An Unholy Alliance

2

After they took their leave of the bewildered warden, Bartholomew and Michael walked back to Michaelhouse together.

'We still need to talk to the man who locked up the church,' said Bartholomew.

Michael pulled a face. 'Not until I have had something to eat,' he said. 'What a morning! We are dragged out of mass to look at a corpse in the University chest, we discover a nasty poisoning device, we see a murdered harlot, and we find that the Vice-Chancellor has run away carrying all his worldly goods and some of King's Hall's. And all before breakfast.' "I am supposed to be teaching now,' said Bartholomew, glancing up at the sun, already high in the sky. 'These students will face their disputations soon and need all the teaching they can get, especially Robert Deynman/ 'They will have to wait a little longer,' said Michael, pointing across the yard to where the porter stood talking with a young woman. 'You have a patient.'

Seeing Bartholomew and Michael walk through the gate, the woman began to walk towards them, the porter's attentions forgotten. Bartholomew recognised her as Frances de Belem, the daughter of one of the wealthy merchants on Milne Street, who owned a house next to that of his brother-in-law Sir Oswald Stanmore. Years before, Stanmore and de Belem had started negotiations to marry Frances to Bartholomew, so that Stanmore's cloth trade could be linked to de Belem's dyeing business. At fourteen years of age, Bartholomew had no intentions of being married to a baby, nor of becoming a tradesman, and he had fled to study at Oxford. De Belem had promptly found another merchant's son, and Stanmore, fortunately for Bartholomew, was not a man to bear grudges when his errant kinsman returned fifteen years later to take up a position as Fellow of Medicine at Michaelhouse.

The rift between Stanmore and de Belem caused by Bartholomew's flight, however, had never completely healed, and Bartholomew was still occasionally subjected to doleful looks from his brother-in-law when de Belem overcharged him for dyes. But Frances bore Bartholomew no ill will and always seemed pleased to see him. Her marriage ended, as did many, when the plague took her husband the previous year.

As Bartholomew walked towards her, he noticed that her face was white and stained with tears. She almost broke into a run as he drew close, and was unable to prevent a huge sob as she clutched at his arm.

'Frances?' said Bartholomew gently. 'Whatever is the matter? Is your father ill?'

She shook her head miserably. "I must talk to you, Doctor,' she said. "I need help, and I do not know who else to ask.'

Bartholomew thought quickly. He could not take a woman back to his room, especially with the Franciscans undoubtedly already watching with disapproval the presence of a woman on Michaelhouse soil. He could not take her to the hall or the conclave because they would be in use for teaching, and he was reluctant to send her away when she obviously needed his help. The only possible place for a consultation was the kitchen, where the hefty laundress Agatha could act as chaperon and preserve Frances's reputation and his own.

He ushered her across the yard towards the main building. Michaelhouse comprised several buildings, joined in a three-sided structure around a courtyard.

The south and north wings, where the scholars lived, were two-storeyed buildings. The hall linked the two wings and was a handsome house built by a merchant.

The house had been bought in 1324 by Hervey de Stanton, Edward II's Chancellor of the Exchequer, when he founded Michaelhouse, and was dominated by the elegant porch topped with de Stanton's coat of arms. A spiral staircase led from the porch to the hall on the upper floor, while a door below led to the kitchen.

Frances in tow, Bartholomew made his way through the servants scurrying to prepare the main meal of the day, to the small room where Agatha kept her linen. She sat in a chair, legs splayed in front of her, snoring loudly in the sunlight that flooded the room. Agatha was a huge woman, almost as big as Brother Michael. Women were not usually allowed to work in the University's Colleges and hostels, but Agatha was exempted since she was unlikely to attract the amorous attentions of even the most desperate scholar. As Bartholomew entered, she awoke, and looked balefully at him, and then at Frances behind. It was not the first time Bartholomew had used her services when female patients had arrived unannounced, and she said nothing as she scrubbed at her eyes and heaved her bulk into a less inelegant position.

'You can trust Agatha to be discreet with anything you might say,' he said, as Frances looked nervously at Agatha's formidable form.

Agatha smiled, revealing an array of strong yellow teeth. 'Never mind me,' she said to Frances. "I have things to be doing, and nothing you can say to the Doctor will shock me.' "I am with child!' Frances blurted out. Agatha's jaw immediately dropped, and the hand that was reaching for some sewing was arrested in mid air. Bartholomew was startled. Her father, who had allowed Frances a free rein since the death of her husband, would be furious; especially so since Stanmore had told Bartholomew that arrangements were already in hand to remarry Frances to a landowner in Saffron Walden, a village south-east of Cambridge.

Bartholomew collected his tumbling thoughts when he saw Frances was waiting for an answer with desperate eyes. "I cannot help you,' he said gently. 'You must seek out a midwife to advise you about the birth. Physicians do not become involved in childbirth unless there is danger to the child or the mother.' He smiled at her reassuringly.

'And I am sure that you need have no worries on that score. You are young and healthy.'

'But I do not want it!' cried Frances. 'It will ruin me!'

Agatha, seeing the girl's tears, gave her a motherly hug.

Bartholomew looked at them helplessly. "I can do nothing to help,' he said again. "I can only advise you to see a midwife to secure the safe delivery of the child.' "I want you to get rid of it for me,' said Frances, turning a tear-streaked face to Bartholomew. "I do not want it.' "I cannot do that,' said Bartholomew. 'Quite apart from the fact that I do not know how, it would be a terrible crime, and dangerous for you.' "I care nothing for the danger,' cried Frances. 'My life will be worth nothing if I have it, so I have nothing to lose. You must be able to help me! I know there are medicines that can rid a woman of an unwanted child.

Of all the physicians in the town, you are the one most likely to know them, since you learned your medicine in dark and distant lands from foreign teachers.'

Bartholomew wondered if that was how all his patients saw him, endowed with knowledge of mysterious cures alien to physicians who had studied in England. "I do not know how to make potions for such purposes,' he said, looking away from Frances and out of the window, hoping that she would not see he was lying. He did know of such a potion, and it was indeed Ibn Ibrahim who had shown him writings by a woman physician called Trotula where such remedies could be found: equal portions of wormwood, betony, and pennyroyal, if taken early, might sometimes cause the foetus to abort. He had seen it used once, but that was because the mother was too exhausted from her last birthing to manage another. Even then, Bartholomew had been confused by the ethics of the case.

'You do know!' said Frances, desperation making her voice crack. 'You must.'

'Go to a midwife,' said Bartholomew gently. 'They understand, and will help with your baby.'

'Mistress Woodman killed Hilde's younger sister,' said Frances bitterly, meeting his eyes. 'Did you know that?'

'Hilde the prostitute?' asked Bartholomew. 'The one who was killed?'

Frances nodded. 'Her sister was three months with child, and she went to Mistress Woodman, the midwife, to rid herself of it. Mistress Woodman tried to pluck the child out with a piece of wire. Hilde's sister bled to death.'

Bartholomew knew such practices occurred — many dangerous poisons were used, and if these failed, operations were attempted that invariably left the mother either dead or suffering from infection. He turned away and looked out of the window. There was no disputing that it was wrong to kill, but what if Frances went to Mistress Woodman and died of her ministrations? 'What of the baby's father?' he asked. 'Will he marry you?'

Frances gave a short bark of laughter. 'He cannot,' she said, and would elaborate no further. Bartholomew assumed the father must already be married.

'Do you have money?' he asked. Frances nodded, hope flaring in her eyes, and she showed him a heavy purse.

'You have relatives in Lincoln. Tell your father you are going to stay with them. If you can trust them, have the baby there. If not, there are convents that will help you.'

The hope in Frances's eyes faded. 'You will not help?' she said.

Bartholomew swallowed. 'Think about going away to have the child. Come to talk to me again tomorrow, but do not go to Mistress Woodman for a solution.'

Frances sighed heavily, and turned to leave. "I will give it thought,' she said, 'and I will come tomorrow. But my mind is already made up.'

As she left, Agatha sank down in her chair. 'Poor child,' she said. 'One rash act will cost her everything, while her paramour lives on to sully another.'

'That is not fair, Agatha,' said Bartholomew. 'Frances is twenty-four years old, and has been married. She is no green maiden taken unawares.'

'But the outcome is the same,' growled Agatha. 'The woman suffers, and may even die, while the man merely selects another for his attentions. Perhaps I will tell her how to rid herself of the baby.'

'How?' demanded Bartholomew disbelievingly. Agatha never ceased to amaze him with her assertions.

'You take two parts of wormwood to one part of crushed snails, add a generous pinch of red arsenic, and grind it into a poultice. You then insert the paste into the private regions, and the babe will sicken and die.'

'And so might the mother,' said Bartholomew, cringing.

'Where did you learn such a dangerous recipe?'

Agatha grinned suddenly and tapped the side of her nose. Bartholomew wondered whether she might have made it up, but the use of wormwood was common to effect cures of women' s ailments, and crushed snails were also popular. The thought of medicines reminded him that he was supposed to be teaching. Thanking Agatha for her help, he walked quickly back through the kitchen, and up the wide spiral staircase that led to the hall on the upper floor. Father William, the dour Franciscan teacher of theology, was holding forth to a group of six or seven scholars on the doctrine of original sin, his voice booming through the hall to the distraction of the other Fellows who were also trying to teach there. Piers Hesselwell, Michaelhouse's Fellow of Law, was struggling valiantly to explain the basic principles of Gratian's Decretum to ten restless undergraduates, while Roger Alcote, probably tired of competing with William's voice, had ordered one of his scholars to read Aristotle's Rhetoric to his own class. As Bartholomew passed him on his way to the conclave at the far end of the hall, Alcote beckoned him over.

'What is the news?' he asked. 'Are these rumours true about dead friars in the chest?'

Bartholomew nodded, and tried to leave, reluctant to engage in gossip with the Senior Fellow. He was a tiny, bitter man who fussed like a hen and had a fanatical dislike of women that Bartholomew thought was abnormal.

'What House?' Alcote asked.

'Dominican,' answered Bartholomew, guessing what was coming next.

Alcote shot him a triumphant look. 'Dominican! A mendicant!' Bartholomew gave him a look of reproval.

If the Fellows harboured such unyielding attitudes, what hope was there that the students would ever forget their differences and learn to study in peace?

Alcote had recently taken major orders with the Cluniacs at Thetford, and had immediately engaged upon a bitter war of attrition with the mendicant Franciscans. Michaelhouse had been relatively free from inter-Order disputes until then; Brother Michael, the one Benedictine, picked no quarrel with the strong Franciscan contingent there, while those who had taken minor orders, like Bartholomew, had no quarrel with anyone.

Most scholars at the University took religious orders.

This meant that they came under the jurisdiction of Church, rather than secular, law. This division between scholars and townspeople was yet another bone of contention, for secular law was notoriously harsher than Canon law: if Alcote or Bartholomew stole a sheep, they would be fined; if a townsman stole a sheep, he was likely to be hanged. Being in minor orders meant that Bartholomew had certain duties to perform, such as taking church services, but the protection it offered was indisputable. Other scholars, like William, Michael, and now Alcote, had taken major orders, which forbade marriage and relations with women.

Bartholomew left Alcote to his nasty musing, and made for the conclave. It was a pleasant room in the summer, when the light from the wide arched windows flooded in.

The windows had no glass, and so a cool breeze wafted through them, tinged with the unmistakable aroma of river. The coolness was welcome in the summer, but in the winter, when the shutters had to be kept firmly closed against the weather, the conclave was dark and cold. The lime-washed walls were decorated with some fine wall-hangings, donated by a former student after a fire had damaged much of the hall two years before, and, at Bartholomew's insistence, there were always fresh rushes on the floor.

Bartholomew's students were engaged in a noisy dispute that he felt certain was not medical, and they quietened when he strode in. He settled himself in one of the chairs near the empty fireplace and smiled round at his students, noting which ones smiled back and which ones studiously avoided his eye because they had failed to prepare for the discussion he had planned.

Sam Gray was one of the ones looking everywhere but at his teacher. He was a young man in his early twenties with a shock of unruly, light-brown hair. He looked tired and Bartholomew wondered what nocturnal activities he had been pursuing. He was certain they would not have had much to do with trepanation, cutting the skull open to relieve pressure on the brain, the subject of the day.

Bartholomew had been taught how to perform a number of basic operations by Ibn Ibrahim, and was considered something of an oddity in the town for knowing both surgery and medicine. He believed that medicine and surgery could complement each other, and wanted his students to have knowledge of both, despite the fact that most physicians looked down on surgical techniques as the responsibilities of barbers.

Another problem he faced was that those students who had taken major orders were forbidden to practise incision and cautery by an edict passed by the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215.

'What is trepanation?' he asked. He had described the operation the previous term, but was curious to know who had remembered and who had not.

There was a rustle in the room as some students shuffled their feet, and one or two hands went up.

Bartholomew noted that the first belonged to Thomas Bulbeck, who was his brightest student.

'Master Gray?' Bartholomew asked maliciously, knowing that Gray would not have the faintest idea what trepanation was because he had missed the previous lecture.

Gray looked startled. 'Trepidation,' he began, his usual confident manner asserting itself quickly, 'is a morbid fear of having your head sawed off.'

Bartholomew fought down the urge to laugh. If these young men were to be successful in their disputations, there was no room for levity. He saw one or two of the students nodding sagely, and marvelled at Gray's abilities to make the most outrageous claims with such conviction.

Secretly, he envied the skill: such brazen self-assurance in certain situations might give a patient the encouragement needed to recover. Bartholomew was a poor liar, and his Arab master had often criticised him for not telling a patient what he wanted to hear when it might make the difference between life and death.

'Anyone else?' he asked, standing and pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Bulbeck's hand shot up. Bartholomew motioned for him to answer.

'Trepanation,' he said, casting a mischievous glance at Gray, 'is the surgical practice of removing a part of the skull to relieve pressure on the brain.'

'Surgery!' spat one of the Franciscans in disgust. 'A tradesman's job!'

Bartholomew wandered over to him. 'A patient comes to you with severe headaches, spells of unconsciousness, and uncoordinated movements. What do you do, Brother Boniface?'

'Bleed him with leeches,' Brother Boniface replied promptly.

Bartholomew thrust his hands in the folds of his tabard and suppressed a sigh of resignation. Wherever he went, people saw bleeding as a panacea for all manner of ailments, when other, far more effective but less dramatic, methods were to hand. He had lost many a patient to other physicians because of his refusal to leech on demand, and some had not lived to regret it. 'And what will that do?'

'It will relieve the patient of an excess of bad humours and reduce the pressure in the brain. Without the use of surgery,' he concluded smugly.

'And what if that does not work, and the patient becomes worse?' asked Bartholomew, sauntering to the window and sitting on one of the stone window seats, hands still firmly in his gown to prevent himself from grabbing the arrogant friar and trying to shake some sense into him.

'Then it is God's will that he dies, and I give him last rites,' said Boniface.

Bartholomew was impressed at this reasoning. Would that all his cases were so simple.' But anyone who becomes ill and who is not given the correct treatment may die,' he said, 'and any of you who are unprepared to apply the cure that will save the patient should not become physicians.'

There was a sheepish silence. Bartholomew continued.

'Under certain circumstances there may be a surgical technique that can be used to save a patient's life. If it were God's will that these people should die, He would not have made it possible to use the technique in the first place. But the point is that many people who might have died have been saved because a surgeon has known how to do it. You need not perform the operation yourselves, but you should be prepared to hire the services of a barber-surgeon who will do it for you. Your first duty as a physician is always to save life, or to relieve painful symptoms.'

'My first duty is to God!' exclaimed Boniface, attempting piety, but betrayed by the malice that glittered in his eyes.

'Physicians serve God through their patients,' said Bartholomew immediately, having had this debate many times with Father William. 'God has given you the gift of healing through knowledge, and the way in which you use it is how you serve Him. If you choose to ignore the knowledge He has made available to you without good reason, then your service to Him is flawed.'

'Do you believe you serve God without using the leeches He saw fit to provide for that purpose?' asked Boniface blithely.

"I try to save my patients' lives with the most effective method,' replied Bartholomew. 'If I was certain leeching a patient would secure his recovery, I would leech him.

But when my own experience dictates that there are other, more effective, cures for certain ailments than leeches, it would be wrong of me not to use them.'

'Does trepanation hurt the patient?' asked Robert Deynman suddenly, causing stifled laughter among the other students, and effectively ending Bartholomew's debate with Boniface. Deynman was Bartholomew's least able student, who had been accepted by Michaelhouse because his father was rich. Bartholomew eyed him closely, wondering if the question was intended to needle him, but a glance into the boy's guileless eyes told him that this was just another of his unbelievably stupid questions. Bartholomew felt sorry for him. He tried hard to keep up with the others, but study was entirely beyond him. The thought of Deynman let loose on patients made Bartholomew shudder, and he hoped he would never pass his disputations.

'Yes,' he answered slowly. 'It can be painful.' He wanted to ask how Deynman thought having a hole sawn in his head would feel, but did not want to embarrass the student in front of the others, especially the Franciscans.

'But there are things we can do to alleviate some of the discomfort. What are they?'

He stood up again and went back to the fireplace, kicking at the rushes as Bulbeck recited a list of the drugs and potions that might be used to dull the senses. 'What about laudanum?' he snapped. They had discussed Dioscorides' recommendations for doses of laudanum the previous day, and Bulbeck had already forgotten it.

Bulbeck faltered, and then added it to his list.

'How much would you give to a child you were going to operate on?' he demanded.

Bulbeck faltered again and the others looked away.

'Three measures,' said Deynman.

'For a child?' said Bartholomew incredulously, his resolution not to embarrass Deynman forgotten in his frustration. 'Well, you would certainly solve the problem of pressure on the brain. You would kill it! Master Gray?

Come on! Think!'

'One measure,' guessed Gray wildly.

Bartholomew closed his eyes and tipped his head back and then looked at his students in resignation. 'You will kill your patients with ignorance,' he said quietly. "I have told you at least twice now how much laudanum is safe to give children and you still do not know. Tomorrow we will discuss Dioscorides's De Materia Medica and the medicinal properties of opiates. Bulbeck will read it here this afternoon, and I want everyone to attend.

Anyone who does not know correct dosages need not come tomorrow.'

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the conclave, hoping he had frightened them into learning. He was frustrated that they did not learn faster when there was such a dire need for physicians, but he would not make their disputations easier. Badly-taught physicians could be worse than none at all.

The bell began to ring for dinner and Bartholomew went to wash his hands. Michael was already speeding across to the hall so he could grab a few mouthfuls before the others arrived. The Franciscans gathered together before processing silently across the beaten-earth of the yard. Father William, the fanatic whom, rumour had it, had been dismissed from the inquisition for over-zealousness, was their acknowledged leader.

Bartholomew took his place next to Michael at the table that stood on a raised dais at the south end of the hall where the Fellows sat in a row. The large monk had tell-tale crumbs on his face and there were obvious gaps in the bread-basket. To Bartholomew's left sat Father Aidan, another Franciscan. Aidan was prematurely bald with two prominent front teeth and small blue eyes that never changed expression. Bartholomew had been told that he was an outstanding theologian, although his few attempts at conversation had been painful.

Aidan sat next to William, while next to him sat Kenyngham, his wispy white hair standing almost at right angles to his scalp. Next to the Master was Roger Alcote, and Piers Hesselwell sat on the end. Hesselwell taught law, and always wore fine clothes under his scholar's tabard.

It had been difficult to find a Master of Law, for life in post-plague England was sunny indeed for lawyers. The plague took many individuals who had not made wills, while many wills that had been made were contested bitterly, and there was work aplenty for the lawyers. Few were willing to exchange potentially meteoric careers as practising lawyers for poorly paid positions as University teachers.

The last students slipped into place at the two long trestle tables that ran at right angles to the high table in the main body of the hall, and the buzz of conversation and shuffling died away. After the meal, the tables would be stored along the walls so that the hall could be used for teaching.

The Master said grace and announced that conversation would be allowed that day, but it was to be exclusively in Latin. This was because some students had disputations the following day, and the Master thought academic debate during meals would allow them more practice. The Franciscans frowned disapprovingly and maintained their own silence. It was the usual custom for a Bible scholar to read during the silence of meals for the scholars' spiritual edification, and the new Master's occasional breaks from this tradition were causing friction between the friars and the others.

For Bartholomew and Michael, this afforded an opportunity to discuss what they would ask the clerks at St Mary's that afternoon.

'How was your lecture?' asked Michael, leaning over Bartholomew to peer suspiciously at a dish of salted beef.

'Grim,' said Bartholomew. He looked down to where his students sat together at the far end of one of the tables.

Gray shot him an unpleasant look, and Bartholomew knew his words had been taken seriously.

He picked up a piece of bread and inspected it dubiously. Since the plague, staple crops like barley, oats, and wheat had become scarce. College bread was made with whatever was cheapest and available, which sometimes included flour that was too old even for pig feed. Today, the bread was a grey colour and contained dark brown flecks. It tasted worse than it looked, ancient flour vying for dominance with rancid fat. The salted beef was hard and dry, and there was a large bowl containing lumps of something unidentifiable smeared with a blackish gravy.

Michael gulped down a large goblet of ale and crammed bread into his mouth. He gagged slightly, his eyes watering, and swallowed with difficulty.

'You will choke one day if you do not eat more slowly,' said Bartholomew, not for the first time during their friendship.

'You will be able to save me,' said Michael complacently, reaching for more meat.

Bartholomew chewed some of the hard College bread slowly. The ale, he noticed, was off again, and the salted beef should be thrown away before it poisoned everyone.

The thought of poison brought his mind back to the business with the University chest. He had heard of such devices that were designed to kill unwanted meddlers, but never thought he would see one in action. He wondered who had put it there. A thought suddenly struck him and he almost choked on the bread in his eagerness to tell Michael.

Michael pounded on his back, and Bartholomew was reminded that the monk might look fat and unhealthy, but he was a physical force with which to be reckoned.

"It looks as if I will be the one to save you,' Michael said with malicious glee. 'Do not gobble your food, Doctor.

You will choke.'

'Buckley,' gasped Bartholomew. 'His hands!'

Michael looked at him blankly. 'What about his hands?'

Bartholomew took a gulp of the bad ale, and resisted the urge to spit it out again. "I treated Buckley for a skin complaint. He has weeping sores on his hands.'

'Please!' Michael looked disapproving at such matters mentioned at the table.

'He wears gloves, Michael! Not because the disease is infectious, but because the sores are unpleasant to see and he is embarrassed about them. Can you not see?' he cried, drawing the unwanted attention of the Franciscans. He lowered his voice. 'He probably wears his gloves when he unlocks the chest!'

Michael stared at him for a few moments, thinking.' So,' he said slowly, 'we cannot be certain when this poisonous lock was placed on the chest, since de Wetherset says Buckley is the one who usually opened it, and he has been protected by his gloves. It may have been there for weeks or even months before it did its gruesome work.

Buckley may even have put it there himself knowing that he would be safe from it if he wore gloves.'

Bartholomew thought for a moment. 'Possibly,' he said, 'although I do not think so. First, that was a very small cut on the friar's hand. He may not even have noticed it, which suggests a very concentrated form of poison. It would be a brave man who would risk touching such a lock, even wearing gloves. Second, perhaps the poison was meant for Buckley, if it were known that he was the one who regularly opened the chest, and not the Chancellor.'

Michael rubbed his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully.

'But that would mean that someone so wants Buckley dead that he has been to some trouble to plant that poisonous lock on the chest. I have never bought one of those things, but I warrant they are not cheap.'

'So perhaps Buckley has fled, not because he planted the lock and was responsible for the death of the friar, but because he was in fear of his life. Although,' Bartholomew added practically, 'most men fleeing in fear of their lives do not take tables and chairs with them.'

The conversation was cut short as the Master rose to say grace at the end of the meal, and the Fellows filed in silence from the hall. As soon as they were out, Michael winked at Bartholomew and headed off towards the kitchens to scavenge left-overs. The students clattered noisily down the stairs into the yard, followed by the commoners. There had been ten commoners at Michaelhouse before the plague, but the numbers were now down to four, all old men who had devoted their lives to teaching for the College and were rewarded with board and lodging for the remainder of their lives. Bartholomew went to pay his customary call on one of them, a Cistercian in his seventies called Brother Alban. Alban grinned toothlessly at Bartholomew as the physician rubbed warmed oil into his arthritic elbow, and began to talk in graphic terms about the murder of the prostitutes. As always, Bartholomew was amazed at how the old man managed to acquire his information. He never left the College, yet always seemed to be the first to hear any news from outside. Occasionally, Bartholomew found his love of gossip offensive, but tried to be tolerant since the poor man had little else to do. Although he could still read, Alban's elbow7 prevented him from producing the splendid illustrated texts for which he had once been famous. Bartholomew occasionally saw the old man leafing wistfully through some of his magnificent work, and felt sorry for him.

'There will be yet more murders,' Alban said with salacious enjoyment. 'Just you see. The Sheriff is less than worthless at tracking this criminal down.'

'And I suppose you know who the murderer is,' asked Bartholomew drily, finding the discussion distasteful. He poured more oil into the palm of his hand, and continued to massage it into the swollen joint.

Alban scowled at him. 'Cheeky beggar,' he muttered.

'No, I do not know who the murderer is, but if I were your age, I would find out!'

'And how would you do that?' said Bartholomew, more to side-track Brother Alban from his lurid and fanciful descriptions of the killer's victims than to solicit a sensible answer.

"I would go to the churches of St John Zachary or All Saints'-next-the-Cas tie, and I would find out,' said Alban, tipping his head back and fixing Bartholomew with alert black eyes.

'Why those churches?' said Bartholomew, nonplussed.

The old monk sighed heavily and looked at Bartholomew as he might an errant student. 'Because they have been decommissioned,' he said.

After the plague, the fall in the population meant that there were not enough people to make use of all existing churches, and many had been decommissioned. Some were pulled down, or used as a source of stone; others were locked up to await the day when they would be used again. Two such were St John Zachary and All Saints'-next-the-Castle. At the height of the plague, the entire population north of the river next to the Castle had died. Bartholomew had burned down the pathetic hovels there so that they would not become a continuing source of infection for the town. People claimed that the site of the settlement and All Saints' Church were haunted, and few people went there.

'So?' said Bartholomew, his attention to the conversation wavering as he concentrated on Alban's arm.

'Do you know nothing?' said Alban, more than a touch of gloating in his voice.

Bartholomew flexed the old man's elbow. "I know that your arm is improving.' He was pleased. The old man could bend it further than he had been able to a week ago, and seemed to be in less pain. Typically, Alban was more interested in his gossip.

'There are works of the Devil performed in the churches,' he crowed, 'and I am willing to wager you will find out from them who is killing these whores.'

'Works of the Devil!' scoffed Bartholomew dismissively.

'Always the excuse for the crimes of people!' "I mean witchcraft, Matthew,' said Alban primly. 'It goes on in those two churches, and a good many others too, I imagine. I do not need to tell you why. People are wondering why they should pray to a God that did not deliver them from the Death, and so they are turning to other sources of power. It is the same all over England.

The murder of these harlots is symptomatic of a sickening society.'

Bartholomew finished his treatment of Alban's arm and left the old man's chatter with some relief. He had heard about the increase in witchcraft, but had given it little thought. Brother Michael had mentioned it once or twice, and it had sparked a fierce debate one night among the Franciscans, but Bartholomew had not imagined that it would occur in Cambridge. Perhaps Alban was right; he often was with his gossip. Bartholomew decided to ask whether Cynric knew anything about it, and, if he did, he would suggest to Sheriff Tulyet that he might consider asking questions about the murders in the churches of St John Zachary and All Saints'-next-the-Castle.

Michael was waiting for him in the yard and reluctantly Bartholomew followed him out of the gates to interview the clerks. The sun was hot and Bartholomew shed his black scholar's tabard and stuffed it in his bag. He knew he could be fined by the Proctors for not wearing it, but considered the comfort of wearing only leggings and a linen shirt worth the possible expense. Brother Michael watched enviously and pulled uncomfortably at the voluminous folds of his own heavy gown.

At St Mary's Church, they saw that the body of the dead friar had been laid out in the Lady Chapel. Bartholomew walked over to it and looked again at the small cut at the base of his thumb that had caused his death.

Michael sought out the lay-brother who had locked the church the night before, a mouselike man with eyes that roved in different directions. He was clearly terrified.

Bartholomew led him away to talk, but the man's eyes constantly strayed in the direction of the dead friar.

'What time did you lock the church last night?' asked Bartholomew gently.

The man audibly gulped and seemed unable to answer. Michael became impatient.

'Come on! We do not have all day!'

The man's knees gave out and he slid down the base of a pillar and crouched on the floor, casting petrified glances around him. Bartholomew knelt next to him.

'Please try to remember,' he said. 'It is important.'

The man reached out and grabbed his sleeve, pulling him close to whisper in his ear. 'At dusk,' he said, glancing up at the imposing figure of Michael with huge eyes. Michael raised his eyes heavenward, and went to gather together the other clerks with whom they would need to talk, leaving Bartholomew alone to question the lay-brother.

'At dusk,' the man repeated, watching Michael's retreating back with some relief. "I doused the candles and went to see that the catches on the windows were secure. I put the bar over the sanctuary door as usual, and checked that the tower door was locked.'

'How did you do that?' asked Bartholomew.

The lay-brother made a motion with his hands that indicated he had given it a good shake. 'Then I made sure the sanctuary light was burning and left. I locked the door behind me and gave the keys to Father Cuthbert.'

'Why did Father Cuthbert not lock the church himself?' asked Bartholomew.

'He does when he can. But he has pains in his ankles sometimes, so I lock up when he cannot walk.'

Bartholomew nodded. He had often treated Father Cuthbert for swollen ankles, partly caused by the great pressure put on them by his excess weight, and partly, Bartholomew suspected, caused by a serious affinity for fortified wines.

'Did you notice anything unusual?' he asked.

The man shook his head hesitantly, and Bartholomew was certain he was lying.

'It would be better if you told me what you know,' he said quietly. He saw sweat start to bead on the man's upper lip. Then, before he could do anything to stop him, the man dived out of Bartholomew's reach and scuttled out of the church. Bartholomew ran after him and saw him disappear into the bushes in the churchyard.

He followed, ignoring the way the dense shrubs scratched at his arms. There seemed to be a small path through the undergrowth, faint from lack of use, but a distinct pathway nevertheless. Bartholomew crashed along it and suddenly found himself in one of the dismal alleys that lay between the church and the market-place, his feet skidding in the dust as he came to a halt.

This was one of the poorest areas of the town, a place where no one valuing his safety would consider entering after dark. The houses were no more than rows of wooden frames packed with dried mud. One or two of the better ones had ill-fitting doors to keep out the elements, but most only had a blanket or a piece of leather to serve as a door.

But it was not the homes that caught Bartholomew's eye. The lay-brother had disappeared, but others stood in the alley, a group of scruffy men who moved towards him with a menace that left Bartholomew in no doubt that he was not welcome there. He swallowed and began to back towards the pathway in the bushes, but two of the men moved quickly to block his way.

The alley was silent except for the shuffling of the advancing men. There were at least eight of them, with more joining their ranks by the moment, rough men wearing jerkins of boiled leather and an odd assortment of leggings and shirts. Bartholomew wondered whether he would be able to force his way through them if he took off as fast as he could and made for the market square.

A look at the naked hostility on the men's faces told him he would not succeed. These men meant business.

Fear mingled with confusion as he wondered why his blundering into the alley had resulted in such instant antagonism.

They moved closer, hemming Bartholomew against one of the shacks. He clenched his fists so that they would not see his hands were shaking; he was nearly overwhelmed with the rank smell of unwashed bodies and breath laden with ale fumes. One of the men made a lunge for his arm and Bartholomew ducked and swung out with his fists blindly. In surrounding him so closely, the men had given themselves little room for movement. Blows were aimed, but lacked force, although judging from several grunts of pain, Bartholomew's own kicks and punches, wildly thrown, were more effective.

A leg hooked around the back of his knees and sent him sprawling backwards onto the ground, and he knew that it was all over. He twisted sideways to squirm out of the reach of a kick aimed at his head, but was unable to move fast enough to avoid the one to his stomach. The breath rushed out of him and his limbs turned to jelly so that he was unable to move.

'Stop!'

It was the deep voice of a woman that Bartholomew heard through a haze of dust and shuffling feet. The men moved back, and by the time Bartholomew had picked himself up and was steadying himself against a wall, the alleyway was deserted except for the woman.

He looked at her closely. She was dressed in a good quality, but old, woollen dress of faded blue, and her hair, as black as Bartholomew's own, fell in a luxurious shimmering sheet down her back and partly over her face.

Her features were strong and bespoke of a formidable strength of character, and although she would not have been called pretty, there was a certain attraction in her clear eyes and steady gaze. As Bartholomew looked more closely, he saw two scars on each jaw, running parallel to each other. Not wishing to make her uncomfortable by staring, he looked away, wondering whether the scars marked her as a member of some religious sect. He had heard that self-mutilation had been common in Europe during the plague years, and it was possible that the scars had been made then.

'Who are you?' he asked.

She looked at him in disbelief and let out a burst of laughter. "I save your life, and what do you say? "Thank you"? "I am grateful"? Oh, no! "Who are you?"!' She laughed again, although Bartholomew was too shaken to find the situation amusing. That she obviously held some sway over the band of louts who had just tried to kill him he found of little comfort.

"I am sorry,' he said, contrite. 'Thank you. May I know your name?'

She raised black eyebrows, her blue eyes dancing in merriment. 'All right, then,' she said. 'My name isjanetta of Lincoln. Who are you and what were you doing in our lane?'

'Your lane?' he asked, surprised. 'Since when did the streets of Cambridge become private property?'

The laughter went out of her face. 'You have a careless tongue for a man who has just been delivered from an — unpleasant fate. And you did not answer my question.

What are you doing here?'

Bartholomew wondered what he could tell her. He thought of the terrified face of the lay-brother and was reluctant to mention him to this curious woman. He also wondered why he had been so foolish as to chase the man when he easily could have found out his address from Father Cuthbert.

"I must have taken a wrong turning,' he said. He looked around him and saw that his bag had gone, containing not only all his medical instruments and some medicines, but his best scholar's tabard too.

Janetta stared at him, her hands on her hips. 'You are an ingrate,' she said. "I stop them from killing you, and you repay me with rudeness and lies.'

Bartholomew knew that she was right and was sorry.

But, despite the sunshine filtering down into the alley from the cloudless sky, Bartholomew felt something menacing and dark in the alley and longed to be gone.

He straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall and took a deep breath.

"I saw a small path leading through the bushes in St Mary's churchyard,' he answered truthfully. "I followed it and it finished here.'

She continued to stare at him for a few minutes. 'You were following it at quite a pace,' she said. "I thought you were being pursued by the Devil himself.'

He grimaced and looked up and down the alley to see which way would be the best to leave. She followed his eyes.

'You will only be safe while you are with me,' she said.

'Would you like me to walk with you?'

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair and gave her a crooked smile. 'Thank you,' he said. 'How is it that you seem to have so much control over these people?'

She gestured that he was to precede her down the alley.

Although Bartholomew could see no one, he knew that they were being watched. The silence of the alley was a tangible thing. He glanced at Janetta walking behind him, striding purposefully.

She smiled at him, showing small, white teeth. "I have taken it on myself to give them a community spirit, a sense of worth and belonging.'

Bartholomew was not sure he knew what she meant, but kept his silence. All he wanted to do was leave the filthy alley and go back to the relative peace and sanity of Michaelhouse. For some reason he could not place, the woman made him uncomfortable. He glanced behind them, and was alarmed to see that a crowd of people had gathered, and was following them down the alley, its silence far more menacing than words could ever be.

Janetta also glanced round, but seemed amused.

'They wonder where you are taking me,' she said.

Then they were out of the alley and into the colour and cheerful cacophony of the market-place. Gaudy canopies sheltered the goods of the traders from the hot sun, and everywhere people were calling and shouting.

Dogs barked and children howled with laughter at the antics of a juggler. Somewhere, a pig had escaped and was being chased by a number of people, its squeals and their yelling adding to the general chaos.

He turned to Janetta, who still smiled at him.

'Thank you,' he said again. 'And please tell whoever stole my bag that there are some medicines in it that might kill if given to the wrong person. If he or she does not want to give it back to me, the medicines would best be thrown into the river where they will do no harm.'

She nodded slowly, appraising him frankly. 'Do not come here uninvited again, Matthew Bartholomew,' she said.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode jauntily back down the alley, leaving Bartholomew staring after her, wondering how she had known his name when he had not told her.

'What happened to you?' exclaimed Michael in horror, looking at Bartholomew's torn and dirty clothes.

Bartholomew took his arm and led him back through the churchyard to the bushes where he had followed the lay-brother. But however hard he looked, he could not find the path. It simply was not there. He stood back, bewildered.

'What is going on, Matt?' asked Michael impatiently.

'What have you been doing? You look as though you have been in a fight.'

Bartholomew explained what had happened and sat on a tree-stump in the shade of the church while Michael conducted his own search of the bushes.

'Are you sure there was a path?' he asked doubtfully.

'Of course I am!' Bartholomew snapped. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. "I am sorry, Michael. It was a nasty experience and it has made me irritable.'

Michael patted his shoulder. 'Tell me again about this woman. Pretty, you say?' He perched on the tree-stump next to the physician.

Bartholomew regarded him through narrowed eyes and wondered, not for the first time, whether Michael was really the kind of man who should have been allowed to take a vow of chastity.

'Tell me what you discovered from the clerks,' he said, to change the subject.

'They said they had noticed the friar praying in the church for the last three days. Some of them spoke to him, and he said he was travelling from London to Huntingdon and had stopped here for a few days to rest and pray. They did not ask why he was travelling.

They also do not know exactly where he came from in London. He seemed pleasant, friendly and polite, and none of them thought it strange that he should spend so much time in this church.'

'Is that all?' asked Bartholomew. Michael nodded.

'Then we are really no further forward. We still do not know who he was or why he was in the tower, except that he probably travelled some distance to be there. And that poor lay-brother was terrified of something, and I did not like the atmosphere in that shabby alleyway.'

'You should not frequent such places, then,' said Michael. 'Although I would have imagined you would be used to them by now.' "I thought I was,' said Bartholomew. He thought he knew most of the poorest parts of town through his patients, bat had not been called to the alleys behind the market square since the plague. Like the little settlement by the castle, the people who lived in the hovels near the Market Square had either died or moved to occupy better homes when others died.

He and Michael sat in companionable silence for a few-moments and then Michael stood. 'Stay here,' he said. "I will send Cynric back with your spare tabard. If Alcote sees you dirty and dishevelled, he will fine you on the spot, and now you need to buy a new tabard you cannot afford it.'

He ambled off, and Bartholomew leaned back wearily.

Now that the excitement had worn off, he felt tired and sick. He wondered whether everything fitted together the dead friar, the poisoned lock, the disappearing lay brother and Vice-Chancellor, the murdered women, and the sinister alley — or whether they were all independent incidents that just happened to have involved him. He felt more than a little angry at the Chancellor. He wanted to teach and to practise medicine, not to become involved in some nasty plot where women and friars were killed, and that forced him to exhume dead clerks.

He squinted up and watched the leaves blowing in the breeze, making changing pools of light over the tombstones in the graveyard. He could hear the distant racket from the market-place, while in the church some friars were chanting Terce.

'What are you thinking of, getting into all this trouble without me?' came a familiar voice. Bartholomew opened his eyes and smiled at the Welshman with Michael behind him. Cynric took a strange delight in the kind of cloak-and-dagger activity that Bartholomew deplored.

He was more friend than servant, and had been with Bartholomew since he had been appointed to teach in Cambridge. As Bartholomew explained what had happened, Cynric made no attempt to conceal his disdain for Bartholomew's ineptitude in handling the situation.

While Bartholomew donned his tabard to hide his damaged clothes and Michael sat on the tree stump, Cynric went to see if he could find the path. After a few minutes, he came back to sit next to Michael, eyes narrowed against the sun.

'The path is there sure enough,' said Cynric. 'Small twigs are broken and the grass is bruised. Someone must have come up the alley and arranged the bushes so that the path is hidden. I will come back later and explore it.'

'No, you will not,' said Bartholomew firmly. 'Whoever hid it did so for a reason, and I am not sure I want to know why. I have a feeling the lay-brother made a grave error in using that path and I was probably lucky not to have been killed for following him. Let it be, Cynric.'

Cynric looked disappointed, but nodded his agreement.

'But next time you go out, boy, make sure I go with you. Old Cynric is far better at these things than you are.'

It would not be too difficult to be better at 'these things' than he was, Bartholomew thought wryly, but Cynric was right. He would never have blundered blindly into the alley as Bartholomew had done.

Michael stood and rubbed his hands together. 'We have had a difficult day,' he announced. "I propose we go and enjoy ourselves at the Fair.'

Barnwell Causeway, the road that led from the town to the fields in which the Fair was held, was thronged with people. Men with huge trays of pastries and pies competed with each other for trade, while water-sellers left damp patches on the road as the river-water they carried in their buckets slopped over the sides. Beggars lined the route, sitting at the sides of the road and displaying sores and wounds to any who would look.

Some were soldiers from the wars in France, once England's heroes, now quietly ignored. The Sheriffs men elbowed their way through the crowd, asking if anyone had witnessed the murder of a potter the night before.

Michael shook his head to the sergeant's enquiry.

'The roads are becoming more and more dangerous after dark,' he remarked, as the sergeant repeated his enquiry to a group of noisy apprentices walking behind them. 'Safe enough now with all these folk, but deadly to any foolish enough to wander at night'

Cynric made a darting movement, and there was a yowl of pain from a scruffy man wearing a brown cloak.

'Not even safe in daylight,' said Cynric, handing Michael's purse back to him, and watching the pickpocket scamper away down the road clutching his arm.

Michael grimaced, and tucked the purse down the front of his habit. He brightened as the colourful canopies of the Fair booths came into sight, and stopped to look.

War-horses pounded up and down a narrow strip near the river as their owners showed off their equestrian skills. Huge fires with whole pigs and sheep roasting over them sent delicious smells to mingle with the scent of manure and sweaty bodies. And everywhere there was noise: animals bleated and bellowed, vendors yelled about their wares, children shrieked and laughed, and musicians added their part to the general cacophony.

Bartholomew followed Michael and Cynric into the melee, shaking off an insistent baker who was trying to sell him apple pastries crawling with flies. Bartholomew smiled at the people he knew — rich merchants in their finery, black-garbed scholars, and the poorest of his patients who eyed the wealth around them with jealous eyes. He saw the Junior Proctor, Alric Jonstan, and two of his beadles talking together near a stall displaying neatly-stacked fruit.

Jonstan hailed him pleasantly, and sent his beadles to disperse a rowdy group of scholars who were watching a mystery play nearby. He rubbed a hand across his face, and beckoned Bartholomew and Michael behind the fruit stall to a quieter part of the Fair. He sat on a wooden bench, and summoned a brewer to bring them some ale.

'This is the finest ale in England,' he said, closing his eyes and taking a long draught with obvious pleasure.

The brewer smiled, gratified, and set the remaining tankards on the table.

Jonstan held up his hand. 'As a Proctor, I should not be setting the example of sitting in an ale tent, but I have been working since I left St Mary's this morning, and even the most dedicated of men needs sustenance.'

'Excellent ale,' said Michael appraisingly, raising his empty tankard to be refilled, and wiping foam from his mouth. 'And we are all well-enough hidden here, I think.'

'Master Hading would not think so,' said Jonstan with awry smile. Bartholomew could well-believe it of the dour Physwick Hostel scholar. 'But what didyou discover about this friar?'

Michael set his tankard down, and rubbed his sleeve across his mouth. 'Nothing other than what we told you this morning. But if you have been here all day, perhaps you do not know that Master Buckley seems to have disappeared.'

'Disappeared?' echoed Jonstan, stunned. 'But he is coming to dine with me and my mother this evening.' "I doubt he will come,' said Michael. 'But if he does, you might mention that the Chancellor would like to see him, and the Warden of King's Hall would like his tables back.'

Jonstan stared at him and shook his head slowly as Michael described Buckley's empty room.

'Where will you start to sort out this mess?' he asked, looking from Michael to Bartholomew.

"I would rather not start at all,' said Bartholomew fervently. "I would sooner teach.'

Jonstan pulled a sympathetic face. "I can understand that,' he said. "I taught law before I became a Proctor, but have done no teaching since. I moved out of Physwick Hostel and bought a house in Shoemaker Row, so that my mother could keep house for me to allow more time for my duties. I wish Harling and I could help you with this business, but I think we will be too busy with the Fair. Hot weather, cheap ale, and gangs of students are a lethal combination, and we will be hard-pressed to keep the peace as it is.'

He stood suddenly as a student reeled towards him, arm-in-arm with a golden-haired woman from one of the taverns. The student saw the Proctor, released the woman and fled, all signs of drunkenness disappearing as quickly as if Jonstan had dashed a bucket of cold water over him. The woman looked around, bewildered, and Jonstan sat again with a smile.

"I wish all my duties were as easy as that,' he said.

'There was another prostitute murder,' said Bartholomew.

"I heard about that,' said Jonstan. He frowned. 'Does it seem to you that there are more prostitutes now than before the Death?'

'Inevitably,' said Bartholomew, sipping the cool ale.

'Some women lost their families in the plague, and it is one way in which they can make enough money to live.'

'There are other ways, Doctor,' said Jonstan primly.

'They could sew or cook.'

'Possibly,' said Bartholomew, watching an argument develop into a fight between a buxom matron and a man selling rabbit furs. 'But all these travelling labourers mean that life as a prostitute is as well paid and secure as any occupation these days.'

'But it is sinful,' persisted Jonstan, his round blue eyes earnest. 'The plague was a sign from God that we should amend our wicked ways, and yet there are more prostitutes now than before. How can they fail to heed His warning?'

Bartholomew had heard these arguments before: the plague had been regarded as a punishmentfor all manner of wickedness — crime, the war with France, violation of the Sabbath, blasphemy, not fasting on Fridays, usury, adultery. Many people believed the plague was but a warning, and it was only a matter of time before it returned to kill all with evil in their hearts.

After a while, enjoying the ale and the warmth of the sun, he rose to leave. The others followed suit, and they parted from Jonstan. Moments later, Bartholomew felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see his brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore, beaming at him.

Bartholomew returned his smile, and asked Stanmore how his business was faring.

'Excellent,' said Stanmore, his smile widening further still. "I have sold almost all the cloth I had stored in my warehouse, and deposits have been made on the next shipment due to arrive within two days.'

'Has the Sheriff found the men who stole your cloth yet?' asked Bartholomew, referring to an incident in which two of Stanmore's carts were attacked and plundered on the London road.

Stanmore frowned. 'He has not. And I am unimpressed with what he is doing to get to the bottom of the matter.'

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. Sheriffs were seldom popular, but Richard Tulyet had recently excelled at making himself an object of dislike. First the townspeople complained about his lack of progress on the murders of the women, and now Stanmore about his stolen cloth.

Stanmore sighed. "I know Tulyet has his hands full with the whore murders,' he said, 'but the town will suffer if he does not look into the attack on my goods: merchants will not come here if the roads are dangerous.'

'There was another murder this morning,' said Bartholomew, to divert Stanmore from the lecture on the importance of safe travel and trade he was about to give.

Stanmore nodded. 'It was all the talk at the Fair today,' he said. 'Some womenfolk are thinking of leaving early because of it.' He leaned towards Bartholomew so that he would not be overheard. "I heard a rumour today that one of the guilds might look into this prostitute business, since Tulyet will not.'

'Which guild?' asked Bartholomew, concerned. 'Witch hunters who will accuse any man out alone after curfew?'

'No, no,' said Stanmore. 'They call themselves the Guild of the Holy Trinity, and there are priests and monks among their number. It is nothing sinister, but a group of honest men who are concerned that sin and crime have increased since the Death.'

Bartholomew looked dubious, and Stanmore shrugged.

'There are many who feel as they do,' he said. 'These are not religious fanatics sniffing out heresy, like your Father William, but plain folk who care about the changes that have occurred since the Death.' When Bartholomew failed to look convinced, Stanmore threw up his hands in despair. 'Look at the evidence in front of you! A tiny place like Cambridge, and we have a maniac who kills women in the dead of night, and it is not even safe for a cart of cloth to travel from London.'

'But the attack was miles away!' protested Bartholomew.

'You cannot blame Cambridge for what happened near London.'

'It was not near London, it was at Saffron Walden,' said Stanmore haughtily. 'A mere fifteen miles away.' He scratched at his chin. 'It is an odd business. I expected that the cloth would reappear at the Fair, sold by the thieves, but although I have had my apprentices scour the area, not so much as a thread of it has appeared.'

'Perhaps it was stolen for personal use,' said Bartholomew.

Stanmore looked impatient. 'This is finest quality worsted, Matt. You do not use such cloth to sew any old garment.'

Bartholomew shrugged. 'Perhaps the thieves anticipated you would look for it here, and plan to sell it elsewhere.'

'They must,' said Stanmore. 'But it is a wretched nuisance.

I had to send that cloth to London to be dyed since deBelem's prices are so extortionate. So, notonlydo I lose the cloth, I have the expense of dyeing and transport. It is a bad time to be a merchant: labour prices are sky-high, fewer dyers and weavers mean that they can charge what they will because there is no competition, and, on top of all that, it is not safe to transport goods.'

'But most of that has always been true,' said Bartholomew, to placate the agitated draper.

'Not like this,' said Stanmore bitterly. 'English cloth and English wool are the finest in the world. But there are fewer shepherds to tend the sheep, less wool available for weaving, fewer weavers to weave it…'

'And fewer merchants to sell it,' interrupted Bartholomew, laughing. 'Come, Oswald! It is not all bad. You are not in the gutters yet!'

Stanmore smiled reluctantly. "I suppose business at the Fair has been good,' he admitted. He turned to watch the antics of a small group of tumblers from Spain, who leapt, somersaulted, and cartwheeled in a flurry of red jackets and blue leggings. Bartholomew left him to admire the acrobats, and wandered off alone. He watched a troop of players perform the mystery play about Adam and Eve to a large and good-humoured crowd. Nearby, other players, with a far smaller audience, enacted scenes from the plague, claiming that the disease would come again unlesswicked ways were mended. Bartholomew thought about the Guild of the Holy Trinity, and wondered if the few people watching and nodding sagely at the play's message were its members.

By the time Bartholomew met Michael and Cynric again, the daylight was fading, and traders were packing up. Many would stay, cooking stews on open fires, while others would leave an apprentice to guard their goods and walk back into Cambridge to sleep in taverns and brothels. The Fair was only half-way through, and already surrounding fields and coppices had been stripped of wood for the fires that provided warmth and hot food.

Bartholomew, Cynric, and Michael joined a group of exhausted traders to walk the short distance back to Cambridge. By mutual consent, they waited until there were about twenty people. Many traders carried the day's takings to be deposited with a money-lender, or hidden in a secure place, and robberies along the dark stretch of road were not uncommon during the Fair. Stanmore and his steward Hugh, armed with a crossbow, joined the group, and they set off, some singing a bawdy tavern song despite their weariness.

Stanmore continued his dismal analysis on the safety of roads, which had Bartholomew glancing nervously over his shoulder. But despite Stanmore's gloom, they arrived at Michaelhouse without mishap, where Michael went to the kitchen for something to eat, and Bartholomew went straight to bed.

Early the next morning, he was awoken by an insistent knocking on his door, and Eli, the bow-legged College steward, burst in.

'Doctor Bartholomew!' he gasped. 'You must come!

There is a girl dying in our orchard.'