made sure that we are the only ones here,'

Aelfrith said. "I want no one to overhear us.'

Bartholomew watched him warily, Michael's warnings ringing in his ears. Aelfrith took a deep breath.

'There is an evil loose in the College,' he said, 'and we must try to stamp it out.'

'What is the evil, and how do we stamp it out?'

Bartholomew asked. 'And why all the secrecy?'

Aelfrith looked hard into Bartholomew's eyes, as if searching for something. "I do not want to tell you what I am about to,' he said. 'Until last night I would have said you were better not knowing. But now things have changed, and I have been instructed to tell you for your own good.'

He paused and squinted up into the leafy branches of the apple trees, as if his mind was wrestling with itself. 'There is an evil afoot that threatens not only the College, but the whole University, and perhaps even all England,' he blurted out. Bartholomew studied him. He was deeply agitated about something, and perspiration beaded on his face. 'Satan is trying to destroy us.'

'Oh come, Father,' said Bartholomew, his patience beginning to wane. 'Surely you did not bring me here to tell me that. You sound just like Augustus!'

Aelfrith's head whipped round to look at him.

'Exactly,' he whispered. 'Augustus saw, but his wits were gone, and he was unable to keep his secret. Look what happened to him!'

'What happened to him, Father?' asked Bartholomew.

He had spoken to no one about his suspicions that Augustus had been murdered. Perhaps now he would hear them confirmed.

'Augustus was taken by the Devil,' Aelfrith said in a whisper. Bartholomew tried not to show his irritation.

He personally concurred with Michael that the only devils to exist were those within man himself, and he had considered Aelfrith beyond common superstitions about devils and demons.

'Is that all?' asked Bartholomew, beginning to rise.

Aelfrith tugged him back down. 'No, that is not all,' he said coldly. 'You must be patient. This is most difficult for me.' He clasped his hands together, and muttered some prayer, trying hard to compose himself.

Bartholomew picked up a fallen apple from the ground and began to eat it. It was sharp, and not quite ripe.

'It is a complex story, so you must be patient. You must remember that I am telling you this because it may be necessary for your own safety, and not because I wish to entertain you.'

Bartholomew nodded, intrigued, despite himself.

'A little more than a year ago, the master of King's Hall died. You probably remember. He is said to have hanged himself, although the official story is that he fell down the stairs and broke his neck.'

Bartholomew remembered the incident well, and had heard the rumours that his death had been suicide.

Had that been true, then the Master of King's Hall would not have been buried in consecrated ground, as with Sir John. But he had died in the privacy of his own College, and his scholars had been able to hide the manner of his death from outside eyes. So he had been laid to rest in a fine alabaster tomb in All Saints' Church. Sir John had chosen a public place for his suicide, and, however much the Fellows wished the details of his death silenced, it had become public knowledge within a few hours.

'Within a few weeks, two more Fellows of King's Hall died, of summer ague. These three deaths disturbed the scholars of King's Hall, but a new Master was elected, and life returned to normal. About the same time, one of the Deans at Peterhouse was found dead in the fish-ponds.

He was thought to have fallen in and drowned while in his cups.'

Bartholomew wondered where all this was leading.

Aelfrith continued, 'The Dean was a close friend, a Franciscan like myself. He did not like alcoholic beverages; he said they clouded his thoughts. I do not believe that he would have ever allowed himself to become drunk enough to drown in a fish-pond! A few days after the Dean, two Fellows at Clare lay dead from eating bad food.'

Bartholomew recalled the two deaths at Clare. He had been called to help by Gregory Colet, the teacher of medicine at Rudde's Hostel, who had been a guest of the Master of Clare that night. He and Colet had been mystified by the case. The two Fellows had eaten some oysters sent by the grateful parent of a successful student. Others, including Colet, had eaten the oysters, too, and although some complained of sickness, only the two young men had died. Colet and Bartholomew had stood by helplessly, and had watched them die.

'For several months there were no further deaths, but then, a few weeks ago, the Hall of Valence Marie, founded this most recent year, lost two Fellows to summer ague. Now, I know as well as you do that deaths from accidents and agues are not infrequent in Cambridge.

But add these deaths to our four at Michaelhouse, and we have an unnaturally high figure: twelve in the Colleges in the last year.'

'So what exactly are you telling me?' Bartholomew asked, the unease that he had experienced in Augustus's room the previous night returning.

'That not all these deaths were natural, and that some of them are connected.'

The feeling of unease intensified. 'But why?'

'Not everyone wants the University to flourish,'

Aelfrith said. 'There are those who wish to control it, or to stamp it out altogether. You know what happened to the University at Stamford in 1334.

It was becoming a rival to Oxford and Cambridge, and the King suppressed it. He closed down all the hostels and forbade the masters to teach there. Many tried to go back to Oxford or Cambridge, but found that they were not granted licences to teach. If you remember your history, you will know that Henry III did the same to the University of Northampton in 1265.

The University of Oxford is larger, older, and more powerful than Cambridge, but Cambridge is growing and is increasing its influence 'Are you saying that the University at Oxford is murdering our Fellows?' Bartholomew said incredulously.

'That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! I am sorry, Father, but what kind of nonsense have you been listening to…?'

'It is not nonsense, and we have proof!' Aelfrith snapped back. 'Just listen to me! Every single Fellow who died had been an Oxford student before he came to Cambridge.'

'That is not proof, Father, that is coincidence. I went to Oxford first, and so did you!'

'Which is why I am telling you this,' replied Aelfrith, regaining his calm with difficulty. 'About thirty years ago, King Edward II founded King's Hall. He gave it money, buildings, and sent to it scholars and boys destined to be some of the most powerful men in England. Many scholars at Oxford considered this a great insult to them — the King should have endowed this great foundation in Oxford, not Cambridge. But the City of Oxford had refused to help Edward's — well, let us say "friend" — Piers Gaveston when he was imprisoned, and the man was later killed. Edward had no cause to love Oxford. The present King has continued to give money and influence to King's Hall, and with its growing prestige and power, so grows the University of Cambridge. King's Hall is the largest and most influential of all the Colleges and hostels in Cambridge.

'There are many who believe that there is a secret group of Oxford men who have come to Cambridge to try to bring about the downfall of the Colleges, and when the Colleges fall, the University will crumble with them.'

'Come now, Father!' said Bartholomew, disbelievingly.

'The University would not crumble without the Colleges! Without the hostels, maybe, since there are more of them, and they house the majority of the masters and scholars.'

'Think, man!' said Aelfrith, his agitation rising again.

'The loudest and most frequently heard voices in the University are not from the hostels, they are from the Fellows of the five Colleges. The Colleges own their own buildings, their own land, and the hostels do not. The hostels rely on the good graces of the town — a landlord only need say he wants to reclaim the hostel because he wishes to live in it, then the hostel is finished, its scholars and masters no more than homeless vagrants.

It is rumoured that Edmund Gonville will found another College soon, and so might the Bishop of Norwich. The Colleges are becoming powerful in the University — they are its future — and as the Colleges increase in power, so does the University.'

'But there are scholars enough for both Oxford and Cambridge, and we take them from different parts of the country anyway,' protested Bartholomew.

Aelfrith shook his head impatiently, and continued his narrative. 'You know the stories that a terrible pestilence is coming. For seven years it has been coming, from the lands in the Far East and across Europe. Many said it would not come across the waters that separate us from France, but it is already in the West Country.

It is said that whole villages will be wiped out, and that it is a sign of God's wrath for the sin of man. It is said that God is especially angry with his priests and monks, and that many of us will perish for our sins.'

'With good reason,' muttered Bartholomew, thinking of the wealthy monasteries and the heavy Church taxes on the poor.

'You are failing to see the point!' said Aelfrith, exasperated.

'If there is a huge reduction in the clergy, then the two Universities will be competing for scholars. And who will teach them if we are to lose most of our masters?

There are many, both in Oxford and Cambridge, who believe that the Universities will be fighting for their very existences before the year is out. Cambridge, being the smaller, is the more vulnerable. The weaker Cambridge is, the greater chance for survival Oxford will have. Ergo, some Oxford scholars are waging a secret war against us in anticipation of the events to come.'

'You really believe this, don't you?' said Bartholomew, incredulously.

'Yes, I do. And so should you. I spoke of evidence.

We are not without our own spies, and we have documents from Oxford scholars stating their intentions very clearly.'

'You say "we",' said Bartholomew. 'Who else knows of this?' "I cannot say,' said Aelfrith, 'because we do not know who is truthfully for Cambridge, and who may have been sent by Oxford. I can only tell you that seven of the Fellows whose deaths I mentioned earlier were of the same mind as me, including Sir John and the two young lads you tried to treat for food poisoning. This network of spies is nothing recent — there is nothing inherently wrong in watching the moves of the opposition, and we have had people who have traded information for as long as University records exist. But there has never been any violence, especially murder. Poor Augustus knew of the threat and he must have been killed because it was thought he might know something — someone believed he should not have done.'

'By whom? By Oxford people to strike at the Colleges, or by Cambridge people to keep him from spilling their secrets?'

'That is my problem, Matthew. I do not know.'

Bartholomew looked at him through narrowed eyes. 'Good company you keep, Priest, if you think them capable of murder.'

Aelfrith rose restlessly, and began to pace back and forth. Bartholomew caught a sparkle of tears in his eyes as he walked, and was sorry for his comment. Aelfrith was a virtuous man, and Bartholomew was sure that he had allowed himself to become embroiled in the murky world of University politics for the purest of reasons, and probably for what he considered to be the good of the College.

'You saw Augustus's room,' the friar said, after a moment. 'Someone was looking for something. Whoever attacked us had chipped loose plaster from the walls and had tried to prise up the floorboards. I have an idea of what the person may have been looking for.'

'What could possibly be worth the killing of two old men?'

Aelfrith smiled. 'You are a good man, Matthew, but you have been out into the world and you should know better than to ask a question like that. The lives of two old men are worth nothing to those that we are dealing with — on either side.' He stopped pacing and came to sit next to Bartholomew again. 'The spy system uses coded messages. We are dealing with some of the best minds in England here, so the codes have become very intricate and complex. All coded messages are affixed with a specific mark, or seal, so that their authenticity can be assured. Each time a message is sent, the seal is attached.

'You probably did not know that Sir John acted as an agent for the King for many years. Essentially, his task was to act as a link, passing information up and down the chain of communication. Each contact had a different sign that only he and Sir John knew, to ensure that only authentic information would be passed on. About a year ago — the same time as the first deaths in King's Hall — one of Sir John's contacts started to send messages about a group of scholars at the University of Oxford who are dedicated to bringing about the downfall of the University here.

'The sign Sir John used with this contact was an elaborate knot design carved into a gold signet ring — they had one each, exact duplicates in every detail.

When a message came, Sir John only needed to match his seal with the one on the message to know that it was authentic. The design of the seals was very complex, and Sir John would have known if a message was marked with an imitation. Sir John carried this seal with him always, on a thick cord around his neck. After Sir John died, the seal he used to send his messages disappeared.'

Bartholomew nodded, a little impatient at the lengthy explanation. He had seen the ring Aelfrith was talking about. It always hung on a robust length of leather around Sir John's neck. Bartholomew had asked him about it once, and Sir John had given him the impression that it was a trinket of no inherent value, but of great personal significance. Bartholomew supposed, in the light of what Aelfrith had just told him, that Sir John had spoken the truth.

'On the night of his death Sir John visited Augustus, and may have hidden the seal in his room. I am sure Sir John was killed because someone wanted to steal the seal, but I am also confident that he was not wearing it when he died.'

'How can you be sure of that?'

'The manner of his death. He is said to have thrown himself into the mill race so that he would be either crushed or drowned by the water-wheel.'

Bartholomew swallowed hard and looked away.

Aelfrith continued.

'There were two odd things about Sir John's death.

The first is that when you, Swynford, and I dined with him on the night of his death, he did not seem like a man about to take his own life. Would you agree?'

Bartholomew assented. It was a fact that had played on his mind, increasing his sense of helplessness about Sir John's death. Had the Master seemed ill or depressed, Bartholomew could have offered his support and friendship.

'The second odd thing was the clothes he was wearing. Now,' Aelfrith held up his hand as Bartholomew began to protest, "I am not going to say anything that will harm Sir John's reputation further. He was wearing the habit of a Benedictine nun. Correct?'

Bartholomew refused to look at Aelfrith. It had been the most disturbing aspect of Sir John's death. It was bad enough to imagine him being in a state of mind where he could hurl himself under the water-wheel. But that his own clothes were nowhere to be found, and that he was clad in the gown of a nun, drew much speculation on Sir John's sanity and personal life.

"I do not think Sir John was in disguise as has been suggested,' said Aelfrith. "I believe his clothes were stolen so that they could be thoroughly searched for the seal. I think he was killed — perhaps by a knock on the head — and his clothes taken after he had died. The nun's habit was specifically chosen to bring Michaelhouse into disrepute.

Its Master wearing nun's clothes to commit suicide at the mill! The plan succeeded: the town people still nudge each other and grin when Michaelhouse is mentioned, and scholars in Oxford claim that there, the masters are men in men's clothing.'

Bartholomew winced, but said nothing. Aelfrith saw his discomfiture, and hurriedly changed the subject.

'But whoever killed Sir John did not find the seal, and came to look for it in Augustus's room, assuming that Sir John had hidden it there because it was the only place he had been between dining with us and leaving the College. I was knocked on the head, Paul stabbed, and the commoners drugged to allow time to make a thorough search. You interrupted that search, and were attacked.'

Bartholomew was about to dismiss Aelfrith's explanation as inadequate, when he recalled Augustus'swords on the afternoon of Wilson's installation. He had spoken of an evil in the College that would corrupt all, but there was some thing else, too. Just remember John Babington, hide it well.' Bartholomew's thoughts raced forward.

Perhaps Aelfrith was right, and Sir John had hidden the seal with Augustus, and Augustus had watched him.

So, did that mean that Augustus had been killed so that the discovery of the seal would remain a secret? Was he killed because he had refused to reveal where it was hidden? But Bartholomew had seen no marks on Augustus's body to support the possibility that he was forced to do anything.

'But this does not explain what happened to Augustus's body,' he said. He began to have hopes that the bizarre manner of Sir John's death might be explained, and his good reputation restored.

Aelfrith sighed. "I know. But one of the last messages Sir John received from Oxford said that our protagonists are in league with witches and warlocks,' he said.

"I do not think we will see our Brother Augustus again.'

Bartholomew disagreed. 'Bodies do not just disappear, Father,' he said. 'His will be found, especially if it is hidden away in this heat!'

Aelfrith pursed his lips in disgust. 'This is the part that disturbs me most of all,' he said. "I believe the disappearance of Augustus's body was the work of the Devil, and that the Devil has a servant in this College!'

Bartholomew was surprised that Aelfrith would so readily accept witchcraft as an answer. He had also been surprised with Brother Michael for the same reason. It was too convenient an answer.

'So who do you think attacked us and killed Paul and Montfitchet?' he asked, to move the discussion on. Bartholomew could believe that the Devil had a servant in the College easily enough — someone who was committing murder and stealing bodies — but the idea that the Devil was responsible he found too hard to accept. He sensed he would not agree with Aelfrith on this point, and that if he questioned it further they might end up in the orchard for hours discussing it as a point of theology.

'The Devil's servant,' replied Aelfrith in response to Bartholomew's questions. He turned to Bartholomew. "I have told you all this because I wish you to be on your guard — for your own life and for the security of your University.'

'Do the other fellows know all this?' asked Bartholomew.

'Master Wilson does. He thinks you are a spy because you have a degree from Oxford, because your practice takes you out of College a lot, and because he was suspicious of your relationship with Sir John. He warned Sir John about you many times. He does not like you, and now he is Master, he will undoubtedly try to see that your days as a Fellow here are numbered.'

That Wilson thought the worst of him, and might attempt to rid Michaelhouse of him, did not come as any great shock to Bartholomew. 'Who else knows?' he asked.

'Michael seems to know some of it, although he did not learn it from me. William and Alcote know. It was William who told me to warn you. Alcote is in Wilson's pocket, and believes you are a spy. They both think you were looking for the seal when you took so long with Augustus.'

'And what do you think, Father?'

'That you are innocent in all this, and that you should remain so. I also reason that you grieve too deeply for Sir John to have been involved in any way with his death, and that you have continued to be a good friend after most others have abandoned him.'

Bartholomew squinted up into the apple trees. He wished Sir John were with him now, to help him reason out all this subterfuge and plotting. 'What of the others?

Swynford and Giles Abigny?'

'Swynford is aware of the Oxford plot, but declines to become involved. His family have lands near Oxford, and he says it is in his interests to remain neutral. Sirjohn's contact has already reported that Swynford declined Oxford when they tried to recruit him. Abigny would not find the time between his love affairs for matters of such seriousness, and in any case, I could not trust his judgement nor his discretion. He has no connections with Oxford anyway, and would make them a poor spy.

He does not move in the right circles to be of interest to them, unless they are concerned with tavern gossip.'

Bartholomew smiled. The flighty Abigny was from a different world than the austere Franciscan friars, and they would never see eye to eye. But Aelfrith was right.

Abigny was appallingly indiscreet, and would never manage to remain sober long enough to do spying of any value. Aelfrith stood to leave.

If you think of anything, however small, that might throw light onto this wretched affair, will you let me know?'

Bartholomew nodded. "I will, but I have thought it over many times, and have not deduced the tiniest shred of evidence that could be of value. I think I would be as much a loss as a spy as would Giles!'

Aelfrith reached out to touch Bartholomew on the shoulder, a rare gesture of affection for the sombre friar, and walked out of the orchard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regretfully he shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Father William lives downstairs from me.'

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

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

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

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

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

'Brother Michael?' said the Bishop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sat back to indicate that he had finished speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'The servants already know Paul was murdered!

They saw his body! And there are already rumours around the town.'

'Then you must make certain that no such rumours are given credence. You mustprey on people' s sympathies — a poor old man, lying alone listening to the celebrations in the hall. He decides to release his soul to the Lord so that he will no longer be an encumbrance to his College.

Master Wilson tells me that there was a note saying as much found in Paul's hand.'

Bartholomew stared at Wilson in shock. The plan was becoming more and more elaborate with each passing moment. Wilson refused to meet Bartholomew's eyes and busied himself twisting the rings on his fat fingers.

"I agree with Bartholomew.' Swynford was also on his feet. 'This plan is not only foolhardy, but dangerous. If ever the truth were to be found out, we would all hang!'

'You will hang for treason if you do not comply,' said the Bishop casually, sitting down again. "I have already informed you that the University cannot afford a scandal. There are many at King's Hall who enjoy the King's protection, who will consider any dissent in this matter to be a deliberate act of defiance towards the Crown.'

Swynford sat down hastily. He was well-enough connected with the University's power-brokers to know that this was not an idle threat. Bartholomew thought back to Aelfrith's words. The King, and his father before him, had invested money and power in King's Hall; any weakening of the University would injure their institution too, and no King liked to discover that he had made a poor choice in where he invested his authority.

'But what if Augustus's body is discovered after we "bury" it?' Bartholomew asked anxiously, his mind running through a wealth of possibilities in which the Michaelhouse Fellows would be discovered and exposed.

'Augustus will not be recovered, Doctor Bartholomew,' said the Bishop smoothly. "I am sure I can rely on you all to see to that.'

Bartholomew swallowed. 'But this is against the laws of the Church and the State, and I will not do it,' he said quietly.

'Against the laws of the Church and the State?' said the Bishop musingly. 'And who do you think makes these laws?' His voice became hard. 'The King makes the laws of the State, and the Bishops make the laws of the Church.

You have no choice.' "I will resign my fellowship,' persisted Bartholomew, 'rather than be a part of this.'

'There will be no resignations,' said the Bishop.

'We can afford no scandal. Now, we must come to some arrangement. Master Wilson informs me that you wish for a larger room for your medical consultations and an increase in your stipend 'And I will not be bribed!' retorted Bartholomew angrily.

The Bishop's face turned white with anger and Bartholomew knew that his protestations had touched a raw nerve. He stood again and advanced on Bartholomew.

"I see you have a bad leg, Doctor. Perhaps you would like to return with me to Ely so that my barber-surgeon can treat it? Perhaps there we can persuade you of your wisest course of action.' He gave Bartholomew one of the coldest smiles the physician had ever seen, and pushed him back down onto the bench.

William grabbed Bartholomew's arm as the Bishop walked back to his chair. 'For God's sake, man! 'he hissed.

'The Bishop is being more than patient! He could hang you for treason right now, and if you force him to take you with him to Ely, you can be sure that you will not return the same man!'

Aelfrith nodded vigorously. 'Remember what I said to you,' he whispered. 'There are forces at work here of which you have no idea. Your life will not be worth a fig if you do not comply.'

'Now,' the Bishop began again, having controlled himself somewhat, "I will require all here to take an oath that you will act as I have suggested. Master Wilson.'

The Bishop extended his hand, and Wilson stood slowly and knelt in front of the Bishop. He took the proffered hand.

"I swear, by all that I hold holy, that I will do everything in my power to save the College, the University, and the King's name from disrepute. I will tell no one of the events of last night other than as you suggest.' He kissed the seal on the Bishop's ring, bowed, and left the hall without looking back. For the first time since he had known him, Bartholomew felt sorry for Wilson. As Master, he had obviously been held responsible for the events of the night, and would have a formidable task in ensuring the Bishop's fabric of lies was accepted outside the College.

The Bishop eyed Swynford, who rose and swore the same oath. Bartholomew's thoughts were in turmoil.

How could he make such a promise? It would be a betrayal of Sir John, Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet.

He would be saying that he, one of the most highly qualified physicians in the country, was unable to tell the difference between a living man and a dead one!

He watched as Alcote scurried forward when Swynford left. What could he do? Perhaps he had already signed his death warrant with the Bishop, or with some of the forces about which Aelfrith had warned him.

Alcote left, and William stepped forward. Aelfrith seized his arm. 'You must take the oath! You will not live another day if you do not! Do it for the College, for Sir John.' He broke off as the Bishop gestured for him to approach. Michael slid along the bench towards Bartholomew, his eyes frightened in his flabby face.

'For God's sake, Matt! None of us like this, but you are putting us all in danger. Do you want to be hanged, drawn, and quartered at Smithfield? Just swear this wretched oath! You do not need to do anything else.

You can always go away until all this dies down.'

Abigny stepped forward. Michael's grip became painful. 'Not to take the Bishop's oath will be treason, Matt. I understand the position you are taking, but it will cost you your life if you persist!' He stood as the Bishop gestured for him to advance, swore his promise, and left.

Bartholomew reflected that his colleagues seemed very keen that he should take the Bishop's oath. Was this out of concern for him, or did they have other, more sinister reasons for wanting his silence concerning the deaths at Michaelhouse? The conclave was silent. The Bishop and Bartholomew regarded each other.

The Bishop suddenly snapped his fingers, and, in an instant, parchment was cleared away, inkhorns sealed, and pens packed. The clerks filed out in silence, leaving the Bishop alone with Bartholomew.

Bartholomew waited, and was surprised when the Bishop sat heavily at one of the tables and put his head in his hands. After a few moments, the Bishop looked up, his face lined and grey with worry, and gestured for Bartholomew to sit next to him.

"I have become so involved in the interests of the Church, and of upholding the law, that I have failed to see some things,' he said. "I know what I am asking you to do is wrong on one level, and yet, on another it is absolutely right. This pestilence is at the centre of it.

Have you heard the news? In Avignon, our Pope has

had to consecrate the River Rhone because there were too many bodies for the graveyards. In Paris, the dead lie stinking in their houses and the streets because there are none left to bury them. All over Europe, villages lie silent.

Many great abbeys and monasteries have lost more than half their brethren.

'Some say it is a visitation from God, and they may be right. The people will need their faith to deal with this terrible plague, and they will need their priests, friars, and monks to help them. If the same happens in England as has already happened in France, there will be a desperate shortage of clergy, and we will need every religious house and the universities to train more.

'Do you not see, Matthew? We must prepare ourselves, and gather our forces. We cannot allow the University to flounder now, just before the people will need it more than ever before. You may have been told that some scholars at Oxford would like very much to see Cambridge fall so that they will have a monopoly over students and masters. This may well be true, but I cannot allow that to happen. We must offer as many places of training as possible, so that we can produce learned clergy to serve the people.

'You made me angry earlier, and I am sorry. I had to threaten you because I could not allow your stand to cause the others to waver. I will not force you to take the oath, because you, of all the Fellows, would not want the people to suffer from a lack of spiritual comfort during this terrible plague and the years to follow. I have heard that you choose to work with the poor, when you could easily become rich by healing the wealthy. I know that you understand why I was forced to ask the others to protect the University.'

The Bishop was no longer the splendid figure in purple who had ridden in at the gates, but a man struggling to reconcile his actions with his conscience.

Bartholomew's anger was still very much at the surface, and he had had too many dealings with crafty patients not to be aware that some people possessed powerful skills at lying.

'So where does this leave us?' he said suspiciously.

'It leaves us in your hands, Matthew,' said the Bishop. 'If you will not give outsiders the explanation I have offered, then say nothing. In a few weeks it may not matter anyway, and you and I could be dead.'

He sighed and stood up to leave. 'Go in peace, Matthew,' he said, sketching a benediction in the air above Bartholomew's head. 'You continue God's work in your way, and I will continue in mine, and may we both learn from each other.'

The Bishop walked out of the room, and by the time Bartholomew had limped over to the window to watch him leave Michaelhouse, he had regained his regal bearing. He sat upright in his saddle, and clattered out of the yard with his clerks and monks trailing behind him.

The door of the conclave burst open and Brother Michael shot in, his chest heaving with exertion. 'Oh, thank God!' he said, fervently crossing himself. "I expected to find you here with a knife in your ribs!'

His words brought back a memory of Brother Paul, and he visibly paled. 'Oh lord,' he groaned, flopping into Wilson's chair, 'we really are going to have to be careful!'