A Plague On Both Your Houses

6

Christmas at Cambridge was usually a time for celebration and for a relaxing of the rules that governed scholars' lives. Fires would be lit in the conclave, and students and Fellows could gather round and tell each other stories, or even play cards. Since it was dark by four o'clock in the evening, a night by the fire in a candle-lit conclave was a pleasant change from the usual practice of retiring to dark, unheated rooms.

But the plague was still raging in Cambridge at Christmas, and few felt like celebrating. Bedraggled groups of children stood in the snow singing carols for pennies. Food was scarce because many of the farmers who grew the winter vegetables or tended the livestock were struck with the plague. Many who were fit did not wish to risk a journey into the town, where they might come into contact with infected people.

The cart patrolling the streets collecting the dead became a common sight. Old women who had lost entire families followed it around, offering prayers for the dead in return for money or food. Houses stood empty, and at night, after the curfew bell had rung and the depleted and exhausted patrols of University beadles and Sheriffs men slept, small bands of vagrants and thieves would loot the homes of the dead and the sick. The thieves soon became bolder, coming in from surrounding villages and even attacking during the daylight hours.

To make matters worse, it was a cold winter, with gales howling across the flat land, bringing with them driving snow. On clear days and nights, the temperature dropped so low that sick people had to go out foraging for sticks to build fires to melt ice for water to drink.

The monks at Barnwell Priory lost a third of their number, although St Radegund's fared better and only three nuns became ill. More than half of the monks at the great monasteries at Ely and Norwich perished, and Bartholomew began to appreciate the Bishop's point as he saw more and more people die without being given last rites. Some did not care, but only wished to end their agony; others died in terror of going straight to hell as a punishment for various petty sins. The church walls were full of paintings of the damned being devoured by demons in hell, so Bartholomew did not wonder that people were afraid.

It was impossible to tell how many members the University lost. At the first sign of the plague, some left the town and did not return. As the numbers of deaths rose, harried clerks began to lose count, and many people ended up in the plague pits without any record being made. By January, King's Hall lost ten of its scholars, and Michaelhouse lost eleven.

Bartholomew had thought that perhaps the scholars might fare better than the townspeople because they were younger, fitter, and usually better fed. But the plague struck indiscriminately, and by Christmas the old commoners were still alive and well, but several healthy young students were dead.

However much Bartholomew thought and studied and worked, he could not understand why some people died and others recovered, or why, in the same household, some people caught the disease while others remained healthy, even after being in contact with the sick. He and Colet compared experiences regularly, and argued endlessly and without conclusion. Colet had given up leeching buboes, and incised them where he could, like Bartholomew. But he still believed that leeching after the incisions caused the recovery of his patients.

Bartholomew believed the keys were rest, a warm bed, and clean water. Since neither had a better record of success than the other, each refused to adopt the other's methods. But Colet's patients were generally wealthy, with warm homes and clean bedding. Bartholomew's patients were poor, and warmth and cleanliness were not always easy to attain.

Bartholomew continued on his rounds, lancing the black swellings whenever he thought it might ease a patient's pain. Two more physicians died, and another two fled, so that only Bartholomew, Colet, and Simon Roper from Bene't Hostel were left. They found they could not trust the town officials to carry out their recommendations and had to supervise virtually everything, from the digging of the pits and the proper use of lime, to the cleaning of the streets of the dead rats and refuse that built up.

Bartholomew, arriving home at dawn after staying with a family that had five of seven children dying, was awoken within minutes by hammering on the door.

Wearily, he struggled out of bed to answer it. A young man stood there, his long, unruly hair at odds with his neat scholar's tabard.

"I thought you would have been up by now,' said the man cheekily.

'What do you want?' Bartholomew asked thickly, so tired he could barely speak.

"I have been sent to fetch you to St Radegund's.'

Bartholomew's blood ran cold, and he was instantly awake. 'Why, what has happened?' he asked in a whisper, almost afraid to ask. 'Is it Philippa Abigny?'

'Oh, no,' said the student. 'A man wants you. But you had better hurry up or he said you will be too late.'

Bartholomew hastened back inside to dress. When he emerged, the tousle-haired man was leaning against the wall chatting to the porter. Bartholomew ignored him and made his way up St Michael's Lane at a steady trot. He heard footsteps behind him, and the young man caught him and tried to match his pace.

'If you want to travel quickly, why do you not take a horse?' he asked between gasps.

"I do not have a horse,' answered Bartholomew.

'Who has asked for me? Is it Giles Abigny?' The fear he felt earlier returned. He hoped Abigny had not become ill and gone to the convent for help. St Radegund's had escaped lightly until now, perhaps because the Prioress had determined on a policy of isolation, and no one was allowed in; money in a pot of vinegar was left outside the gates for all food that was delivered. Bartholomew hoped the Prioress had managed to continue so, not only because Philippa was inside, but also because he wanted to know if the plague could be averted in this way.

'You do not have a horse?' queried the student, losing his stride. 'A physician?'

'Who asked for me?' Bartholomew asked again. He was beginning to be annoyed.

"I do not know, just some man. I am only the messenger.'

Bartholomew increased his speed, and quickly left the student puffing and wheezing behind him. It was only a matter of moments before the walls of St Radegund's loomed up out of the early morning mist. He pounded on the door, leaning against the wall to get his breath, his legs unsteady from a brisk run on an empty stomach and anticipation of what was to come.

A small grille in the door snapped open. 'What do you want?' came a sharp voice.

'It is Matthew Bartholomew. I was sent for,' he gasped.

'Not by us,' and the grille slammed shut.

Bartholomew groaned and banged on the door again. There was no reply.

'You are unlikely to get an answer now.'

Bartholomew spun round, and the student found himself pinned against the wall by the throat. 'Hey! I am only the messenger!' he croaked, eyes wide in his face.

Bartholomew relented and loosened his grip, although not by much.

'Who sent for me?' he asked again, his voice dangerously quiet.

"I do not know his name. I will have to show you,' the student said, trying to prise Bartholomew's hands from his throat, some of his former cockiness gone.

He led the way around the walls towards the convent gardens. 'My name is Samuel Gray,' he said.

Bartholomew ignored him. "I am a medical student at Bene't Hostel.'

Bartholomew saw they were heading for a small shack where garden tools were kept. He and Philippa had sheltered there from a summer thunderstorm once as they had walked together among the fruit bushes.

That had been only a few short months before, but to Bartholomew it seemed in another lifetime. Gray reached the hut first, and pushed open the door. Bartholomew took a step inside and peered into the gloom, trying to see what was inside.

'Philippa!' She was kneeling in a corner next to a figure lying on the floor.

'Matt!' She leapt to her feet, and before Bartholomew could prevent her, she had thrown herself into his arms. His first instinct was to force her away, lest he carried the contagion with him somehow in his clothes, but the shack was already rank with the smell of the plague, so there was little point. He allowed all else to be driven from his mind as he enjoyed the first contact he had had with Philippa since the plague began.

Suddenly she pushed him away. 'What are you doing here?' she said. 'Who asked you to come?'

Bartholomew gazed at her in confusion. He looked around at Gray, who stood at the door looking as surprised as Bartholomew.

"I do not know,' Gray said. 'It was a man. He told me to bring you here, and that he would be waiting to meet you.'

Bartholomew looked back at Philippa. "I do not know of any man,' she said. "I have been here since dawn. I had a message to come, and I found Sister Clement here. She has the plague.'

'But who told you to come? And how did you get out? I thought the convent was sealed.' "I do not know, to answer your first question. A message came written on a scrap of parchment pushed under the door. I came here immediately. In answer to your other question, there is a small gate near the kitchens that is always open, although few know of it.

Sister Clement has been using it regularly to slip out and go among the poor.' Her voice caught, and Bartholomew put his arms round her again.

He said nothing while she sobbed quietly, and Gray shuffled his feet in the doorway. On the floor, Sister Clement was near the end, her laboured breathing almost inaudible. Philippa looked at her, and raised her eyes pleadingly to Bartholomew. 'Can you help her?'

Bartholomew shook his head. He had seen so many similar cases during the last few weeks that he did not even need to examine her to know that there was nothing he could do. Even lancing the swellings at this point would do no more than cause unnecessary suffering.

'But you are a physician! You must be able to do something!'

Bartholomew flinched. These were words he heard every day, but they hurt nevertheless. He went over to look at the old lady, and arranged her arms so that the pressure on the swellings under them would be reduced.

The buboes in her groin had burst, emitting the smell which Bartholomew had come to know well, but that still filled him with disgust. He sent Gray to find a priest to give her last rites, and sat back helplessly. Behind him, Philippa cried softly. He took her hand and led her outside into the clean morning air.

'Why did you come, Matt?' asked Philippa.

'That student came and said I was needed at St Radegund's. He does not seem to know by whom.' "I receive a message to come here, sent by an unknown person, then you do. What is going on? Who wants us here together?' Philippa looked around her as if expecting the unknown person to emerge from the bushes.

'Friend or foe?' asked Bartholomew absently. He was horribly afraid that it was the latter, someone who wanted Philippa to come into contact with a plague victim, and Bartholomew to know it. He felt a sudden anger. Who would want to do such a thing? What had either of them done to harm anyone else? 'Now I am out of that horrid place, I will not go back,' said Philippa with a sudden fierce determination.

"I refuse. I can stay with you and Giles. I can sleep in your medicine room.'

'There is plague at the College, Philippa,' said Bartholomew. 'You would not be safe.'

'There is plague here!' said Philippa vehemently, gesturing to the shack behind them. 'And anyway,' she continued, "I do not approve of the way the nuns skulk behind the convent walls. Sister Clement was the only one with any decency.'

'Do you want to die like that?' asked Bartholomew, gesturing back at the old lady.

'Do you?' countered Philippa. 'You see plague victims every day, and you are well. So is Gregory Colet. Not everyone who touches someone with the Death catches it.'

Bartholomew wondered what to do. It was out of the question to take Philippa to Michaelhouse. Even though Master Wilson was not in a position to do anything about it, the clerics would object. And she could not possibly sleep in the medicines room. The shutters did not close properly, and there were no separate privies that she would be able to use. He would have to take her to Edith's house. Edith had not heeded his advice and locked herself away, and Stanmore was still trying to conduct his trade. Philippa would not be as protected there from the plague as she had been in the convent, but it was the best he could do.

Gray came back over the fields bringing with him an Austin Canon from Barnwell whom he had waylaid.

They listened to his murmurings as he administered last rites to the old nun. After a few minutes he came out, told them that Sister Clement was dead, and went on his way. For him, it would be the first in a long day of such prayers, and who knew whether he would live to see another such day tomorrow?

Bartholomew took Philippa's hand, and together they began to make their way back to Barnwell Causeway.

Gray tagged along behind.

Bartholomew decided to go to Edith's house in Trumpington immediately. They would have to walk because he knew of nowhere where he would be able to hire horses. All the usual places had been struck by the plague, and the horses turned to graze unattended in the fields. Bartholomew turned to Gray.

'Can you tell me anything else about this man who gave you the message? What did he look like?'

Gray shrugged. 'He was wearing a Dominican habit, and his cowl was over his face. He had ink on his fingers, though, and he tripped on the hem of his gown as he left.'

Ink on his fingers. He could be a clerk or a student, unfamiliar enough in the friar's long habit to fall over it when he walked. Were the fanatical scholars after him now? Was this a warning to him that he was vulnerable through Philippa, even though he had thought her safely tucked away in her convent? He wondered why on earth they were bothering. No one who watched the sun rise these days could be certain of seeing it set in the evening. All they had to do was wait. Why had they taken the trouble to poison Aelfrith? As Bartholomew's thoughts of murder came tumbling back, he clutched Philippa's hand tighter, glad to feel something warm and reassuring. She smiled at him, and they began to walk towards Trumpington.

Edith was delighted to see Bartholomew and surprised to see Philippa. She fussed over them both, and found Philippa a small room in the garret where she could have some privacy. Oswald Stanmore was just finishing a late breakfast in the parlour, and chatted to Bartholomew while Edith whisked Philippa away.

'She will be glad of some company,' he said, jerking his thumb towards the stairway where Edith had gone.

'She frets over Richard. We have had no word since the plague came. I keep telling her that she should look on this as a positive sign and that definite news might mean he has been buried.'

Bartholomew said nothing. He did not want to remind Stanmore of the dozens of unnamed bodies he saw tipped into the pits. People often died in the streets, were collected by the carts and their names were never discovered. He was sure that Stanmore must have seen this as he did his business around the town. He tried not to think about it; Bartholomew did not want to imagine Richard tipped into some pit in Oxford, never to be traced by his family.

'How are the figures?' asked Stanmore.

'Another fifteen died yesterday, including eight children,' said Bartholomew. "I have lost count of the total number, and the clerk who is supposed to note numbers of bodies going into the pits is drunk half the time. We will probably never know how many have died in Cambridge.'

'You look exhausted, Matt. Stay here for a few days and rest. You cannot keep going at this pace.'

'The plague will not last forever,' said Bartholomew.

'And how can I leave Colet and Roper to do everything?'

'Simon Roper died this morning,' said Stanmore.

He noticed Bartholomew's shock. 'I am sorry, lad. I thought you would have known.'

Now Bartholomew and Colet were the only ones left, with Robin of Grantchester, the town surgeon, whose methods and hygiene Bartholomew did not trust.

How would they manage? Because there had been cases where Bartholomew had lanced the black swellings and the patient had lived, he wanted to make sure that as many people as possible were given this tiny chance for life. If there were fewer physicians and surgeons, fewer people would be treated, and the plague would take those who might have been able to survive.

' Stay here with Philippa,' said Stanmore persuasively.

'She needs you, too.'

Bartholomew felt himself wavering. It would be wonderful to spend a few hours with Philippa and to forget all the foulness of the past weeks. But he knew that there were people who needed him, perhaps his friends, and he would not forgive himself if one of them died when he might have been able to help. He shook his head.

"I must go back to the College. Alexander was unwell last night. I should check on him, and I must make sure that the pits are being properly limed, or we may never escape from this vile disease.' He stood up and stretched.

' Ride with me then,' said Stanmore, gathering scrolls of neat figures from the table and stuffing them in his bag.

'One of the apprentices can bring the horse back again tonight.'

Edith came in and told them that Philippa was resting. Apparently the death of the old nun had upset her more than Bartholomew had thought. He had become so inured to death that he had made the assumption that others had too, and had not considered that Philippa would be so grieved.

Edith gave Bartholomew a hug. 'Take care,' she whispered. 'Do not take too many chances. I could not bear to lose you.'

She turned away so that he would not see the tears in her eyes, and bustled around the fireplace.

Bartholomew reached over and touched her lightly on the shoulder before following her husband into the yard. It was beginning to snow again, and the wind was bitterly cold. The muddy ruts in the track back to Cambridge had frozen, and the covering of snow made the travelling treacherous. Both horses stumbled several times, and the snow swirled about them so that they could barely see the way.

After a few minutes, Stanmore reined in. 'This is insane, Matt. We must go back. We can try again later.'

'You return. I have to go on,' said Bartholomew.

'Be sensible! We can barely see where we are going.

Come home with me.'

'But I am worried about Alexander. And I promised the miller I would look in on his boy.'

'Go if you must, but I think you are mad. Take the horse. Please do not stable the poor beast at Michaelhouse, but take it to Stephen. He knows how to care for horses, unlike your dreadful porter.'

Bartholomew nodded and with a wave of his hand urged the horse on down the track, while Stanmore retraced his steps. The snow seemed to be coming horizontally, and Bartholomew was quickly enveloped in a soundless world of swirling white. Even the horse's hooves barely made a sound. Despite being cold and tired, he admired the beauty and tranquility of the countryside. The soft sheets of brilliant white stretching in all directions seemed a long way from the putrid black buboes and blood-laden vomit of the plague victims. He stopped the horse, so that he could appreciate the silence and peace.

He was startled to hear a twig snapping behind him. He twisted round in the saddle and saw a shadow flit between the trees. He hoped it was not robbers; he had no wish to be attacked for the few pennies in his pocket. He jabbed his heels into the horse's side to urge it forward, and it broke into a brisk trot. Glancing behind himself frequently, Bartholomew saw nothing but snow-laden trees and the hoof marks of his horse on the path.

He reached the Priory of St Edmund's, its buildings almost invisible in the swirling snow, and continued to Small Bridges Street. The miller was waiting for him, peering anxiously through the snow. As Bartholomew dismounted, he raced to meet him.

'He is well, Doctor, he lives! You saved him! You said he had a chance, and you were right. He is awake now, asking for water.'

Bartholomew gave a brief smile and went to see his small patient. His mother had died of the plague three days before, followed by one of his sisters. The boy looked as though he would recover now, and the rest of the family seemed healthy enough. Leaving them with stern warnings not to drink the river water just because the well was frozen, he mounted and rode back to Michaelhouse, his spirits a little higher. As he turned to wave to the miller, he thought he saw a shadow dart into the long grass by the side of the stream, but it was no more than the merest flash of movement, and however hard he looked, he could see nothing else.

Bartholomew took the horse to Stephen Stanmore's house on Milne Street and stayed for a cup of mulled wine. Stephen looked tired and strained and told him that three of the apprentices had died. Rachel Atkin, whom Bartholomew had persuaded him to take, was proving invaluable in helping to nurse others with the sickness.

When Bartholomew returned to College, Alexander had already died, and Brother Michael was helping Agatha to sew him into a blanket. Cynric was also ill, shivering with fever, and muttering in Welsh.

Bartholomew sat with him until the light began to fade, and went out to check on the plague pits.

Cynric was more friend than servant. They had first met in Oxford when they had been on opposing sides in one of the many town-and-gown brawls. Each had bloodied the other, but rather than continue, Bartholomew, who had had enough of his foray into such senseless behaviour, offered to buy the short Welshman some ale.

Cynric had narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but had gone with Bartholomew, and the two had spent the rest of the day talking and watching their fellow brawlers being arrested. Bartholomew had arranged for the itinerant Cynric to work in the hostel where he studied, and, later, had invited him to Cambridge. Officially, Cynric was Bartholomew's book-bearer, although he did other tasks around the College and had a considerable degree of freedom.

Bartholomew walked back down the High Street to the scrap of land that had been hastily consecrated so that plague victims could be buried. He peered into the pit in the growing gloom, and ordered that the dead-collectors be told to use more lime.

It was still snowing heavily as he walked back to College. The snow was almost knee-deep in places, and walking was hard work. Bartholomew began to feel hot, and paused to wipe the sweat from his face. He also felt dizzy. Probably just tiredness, he thought impatiently, and he tried to hurry through the snow to return to Cynric. Walking became harder and harder, and Bartholomew was finding it difficult to catch his breath.

He was relieved when he finally reached Michaelhouse, and staggered through the gates. He decided that he needed to lie down for a few moments before sitting with Cynric again.

He made his way over to his room, and pushed open the door. He stopped dead in his tracks as Samuel Gray rose languidly from his bed, where, judging from his half-closed eyes and rumpled hair, he had been sleeping.

Bartholomew desperately wanted to rest, and his body felt stiff and sore. It must have been the unaccustomed riding. He took a step forwards, and Gray moved cautiously backwards.

"I have been waiting for you,' said Gray.

Bartholomew swallowed. His throat felt dry and sore.

'What for? Not more messages?'

'No, no, nothing like that,' said Gray.

Bartholomew felt his knees begin to give way. As he pitched forward into the surprised student's arms, he knew he had become a victim of the plague.

Epiphany came and went. Brother Michael, Father William, and a mere handful of students celebrated mass. Alcote slipped into the back of the church, and skittered nervously from pillar to pillar as a few parishioners straggled in. When one of them began to cough, he left and scuttled back to the safety of his room.

Of Wilson, there was no sign.

Cynric had a burning fever for two days, and then woke on the third morning claiming he was well. Agatha, who had been nursing him, heaved a sigh of relief and went about her other duties, secure in her belief that she was immune. When a peddler came to the College selling crudely carved wooden lions covered in gold paint that he assured her would protect her from the plague, she sent him away with some ripe curses ringing in his ears.

The dead-collectors failed to come for Alexander, and so Agatha loaded him onto the College cart with the reluctant help of Gilbert, and took him to the plague pit herself. Agatha had heard that Gregory Colet, devastated by the death of Simon Roper and Bartholomew's sickness, had given up visiting new plague victims and no longer supervised the liming of the plague pits or the cleaning of the streets.

More of the dead-collectors died, and it became almost impossible to persuade people to take their places. Several friars and Canons from the Hospital offered their services, but these were not enough, and soon bodies lay for two or three days on the streets or in houses before they were taken away.

Many people believed that the end of the world was near, and that the plague was a punishment for human sin. It was said that entire villages were wiped out, and that in the cities, at least half the population had perished. Trade was virtually at a standstill, and civil disorder was rife in the cities and towns.

Bartholomew knew little about the days he was ill.

Occasionally he was conscious enough to hear low voices, and he heard the College bell ringing for meals and for church services. The swellings on his neck, groin, and under his arms gave him intense pain, and he was usually aware of little else.

After five days, he saw a candle flickering on the shelf under the window. He watched it for a while, wondering why the shutters were closed and a candle burning when he could see daylight seeping under the door. As he tried to turn his head, a searing pain in his neck brought everything back to him. He remembered walking back from the plague pit and finding the obnoxious student sleeping on his bed, and recalled meeting Philippa in the shack in the convent grounds.

'Philippa!' he said, his voice no more than a whisper.

'She is well, but worried about you, as is your sister.'

The student had appeared, and was leaning over him, dark rings under his eyes, and his hair even more rumpled than Bartholomew remembered.

'What are you doing here?' Bartholomew croaked.

'Tsk, man! The lad has been looking after you day and night! Show a little gratitude.'

Bartholomew gave a weak grin. 'Cynric! Thank God! I thought you might be gone.' He reached for Cynric's hand to assure himself his imagination was not playing tricks.

Cynric, touched, became brusque. 'Lie still, or those incisions will start bleeding again.'

'What incisions? Did Gregory Colet come?'

'Master Colet has given up on the world, and spends his days on his knees with the monks. It is young Samuel who has been looking after you.'

Bartholomew looked appalled, and winced as he tried to move his arms to check where the swellings on his neck would have been. "I feel as though I have been savaged by a dog,' he groaned. 'What has he done to me?'

'He cut the swellings open to drain them. Just as you have been doing to others, Master Physician. Now you know how it feels,' said Cynric, ruefully rubbing his own lacerated neck.

Bartholomew looked at the student. 'Who are you?' he asked, wondering why a fit and healthy young man would opt to care for a plague victim he did not know.

'Samuel Gray,' said the student, promptly.

'Yes, from Bene't Hostel. But that is not what I meant. What do you want from me?'

Gray looked at the floor. "I followed you to Trumpington, and then back in the snow. When you returned from seeing the miller's boy, I came here while you went off to see to Cynric. I was waiting for you, but you were such a long time, I fell asleep.' He looked up and met Bartholomew's eyes. "I was Master Roper's student, and he is dead, so I would like to study under you.'

His speech over, he tried to look nonchalant, as if Bartholomew's response was not that important to him anyway, but in the silence that followed, his face grew anxious and he watched Bartholomew intently.

"I see.' Bartholomew was suddenly very tired, and could not stop his eyes from closing. Then he was shaken awake again. 'Will you have me?' the student asked insistently.

Bartholomew struggled to free himself from Gray's grip, but was as weak as a kitten. 'Why me? What have I done to deserve this?' he said, his voice heavy with sleepiness.

Gray looked at him narrowly, trying to assess whether there was a hidden insult in the question. 'There are not many of you left,' he said rudely.

Bartholomew heard Cynric laughing. He could feel himself drifting into a deep and restful slumber. Gray's voice brought him awake again.

'Will you have me? I have a good degree, you can ask Hugh Stapleton. Oh…' his voice trailed off.

Stapleton was dead. 'Master Abigny!' he exclaimed jubilantly. 'You can ask him, he knows me!' He gave Bartholomew another gentle shake.

Bartholomew reached up and grabbed a handful of Gray's tunic, pulling him down towards the bed. 'You will never be a good physician unless you can learn when to let your patients rest,' he whispered, 'and you will never be a good student unless you learn not to manhandle your master.'

Releasing Gray's clothing, he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep. Gray looked at Cynric. 'Was that a yes or a no?' he asked.

Cynric, still smiling, shrugged and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Gray stood looking down at Bartholomew for several minutes before tidying the bedclothes and blowing out the candle. He lay down on the pallet bed Cynric had given him and stared into the darkness. He knew that Bartholomew would live now, so long as he rested and regained his strength.

Bartholomew coughed in his sleep, and Gray raised himself on one elbow to peer over at him. He believed he had taken no risk in tending Bartholomew, for he was one of the plague's first victims in Cambridge and had survived. He did not think he would catch the disease a second time, and had been making a good deal of money by offering to tend plague victims in the houses of rich merchants. But that was nothing compared to what he may have earned by nursing Bartholomew. He had heard about Bartholomew's methods and ideas, and had longed to study with him when he was an undergraduate, but the physician already had as many students as he could manage.

Gray knew exactly what he wanted from life. He intended to become an excellent physician and have a large number of very wealthy patients. Perhaps he might even become the private physician of some nobleman.

Regardless, he intended to find himself a position that would bring him wealth and enough free time to be able to enjoy it. He knew Bartholomew worked among the poor, but to Gray that meant he would gain far more experience of diseases than from a physician who tended the rich. He would be happy to work among the poor during his medical training, but then he would be off to make his fortune in York or Bristol, or perhaps even London.

Gray smiled to himself and lay back down, his arms behind his head. He and Cynric had been caring for Bartholomew continuously for five days and nights, and several times had thought their labours were in vain.

Brother Michael had actually given Bartholomew last rites before the fever suddenly broke.

Once Bartholomew had slept almost twenty-four hours without waking, his recovery was rapid. He was out of his bed and taking his first unsteady steps around the College yard within a day, and felt ready to begin his work again within three days. Michael, Cynric, and Gray urged him to rest more, but Bartholomew insisted that tossing restlessly on his bed was more tiring than working. Bartholomew decided that all plague victims in the College should be in one room so that they could have constant attention.

He set about converting the commoners' dormitory into a hospital ward, relocating the few surviving commoners elsewhere. Brother Michael's Benedictine room-mates willingly offered their services, and Bartholomew hoped that this arrangement might reduce the risks to others.

As soon as he could, Bartholomew went to see Gregory Colet. As he walked through the wet streets to Rudde's Hostel, he was shocked at the piles of rubbish and dead animals that littered them. There were three bodies, crudely wrapped in filthy rags, at the doors of St Michael's Church that Bartholomew judged to have been there for several days. Around them, several rats lay dead and dying, some half-buried in mud and refuse.

Brother Michael walked beside him, his cowl pulled over his head in an attempt to mask the stench.

'What has happened here, Michael?' said Bartholomew in disbelief. He watched a ragged band of children playing on a huge pile of kitchen waste outside Garret Hostel, occasionally stopping to eat some morsel that they considered edible. On the opposite side of the street, two large pigs rooted happily among a similar pile of rubbish. He shook his head in despair at the filth and disorder.

Michael shrugged. 'There is no one left to do anything. Now that Colet has given up, you and Robin of Grantchester are the only medics here. All the others are dead or gone.'

'What about the priests? Can they not see that the streets need to be cleared and the bodies removed?'

Michael laughed without humour. 'We are in the business of saving souls,' he said, 'notbodies. And anyway, so many clerics have died that there are barely enough to give last rites. Did you know that there are only three Dominicans left here?'

Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. The large community of Dominicans had continued to work among the poor after the outbreak of the plague, and it seemed that their adherence to their way of life may have brought about their virtual demise.

Gregory Colet was not in his room at Rudde's, and the porter told them that he would be in one of the churches, usually St Botolph's. Bartholomew had always admired St Botolph's, with its slate-grey stone and windows faced with cream ashlar, but as Michael pushed open the great oak door and led the way inside it felt damp and cold. The stained glass that he had coveted for St Michael's Church no longer seemed to imbue it with soft colour, but served to make it dismal.

The feeling of gloom was further enhanced by the sound of muted chanting. Candles were lit in the sanctuary and half a dozen monks and friars from various Orders knelt in a row at the altar. Colet sat to one side, his back against a pillar and his eyes fixed on the twinkling candles. One of the monks saw Bartholomew and Michael and came down the aisle to meet them.

Michael introduced him to Bartholomew as Brother Dunstan of Ely. Dunstan expressed pleasure to see Bartholomew well again.

'God knows we need you now,' he said, his eyes straying to Colet.

'What is wrong with him?' Bartholomew asked.

Dunstan tapped his temple. 'His mind has gone.

He heard that Roper had died and that you had the sickness, and he gave up. He sits here, or in one of the other churches, all day and only goes home to sleep. I think he may be willing himself to die.'

Michael crossed himself quickly while Bartholomew looked at Dunstan in horror.

'No! Not when there are so many others that are being taken who want to live!'

Dunstan sighed. 'It is only what I think. Now I must go. We have so many masses to say for the dead, so much to do…'

Michael followed Dunstan to the altar rail, leaving Bartholomew looking at Colet, still gazing at the candles with vacant eyes. Bartholomew knelt down and touched Colet on the shoulder. Reluctantly Colet tore his eyes from the candles to his friend. He gave the faintest glimmer of a smile.

'Matt! You have escaped the Death!'

He began to look back towards the candles again, and Bartholomew gripped his shoulder.

'What is wrong, Gregory? I need your help.'

Colet shook his head. 'It is too late. You and I can do no more.' He became agitated. 'Give it up, Matthew, and go to the country. Cambridge will be a dead town soon.'

'No!' said Bartholomew vehemently. 'It is far from over. People have recovered and others have escaped infection. You cannot give up on them. They need you and so do I!'

Colet shook Bartholomew's hand away, his agitation quickly disappearing into a lethargic gloom. "I can do no more,' he said, his voice barely audible.

'You must!' pleaded Bartholomew. 'The streets are filthy, and the bodies of the dead have not been collected in days. I cannot do it all alone, Gregory. Please!'

Colet's dull eyes looked blankly at Bartholomew before he turned away to look at the candles. 'Give it up,' he whispered. 'It is over.'

Bartholomew sat for a moment, overwhelmed by the task he now faced alone. Robin of Grantchester might help, but he would do nothing without being paid and Bartholomew had very little money to give him. He glanced up and saw Michael and Dunstan watching him.

'You can do nothing here,' said Dunstan softly, looking at Colet with pity. 'It is best you leave him be.'

Depressed at Colet's state of mind, Bartholomew ate a dreary meal in Michaelhouse's chilly hall, and then went to visit the building where Stanmore had his business.

Stephen greeted Bartholomew warmly, looking so like his older brother that Bartholomew almost mistook him.

Bartholomew was urged inside and made to sit near a roaring fire while Stephen's wife prepared some spiced wine. Stephen reassured him that everyone was well at Trumpington, but there was a reservation in his voice that made Bartholomew uneasy.

'Are you sure everyone is well?' he persisted.

'Yes, yes, Matthew. Do not worry,' he said, swirling the wine in his cup, and assiduously refusing to look Bartholomew in the eye.

Bartholomew leaned over and gripped his wrist.

'Has anyone there had the plague? Did it come with Philippa?'

Stephen sighed. 'They told me not to tell you, because they did not want you to go rushing over there before you were well enough. Yes. The plague struck after you brought Philippa. She became ill before you were scarcely gone from the house. Then Edith was stricken, and three of the servants. The servants died, but Philippa and Edith recovered,' he said quickly as Bartholomew leapt to his feet. 'Sit down again and listen.

They were not ill as long as you. They got those revolting swellings like everyone else, but they also got black spots over their bodies.'

He paused, and Bartholomew felt his heart sink.

'They are well now,' Stephen said again, 'but…' His voice trailed off.

'But what?' said Bartholomew. His voice was calm and steady, but he had to push his hands into the folds of his robe so that Stephen would not see them shaking.

'The spots on Edith healed well enough, but Mistress Philippa has scars.'

Bartholomew leaned back in his chair. Was that it?

He looked perplexed, and Stephen tried to explain.

'There are scars on her face. She will not let anyone see them, and she refuses to speak to anyone. She wears a veil all the time, and they have to leave her food outside the door… where are you going?'

Bartholomew was already at the door, drawing his hood over his head. 'Can I borrow a horse?' he said.

Stephen grabbed his arm. 'This is difficult for me to say, Matt, but she specifically asked that you not be allowed to see her. She does not want to see anyone.'

Bartholomew shook him off. "I am a physician.

There may be something I can do.'

Stephen grabbed him again. 'She does not want you to go, Matt. She left a note saying that you were not to come. No one has seen her for the past week.

Leave her. In time she will come round.'

'Can I borrow a horse?' Bartholomew asked again.

'No,' said Stephen, maintaining his grip.

'Then I will walk,' said Bartholomew, pushing him away and striding out into the yard. Stephen sighed, and shouted for an apprentice to saddle up his mare.

Bartholomew waited in silence, while Stephen chattered nervously. 'Richard is back,' he said. Bartholomew relented a little, and smiled at Stephen.

'Thank God,' he said softly. 'Edith must be so happy.'

'As a monk in a brothel!' said Stephen grinning.

The apprentice walked the horse over and Bartholomew swung himself up into the saddle. Stephen darted into his house and returned with a long blue cloak. 'Wear this, or you will freeze.'

Bartholomew accepted it gratefully. He leaned down to touch Stephen lightly on the shoulder, and was gone, kicking the horse into a canter that was far from safe on the narrow streets.

Once out of the town, he had to slow down out of consideration for Stephen's horse. The road to Trumpington had been well travelled, and the snow had been churned into a deep slush. The weather was warmer than it had been before Christmas, and the frozen mud had thawed into a mass of cold, oozing sludge. The horse slipped and skidded, and had to be urged forward constantly. Bartholomew was beginning to think he would have to lead it, when the path became wider, and he was able to pick his way around the larger morasses.

He tried not to think about what he might encounter when he reached Edith's house. He thought, instead, of Gray's amazement when he discovered that Bartholomew did not own a horse. He wondered, not for the first time since his recovery, whether Gray was the kind of person he wanted to teach.

Bartholomew knew that he owed Gray his life. It was doubtful whether Bartholomew would have recovered without Gray's clumsy surgery and constant care. The student had taken quite a risk in lancing the swellings himself; he had not done it before, and had only seen Master Roper do it once. Bartholomew would bear the scars of Gray's inexperience for the rest of his life.

But Bartholomew remained unsure of Gray. He did not like the fact that it had been Gray who had been sent to bring him to meet Philippa, and did not like the feeling of being in debt to the flippant young man. In fact, he did not like Gray. He was confident to the point of arrogance, arid was perpetually estimating how much each patient should pay as opposed to how much Bartholomew charged. Bartholomew's charges usually fell short of the cost of the medicines, and he was constantly aware of Gray's disapproving presence in the background. It was like having Wilson with him.

At last he reached the village and Edith's house.

Richard came racing out to meet him, and Bartholomew was almost knocked off his feet with the force of the embrace. Richard was only seventeen, but was already almost as tall as Bartholomew. Richard chattered on in his excitement, forgetting the dignity, as befitting an undergraduate at Oxford, that he had been trying to cultivate.

Bartholomew listened, Richard's descriptions bringing back vivid memories of his own time in Oxford.

Edith hurried out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron before giving him a hug, and Stanmore came to slap him on the shoulders.

'Matt, you look thin and pale,' Edith said, holding him at arm's length. She hugged him again. 'It was horrible,' she whispered, so that only he could hear.

'We heard you were ill, and there was nothing we could do. I was so afraid for you.'

'Well, I am fine now. But you have been ill, too?'

Edith waved a hand dismissively. 'A couple of days in bed, that is all. But you should not have come.' Her face grew fearful, and she clung onto his arm. 'We told Stephen not to tell you,' she said.

'My lord, Matt! What on earth have you been doing with Stephen's horse?' Stanmore, for whom horses were a passion, was looking in horror at the bedraggled, mud-spattered mare.

Bartholomew groaned. He had not realised what a state the horse was in. 'Stephen will have my hide. Can you clean it up?'

Richard went off with the stable boy to supervise, and Bartholomew followed his sister and her husband into the house. Once away from Richard, all three grew serious. Edith explained how she had gone to check on Philippa immediately after Bartholomew had left, and had found her feverish. Edith had become ill the same night, and the three servants by the following day. The fever had not seemed as intense as that of some of the plague victims, but had included a rash of black spots.

Edith showed Bartholomew some faint pink marks on her arm.

Philippa's spots had been mainly on her face.

She had asked Edith for a veil, and since then had locked herself in her room. That had been seven days before. Edith had spent many hours trying to get her to unlock the door, but she had eventually refused even to speak.

Bartholomew stood. 'She will not see you, Matt,' said Edith. 'She left a note that you specifically should not come to see her. Poor girl. I cannot imagine that she can be so badly scarred.'

Neither could Bartholomew. At least, not so badly scarred that he would not still want her. He thought of Colet. What terrible things this pestilence was doing to people's minds. He gave his sister the faintest of smiles before making his way up the stairs to Philippa's room.

Edith did not try to stop him; she knew him too well.

At the back of her mind lingered the hope that the sound of his voice might serve to pull Philippa out of her depression.

He stood outside the door for a few moments before knocking. There was a rustle from inside the room, and then silence.

'Philippa?' he called softly. 'It is Matthew. Please open the door. There is no cause to be afraid.'

There was silence. He knocked again.

'Philippa. If you open the door and talk to me, I promise I will not try to touch you or look at you,' he called. 'Just give me a few moments with you.'

There was nothing. Bartholomew sat on the chest that was in the hallway and reflected. He would not have normally considered invading someone's privacy, but he wondered whether Philippa's mind, somehow affected by her illness, might mean that she was unable to look after herself properly. If this were the case, then she needed help, even though she might not know it herself.

Edith had married Stanmore when she was eighteen, and had come to live in Trumpington. Bartholomew had been eight, and whenever he had been permitted out of the abbey school in Peterborough, he had come to stay in Edith's rambling house. He knew every nook and cranny, and also knew that the lock on the door, behind which Philippa hid, was faulty. He knew that a sharp stick in the right place would open the door in an instant because he had played with the lock on many a wet afternoon as a boy.

He decided to try once more. 'Philippa. Why will you not answer me? Just let me talk to you for a few moments, and I promise to leave when you ask.'

There was no sound at all, not even a rustle.

Bartholomew was worried, and was sure that there must be more wrong with her than a few scars. He took a sharpened piece of metal that was part of his medical equipment, and pushed it into the lock the way he had done so many years before with a stick.

He had not lost his touch, and the door sprung open with ease.

Philippa jumped violently as he took a step towards her, and Bartholomew stopped. She huddled on the bed, swathed in the cloak he had given her when they had walked from the convent to Trumpington. It was still spotted with mud. Her face was turned towards him, but was covered by a long piece of gauze so that he could not make out any features. She was crouched over like an old hag, a piece of embroidery on her lap.

Bartholomew felt his breath catch as he looked at the embroidery. Philippa hated sewing and would do almost anything to avoid it. She most certainly would not be doing it voluntarily. He looked at her more closely. Her posture was wrong: something in the way she held herself was not right, and her feet were bigger than Bartholomew remembered.

"I asked you not to come.' The voice was the merest whisper, intended to deceive.

'Who are you? Where is Philippa?' Bartholomew demanded. Her head came up with a jerk when she realised she was found out, and Bartholomew caught the glint of eyes under the thick veil. He stepped forward to pull the veil off, but stopped short as she threw the embroidery from her lap and pointed a crossbow at his chest.

Bartholomew took a step back. How ironic, he thought, to escape the plague and to die from a crossbow bolt.

The figure beckoned Bartholomew forward, waving the crossbow in a menacing gesture when he did not move.

'Who are you?' Bartholomew asked again. He wondered whether he would die before he found out, and whether the woman would have the courage to shoot him as he stood there.

'No questions, and turn around slowly,' she said in her dreadful whisper.

'Where is Philippa?' Bartholomew demanded, his concern making him desperate.

'One more question, and I will shoot you. Turn round.'

The whisper held a menace that was chilling, and Bartholomew had no doubt that this was not an idle threat. He turned round slowly, knowing what was coming next, and bracing himself for it.

He was not wrong. There was a sudden rustle of clothes and the crossbow came crashing down, aimed at his head. He half turned and was able to escape the full force of the blow, although it stunned him for vital seconds. The woman shot out of the door and tore down the stairs. Bartholomew staggered to his feet and lurched after her. She tore across the courtyard to where Richard was talking to the stable-boy, with Stephen's horse now clean and still saddled. Bartholomew could see what was going to happen.

'Stop her!' he yelled. He was too far behind to catch her, and ran instead towards the great oak gate, intending to close it so that she would not be able to escape.

Richard and the stable-boy gaped at the spectacle of Philippa racing across the yard clutching a crossbow, and Richard only pulled himself together at the last minute.

He lunged at the would-be rider.

Meanwhile, Bartholomew was hauling at the gate with all his might. Stanmore seldom closed his gate by the look of the weeds that climbed about it, and it was stuck fast. He saw Richard hurled to the ground as the woman reached the horse. She was mounted in an instant, and wrenched the reins away from the stable-boy in a great heave that all but pulled the lad's arms out of their sockets. Bartholomew felt the gate budge, and heaved at it with every ounce of his strength. The woman wheeled the horse around, trying to control its frenzied rearing and aim it for the closing gate.

Bartholomew felt the gate move again, and was aware of blood pounding in his temples. The woman brought the horse under control, and began to urge it towards the gate. Bartholomew felt the gate shift another inch, but then he knew it would not be enough. The horse's iron-shod hooves clattered on the cobbled yard as it headed towards the gate.

Bartholomew suspended his efforts as the horse came thundering down on him. He made a futile attempt to grab at the rider, but was knocked from his feet into a pile of wet straw. The rider swayed slightly, and, as she glanced back, the wind lifted the veil, giving Bartholomew a clear view of her face. Richard shot through the gate after her, and raced down the track before realising a chase was hopeless. The rider turned the corner and was gone from sight.

'After her!' Stanmore cried, and his yard became a hive of activity as horses were saddled and reliable men hastily picked for pursuit. Bartholomew knew that by the time Stanmore was ready, their quarry would be long gone. Still, it was always possible that the horse might stumble and throw its rider, especially that miserable horse, he thought. Edith hurried up to him as he picked himself up.

'What happened? What did you say to her?' she cried.

'Are you all right, Uncle Matt? I am sorry. He was just too strong for me.' Richard looked forlorn at having failed. Bartholomew put a hand on his shoulder.

'For me too,' he said with a resigned smile.

Edith looked from one to the other. 'What are you saying?' she said. 'He?'

Bartholomew looked at Richard. 'Did you see his face?' he asked.

Richard nodded. 'Yes, but why was he here? Where is Philippa?'

'Who was it, if not Philippa?' asked Edith, perplexed.

'Giles Abigny,' said Bartholomew and Richard together.