A Plague On Both Your Houses

5

December 1348

Brother Paul, Augustus, and Montfitchet were laid to rest in the little cemetery behind St Michael's Church two days after the Bishop's visit. The official explanations for their deaths were given to any who asked, and, although speculation was rife for several weeks, the Fellows' consistent rendering of the same story began to pay off. Bartholomew, when asked specific questions, replied that he did not know the answer, although whenever possible he avoided the subject. Eventually, the excitement died down and the incident seemed to be forgotten. Term started at the beginning of October, and, although student numbers were low because of the fear of the impending plague, the Michaelhouse Fellows found themselves as busy as ever with lectures, disputations, and readings.

Bartholomew tried to forget about the events of August; even if he had discovered anything, what could he have done about it? He considered confiding his thoughts to his brother-in-law, but was afraid that if he involved Stanmore, he might endanger him somehow. For the same reason, he did not wish to involve any of his friends.

Rachel Atkin had regained her wits after the death of her son. As well as his manor in Trumpington, Sir Oswald Stanmore owned a large house at his business premises in Milne Street in which his brother Stephen lived with his family. Bartholomew persuaded Stephen to take Rachel as a laundress, and she seemed to settle well enough into his household.

The Oliver brothers remained a problem. They seldom attended lectures, and Wilson would have sent them down had not the College's acquisition of the property on Foul Lane depended on their academic success. Bartholomew occasionally saw Henry glowering at him, but it became so commonplace that eventually he came not to notice it.

Bartholomew spent many of the final days before term in the company of Philippa Abigny. They rode through the rich meadows to Grantchester, and watched the archery competitions in Barton, sometimes alone, but often in the company of her brother and one of his latest loves. Brother Michael or Gregory Colet occasionally acted as chaperons, prudently disappearing on business of their own once outside the sight of the nunnery, leaving Bartholomew and Philippa alone together.

Edith also acted as chaperon, and was only too pleased to encourage her younger brother in his courting. She had been nagging him for years to find a wife and settle down.

Bartholomew and Philippa often strolled together in the pleasant grounds of St Radegund's Priory, careful not to touch each other, for they knew that behind the delicate arches of the nunnery windows the Abbess watched with hawklike eyes.

On several days they attended the great Stourbridge Fair, which ran for most of September and drew huge crowds of people from the countryside for miles around.

They saw fire-eaters from Spain, jugglers from the Low Countries, and jongleurs from France, who sang of deeds of daring. Men and women hawked pies, pastries, drinks of fermented apple, crudely made wooden flutes, and cloths and ribbons of all colours. The smell from roasting meat mingled with that of damp straw and horse manure.

Animals bleated and squealed, children screamed in delight, jousting knights clashed their weapons, and here and there a lone voice shouted warnings of the terrible pestilence that swept over Europe and would soon claim all whom God deemed unholy.

The threat of the coming plague cast a grim shadow over their lives. Stories came to Cambridge of settlements like Tilgarsley in Oxfordshire where every inhabitant had died, leaving behind a ghost village. A third of the population of the city of Bristol was said to have perished, and in October the first cases began to appear in London. Bartholomew spent long hours consulting his fellow physicians and surgeons about how to deal with the pestilence when it came, although the truth of the matter was that they really did not know. The town officials tried to impose some sort of control on who was allowed into the town in an attempt to prevent the disease from spreading, but it was impossible to enforce, and those barred from entering merely crossed the ditches, swam the river, or hired a boat.

The first snows fell early, powdering the ground with white before the end of November, and Bartholomew saw an increasing number of elderly patients with chest troubles brought on by the cold. Then, just before term ended, he saw his first case of the plague.

It was a cold morning, with a raw wind howling from the fens, with the promise of more of the persistent drizzling rain that had been dogging Cambridge for the past three days. Bartholomew had risen at five, while it was still dark, and attended Father William's high-speed mass. Lectures started at six, and his students, perhaps sensing the role they might soon have to play, bombarded him with questions. Even Francis Eltham, whom Bartholomew doubted would ever make a physician, had joined in the lively discussion.

Lectures finished around nine, and the main meal of the day was at half-past ten. It was a Friday, and so the meal was fish, freshly baked bread, and vegetables.

Bartholomew tuned out the reading of the Bible scholar and thought about the debate on contagion in which he had just led his students. He wondered how he could convince them that there was a pattern to whom infectious diseases affected, and they were not merely visitations from God. He had risked the wrath of the clerics by refusing to allow the students to consider 'struck down by God' as a determinant for contagious disease. They had to think for themselves. 'Struck down by God' was a convenient excuse for not working out the real causes.

After the meal, all members of College were obliged to attend the midday service in St Michael's Church.

Bartholomew walked back to the College with Michael, who was grumbling about the cold.

'Right! I am away,' said Abigny, coming up behind them and slapping them both on the shoulders. 'It is too damned cold at that College. I am going over to St Radegund's, where they have warm fires to toast pretty little feet.' He raised an eyebrow at Bartholomew.

'Coming? Philippa specifically told me to ask you.'

Bartholomew smiled. 'Tell her I will come later. I have two patients to see first.'

Abigny tutted. 'But will she wait until later, Physician?

I, for one, would not wish to embrace you after you had been in those shabby hovels you like to frequent.'

'Then it is just as well you will not get the chance, Philosopher,' retorted Bartholomew.

Michael nudged him. 'Just go, man. Your patients will wait; your love might not.'

Bartholomew ignored them and went to collect his leather sack of medicines and instruments. He was in good spirits as he set off towards the Trumpington Gate, despite the bitter wind and the promise of rain. His first call was to the family of tinkers that lived near the river; the other call was on Bridge Street, near the church of the Holy Trinity, to one of Agatha's numerous relatives.

Afterwards, he could go straight to the Priory and visit Philippa while Abigny was still there, since the nuns would not allow Bartholomew to see Philippa unless she was chaperoned.

The first drops of rain were beginning to fall when he reached the tinker's house. A group of children waited for him, standing barefoot in the mud. He followed them to the ramshackle pile of wood and earthen bricks that was their home. It was cold inside, despite the fire that billowed smoke so that Bartholomew could barely see.

He knelt down on the beaten earth floor next to a child who lay in a tangle of dirty blankets, and began his examination. The child was obviously frightened, and Bartholomew found himself chattering about all manner of inane subjects to distract her. The other children clustered round, giggling at his banter.

The child was about six years old, and, as Bartholomew had thought, was suffering from dehydration resulting from severe diarrhoea. He showed the mother how to feed her with a mixture of boiled water and milk and gave her specific instructions about the amounts she should be given. He discovered that the child had fallen into the river two days earlier, and suspected that she had swallowed bad water.

The rain was falling persistently as he walked back along the High Street towards Shoemaker Row, and he was drenched by the time he reached Holy Trinity Church. It was the third time he had been soaked in a week, and he was running out of dry clothes. The only fires Wilson allowed in the College were in the kitchens and, on very cold days, in the conclave, and there was not enough room for all the scholars to dry their clothes.

Bartholomew began to invent a plan to warm stones on the hearths so that they might be wrapped round wet clothes.

The house of Agatha's cousin, a Mistress Bowman, was a small half-timbered building, with whitewashed walls and clean rushes on the floors. Mistress Bowman ushered him in fearfully.

'It is my son, Doctor. I do not know what is wrong with him, but he is so feverish! He seems not to know me!' She bit back a sob.

'How long has he been ill?' asked Bartholomew, allowing her to take his wet cloak.

'Since yesterday. It came on so fast. He has been down in London, you know,' she said, a hint of pride in her voice. 'He is a fine arrow-maker, and he has been making arrows for the King's armies in France.' "I see,' said Bartholomew, looking at her closely, 'and when did he return from London?'

'Two days ago,' said Mistress Bowman.

Bartholomew took a deep breath and climbed up the steep wooden stairs to the room above. He could hear the laboured breathing of the man before he was half-way up. Mistress Bowman followed him, bringing a candle because, there being no glass in the windows, the shutters were closed against the cold and it was dark. Bartholomew took the candle and bent down towards the man on the bed. At first, he thought his dreadful suspicions were unfounded, and that the man had a simple fever. Then he felt under the man's arms and detected the swollen lumps there like hard unripe apples.

He gazed down at the man in horror. So this was the plague! He swallowed hard. Did the fact that he had touched the man mean that he would now succumb to the disease himself? He fought down the almost overwhelming urge to move away and abandon him, to flee the house and return to Michaelhouse.

But he had discussed this many times with his fellow physician, Gregory Colet, and both had come to the conclusion — based on what little fact they could distil from exaggeration or rumour — that their chances of contracting the plague were high regardless of whether they frequented the homes of the victims. Bartholomew understood that some people seemed to have a natural resistance to it — and those that did not would catch it whether they had the slightest contact with a victim, or whether they exposed themselves to it totally.

Would Bartholomew die now — merely from touching the man who writhed and groaned in his delirious fever? If so, the matter was out of his hands, and he could not, in all conscience, abandon the victims of the foul disease to their suffering. He and Colet had agreed.

While, all over the land, physicians were fleeing towns and villages for secluded houses in the country, Bartholomew and Colet had decided to stand firm. Bartholomew had nowhere to flee in any case — and all his family and friends were in Cambridge.

Bartholomew braced himself and completed his examination. Besides the swellings in the arms, there were similar lumps, the size of small eggs, in the man's groin and smaller swellings on his neck. He was also burning with fever, and screamed and writhed when Bartholomew gently felt the buboes.

Bartholomew sat back on his heels. Behind him, Mistress Bowman hovered worriedly. 'What is it, Doctor?' she whispered. Bartholomew did not know how to tell her.

'Did he travel alone?' he asked.

'Oh, no! There were three of them. They all came back together.'

Bartholomew's heart sank. 'Where do the others live?' he asked.

Mistress Bowman stared at him. 'It is the pestilence,' she whispered, looking down at her son with a mixture of horror and pity. 'My son has brought the pestilence.'

Bartholomew had to be sure before an official pronouncement was made, and before people started to panic. He stood. "I do not know, Mistress,' he said softly. "I have never seen a case of the pestilence before, and we should check the other lads before we jump to conclusions.'

Mistress Bowman grabbed his sleeve. 'Will he die?' she cried, her voice rising. 'Will my boy die?'

Bartholomew disentangled his arm and took both her hands in his firmly. He stood that way until her shuddering panic had subsided. "I do not know, Mistress.

But you will do him no good by losing control of yourself.

Now, you must fetch clean water and some linen, and sponge his face to bring his fever down.'

The woman nodded fearfully, and went off to do his bidding. Bartholomew examined the young man again. He seemed to be getting worse by the minute, and Bartholomew knew that he would soon see scores of cases of such suffering — perhaps even among those he loved — and be unable to do anything about it.

Mistress Bowman returned with her water and Bartholomew made her repeat his instructions. "I do not wish to frighten you,' he said, 'but we must be careful. Do not allow anyone in the house, and do not go out until I return.' She had gathered her courage while she had been busy, and nodded firmly, reminding him suddenly of Agatha.

He left the house and went to Holy Trinity Church.

He asked the priest if he could borrow a pen and a scrap of parchment, and hurriedly scribbled a note to Gregory Colet at Rudde's Hostel, telling him of his suspicions and asking him to meet him at the Round Church in an hour. Outside, he threw a street urchin a penny and told him to deliver the note to Colet, who would give him another penny when he received it. The lad sped off while Bartholomew trudged to the house of one of the other men who had travelled from London.

As he arrived, he knew that any attempt he might make to contain the disease would be futile. Wails and howls came from within and the house was thronged with people. He elbowed his way through them until he reached the man lying on the bed. A glance told Bartholomew that he was near his end. He could scarcely draw breath and his arms were stuck out because of the huge swellings in his armpits. One had burst, and emitted a smell so foul that some people in the room covered their mouths and noses with scraps of cloth.

'How long has he been ill?' he asked an old woman, who sat weeping in a corner. She refused to look at him, and went on with her wailing, rocking back and forth.

'God's anger is visited upon us!' she cried. 'It will take all those with black, sinful hearts!'

And a good many others besides, thought Bartholomew.

He and Colet had listened carefully to all the stories about the plague that flooded into Cambridge in the hope of learning more. For months, people had spoken of little else. First, itwas thought that the infection would never reach England. After all, how could the foul winds that carried the disease cross the waters of the Channel? But cross they did, and in August, a sailor died of the plague in the Dorset port of Melcombe, and within days, hundreds were dead.

When the disease reached Bristol, officials tried to cut the port off from the surrounding areas to prevent the disease from spreading. But the wave of death was relentless. It was soon in Oxford, and then in London.

Bartholomew and his colleagues discussed it deep into the night. Was it carried by the wind? Was it true that a great earthquake had opened up graves and the pestilence came from the uncovered corpses? Was it a visitation from God? What were they to do if it came to Cambridge? Colet argued that people who had been in contact with plague victims should stay away from those who had not, but even as Colet's words of warning rang in his ears, Bartholomew saw that such a restriction was wholly impractical. Among the crowd was one of

Michaelhouse's servants — even if Bartholomew avoided contact with the scholars, the servant would be among them. And what of those who had already fled?

Thomas Exton, the town's leading physician, declared that none would die if everyone stayed in the churches and prayed. Colet had suggested that applying leeches to the black swellings that were purported to grow under the arms and in the groin might draw off the poisons within. He said he meant to use leeches until his fellow physicians discovered another treatment.

Bartholomew argued that the leeches themselves might spread the infection, but agreed to try them if Colet could prove they worked.

Bartholomew pulled himself out of his thoughts and slammed the door, silencing wailing and whispering alike.

'How long has this man been ill?' he repeated.

There was a gabble of voices answering him, and Bartholomew bent towards a woman dressed in grey.

'He was ill when they came home the night before last,' she said. 'He had been drinking in the King's Head tavern on the High Street, and his friends brought him back when he began to shake with this fever.'

Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. The King's Head was one of the busiest taverns in the town, and, if the rumours were true and infection spread on the wind, then those who had been in contact with the three young men were already in danger. A hammering on the door stilled the buzz of conversation, and a thickset man in a greasy apron forced his way in.

'Will and his mother are sick,' he yelled. 'And one of Mistress Barnet's babies has turned black!'

There was an immediate panic. People crossed themselves, the window shutters were thrown open, and some began to climb out screaming that the plague was there. Rapidly, only the sick man, Bartholomew, and the woman in grey were left in the house. Bartholomew looked at her closely, noting a sheen of sweat on her face.

He pulled her into the light and felt under her jaw. Sure enough, there were the beginnings of swellings in her neck; she was already infected.

He helped her up the stairs to a large bed, and covered her with blankets, leaving a pitcher of water near her, for she was complaining of a fierce thirst. He went to look at the young man downstairs on his way out, and saw that he was already dead, his face a dark purple and his eyes starting from his face. The white shirt under his arms was stained with blood and with black and yellow pus. The stench was terrible.

Bartholomew let himself out of the house. The street was unusually silent as he made his way to the Round Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Gregory Colet was waiting anxiously.

'Matt?' he said, stepping towards him, his eyes fearful.

Bartholomew held up his hand, warning him to come no closer. 'It has come, Gregory,' he said softly.

'The plague has come to Cambridge.'

The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind for Bartholomew. At first, there were only a few cases, and one of them even recovered. After five days, Bartholomew began to hope that the pestilence had passed them by, and that the people of Cambridge might have escaped the worst of the fever, or that it had burned itself out. Then, without warning, four people became infected one day, seven the next day, and thirteen the day after that. People began to die and Bartholomew found himself with more requests for help than he could possibly answer.

Colet called an urgent meeting of the physicians and surgeons, and Bartholomew described the symptoms he had seen first-hand while he stood in the gallery of St Mary's Church, as far away from the others as possible.

There was much to be done. Gravediggers needed to be found, and collectors of the dead. There were few who wanted such tasks, and there was an argument between the medics on the one hand and the Sheriff on the other about who should pay the high wages to entice people to do it.

The number of cases of the plague continued to rise dramatically. Some people died within a few hours of becoming ill, while others lasted for several days.

Others still seemed to recover, but died as their relatives began to celebrate their deliverance. Bartholomew could see no pattern as to who lived and who died, and he began to doubt his fundamental belief that diseases had physical causes that could be identified and removed. He and Colet argued about it, Colet claiming that he had more success with his leeches than Bartholomew had with his insistence on clean water and bedding, and use of various herbs. To a certain extent that was true, but Colet's patients were wealthier than Bartholomew's, and suffered and died in warm rooms where lack of food was not a problem. Bartholomew did not consider the comparison a fair one. He discovered that in some cases he could ease the discomfort from the buboes by incising them to let the putrescence out, and that probably one in four of his patients might survive.

Term at the University was immediately suspended, and scholars who would usually have stayed in Cambridge for the Christmas break thronged the roads leading north, some taking the plague with them. Bartholomew was horrified that many physicians went too, leaving dozens of sick people to the care of a handful of doctors.

Colet told Bartholomew that the royal physician, Master Gaddesden, had also fled London, going with the King's family to Eltham Castle. The plague was not a disease that would profit the medical profession, for there seemed to be no cure and much risk. In Cambridge, three physicians had already perished, including the master of medicine from Peterhouse and Thomas Exton, who had proclaimed that praying in the churches would deliver people.

The plague seemed to bring with it unending rain. Bartholomew trudged through the muddy streets constantly wet and in a daze of exhaustion, going from house to house to watch people die. He sent a note to Philippa urging her to stay in St Radegund's, and it was advice that all the nuns seemed to take, for none were seen ministering to the sick. The monks and friars at Barnwell and St Edmund's did their duty by administering last rites, and they too began to fall ill.

College life changed dramatically. The remaining students and teachers gathered together in the church to attend masses for the dead and to pray for deliverance, but there were looks of suspicion everywhere. Who had been in contact with the sick? Who might be the next to be struck down? The regular assembling for meals began to break down, and food was left in the hall for scholars to take back to their rooms to eat alone.

Bartholomew wondered whether unchanged rushes on the floors and discarded scraps of food in the scholars' rooms might be responsible for the sudden increase in the number of rats he saw around the College. Master Wilson withdrew completely, and remained in his room, occasionally leaning out of his window to shout orders.

Swynford left to stay with a relative in the country, and Alcote followed Wilson's lead, although Bartholomew occasionally saw him scuttling about in the dead of night, when everyone else was asleep. The three clerics did not shirk from their religious duties, and were tireless in burying the dead and giving last rites.

Abigny made Bartholomew move out of their room and sleep on the pallet bed in his storeroom.

'Nothing personal, Matt,' he said, his face covered with the hem of his gown as he spoke, 'but you are a dangerous man to know since you frequent the homes of the sick. And anyway, you would not wish me to visit Philippa if I had been near the Death.'

Bartholomew was too tired to argue. Master Wilson had tried to isolate the College so that no one could enter. There were plenty of supplies in the storeroom, he had called to the assembled College members from his window, and clean water in the well. They would be safe.

As if to belie his words, one of the students suddenly pitched to the ground. Bartholomew ran over, and noted the symptoms with despair. Wilson's shutters slammed abruptly, and the plan was not mentioned again.

College members began to die. Oddly, the old commoners who Bartholomew thought would be the first to succumb, because they were the weakest, were the last to become infected. The Frenchman Henri d'Evene died on the eve of his planned departure for France. He had been careful to touch nothing that might have been infected by plague bearers; he had drawn his own water from the well, and ate little from the kitchens. He bribed Alexander to let him use Swynford's room while he was gone, because the room faced north, and it was said that north-facing rooms were safe from the plague.

But, as the bell was ringing for Compline, Bartholomew heard a dreadful scream from d'Evene's quarters. He ran up the stairs and hammered on the door.

D'Evene opened it, his face white with terror. He was shirtless, and Bartholomew saw the swellings under his armpits, already turning black with the poisons within. He caught the young man as he swooned in his arms and laid him on the bed. D'Evene tossed and turned with a terrible fever for two days, Bartholomew tending him as much as he could, and died as dawn broke, writhing in agony.

Bartholomew had noticed that the swellings took two forms. If they were hard and dry, and emitted little putrescence when lanced, the patient might survive if he could withstand the fever and the pain. If they were soft, and contained a lot of fluid, the patient would invariably die, regardless of whether the swelling was lanced or not.

Bartholomew and Colet not only had to tend the sick, they had to oversee the removal of bodies from houses and streets. Both knew that if these were not removed as quickly as possible, the streets would become so unhealthy that people would die from other diseases.

The first few men who took on the unwholesome, but handsomely paid, task of removing the dead, quickly caught the plague and died, and it became more and more difficult to find people willing to take the risk.

Bartholomew, walking along the wharves one night after tending people in the rivermen's homes, heard shuffling and muttering at one of the small piers. Going to investigate, he found two dead-collectors dumping their load into the river so that they would not have to go to the cemetery in the dark.

Bartholomew watched the pathetic corpses bob off downstream as they were caught in the current.

'You have committed them to an unhallowed grave,' he whispered. The dead-collectors shuffled uneasily.

'And now their bodies might carry the Death to villages down the river.'

'It is already there,' said one of the men defensively.

'It is at Ely already. At least fifteen monks have died so far.'

When they had gone he walked to the churchyard and peered into the pit. It would soon be full. He and Colet had asked that a larger pit be dug, just outside the Trumpington Gate, because the cemeteries of the parish churches were too small to cope with the dead, and there was not enough available labour to dig individual graves.

Since no one knew how the plague spread, Bartholomew did not want bad humours seeping from the bodies into the river from where some people, despite his warnings, drew their drinking water. There were fields outside the Gate that were well away from the river and its ditches, and away from homes.

As he reached the gates at Michaelhouse, the porter greeted Bartholomew cautiously, a huge pomander stuffed with herbs over his mouth.

'Brother Michael asks if you will go to his room,' he said, backing away as far as possible.

Bartholomew nodded. He did not blame the man.

Perhaps Bartholomew was doing more harm than good by visiting the sick in their homes. Perhaps he was aiding the spread of the Death by carrying it in his clothes or in the air around him.

Slowly he climbed the stairs to Michael's room and pushed open the door. Brother Michael knelt next to his bed giving last rites to Father Aelfrith.

'Oh, no!' Bartholomew sank down onto a stool and waited for Michael to finish. 'When?'

'He was well enough this morning, but collapsed in the yard just as I came home,' said Michael, his voice muffled.

Bartholomew went over to the bed, and rested his hand on Aelfrith's brow. He was barely breathing, but seemed to have been spared the terrible agony that some victims went through. It was a risk, visiting the sick and giving last rites, and physicians and clerics had all known that they too might be stricken. Seeing Aelfrith so near the end reminded Bartholomew, yet again, of his own mortality. His thoughts went to Philippa, hopefully secure in the convent, and of their brief spell of happiness at the end of summer.

"I will go again to see if I can find William,' said Michael, furtively rubbing a sleeve over his eyes.

Bartholomew tried to make Aelfrith more comfortable.

He had found that stretching the arms out helped relieve pressure on the swellings, and so caused the patient less pain. He was surprised to find that Aelfrith had no swellings. He looked again more carefully, inspecting his neck and his groin. There was no trace of swelling anywhere, and none of the black spots that afflicted some victims, although there was evidence that he had been violently sick. Bartholomew hoped this was not some new variation of the plague.

Aelfrith's eyes fluttered open. He saw Bartholomew and tried to speak. Bartholomew bent closer to hear him, straining to hear the voice that was no more than a rustle of breath.

'Not plague,' he whispered. 'Poison. Wilson.'

He closed his eyes, exhausted. Bartholomew wondered whether the fever had made him delirious. Aelfrith waved his hand weakly in the air. Bartholomew took it and held it. It was cold and dry. Aelfrith's eyes pleaded with Bartholomew, who bent again to listen.

'Wilson,' he whispered again.

Bartholomew, his mind dull from tiredness and grief, was slow in understanding. 'Are you saying that Wilson poisoned you?' he asked.

Aelfrith's lips drew back from his teeth in an awful parody of a smile. And then he died. Bartholomew leaned close and smelled Aelfrith's mouth. He moved back sharply. There was an acrid odour of somethingvile, and he noticed that Aelfrith's tongue was blistered and swollen. He had been poisoned! By Wilson?

Bartholomew could not see how, because the lawyer had not left his room for days. Bartholomew sometimes saw him watching the comings and goings in the courtyard through his window, although he would slam the shutter if Bartholomew or any of the clerics so much as glanced up at him.

Bartholomew felt all the energy drain out of him as the significance of Aelfrith's death dawned on him.

Another murder! And now of all times! He thought that the plague would have superseded all the dangerous political games that had been played in the summer.

And what was Aelfrith doing in Michael's room anyway?

Had Michael poisoned him? He began to look around for cups of wine or food that Michael may have enticed Aelfrith to take, but there was nothing.

He almost jumped out of his skin as the door flew open and Michael came back with Father William in tow.

'Sweet Jesus, we are too late,' groaned Michael, visibly sagging.

'Too late for what?' asked Bartholomew, his tone sharp from the fright he had just had.

'For Father William to give him the Host,' said Michael.

"I thought you had already done that,' said Bartholomew. Surely Michael would not have poisoned the Host? He would surely be damned if he had chosen that mode of execution for one of God's priests.

"I am a Benedictine, Matt,' said Michael patiently.

'He wanted to have the last rites from one of his own Order. I looked for William, but could not find him. I gave Aelfrith last rites because he was failing fast and I thought he might die before William was back.'

Bartholomew turned his attention back to Aelfrith.

Was he being unfair to Michael? He thought back to Michael's reaction at the death of Augustus. Was Michael one of those scholars so dedicated to the future success of Cambridge that he would kill for it? Or was he one of those who wanted to see Cambridge fail and Oxford become the foremost place of learning in the land? Or had Wilson slipped out of his room in the dark and left poison for Aelfrith? Was Aelfrith telling him he should go and tell Wilson that he had been poisoned?

Bartholomew was just too tired to think properly.

Should he go to Wilson? Or would the wretched man think Bartholomew was trying to give him the plague?

Bartholomew could not blame people like Wilson, Swynford, and Alcote who hid away to save themselves. Had he not been a physician, he might well have done the same thing. The College had divided down the middle, four Fellows going among the plague victims to do what they could, and four remaining isolated. In the other colleges, the division was much the same.

He felt his mind rambling. What should he do?

Should he tell Michael and William that Father Aelfrith had been poisoned, and had not died of the plague at all? And then what? The Bishop had his hands too full with his dying monks to be able to investigate another murder. And he probably would not want to investigate it. He would order it covered up, like the others. Well, let us save the Bishop ajourney, then, thought Bartholomew wearily. He would say nothing. He would try to see Wilson later, and he would try to question Michael. He wondered why someone had gone to the trouble of committing murder now of all times, when they could all be dead anyway by the following day.

Michael and William had wrapped Aelfrith in a sheet while Bartholomew had been thinking, and together they carried him down the stairs. Bartholomew followed them.

What should he do about Aelfrith's burial? He had not died of the plague and so there was no reason why he should be put in the plague pit. He decided to ask Cynric to help him dig a grave in St Michael's churchyard.

The stable was being used as a temporary mortuary in which dead College members awaited collection by the plague carts. Bartholomew saw that there were already two others there, and closed his eyes in despair.

'Richard of Norwich and Francis Eltham,' said Michael in explanation.

'Not Francis!' exclaimed Bartholomew. 'He was so careful!' Eltham had been like Wilson and had shut himself in his room. His room-mates had left Cambridge, so he had been alone.

'Not careful enough,' Michael said. 'This Death has no rhyme nor reason to it.'

Father William sighed. "I must go to Shoemaker Row. The sickness is in the home of Alexander's sister and they are waiting for me.'

He disappeared into the night, leaving Michael and Bartholomew alone. Bartholomew was too drained to be anxious about Michael's possible murderous inclinations, and too tired to talk to the fat monk about Aelfrith's dying words. Bartholomew wished he had spoken again to Aelfrith about his suspicions, but Aelfrith had taken his oath to the Bishop seriously and had never again mentioned the business to Bartholomew.

Next to him, Michael sniffed loudly, his face turned away from Bartholomew. They stood silently for a while, each wrapped in his own thoughts, until Michael gave a huge sigh.

"I have not eaten all day, Matt. Did you ever think I would allow that to happen?' he said in a frail attempt at humour. He took Bartholomew's arm, and guided him towards the kitchen. Michael lit a candle and they looked around. The big room was deserted, the great fireplace cold. Many of the staff had left the College to be with their families, or had run away northwards in an attempt to escape the relentless advance of the plague. Pots had been left unwashed and scraps of old food littered the stone-flagged floor. Bartholomew wrinkled his nose in disgust as a large rat wandered boldly into the middle of the floor.

As Michael and Bartholomew watched, it started to twitch and shudder. It emitted a few high-pitched squeals before collapsing in a welter of black blood that flowed from between its clenched teeth.

'Now even the rats have the plague,' said Michael, his enthusiasm for foraging for food in the kitchen wavering.

'Now why would God send a visitation down upon rats?' said Bartholomew mockingly. 'Why not eels or pigs or birds?'

Michael gave him a shove. 'Perhaps he has, Physician.

When did you last have the time to watch birds and fish?'

Bartholomew gave him a weak smile, and sat at the large table while Michael rummaged in the storerooms.

After a few minutes, he emerged with a bottle of wine, some apples, and some salted beef.

'This will do,' he said, settling himself next to Bartholomew. 'This is a bottle of Master Wilson's best claret. It is the first time I have been able to get near it without Gilbert peering over my shoulder.'

Bartholomew looked askance. 'Stealing the Master's wine? Whatever next, Brother!'

'Not stealing,' said Michael, uncorking the bottle and taking a hearty swig. 'Testing it for him. After all, how do we know that the plague is not spread by claret?'

And how do we know that it was not claret that poisoned Aelfrith? thought Bartholomew. He put his head in his hands. He liked Michael, and hoped he was not one of the fanatics of whom Aelfrith had warned him. He suddenly felt very lonely. He would have given anything for a few moments alone with Philippa.

'You must eat,' said Michael gently, 'or you will be no good to yourself or to your patients. Drink some wine, and then try some of this beef. I swear to you, Matt, it is no older than eight months, and only a little rancid.'

Bartholomew smiled. Michael was trying to cheer him up. He took the proffered piece of meat and choked some of it down. He rifled through the apples, looking for one that was not home to families of maggots. Finding one, he presented it solemnly to Michael, who took it with equal gravity and cut it in half.

'Never let it be said that Michaelhouse scholars do not share their good fortunes,' he said, presenting a piece to Bartholomew. 'When do you think this will be over?' he asked suddenly.

'The plague or the murders?' said Bartholomew.

The strong wine on his empty stomach had made him answer without thinking.

Michael stared at him. 'Murders?' he asked, nonplussed.

Understanding suddenly showed in his eyes.

'Oh no, Matt! Do not start on that! We swore an oath!'

Bartholomew nodded. He had told no one, not even his sister or Philippa, about the conversation he had had with the Bishop, despite probing of varying degrees of subtlety by Wilson, Alcote, and Michael.

'But we know the truth,' he said quietly.

Michael was horrified. 'No! No, we do not,' he insisted. 'We never will. We should not be talking of this!' He looked over his shoulder as if he expected the Bishop to be there.

Bartholomew stood up and walked over to the window, where he stood staring out into the darkness of the yard.

'But murder is murder, Brother,' he said softly. He turned to look at Michael, whose fat face still wore an expression of disbelief.

'Perhaps so,' Michael said, nervously, 'but it is over and done.'

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. 'Is it?' he asked gently, watching Michael for any slight reaction that might betray guilt.

'Of course!' Michael snapped. 'Over and done!'

Bartholomew turned back to the window. Michael had always loved the intricate affairs of the College, and took a strange delight in the petty plays for power.

On occasions, Bartholomew and Abigny had found his persistent speculations tiresome, and had actively avoided his company. Bartholomew wondered whether his refusal to discuss them now meant that he took the Bishop's oath very seriously and really believed that the murders were over, or whether he had other reasons for maintaining his silence. Did he know that Aelfrith had been murdered? Bartholomew decided he would gain nothing by questioning Michael further, except perhaps to arouse his suspicions. If Michael did know more than he was telling, then Bartholomew would be foolish indeed to allow his suspicions to show.

Michael went to sit next to the fire in the large chair from which Agatha usually ran her domain. He shifted his bulk around until he was comfortable, stretching his feet out as if the fire were blazing. Bartholomew went back to the bench and lay flat, folding his hands over his stomach, looking up at the cobwebs on the ceiling. He would rest just a little while before going to his bed.

'Not only have I missed a good many meals,' said Michael, 'but I have been too busy to complain about my perpetually cold feet!'

'Missed meals will do you no harm, my fat monk,' said Bartholomew drowsily. It was freezing in the kitchen, and they were both wet from being out in the rain all day.

They should not lie around in the cold, but should go back to their respective beds and sleep in the warm.

'When will it end?' asked Michael again, his voice distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

Did he mean the plague or the murders in the College? wondered Bartholomew a second time, his thoughts beginning to tumble through his tired brain again. He asked himself why he was lying in a cold kitchen alone with someone whom he thought might know more than was safe about at least one murder.

'Why was Aelfrith in your room?' Bartholomew asked sleepily. Gradually, he was relaxing for the first time in days; it was a pleasant feeling, and he felt himself beginning to fall asleep.

'Mmm?' said Michael. 'Oh, I took him there. He collapsed in the yard. His room was locked, so I took him to mine.'

'Locked?' asked Bartholomew, now struggling to stay awake.

'Yes,' came Michael's voice from a long way off. "I thought it was odd, too. But locked it was, and I could not get in. Perhaps one of his students saw him collapse and did not want him brought to their room.'

Bartholomew thought about that. It was possible, and he knew that Aelfrith's three Franciscan novices had been concerned that the work he was doing among the plague victims might bring the disease to them.

'When do you think this plague will end?' he asked in response, wriggling slightly to ease the ache in his back.

'When the Lord thinks we have learned,' said Michael.

'Learned what, for God's sake?' asked Bartholomew, settling down again. 'If this continues, perhaps there will be no one left to learn anything.'

'Perhaps not,' said Michael. 'But if He wanted us all to die, He would not have bothered to send the signs.'

'What signs?' Bartholomew felt his eyes begin to close, no matter how hard he struggled to keep them open. He tried to remember when he had last slept; a couple of hours two nights before? 'When the plague first started in the Far East, there were three signs,' began Michael. Bartholomew gave up on keeping his eyes open, and just listened.

'On the first day, it rained frogs and serpents. On the second day, there was thunder so loud that people hearing it were sent mad, and lightning that came as sheets of fire. On the third day a great pall of black smoke issued from the earth, blotting out the sun and all the light. On the fourth day, the plague came.

'There have been other signs too,' Michael continued after a moment. 'In France, a great pillar of fire was seen over the Palace of the Popes in Avignon. A ball of fire hung over Paris. In Italy, when the plague arrived, it came with a terrible earthquake that sent noxious fumes all over the surrounding country and killed all the crops.

Many died from famine as well as the plague.'

'There have been no such signs here, Brother,' said Bartholomew, almost asleep. 'Perhaps we are not so evil as the French or the Italians.'

'Perhaps not,' said Michael. 'Or perhaps God does not want to waste His signs on the irredeemable.'

Bartholomew woke with a start. He was cold and very stiff, and still lying on the bench. Wincing, he eased himself up, wondering why he had not gone to bed to wake warm and rested. Daylight was flooding in through the window, and there was a crackle of burning wood.

He looked behind him.

'Oh, you are awake, lazy-bones,' grunted Agatha.

'Sleeping in the kitchen indeed! Master Wilson will not be impressed.'

The kitchen had been cleaned since the previous night: the food swept away and the dead rat removed.

One of the fireplaces had been cleared out and a warm blaze replaced the cold ashes. Stiffly, Bartholomew went to sit beside it on a stool, smelling the fresh oatcakes cooking on the circular oven next to the fire. Brother Michael still slept in Agatha's chair, black circles under his eyes and his mouth dangling open. Bartholomew's suspicions of the night before seemed unreasonable.

Even if Michael had been connected with the death of Aelfrith in some way, he obviously meant Bartholomew no harm, when he could easily have dispatched him as he lay sleeping on the bench.

Bartholomew stretched himself and filched an oatcake when he thought Agatha was not looking.

The sudden movement woke Michael, who sat looking around stupidly. 'What time is it?' he asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes and rubbing his cold hands together.

'A little before eight, I would say,' said Agatha. 'Now you sit down,' she continued, pushing Michael back in his chair. "I have made you some oatcakes — if this greedy physician has not eaten them all.'

'But I have missed Prime,' said Michael, horrified.

'And I did not say Matins and Lauds last night.'

'Your stomach must still be asleep,' said Bartholomew, 'if you are considering prayers before breakfast.' "I always say prayers before breakfast,' snapped Michael, and then relented. "I am sorry, Matt. I cannot stick knives in boils and try to relieve fevers like you do.

My way of fighting this monstrous pestilence is to keep my offices, no matter what happens. I hope it may make a difference.' He gave a rueful look. 'This will be the first time I have failed since this business began.' "I was thinking yesterday that the clerics were doing more good than the physicians ever could,' said Bartholomew, startled by Michael's confession. 'Do not be too hard on yourself, Brother. Or, as you said to me last night, you will be no good to yourself or your patients,' he said in a very plausible imitation of Michael's pompous voice that made Agatha screech with laughter.

Michael laughed too, more at Agatha's reaction than at Bartholomew's feeble attempt at humour. 'Oh lord, Matthew,' he said. "I never thought we would laugh again. Give me the oatcakes, Mistress Agatha. I had nothing but maggoty apples last night.'

Agatha pulled the oatcakes out of the oven and plumped herself down on a stool next to Bartholomew.

"I am gone for three days to tend to my relatives, and the College falls apart,' she said. 'Filth in the kitchens, rats in the rooms, and the food all gone.'

Michael coughed, his mouth overfull of fresh warm oatcake. 'The servants have mostly left,' he said. 'That great lump of lard in the Master's room will not stir himself to take charge as he should, and the College is ruled by chaos.'

'Not any more,' said Agatha grandly, 'for I am back.

And make no mistake, young sirs, no pestilence is going to get me! I have been three days going from house to house, seeing my relatives die, and I am still free from the pestilence. Some of us will not be taken!'

Bartholomew and Michael stared at her in astonishment.

'You may be right,' said Bartholomew. 'Gregory Colet and I wondered whether some people may have a natural resistance to the plague.'

'Not resistance, Master Bartholomew,' said Agatha proudly, 'I am one of God's chosen.' She shifted her ample skirts importantly. 'He strikes down those that anger him, and spares those he loves.'

'That cannot be, Mistress,' said Bartholomew. 'Why would God strike down children? And what of the monks and friars who risk themselves to give comfort to the people?'

'Monks and friars!' spat Agatha. "I have seen the lives they lead: wealth, rich foods, women, and fine clothes! God will direct them to hell first!'

'Thank you for your kind words, Mistress,' said Michael, eyeing her dolefully. 'And how long would you say I have before God banishes me to hell?'

Agatha grinned sheepishly. "I did not say he would take you all. But what other reason can there be that some die and some live? The physicians do not know.

Gregory Colet told me I may be right, and the priests believe some are chosen to live and others to die.'

'Perhaps some people have a balance of humours in their bodies that gives them a resistance to the plague,' mused Bartholomew, taking another oatcake.

'And have you compared the humours of those that live with those that die?' asked Michael.

Bartholomew nodded, frustrated. 'But I can see no pattern in it as yet.'

Michael patted his shoulder. 'Well, perhaps the balance is too fine to be easily seen,' he said. 'But if your theory is true, I do not want to know for it would mean that I am doomed — to live or die — as my body directs, and that nothing I do — no matter how I pray or try to live a godly life, will make a difference. And then I would be without hope and without God.'

Bartholomew raised his hands. 'It would be no kind of answer anyway,' he said.

"I want to know how to cure this foul disease, not forecast for people whether they will live or die.'

Michael stood up, stuffing the rest of the oatcakes in his scrip for later. 'As much as I like your company, sitting here discussing the causes of the Death with two people who have no more idea why it has come than I have will benefit no one. I must say my prayers and visit the people.'

He marched out of the kitchen, and Bartholomew heard his strong baritone singing a psalm as he went to the porter's lodge. He also glimpsed Wilson's white face at his window, surveying the domain he dared not rule.

'You can stay a while, if you do not mind me clattering,' said Agatha. Bartholomew recognised this as a rare compliment, for Agatha did not approve of idle hands in the kitchen. She was already beginning to reimpose her order on the chaos, for the boys who worked in the scullery had been set to work washing floors, and Cynric and Alexander were collecting the bedclothes of those who had died to be taken to the laundry.

'Thank you, Mistress, but I must meet with Gregory Colet to see that the new pit is dug.'

He left Agatha to her work, and went to draw some water from the well. Back in the room where he stored his medicines, he washed quickly in the freezing water and changed his clothes. His clean ones were not quite dry, but it was going to rain again anyway, he thought. As he emerged from the storeroom, he saw Father William and hailed him over. He looked tired, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

'Nathaniel the Fleming has the plague,' he said. "I have been called to give him last rites.'

'Not leeches?' asked Bartholomew, his own weariness making him obtuse.

William looked askance at him. 'Doctor Colet has already leeched him, but the poisons were too deep in his body to draw out.' He reached a meaty hand towards Bartholomew. 'What of Aelfrith? Will you see him taken to the plague pit?'

Bartholomew looked up at the pale blue sky. Did William know? Should he tell him? What if William and Wilson were in league, and had poisoned Aelfrith together? Bartholomew looked at the friar's face, grey with fatigue, and recalled also that Aelfrith and William had been close friends. 'Shall I bury him in the churchyard instead?' he asked, to buy himself more time to think.

William looked startled. 'Can we? Is it not safer for the living to bury him in lime in the plague pits?' "I do not see why,' Bartholomew said, watching William closely. 'Others were buried in the churchyard before the plague came in earnest.'

William pursed his lips. "I have been thinking about that. Perhaps it is their corrupted flesh lying in hallowed ground that is causing the contagion to spread. Perhaps the way to stop the Death is to exhume them all and rebury them in the plague pits.'

Now it was Bartholomew's turn to be startled. Here was a theory he had not encountered before. He mulled it over in his mind briefly, reluctant to dismiss any chance of defeating the plague without due thought, no matter how unlikely a solution it might seem. But he shook his head. "I suspect that would only serve to put those that perform the exhumation at risk, if not from the plague, then from other diseases. And I cannot see that they are a danger to the living.'

William looked at him dubiously. 'Will you bury Aelfrith, then? In the churchyard?'

Bartholomew nodded, and then hesitated. IfWilliam were involved in Aelfrith's murder, incautious questioning would only serve to endanger his own life, and if he were not, it would be yet another burden for the exhausted friar. 'Were you… surprised that he was taken?' Bartholomew asked, before realising how clumsy the question was.

William looked taken aback. 'He was fit enough at the midday meal,' he replied. 'Just tired like us all, and saddened because he had heard the deathbed confession of the Principal of All Saints' Hostel. Now you mention it, poor Aelfrith was taken very quickly. It was fortunate that Brother Michael was near, or he might have died un shriven.'

He began to walk away, leaving Bartholomew less certain than ever as to whether he was involved. Were his reactions, his words, those of a killer? And what of Wilson? What was his role in Aelfrith's death?

Before leaving, he decided to see Abigny briefly.

He pushed the door open slowly, and a boot flew across the room and landed at his feet. Bartholomew pushed the door all the way open and peered in.

'Oh. It is you, Matt. I thought it was that damned rat again. Did you see it? It is as big as a dog!' Abigny untangled himself from his bed. 'What a time I had last night, Physician. What delights I sampled! None of the young ladies want to meet their maker without first knowing of love, and I have been only too happy to oblige. You should try it.'

'Giles, if you are sampling the delights of as many poor ladies as you say, I hope you do not plan to visit Philippa,' said Bartholomew anxiously. 'Please do not visit her if you are seeing people who may be infected.'

'Poppycock! She will die if it is her time,' said Abigny, pulling on some of his brightest clothes. Bartholomew knew only too well that this meant he was planning on impressing some female friends.

'And you will die before it is yours if you take the pestilence to her!' he said with quiet menace. He had always found Abigny rather shallow and selfish, although he could be an entertaining companion, but he had always believed the philosopher to be genuinely fond of his sister. Through the past few black weeks, it had been the thought of Philippa's face that had allowed Bartholomew to continue his bleak work. He could not bear to think of her falling prey to the filthy disease.

Abigny stopped dressing and looked at Bartholomew.

'Matthew, I am sorry,' he said with sincerity.

'You should know better than to think I would harm Philippa. No, I do not have the plague…' He raised his hand to stop Bartholomew from coming further into the room. 'Hugh Stapleton died last night'

Bartholomew leaned against the door. Stapleton had run Bene't Hostel, and had been a close friend of Abigny's. Abigny spent more time at the Hostel than he did at Michaelhouse, and regularly took his meals there.

"I am sorry, Giles,' he said. He had seen so many die over the last several days, including Aelfrith, that it was difficult to sound convincing. He wondered whether he would be bereft of all compassion by the time the plague had run its course.

Abigny nodded. "I am away to enjoy the pleasures of life, and I will not see Philippa,' he said. "I was with Hugh when he died, and he told me to enjoy life while I had it. That is exactly what I am going to do.'

He flung his best red cloak over his shoulders and walked jauntily out of the yard. Bartholomew followed him as far as the stable where Father Aelfrith's body lay.

While Abigny enjoyed life, Bartholomew had a colleague to bury. He glanced up and saw Wilson lingering at the window. Had he killed Aelfrith? 'Father Aelfrith is dead,' Bartholomew yelled up at him, drawing the attention of several students who were walking around the yard to the hall. 'Will you come to see him buried, Master Wilson?'

The shadowy shape disappeared. Bartholomew took a spade from the stable and walked to St Michael's churchyard.