A Plague On Both Your Houses

7

Bartholomew looked out of the window for at least the tenth time since Stanmore and his men had set off in pursuit of Abigny.

'Perhaps it was Giles all along, and you just thought it was Philippa you met outside the convent,' Richard said to him.

"I kissed her,' said Bartholomew. Seeing his nephew's eyebrows shoot up, he quickly added, 'And it was Philippa, believe me.'

Richard persisted in his theory. 'But you could have been mistaken, if you were tired, and…'

'Giles has a beard,' said Bartholomew, more patiently than he felt. 'Believe me, Richard, I would have noticed the difference.'

'Well, what do you think is going on?' demanded Richard. "I have been sitting here racking my brain for answers, and all you have done is tell me they are wrong.' "I do not know,' said Bartholomew, turning to stare into the fire. He saw Richard watching him and tried to pull himself together. He asked his nephew to tell him everything that had happened since he had left Philippa with the Stanmores ten days ago, partly to try to involve Richard and partly to make sure that the sequence of events was clear in his own mind.

Philippa had become ill almost as soon as he had left, and either Edith or one of the servants had been with her through the two nights of her fever. On the morning of the third day, she seemed to have recovered, although she was, of course, exhausted. In the evening, she had asked for a veil and had closed her door to visitors, communicating by notes the day after that. Edith had not kept any of them, and so Bartholomew was unable to see whether the writing had been Philippa's or her brother's. No one could prove whether it had been Philippa or Giles who had been living in Edith's house for at least the last seven days.

Richard, with an adolescent's unabashed curiosity, had crouched behind the chest in the hallway to glimpse her as she emerged to collect the trays of food that had been left. Even with hindsight, he was unable to say whether the person who came from the room, heavily swathed in cloak and veil, was man or woman.

Bartholomew considered Richard's recital of events.

What could be happening? Giles had behaved oddly ever since the death of Hugh Stapleton. Had he completely lost his mind and embarked on some fiendish plot to deprive Philippa of potential happiness because he had lost his? Had he secreted her away somewhere, either because he thought she would be safer with him, or because he meant her harm?

Richard and Bartholomew made a careful search of the garret room, but found nothing to provide them with clues to solve the mystery. There were some articles of clothing that Edith had lent her, and the embroidery, but virtually nothing else. The room had its own privy that emptied directly into the moat, but there was nothing to indicate how long Giles had been pretending to be Philippa.

Bartholomew thought carefully. There was not the slightest chance that Abigny would return to College if he thought Bartholomew might be there. He would hide elsewhere, so Bartholomew would need to visit all Abigny's old haunts — a daunting task given his dissolute lifestyle. Abigny had a good many friends and acquaintances, and was known in virtually every tavern in Cambridge, despite the fact that scholars were not permitted to frequent such places. Bartholomew grimaced. The company Abigny kept was not the kind he relished himself — whores and the rowdier elements of the town. Gray would probably know most of these places, Bartholomew thought uncharitably; after all, he had mentioned he knew Abigny.

A clatter in the yard brought Bartholomew to his feet again. Richard darted out of the door to meet his father, with Bartholomew and Edith close on his heels.

'Got clean away,' said Stanmore in disgust. 'We met a pardoner who had been on the road from Great Chesterford. He said he saw a grey mare and rider going like the Devil down towards the London road. We followed for several miles, but he will be well away by now. Even if the horse goes lame or tires, he will be able to hire another on the road. Sorry, Matt.

He has gone.'

Bartholomew had expected as much, but was disappointed nevertheless. He clapped Stanmore on the shoulder. 'Thank you for trying anyway,' he said.

'Poor Stephen,' said Stanmore, handing his horse over to the stable-boy. 'He was attached to that mare.

And his best cloak gone with it! I suppose I must lend him one of mine until he can have another made.'

Bartholomew walked slowly back into the house.

Stanmore was right. Given such a good start, Abigny was safely away. If he hired a fresh horse, reverted to another disguise, and joined a group of travellers as was the custom, it would be unlikely that Bartholomew would ever trace him. London was a huge sprawl of buildings and people, and it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Edith put her hand on his arm. 'There is nothing you can do now,' she said. 'Stay here tonight, and Oswald will ride into town with you tomorrow.'

Bartholomew shook his head, trying not to compare Edith'swarm and comfortable house with his chilly room at Michaelhouse. "I must get back tonight. Colet has lost his mind, and there is much still to be done.'

'Then at least drink some warmed wine before you go,' said Stanmore. Before Bartholomew could object, Stanmore had taken his arm and was leading him up the flagged stairs to the solar. Richard followed. A fire burned steadily in the hearth, and the woollen rugs scattered on the floor muffled their footsteps. A sudden gust of wind rattled the shutters, and Bartholomew shivered.

'You will need help with the town,' said Stanmore.

'Stay here tonight and we will discuss what must be done.'

Bartholomew smiled at his brother-in-law's guile.

They all knew he had overstretched himself on his first real day out. He would have been most disapproving had a patient done the same thing, and Edith was correct in that there was nothing he could do to help Philippa that night. He sat on a stool near the fire and picked up a stick to poke at the flames. Richard drew up a stool next to him, and Stanmore settled himself in a large oak chair covered in cushions and furs. For a while, no one spoke.

'How has Trumpington fared with the plague?' asked Bartholomew eventually, stretching outspread hands towards the fire.

'Twenty-three dead,' replied Stanmore, 'and another two likely to follow. Our priest died on Sunday, and one of the Gilbertine Canons is staying here until a replacement can be found.' He shook his head wearily. 'What is happening, Matt? The priests say this is a visitation from God, but they are dying just like those they accuse of sinning. The physicians can do nothing. I sent for Gregory Colet when Edith and Philippa became ill, since you, too, were stricken. He told me to put hot tongs in their mouths to draw the demons out. When I asked him to do it, because I was so concerned for Edith I would have tried anything, he refused because he said he was afraid the demon would enter him. What kind of medicine is that?'

Bartholomew stared into the fire. 'Colet has lost his mind. I suppose seeing so many die must have been too much for him to bear.'

'Colet?' exclaimed Richard in disbelief. 'Surely not!

He always seemed so… cynical.'

'Perhaps that is why he has become so afflicted,' said Bartholomew glumly. "I cannot understand it. And I do not understand the plague. Agatha walks among the victims daily and is fit and well; Francis Eltham and Henri d'Evene hid themselves away and were taken. The old and sick cling to life, while the young and healthy die within hours. Some recover, some do not.'

'Then perhaps the priests are right,' said Stanmore.

'But why do they die too? Take Aelfrith. I heard he is dead, and he was as saintly a man as you could hope to meet.'

'The plague did not take him,' said Bartholomew, and then could have kicked himself for his thoughtless indiscretion. He drew breath to make amends, but it was too late.

'What do you mean?' asked Stanmore. 'Michael said the Death took him.'

Bartholomew hesitated. It would be a relief to tell Stanmore all he knew-aboutSirJohn, Aelfrith, Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet, and about the plot to suppress Cambridge University. But men had been killed, and it was likely that others would follow: the plague had not prevented Aelfrith from being murdered. Bartholomew could not risk Stanmore's safety merely to satisfy his own longing for someone with whom to share his thoughts.

Edith entered the solar with a servant who carried a jug of steaming wine. She stood next to her husband, and Bartholomew's resolve strengthened. He had no right to put Stanmore's life or Edith's happiness at stake.

After all, he had already lost five friends and colleagues to murder, many more to the plague, Colet to madness, and Giles and possibly Philippa to something he did not yet understand. There was only his family left. He changed the subject, asking Stanmore about his ideas for dealing with the plague in the town.

By the time Stanmore had finished outlining his plans for clearing the town of the plague dead, the day was too far advanced for Bartholomew to think of returning to Michaelhouse — as Stanmore had known it would be. Bartholomew spent the night in the solar, wrapped in thick, warm blankets, enjoying the rare luxury of the fire.

Bartholomew rose early the next day feeling much stronger. He rode into Cambridge with Stanmore, who offered to break the news of the stolen horse to Stephen. Bartholomew dismounted at St Botolph's and went to see Colet. He had to step over two bodies that had been dumped next to the door to await collection by the plague-cart. He buried his nose and mouth in his cloak against the smell and slipped into the dim church.

The monks were still there, different ones than last time, praying in a continuous vigil for deliverance from the plague and saying masses for the dead. Colet was there too. He sat on a bench wrapped in a blanket to protect himself from the damp chill of the church and playing idly with a carved golden lion that he wore on a long chain around his neck.

'Look at this, Matt,' he said, turning his face with its vacant grin to Bartholomew. 'Is it not pretty? It will protect me from the plague.'

Bartholomew sat beside him, and looked at the carving. He had seen others wearing similar icons, and had heard from Agatha that some rogue had been selling them in the town, claiming that anyone who wore one would be protected from the pestilence.

'It will not work, Gregory,' he said. 'We need to clean up the streets and bury the dead more quickly.'

Colet stared at him, and a thin drool of saliva slipped from his mouth onto the blanket. 'We should not do that.

It is God's pestilence, and we should not try to fight His will by trying to reduce its effects.'

Bartholomew looked at him, aghast. 'Where on earth did you conceive that notion? You cannot believe that any more than I do.'

'But it is true, it is true,' Colet sang to himself, rocking back and forth.

'In that case,' Bartholomew said sharply, 'why are you hanging on to that ridiculous lion?'

He immediately regretted his words. Colet stopped rocking and began to cry. Bartholomew grabbed him firmly by the shoulders. 'Help me! I cannot do it all alone. Have you seen the streets? There are piles of rubbish everywhere, and the dead have not been collected in days.'

Colet snuffled into his blanket. 'If you stay with me, I will lend you my lion.'

Bartholomew closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. Poor Colet. He had been one of the best physicians in Cambridge, and was now reduced to little more than a drooling idiot. He had acquired a large practice of rich patients, including some of the most influential men in the town, as well as teaching at Rudde's Hostel. Because of this, he was wealthy and had the ears of many powerful men. In short, he was at the beginning of what would have been a brilliant career.

Bartholomew made one last try. 'Come with me today. Help me with the sick.'

Colet shrank backwards against the pillar, fear stark on his face. 'No, Master Roper, I cannot go out there with you. I have heard there are people with the plague!' He began to twist the lion through his fingers again, staring unseeingly at the row of kneeling monks. He seemed to have forgotten Bartholomew was there at all.

Bartholomew went back to Michaelhouse. After a moment's hesitation, he opened the chest where Abigny kept his belongings and rummaged around.

Nothing appeared to have gone: Abigny, it seemed, had not intended to flee Michaelhouse. Bartholomew stood for a moment looking out over the yard as he thought about what he should do first. His instinct told him to drop everything and go to the taverns and hostels in search of news of Abigny. Reluctantly, he put that aside; his first duty was to organise collection of the bodies and cleaning of the streets.

Stanmore had said already that he would put out a general message that good wages would be paid to anyone willing to rid the streets of rubbish. Since there were a number of people without employment because their masters had died, he anticipated that there would not be too much of a problem in attracting applicants.

Even if it did not prevent the spread of the plague, it would reduce the spread of other, equally fatal, diseases.

Bartholomew's task was to arrange a better system of collecting the dead. Since he had been ill, the number of deaths seemed to have levelled off somewhat, although this did not mean that the plague had lessened its grip on the town. He walked to the Castle to see the Sheriff, who, pale-faced and grieving for his wife, was pliable to Bartholomew's demands. Bartholomew wondered if his mind had gone the same way as Colet's. He left the Sheriff morosely polishing his helmet and repeated his instructions to an able-looking sergeant-at-arms. The sergeant gave a hearty sigh.

'We cannot collect the dead,' he said. 'We have lost a third of the men already, and we do not have enough to patrol the town for these bloody robbers, let alone for collecting bodies. We cannot help you. Did you know that everyone in the little settlement near All Saints-next-the-Castle is dead? Not a soul has survived.

The men are terrified of the place and believe that it is full of ghosts. Even if I did have the men to help, they would probably rather hang than collect the dead.'

Bartholomew left feeling depressed. He went to the settlement the sergeant had told him about and wandered through the pathetic little shacks that had been people's homes. The sergeant was right: there was not a living soul in the community. He left quickly, gagging on the smell of putrefaction.

There were more bodies in Bridge Street, although the area around St John's Hospital was relatively clean thanks to the Austin Canons. Bartholomew talked to the Canons and they agreed, albeit reluctantly, to pick up bodies they saw on the way to the plague pits when they took their own dead there. He walked on to St Edmund's Priory and obtained a similar agreement there, along with the promise of a lay-brother to supervise the filling of the plague pits.

Bartholomew's plans to keep the town free from plague-ridden bodies were beginning to come together.

He still needed volunteers to drive the carts each day and collect up the piles of dead. He knew the risk of infection was great, but it was a job that had to be done.

He stood looking at the plague pit that he and Colet had organised almost two weeks before. It was so full that there was scarcely room to add the quicklime over the last layer of corpses, let alone cover it with earth afterwards.

He shivered. It was a desolate spot, even though it lay only a short distance from the town gates. The wind seemed colder near the pit, and whistled softly through the scrubby trees and bushes that partially shielded it from the road. He went to a nearby tavern and offered to buy ale for any who would help him dig a new pit. At first, there was no response. Then a man stood, and said he would buy ale for any who could dig faster or deeper than he could. This met with catcalls and hoots, but the man strode out of the tavern rolling up his sleeves, and others followed.

In a short time, a new pit was dug, larger than the previous one and about twice as deep. Men competed with each other to show off their strength while, more sedately, women and even small children helped, ferrying stones from the pit to the ever-growing pile of earth to one side. Bartholomew took his turn in digging and heaving great stones out of the way. During a brief respite, Bartholomew went to speak to the man who had instigated the competitive spirit.

'Thank you, Master Blacksmith,' he said. "I thought I might have to dig it alone.'

The blacksmith grinned, revealing the yellow-black teeth that Bartholomew remembered from the night of the riot. 'It will cost you in ale,' he said.

When the new pit had been dug, Bartholomew's helpers began to drift away. He handed over all the money he had to buy the promised ale and was pleasantly surprised to receive half of it back again with mutters that it was too much. He shovelled lime into the pit, and watched as it bubbled and seethed in the water at the bottom. The blacksmith helped him bury the first bodies, a pathetic line of ten crudely-wrapped shapes.

Bartholomew covered them with more lime, and leaned on the spade wiping the sweat from his eyes.

The blacksmith came to stand beside him. "I am sorry,' he said, and pushed something into Bartholomew's hand. Bartholomew, bewildered, looked at the greasy black purse in his hand, and then back at the blacksmith. Abruptly the blacksmith turned away and began to walk back to the tavern. Bartholomew caught up with him, and swung him round.

'What is this?'

The blacksmith refused to meet Bartholomew's eyes.

"I did not want to do it. I told them it was wrong,' he mumbled, trying to head for the tavern. Bartholomew held him fast.

'What was wrong? What are you talking about? I do not want your money.'

The blacksmith looked up at the low clouds scudding overhead in the growing dusk. 'It is the money I got for the riot,' he said. "I kept it all this time. I only spent enough to get some of my lads drunk enough to be brave on the night, and some to bury Mistress Atkin's son. It is Judas money and I do not want it.'

Bartholomew shook his head in bewilderment.

'What are you talking about?' he said. 'Did someone pay you to start the riot?'

The blacksmith looked Bartholomew full in the face, his eyes round. 'Yes, they paid me to get some of the lads excited. You know how it was that day — that pompous bastard throwing his wealth around while us poor folk stood and watched and waited for scraps like dogs.' He spat on the ground. 'They seemed to know how it would be, and they paid me to make sure there was a fight. Once the fight was started, I was to find you and warn you off.'

He paused, and searched Bartholomew's face, earnestly looking for some reaction to his confession.

Bartholomew thought back to the riot, of his last-minute dash into the College with the enraged mob behind him, and of Abigny telling him that Henry Oliver had ordered Francis Eltham to lock him out. Surely the whole thing had not been staged to get at him? Bartholomew shook his head in disbelief. What could he have done that people wanted him dead? He racked his brain for patients who might have died in his care, wondering whether his unorthodox treatment might have seemed to have killed when leeches might have saved, but he could think of none. Unbidden, Sir John's benign face came into his mind. But what had Sir John done, or Augustus and Aelfrith, to warrant their murders? He recalled Henry Oliver's looks of hatred at him since the riot every time they inadvertently met.

The blacksmith, watching Bartholomew's brows drawn down in thought, continued. 'It seemed like an easy way to earn some decent money at first, and trade had been poor, with the threat of the Death coming. I did a good job, getting people roused up against Michaelhouse. But it went wrong. It all got out of control before I could do anything, and the two lads died. Then you helped Rachel Atkin, and you set my leg.

I have felt wrong ever since, which is why I have not spent the money. My broken leg was God's judgement on me for my actions. The men who gave me the money came to see me while my leg was mending, and I told them that I had warned you as they asked, just to get them out of my house.'

'Get who out?' asked Bartholomew, the whole mess slowly revolving in his mind, a confused jumble.

The blacksmith shook his head. "I wish I knew, because I would tell you. These are evil men, and you.

I would wish you to be on your guard against them.'

'Where did they approach you?'

The blacksmith nodded over to the tavern. 'In there.

I was having a quiet drink, and I got a message telling me that if I went outside, I could be a rich man. I went, and there were two men. They told me to cause a bit of a fight on the day of old fatso's ceremony, and to get you alone and warn you off.'

'What exactly did they say?'

The blacksmith closed his eyes and screwed up his face as he sought to recall the exact words. 'They said that I should just say to you "stay away". Those were their very words!' he said triumphantly, pleased at his feat of memory.

'What were these people like?' "I could not say. Only one spoke, but I do not recall his voice. He was quite big, about your size, I would say.

The other was smaller, but both of them wore thick cloaks with hoods, and I could not see their faces.'

Bartholomew and the blacksmith stood side by side in the darkness for several moments before the blacksmith spoke again. 'If I knew who they were, I would tell you. The only thing I can think of, and it is not much, is that the purse they gave me is nice. See?'

Bartholomew took a few steps to where he could see the purse in the faint light from the tavern windows.

The purse had been fine in its time, but weeks in the blacksmith's grubby hands had begrimed its soft leather and all but worn away the insignia sewn in gold on the side. Bartholomew examined it more closely, turning it this way and that to try to make the gold thread catch the light. As he did so, the insignia suddenly stood out clearly. 'BH' — the initials of Bene't Hostel! He had seen Hugh Stapleton with a purse almost identical when he had been out with Abigny once.

He tipped the money out of the purse into his hand. About five marks, an enormous sum of money for a blacksmith. He turned round again. 'You keep this,' he said, pushing the money towards the blacksmith and slipping the empty purse into his belt. 'What is done is done. Thank you for telling me all this. I had no idea that I had such powerful enemies.'

The blacksmith gave a short laugh devoid of humour.

'Oh, they are powerful right enough. I could tell that just by the way they spoke to me. They are people used to ordering others about.' He put a mud-stained hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. "I wish I had told you this before, but you seemed to be doing well enough. I do not want the money, though. I might go to hell if I take it knowing what it was for — and these days, a man cannot be sure of getting the chance to confess before he is taken.' He looked in distaste at the silver coins in his rough hand.

Before Bartholomew could stop him, he flung them all in the direction of the pit. Bartholomew saw some of them glitter as they plunged into its steaming depths.

The blacksmith smiled. 'It is all right now,' he said quietly. 'The blood money is where it belongs.'

Bartholomew offered his thanks again, and made for home. He hoped that all the coins had disappeared into the quicklime. He did not want to think of people climbing into the pit to fetch them out.

He walked slowly, breathing in the cold night air in an attempt to clear his reeling mind. He was wholly confused. Someone had tried to warn him to stay away the same night that Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet were murdered. But stay away from what? Had it been Hugh Stapleton who had issued the warning? Were there others with Bene't Hostel purses? Was it Abigny who had hired the blacksmith, since he was so often at Bene't Hostel and was apparently involved in something that had led him to pretend to be Philippa? But Michael had witnessed that it had been Abigny who had kept Francis Eltham from closing the gates until Bartholomew was safely inside. Gray had been at Bene't's too. Was he involved? It did not make sense. He wished Sir John or Aelfrith were alive so that he could tell them the whole insane muddle and they could help him to sort it out.

He had already decided not to confide in his family, but who else could he trust? Michael? Bartholomew did not understand the monk's role in the death of Augustus, nor his position in the wretched Oxford plot. Abigny was clearly involved and, anyway, he had fled. The loathing he felt for Wilson was mutual, and how could he trust a man who skulked in his room and left the College to its own devices when it needed a strong Master? He considered the Chancellor and the Bishop, but what did he have to tell them? There was only his word that Aelfrith had been poisoned, and that Augustus had been dead when he disappeared. And the Chancellor and Bishop were unlikely to be impressed with him for producing the blacksmith as a witness, a self-confessed rabble-rouser and a man notorious for his drunkenness. With a heavy sigh, Bartholomew arrived at the same conclusion he had reached at Stanmore's house: that there was no one with whom he could speak, and he would have to reason through the muddle of facts alone.

Having reached St Michael's Church, he walked across the churchyard and stood looking down at the pile of earth that marked Aelfrith's grave.

'Why?' he whispered into the night. "I do not understand.'

He rethought the blacksmith'swords as he crouched down in the long grass that grew over Aelfrith's mound.

He had no reason to believe the man was lying. Were the mysterious men at the tavern ordering Bartholomew to stay away from Augustus? The blacksmith suggested that one of the men was educated and used to giving orders.

Could it have been Wilson, suspecting that something might happen to Augustus and wishing to conceal the entire matter before it had occurred? He had certainly tried to hide the truth later.

Bartholomew stood, and stretched his aching limbs.

It had been a long day, and the more he thought about it, the more loose ends there were and the murkier the matter became. He was tired and wanted to concentrate on finding Philippa. She might be in danger, and his feeble attempts at trying to unravel University business would not help her. Wearily he walked down the lane to Michaelhouse, intending to ask Gray to help him search the taverns for news of Abigny.

When he reached his room, there was no sign of Gray, and Bartholomew was uncertain how to begin questioning people in taverns. He knew that the wrong questions would not bring him the information he needed, and might even be dangerous. He heard a creak of floorboards in the room above, and an idea began forming in his mind. Philippa's disappearance was no secret, and it was only natural that he would want to find her. Why should he not enlist Michael's help for that? He would not need to reveal that he knew anything of the alleged Oxford plot, only that he wished to find Philippa.

Grateful that he had something positive to do, he slipped out of his room and up the stairs to Michael's chamber. He pushed open the door and saw that Michael's bed was empty. The two Benedictines who shared his room were sleeping, one of them twitching as if disturbed by some nightmare. Disappointed, he turned to leave.

As he closed the door, a scrap of parchment fluttered to the floor from one of the high shelves, caught by a sudden draught from the door downstairs. Bartholomew picked it up, and strained to read the words in the darkness. They were in Michael's bold, round hand, the letters ill-formed and clumsy with haste. 'Seal must still be in College. Will look with Wilson.'

Bartholomew stared at it. Michael had obviously written this message and been unable to deliver it, or had been disturbed while he was writing. Whatever the reason, it proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Michael was embroiled in all this intrigue. Bartholomew felt his hands shaking. Michael may have been the very one who had paid the blacksmith to warn him away.

He gasped in shock as the note was snatched from his hand. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he had not heard Michael coming from the room opposite.

He saw the monk's face in the gloom of the hallway.

It was contorted with rage, and he was controlling himself with difficulty. Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. He had not been prying in Michael's room, and had not searched for the scrap of parchment, but there was no reason for Michael to believe that.

Words would be meaningless now: what could be said? Bartholomew pushed his way past Michael into the hallway. In the room opposite, he could hear the muffled voices of the three students that lived there.

One of them must have become ill and called for help.

Bartholomew poked his head round the door and saw the student writhing on his pallet bed, his room-mates staring at him fearfully in the light of a flickering tallow candle. Bartholomew felt the sick boy's head, and told the others to carry him to the commoners' dormitory.

He went back down the stairs to his own room and closed the door. His hands still shook from the fright he had had when Michael had snatched the note away.

He should not be surprised by what he had learned, bearing in mind Michael's very odd behaviour on the night of Augustus's death. At the unpleasant interview with the Bishop, Michael had had no alibi for the night of the murders. Perhaps it was he who had struck down poor Paul and drugged the commoners after all.

So what should he do now? Should he tell Wilson?

Or the Chancellor? But what could he tell them? He had not a single solid scrap of evidence to lay against Michael except the note, and that was doubtless a pile of ashes by now.

He froze as the door of his room swung slowly open and Brother Michael stood there holding a fluttering candle. The light threw strange shapes on the walls and made Michael look even larger than he was, as his voluminous robes swung about him. He stood in the doorway without saying a word for several moments. Bartholomew began to feel the first tendrils of fear uncoiling in his stomach.

Wordlessly, Michael closed the door, and advanced on Bartholomew, who stood, fists clenched, prepared for an attack. Michael gave an odd smile, and touched one of Bartholomew's hands with a soft, clammy finger.

Bartholomew flinched and felt as though Michael must be able to hear his heart pounding in the silence of the room.

"I warned you to beware, Matthew,' he said in a low whisper that Bartholomew found unnerving.

Bartholomew swallowed. Was Michael's warning the one the blacksmith had been paid to give? Or was Michael merely referring to his words outside their staircase the night of Augustus's murder, and in the courtyard the following day? 'By prying you have put yourself in danger,' Michael continued in the same chilling tone.

'So what are you going to do?' Bartholomew was surprised at how calm his own voice sounded.

'What do you expect me to do?'

Bartholomew did not know how to answer this. He tried to get a grip on his fear. It was only Michael!

The fat monk may have been bulkier and stronger, but Bartholomew was quicker and fitter, and since neither of them had a weapon, Bartholomew was sure he would be able to jump out the window before Michael could catch him. He decided an offensive stance might serve him to better advantage.

'What have you been meddling in?' he demanded.

'What have you done with Philippa?'

'Philippa?' Michael's sardonic face showed genuine astonishment. He regained his composure quickly.

'Now there, my friend, I have sinned only in my mind. The question is, what have you been meddling in?'

They stood facing each other, Bartholomew tensed and ready to react should Michael make the slightest antagonistic move.

Suddenly the door flew open and Gray burst in, his face bright with excitement in the candlelight.

'Doctor Bartholomew! Thank God you are here!

Brother Michael, too. You must come quickly. Something is going on in Master Wilson's room.'

He darted across the room, and grabbed Bartholomew by his sleeve to pull him out the door.

Bartholomew and Michael had time to exchange glances, in which each reflected the other's confusion.

They quickly followed Gray across the courtyard, and Brother Michael began to pant with the exertion.

'We will say no more of this,' he said in an undertone to Bartholomew. 'You will tell no one of what you read on the note, and I will tell no one that you read it.'

He stopped and clutched Bartholomew's shirt. 'Do you agree, on your honour?'

Bartholomew felt as though his brain was going to explode, so fast were the questions pouring through it.

'Do you know anything about Philippa?' he asked. He watched Michael's flabby face wrinkle with annoyance at what he obviously perceived as an irrelevancy.

"I know nothing of her, nor of her wastrel brother,' he said. 'Do you swear?' "I will swear, if you promise to me you know nothing of Philippa's disappearance, and if you hear anything, no matter how trivial it might seem, you will tell me.'

Gray bounded back to them. 'Come on! Hurry!' he cried.

'Oh, all right, I promise,' Michael said irritably.

Bartholomew turned to go, but Michael held him fast.

'We are friends,' he said, 'and I have tried to keep you out of all this. You must forget what you saw, or your life and mine will be worth nothing.'

Bartholomew pushed the monk's sweaty hand away from his shirt. 'What dangerous games are you playing, Michael? If you live in such fear, why are you involved?'

'That is none of your business,' he hissed. 'Now swear!'

Bartholomew raised his hand in a mocking salute. "I swear, o meddling monk,' he said sarcastically. Michael looked angry.

'You see? You think this is trivial! Well, you will learn all too soon what you are dealing with if you do not take care. Like the others!'

He turned and hurried to where Gray was fretting at the foot of Wilson's staircase, leaving Bartholomew wondering what the obese monk was involved in to have him scared almost out of his wits.

'Come on, come on#! called Gray, almost hopping from foot to foot in his impatience.

Bartholomew followed Michael and Gray up the stairs, and the three of them stood in the little hallway outside Wilson's room. Bartholomew moved away from Michael, not totally convinced that this was not some plot cooked up by Michael and Gray to harm him.

'What is it?' whispered Michael.

Gray motioned for him to be quiet. Bartholomew had not been up this staircase since Sir John had died, and he felt odd standing there like a thief in the dark. Gray put his ear to the door and indicated that the others should do likewise. At first, Bartholomew could hear nothing, and then he could make out low moaning noises, like those of an animal in pain. Then he heard some muttering, and the sound of something tearing. He moved away so that Michael could hear, almost ready to walk away and leave them there. He did not feel comfortable listening at the Master's door like this; what Wilson got up to in his own room, however nasty, was his own business, and Bartholomew wanted none of it.

All three leapt into the air as a tremendous crash came from inside the room. Michael leaned against the wall, his hand on his chest, gasping for breath.

Gray stared at the door with wide eyes. Suddenly, Bartholomew became aware of something else. He crouched down near the bottom of the door and inspected it carefully. There was no mistake. Something was on fire in Wilson's room!

Yelling to the others, he pounded on the door, just as terrified screams started to come from within. Brother Michael shoved his bulk against the door, and the leather hinges gave with a great groan. It swung inwards, and Bartholomew rushed inside. He seized a pitcher of water from atop a chest, and dashed it over the figure writhing on the floor. He was aware of Michael and Gray tearing the coverings from the walls to beat out the flames that licked across the floor. Bartholomew used a rich woollen rug to smother the flames that continued to dance over Wilson.

It was all over in a few seconds. The fire, it seemed, had only just started and so had not gained a firm hold.

Gray went round carefully pouring Wilson's stockpile of wine and ale over the parts that still smouldered. They had averted what could have been a terrible disaster.

Bartholomew carefully unrolled Wilson from the rug. One or two tendrils of smoke rose from his clothes, but the fire was out. Michael helped Bartholomew lift their Master onto the bed, where Bartholomew began to examine him. Michael wandered around the room picking up pieces of charred paper, watching them crumble in his hands, and muttering something about the College accounts.

The commotion had brought others running to see what had happened. Alcote was first; Jocelyn of Ripon, Father Jerome, Roger Alyngton, and the surviving commoners, were close on his heels. They stopped dead when they saw the Master lying on the bed in his burned gown and Bartholomew kneeling next to him.

'What have you done?' Alcote demanded.

Gray intervened, and Bartholomew admired his poise and confidence. "I was just returning from Bene't's, and I saw flickering coming from the Master's room. I was worried there was a fire, so I went up the stairs and listened outside the door. I could not smell any smoke, but I could hear someone crying. He was crying with so much pain that it almost hurt to hear. I went to fetch Doctor Bartholomew, because I thought maybe the Master had lost his mind like poor Gregory Colet, and the Doctor might be able to help. Brother Michael was with him, so he came too.'

Michael took over. "I heard no crying,' he said, 'but moaning. Then there was a crash, which must have been the Master knocking that table over, and the table had the lamp on it. We were just in time to put out the flames. It seems the Master was busy burning documents.' He held up a handful of charred remains for Alcote to see.

Alcote stepped dubiously inside the room. The floor was awash with spilled ale and wine, and cinders of Wilson's parchments lay everywhere. 'Why was he burning his documents?' he demanded. 'Why did he knock the table over? It is heavy. He could not knock it over with ease.'

'He probably fell against it,' said Bartholomew, looking up from his patient. 'He has the plague.'

Alcote gasped and shot back outside the room, fumbling for a piece of his robe with which to cover his mouth and nose. 'The plague? But that is not possible!

He has been in his room since it started and no one has touched him!'

Bartholomew shrugged. 'He has it nevertheless.

Come and look.'

Alcote shrank back further still, and disappeared into the group of students that had assembled outside.

Bartholomew rose from Wilson's bed.

'It is all over,' he said to the onlookers. 'There was a fire, but it is out now. Go back to your beds.' He nodded to Gray, indicating that he should disperse them. Alyngton and Jerome stared in horror at one of Wilson's burned feet that stuck out of the end of the bed. Jocelyn bent down to pick up one of the pieces of burned paper.

"I have heard the plague turns people's minds. Poor man. He has burned the College accounts!' He took the arms of his fellow commoners, and led them away gently.

Bartholomew wondered if Jocelyn had been a soldier, for he was remarkably unmoved by the ghoulish foot that poked out, red and blistered.

Michael closed the door and came to peer over Bartholomew's shoulder. 'How is he?' he asked.

Bartholomew bent to listen to Wilson's heart again.

It still beat strongly, but his injuries were terrible. The fire had caught the edge of his gown, and had spread quickly up to his waist before Bartholomew had been able to put out the flames. Wilson's legs were a mass of blackened flesh and bleeding blisters, and even now his toes felt hot to Bartholomew's hand. As if that were not enough, Wilson had great festering buboes under his arms, on his neck, and in his groin. One had burst, and a trickle of pus and blood dripped onto his burned legs.

'Will he live?' asked Michael, deliberately not looking at Wilson's legs.

Bartholomew moved away, so that if some part of Wilson's brain were conscious, he would not be able to hear. 'No,' he said. 'He will die before the night is over.'

Michael looked over at Wilson's still figure. 'Why did he burn the College accounts?' he asked.

'Evidence of payments to people he wished kept secret?' mused Bartholomew, without really considering the implications.

'Such payments would not be written down,'

Michael said scathingly. 'They would come out of a separate account, the records of which any sensible master would keep only in his head. These accounts,' he continued, waving a fistful of charred parchment in the air, scattering tiny cinders, 'are nothing. They are only records of the College's finances. There is nothing here to warrant burning!'

Bartholomew shrugged, and turned his attention to his patient. He guessed Michael had expected to find some documents relating to this miserable University business. Wilson lay quietly, and Bartholomew moistened his lips with the few drops of water remaining at the bottom of the pitcher. He placed a clean piece of linen over Wilson's burned legs, but saw no point in putting him through painful treatment when he was going to die in a few hours. If he regained consciousness, Bartholomew could give him medicine that would dull his senses.

Since Gray was still busy dispersing the curious scholars, Bartholomew went to his storeroom to fetch the medicine himself. Recently, he had rarely needed to use such powerful potions — he did not use it for victims of the plague because it tended to make them vomit.

He kept all such medicines in a small, locked chest at the back of the room and usually carried the key on his belt. He took it now, and leaned down impatiently when it would not fit. He turned the small chest to the light and looked in horror.

The lock on the chest was broken. Someone had prised it off completely. With a feeling of sick dread, Bartholomew opened the box and looked inside. He kept a very careful written record of these medicines, with dates, times, and amounts used. Most of the potions were still there, with one glaring exception.

Bartholomew looked in shock at the near-empty bottle where the concentrated opiate had been. Was this what had been used to kill Aelfrith? There was certainly enough missing to kill.

Bartholomew leaned over the chest, feeling sick. Was all this never going to end? Had Wilson sneaked down to Bartholomew's room in the depths of some night to steal poison with which to kill Aelfrith? If Wilson were the murderer, he did not have long to wait before he was judged for it. Feeling appalled at the pointlessness of it all, he put a few grains of the remaining white powder in a spare bottle, marked it down in his record book, and returned to Wilson.

He told Gray to find another chest in which to lock the poisons and sat next to Wilson. Michael went to fetch the accoutrements he needed to give Wilson last rites.

Bartholomew dipped a corner of a cloth into some water, and wiped Wilson's face with it. He noted that even on his deathbed, Wilson still managed to look pompous. Bartholomew tried to stop himself thinking such uncharitable thoughts, and wiped Wilson's face again; to his shock, Wilson opened his eyes.

'Rest now, Master Wilson,' he said, trying not to think about whether the man had murdered Aelfrith.

'Try to sleep.'

'Soon, I will sleep all too much,' came the whispered reply. 'Do not try to fool me, Physician. I know I have only a short while left.'

Bartholomew did not argue. He rubbed the soaking end of the cloth over Wilson's parched lips, and reached for the medicine that might give him some relief. Wilson's white hand flapped about pathetically.

'No! I want none of your medicines!' he grated. "I have things I must say.'

'Brother Michael will be here soon,' Bartholomew said, putting the stopper back on the bottle. 'You can make your confession to him.' "I do not want to talk to him,' said Wilson, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. "I have things I want to say to you alone.'

Bartholomew felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he wondered whether Wilson was about to confess to murder. Wilson's hand flapped again, and enveloped one of Bartholomew's. The Physician felt revulsion, but did not pull his hand away.

'It was me,' said Wilson. "I fought with you in the dark on the night of Augustus's death. It was me who pushed you down the stairs.'

Bartholomew snatched his hand back. 'Then it was also you who murdered Brother Paul!' he said. 'Poor Brother Paul! Murdered while he lay defenceless on his pallet bed!'

Wilson gave an awful grimace that Bartholomew took to be a smile. 'No! You have that wrong, Physician.

You always were poor at logic. Listen to me and learn.'

Bartholomew gritted his teeth so that he would not allow his distaste for the lawyer to show.

Wilson continued wheezily. 'After I left the feast, I went back to the room I shared with Alcote. We talked for a while, and he went to sleep, as we told the Bishop the next day. But I did not sleep. Alcote was almost senseless with the amount of wine he had drunk. It was a simple thing to slip out of the room once it began to ring with his drunken snores. He woke only when Alexander came to fetch us when you had raised the alarm, and by then I was back in my bed. There was my alibi!'

He stopped speaking, and lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. After a few moments, Wilson opened his eyes again, and fixed Bartholomew with an unpleasant stare.

"I allowed quite some time to pass before I went to Augustus's room that night,' he continued, his voice weaker than before. "I was going to send Aelfrith away and offer to pray for Augustus until dawn. I went up the stairs, but saw that Augustus's room had been ransacked, and that he was gone. Aelfrith was unconscious on the floor. The shutters were open, and in the light from outside, I could see that there was an irregularity in the wooden floor. It is doubtful I ever would have noticed it in ordinary light. I closed the shutters and had just prised up the board, when you came. We fought, and you lost.'

He paused, coughing weakly. Bartholomew wiped away a thin trail of blood that dribbled from his mouth and thought back to that struggle. Wilson, like Michael, was flabby, and was well-endowed with chins, but that did not mean to say he was also weak. If Wilson had been desperate and panic-stricken, Bartholomew believed he could have been overpowered by him.

"I assume your intention in going to Augustus's room was not to pray?' asked Bartholomew.

Wilson sneered. 'Damn right it was not to pray!

I wanted to find the seal. I am certain that whoever murdered Sir John did not get it from his body.'

Bartholomew caught his breath. 'You say Sir John was murdered?'

Wilson sneered again. 'Of course he was! He was killed for the seal he always carried, and without which no further messages would come from his contact in Oxford. It was imperative I found that seal. I saw it round his neck as he went for dinner the night of his death. The way in which his body was dressed indicated that it had not been round his neck when he died, or his murderers would not have bothered taking his clothes — they would merely have thrown his body into the mill stream. No murderer stays too long at the site of his crime,' he said with a superior smile.

'The only place Sir John went between dinner and when he left College for the last time was to see Augustus,'

Wilson continued. 'So, the seal had to be in Augustus's room. When you told me he had died, I decided to look for the seal before someone else did.'

'But you did not find it,' said Bartholomew. He thought of Augustus's senile ramblings the afternoon before the feast, exhorting John Babington to 'hide it well'. If Sir John had not hidden the wretched seal as well as he apparently had, Augustus, Paul, and Montfitchet might still be alive.

"I did not,' said Wilson. "I had just felt about in the small hole in the floorboards when you came blundering in. But,' he continued, fastening a cold, but sweaty, hand round Bartholomew's wrist, "I did not hit Aelfrith, I did not drug the wine, and I did not kill Paul.' He looked at Bartholomew. "I also do not know what happened to Augustus, although I do not believe he was responsible for the happenings that night. The poor old fool was far too senile to have effected such a well-considered plan.'

'Well-considered?' said Bartholomew in disgust.

'You call the murder of Paul and Montfitchet well considered?'

Wilson ignored him and lay silent for a while.

'So how did you escape?' asked Bartholomew after a while. 'You did not pass me on the stairs.'

'You are observant, Master Physician,' said Wilson facetiously. 'Had you looked up instead of down, you may have noticed where I was, although I doubt it, for it is very cunningly concealed. The south wing of Michaelhouse was designed with two trap-doors in the ceilings of the upper floor. It is a secret passed on from Master to Master should the need ever arise for him to listen to the plottings of his fellows.'

'Sir John died before you became Master. How did you find out about this?'

'The day the Chancellor told me I was to be Master, he gave me various documents locked in a small chest.

I had to return the box to him immediately after I had read the documents, lest I die without passing certain information to my successor. Reference to these secret doors was included with a stricture that only Masters should be informed of their presence. I immediately went to Augustus's room to look for one of them.

He watched me, but did not understand what I was doing.'

'Who else knows about these trap-doors?'

'When you know that, you will know the murderer.'

Bartholomew's mind began to mull through this information. Wilson's callous dismissal of Augustus had probably brought about his death. Augustus had very possibly babbled to someone else, in one of his senile ramblings, about the trap-door he had watched Wilson uncover, and had thus endangered himself.

So, who might he have told? Evidently not Aelfrith or he would have guessed where his attacker might have hidden himself, and would not have searched with Bartholomew. Was it Michael? Or another Fellow?

Wilson watched him trying to reason the muddle out, his expression smug, as if Bartholomew were one of his students trying to resolve some legal point for which there was no solution. He continued. 'All I had to do once I had pushed you down the stairs was to stand on the window-sill, and pull myself through the opening. I could hear you looking for me and knew you would never be able to spot the trap-door, especially in the poor light. Whoever killed Paul and took Augustus evidently also knew about the trap-doors.'

Bartholomew sat back and thought. It made sense.

As Aelfrith had prayed over Augustus, the murderer had slipped through the trap-door- or perhaps even dropped something on the friar — and knocked him senseless.

The wine was drugged, and Paul murdered so that the commoners would know nothing about what was going on. A search of the room was made, but, not finding the seal, and perhaps hearing Wilson coming, the murderer took Augustus's body through the trap-door to hide it.

'But why steal a body?' asked Bartholomew, still thwarted in his attempt to make sense of the new information.

Wilson sighed. 'You are intractable, Physician. It would not take long to search a corpse, and so the answer is obvious. Augustus was alive, and was taken so that he would reveal where the seal was hidden to the murderer!'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'Augustus was dead, Master Wilson. He was probably murdered too.'

'Rubbish,' said Wilson dismissively. 'He was alive.

Why would anyone wish to steal a corpse? Think, man! Your supposition that Augustus was dead is not a reasonable one.'

He lay back on his pillow, his face red with effort.

Bartholomew sponged it again while he let all Wilson's claims sink in. Wilson was right. It would make sense for the murderer to take a living person with him to be questioned later, but not a dead one. But Bartholomew knew Augustus had been dead! He had touched his eyes, and made a careful examination of the body. Nevertheless, apart from that, Wilson's story made matters a little clearer, and also explained why the Master had been prepared to put about the Bishop's lies. The Bishop had probably known exactly what Wilson had been doing in Augustus's room, and approved of it.

The door swung open on its broken hinges, and Michael entered, bringing the things he would need to give Wilson last rites and to hear his confession.

'Get out!' hissed Wilson, lifting his head from the pillow. 'Get out until I am ready!'

Michael looked annoyed, but left the room without arguing. Wilson waited until he heard his footsteps going down the wooden stairs.

'Why did you want this seal?' Bartholomew asked.

Wilson' s eyes remained closed. The effort of sending Michael away had exhausted him. His voice was little more than a whisper when he finally spoke. 'Because the University is under threat from scholars at Oxford,' he said. 'Babington's seal would have enabled us to continue to receive reports on their activities from his contact there. Since the seal has gone missing, we have heard nothing, and we are missing out on vital information.

I had to find it and could let nothing stop me!'

'Even murder?' asked Bartholomew softly.

"I assure you I did not murder anyone,' said Wilson tiredly. 'Although I did try to kill you when you found me in Augustus's room. I do not like you, Master Physician.

I do not like the way you mix learning and dealing with those filthy thieves in the town you call your patients. I do not like the way your life and loyalties are divided between the College and the town. And I did not like the way Babington encouraged you to have it so.'

Bartholomew felt like telling Wilson that he did not like him either, but there was nothing to be gained from such comments at this point.

'Do you know anything about Aelfrith's death?' he asked instead. Wilson was fading fast, and he had many questions he wanted answered.

'No, why should I? The foolish man went out among plague victims. What did he expect?'

'He was murdered too. He was killed with medicines from my poisons chest. His last words were "poison" and "Wilson". What do you make of that?'

Wilson fixed bloodshot eyes on Bartholomew.

'Nonsense,' he said after a moment. 'You misheard him. Aelfrith was told about the seal, but he was an innocent, who should never have been allowed to know the secret. He was too… willing to believe good of people. Do not make up mysteries, Bartholomew. You have enough to do with those that already exist.'

'What were you doing when you set yourself alight?' asked Bartholomew. He remained uncertain whether Wilson really knew nothing of Aelfrith's murder and so was dismissing it out of hand, or whether he knew far too much but was refusing to say so. Bartholomew had to lean close to Wilson to hear his words, trying not to show repugnance at his fetid breath.

"I was burning the College records,' he said. 'My successor will probably be Swynford, and I will not make things easy for the likes of him by leaving nicely laid-out ledgers and figures. Oh, no! He can work it all out for himself! I was going to burn all the records, then send for you, but I was overcome with dizziness, and must have knocked the table over with the lamp on it.'

So, Wilson's motive for burning the ledgers had been spite, and Michael was wrong in assuming that it was anything more sinister or meaningful. Bartholomew looked down at Wilson with pity. How could a man, knowing he was going to die, perform such petty acts of meanness with his last strength? He thought of others he had seen die during the last weeks, and how many had died begging him to take care of a relative, or asking him to pass some little trinket to a friend who had not had the chance to say goodbye. Bartholomew felt sick of the University and its politics, and particularly sick of Wilson and his pathetic vengeance.

He moved away. He had one more question to ask, one that meant more to him than the others. He had to put it casually, because he sensed if Wilson knew it was important to him, he might not answer.

'Does any of this have anything to do with Giles or Philippa Abigny?' he asked, looking at where the door hung at an odd angle on its damaged hinges.

Wilson gave a nasty wheezing chuckle. 'Your lady love? It is possible. I have been thinking for some time now that Abigny might be one of the Oxford spies. He spends too much time away from the College, and I never know where he is. Perhaps it was he who found the seal. I heard that your lady has gone. She should have stayed in her convent. Probably ran off with some man who will make her richer and happier than you, Physician.'

Bartholomew fought down the urge to wrap his hands round the man's neck and squeeze as hard as he could. So, Abigny could be one of Oxford's spies.

Was that why he had been hiding in disguise at Edith's house? But that did not explain where Philippa was.

Bartholomew could see no option other than to become embroiled in this seething pit of intrigue and spies in order to find out about Abigny's possible role.

'Do you know for certain that Philippa ran away with a man?' asked Bartholomew as calmly as he could.

Wilson gave another breathy cackle. "I am almost tempted to say yes because I would like to see the expression on your face,' he said. 'But the answer is no. I have no idea where your woman is, and I have no information whatsoever about her disappearance. I wish I had, because I want you to do two things for me, and I would like to make you feel obliged to do them by giving you information in return.'

Bartholomew grimaced. He wondered why Wilson had chosen him to do his bidding. 'What are they?'

Wilson's lips parted in his ghastly grin. 'First, I want you to find the seal.'

Bartholomew spread his hands helplessly. 'But how can I find it if you could not? And why me and not one of the others?'

'Swynford is gone, and I would not trust him anyway.

Aelfrith is dead. Father William is too indiscreet, and would go about his task with so much fervour that he would surely fail. Brother Michael knows more than he is telling me, and I do not trust that he is on the right side. The same goes for Abigny, who has fled the nest anyway. Alcote is too stupid. That leaves only you, my clever Physician! You have the intelligence to solve the riddle, and Aelfrith assured me that you were uninvolved with all this before he died.'

Wilson lifted his head from the pillow and reached for Bartholomew's arm. 'You must find it, and pass it to the Chancellor. He will see you amply rewarded.' He released Bartholomew's arm, and sank back.

So Wilson thought that any of the surviving Fellows might be involved, although he thought it less likely of William or Alcote. Abigny and Michael were plainly embroiled. But the entire Oxford business seemed so far-fetched, especially now when towns and villages were being decimated with the plague. Why would Oxford scholars bother to waste their time and energy on subterfuge and plotting when they all might be dead in a matter of weeks anyway? 'It seems so futile,' he blurted out. 'Now of all times there are issues far more important to which scholars should devote their attention.'

Wilson sneered again. 'What is more important than the survival of the College and University? Even you must see that is paramount! You must have some love of learning, or you would not be here, exchanging comfort and wealth for the cramped, rigid life of a scholar. Your arrogance has not allowed you to see that there are others who love learning, and would do anything to see it protected. I sacrificed a glowing future as a cloth merchant to become a scholar, because I believe the University has a vital role to play in the future of our country. You are not the only one to sacrifice yourself for a love of knowledge and learning.'

Bartholomew watched the guttering candle. 'But the University at Oxford is stronger, bigger, and older than Cambridge. Why should they bother?'

Wilson made an impatient sound, and slowly shook his head. 'You will not be convinced, I see. Aelfrith said as much. But you will see in the end. Anyway, it matters not why you choose to seek the seal, only that you do so. Believe it will lead you to your woman if you wish.

Believe it will avenge Babington's death. But find it.'

He closed his eyes, his face an ashen-grey.

'And the second thing?' Bartholomew asked. 'You said there were two things you wanted done.' "I want you to see that I am not thrown into one of your filthy plague pits. I want to be buried in the church near the high altar, and I want an effigy carved in black marble. I am choosing you to do this because I know you are dealing with burials these days, and because you have already had the plague and might now survive the longest. Any of the others might catch it, and I cannot rely on them to carry out my wishes. You will find money for the tomb in my purse in the College chest.'

Bartholomew stared at him in disbelief, and almost laughed. Wilson was incorrigible! Even with so little time left, his mind was on pomp and ceremony. Bartholomew wanted to tell him that it would give him great pleasure to see his fat corpse dumped into the plague pit, but he was not Wilson, and so he merely said he would do what he could.

Wilson seemed to be fading fast, now he had completed his business. Sweat coursed down his face and over his jowls, and Bartholomew noticed that one of the swellings on his neck must have burst when he was moving his head. Thankfully, he did not seem to be in any pain. Perhaps the shock of the burns had taken the feeling from his body, or perhaps Wilson was able to put it to the back of his mind while he tied up the loose ends in his life.

'Tell Michael to come,' he whispered. "I have done with you now.'

Bartholomew was peremptorily dismissed with the characteristic flap of the flabby hand that had been the cause of so much resentment among the College servants. He went to the door and called for Michael.

Michael huffed up the stairs and spread out his accoutrements, obviously still indignant about his dismissal from the room earlier.

Bartholomew left so that Wilson could make his confession in private, and went to examine the other plague cases in the commoners' room. He was summoned back by Michael after only a few minutes.

'The Master had little to confess,' said Michael in amused disbelief. 'He says he has lived a godly life, and has done no harm to anyone who did not deserve it.

God's teeth, Matt.' Michael shook his head in wonder.

'It is as well he has asked you not to put him in the plague pit. In a tomb of his own, the Devil will be able to come to claim him that much quicker!'