A Plague on Both Your Houses (19 page)

murder now of all times, when they could all be dead

anyway by the following day.

Michael and William had wrapped Aelfrith in a sheet

while Bartholomew had been thinking, and together they carried him down the stairs. Bartholomew followed them.

What should he do about Aelfrith’s burial? He had not

died of the plague and so there was no reason why he

should be put in the plague pit. He decided to ask Cynric to help him dig a grave in St Michael’s churchyard.

The stable was being used as a temporary mortuary

in which dead College members awaited collection by the plague carts. Bartholomew saw that there were already

two others there, and closed his eyes in despair.

‘Richard of Norwich and Francis Eltham,’ said

Michael in explanation.

‘Not Francis!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. ‘He was so

careful!’ Eltham had been like Wilson and had shut

himself in his room. His room-mates had left Cambridge, so he had been alone.

‘Not careful enough,’ Michael said. ‘This Death has

no rhyme nor reason to it.’

Father William sighed. “I must go to Shoemaker

Row. The sickness is in the home of Alexander’s sister and they are waiting for me.’

He disappeared into the night, leaving Michael and

Bartholomew alone. Bartholomew was too drained to

be anxious about Michael’s possible murderous inclinations, and too tired to talk to the fat monk about Aelfrith’s dying words. Bartholomew wished he had spoken again

to Aelfrith about his suspicions, but Aelfrith had taken his oath to the Bishop seriously and had never again

mentioned the business to Bartholomew.

Next to him, Michael sniffed loudly, his face turned

away from Bartholomew. They stood silently for a while, each wrapped in his own thoughts, until Michael gave a huge sigh.

“I have not eaten all day, Matt. Did you ever think I

would allow that to happen?’ he said in a frail attempt at humour. He took Bartholomew’s arm, and guided him

towards the kitchen. Michael lit a candle and they looked around. The big room was deserted, the great fireplace cold. Many of the staff had left the College to be with their families, or had run away northwards in an attempt to escape the relentless advance of the plague. Pots had been left unwashed and scraps of old food littered the stone-flagged floor. Bartholomew wrinkled his nose in

disgust as a large rat wandered boldly into the middle of the floor.

As Michael and Bartholomew watched, it started

to twitch and shudder. It emitted a few high-pitched

squeals before collapsing in a welter of black blood that flowed from between its clenched teeth.

‘Now even the rats have the plague,’ said Michael,

his enthusiasm for foraging for food in the kitchen

wavering.

‘Now why would God send a visitation down upon

rats?’ said Bartholomew mockingly. ‘Why not eels or

pigs or birds?’

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

When did you last have the time to watch birds

and fish?’

Bartholomew gave him a weak smile, and sat at the

large table while Michael rummaged in the storerooms.

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

‘This will do,’ he said, settling himself next to

Bartholomew. ‘This is a bottle of Master Wilson’s best claret. It is the first time I have been able to get near it without Gilbert peering over my shoulder.’

Bartholomew looked askance. ‘Stealing the Master’s

wine? Whatever next, Brother!’

‘Not stealing,’ said Michael, uncorking the bottle

and taking a hearty swig. ‘Testing it for him. After

all, how do we know that the plague is not spread by

claret?’

And how do we know that it was not claret that

poisoned Aelfrith? thought Bartholomew. He put his

head in his hands. He liked Michael, and hoped he was

not one of the fanatics of whom Aelfrith had warned

him. He suddenly felt very lonely. He would have given anything for a few moments alone with Philippa.

‘You must eat,’ said Michael gently, ‘or you will be

no good to yourself or to your patients. Drink some wine, and then try some of this beef. I swear to you, Matt, it is no older than eight months, and only a little rancid.’

Bartholomew smiled. Michael was trying to cheer

him up. He took the proffered piece of meat and choked some of it down. He rifled through the apples, looking for one that was not home to families of maggots. Finding

one, he presented it solemnly to Michael, who took it

with equal gravity and cut it in half.

‘Never let it be said that Michaelhouse scholars do

not share their good fortunes,’ he said, presenting a

piece to Bartholomew. ‘When do you think this will be

over?’ he asked suddenly.

‘The plague or the murders?’ said Bartholomew.

The strong wine on his empty stomach had made him

answer without thinking.

Michael stared at him. ‘Murders?’ he asked, nonplussed.

Understanding suddenly showed in his eyes.

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

Bartholomew nodded. He had told no one, not

even his sister or Philippa, about the conversation

he had had with the Bishop, despite probing of

varying degrees of subtlety by Wilson, Alcote, and

Michael.

‘But we know the truth,’ he said quietly.

Michael was horrified. ‘No! No, we do not,’ he

insisted. ‘We never will. We should not be talking of

this!’ He looked over his shoulder as if he expected

the Bishop to be there.

Bartholomew stood up and walked over to the

window, where he stood staring out into the darkness

of the yard.

‘But murder is murder, Brother,’ he said softly. He

turned to look at Michael, whose fat face still wore an expression of disbelief.

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

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘Is it?’ he asked

gently, watching Michael for any slight reaction that

might betray guilt.

‘Of course!’ Michael snapped. ‘Over and done!’

Bartholomew turned back to the window. Michael

had always loved the intricate affairs of the College, and took a strange delight in the petty plays for power.

On occasions, Bartholomew and Abigny had found

his persistent speculations tiresome, and had actively avoided his company. Bartholomew wondered whether

his refusal to discuss them now meant that he took the Bishop’s oath very seriously and really believed that the murders were over, or whether he had other reasons

for maintaining his silence. Did he know that Aelfrith had been murdered? Bartholomew decided he would

gain nothing by questioning Michael further, except

perhaps to arouse his suspicions. If Michael did know

more than he was telling, then Bartholomew would be

foolish indeed to allow his suspicions to show.

Michael went to sit next to the fire in the large chair from which Agatha usually ran her domain. He shifted

his bulk around until he was comfortable, stretching his feet out as if the fire were blazing. Bartholomew went back to the bench and lay flat, folding his hands over his stomach, looking up at the cobwebs on the ceiling. He

would rest just a little while before going to his bed.

‘Not only have I missed a good many meals,’ said

Michael, ‘but I have been too busy to complain about

my perpetually cold feet!’

‘Missed meals will do you no harm, my fat monk,’

said Bartholomew drowsily. It was freezing in the kitchen, and they were both wet from being out in the rain all day.

They should not lie around in the cold, but should go

back to their respective beds and sleep in the warm.

‘When will it end?’ asked Michael again, his voice

distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

Did he mean the plague or the murders in the

College? wondered Bartholomew a second time, his

thoughts beginning to tumble through his tired brain

again. He asked himself why he was lying in a cold

kitchen alone with someone whom he thought might

know more than was safe about at least one murder.

‘Why was Aelfrith in your room?’ Bartholomew

asked sleepily. Gradually, he was relaxing for the first time in days; it was a pleasant feeling, and he felt himself beginning to fall asleep.

‘Mmm?’ said Michael. ‘Oh, I took him there. He

collapsed in the yard. His room was locked, so I took

him to mine.’

‘Locked?’ asked Bartholomew, now struggling to

stay awake.

‘Yes,’ came Michael’s voice from a long way off. “I

thought it was odd, too. But locked it was, and I could not get in. Perhaps one of his students saw him collapse and did not want him brought to their room.’

Bartholomew thought about that. It was possible,

and he knew that Aelfrith’s three Franciscan novices

had been concerned that the work he was doing among

the plague victims might bring the disease to them.

‘When do you think this plague will end?’ he

asked in response, wriggling slightly to ease the ache in his back.

‘When the Lord thinks we have learned,’ said

Michael.

‘Learned what, for God’s sake?’ asked Bartholomew,

settling down again. ‘If this continues, perhaps there will be no one left to learn anything.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Michael. ‘But if He wanted us all

to die, He would not have bothered to send the signs.’

‘What signs?’ Bartholomew felt his eyes begin to close, no matter how hard he struggled to keep them open. He tried to remember when he had last slept; a

couple of hours two nights before?

‘When the plague first started in the Far East, there

were three signs,’ began Michael. Bartholomew gave up

on keeping his eyes open, and just listened.

‘On the first day, it rained frogs and serpents. On

the second day, there was thunder so loud that people

hearing it were sent mad, and lightning that came as

sheets of fire. On the third day a great pall of black smoke issued from the earth, blotting out the sun and

all the light. On the fourth day, the plague came.

‘There have been other signs too,’ Michael continued

after a moment. ‘In France, a great pillar of fire

was seen over the Palace of the Popes in Avignon. A ball of fire hung over Paris. In Italy, when the plague arrived, it came with a terrible earthquake that sent noxious fumes all over the surrounding country and killed all the crops.

Many died from famine as well as the plague.’

‘There have been no such signs here, Brother,’ said

Bartholomew, almost asleep. ‘Perhaps we are not so evil as the French or the Italians.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Michael. ‘Or perhaps God does

not want to waste His signs on the irredeemable.’

Bartholomew woke with a start. He was cold and very

stiff, and still lying on the bench. Wincing, he eased himself up, wondering why he had not gone to bed to

wake warm and rested. Daylight was flooding in through the window, and there was a crackle of burning wood.

He looked behind him.

‘Oh, you are awake, lazy-bones,’ grunted Agatha.

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

The kitchen had been cleaned since the previous

night: the food swept away and the dead rat removed.

One of the fireplaces had been cleared out and a warm

blaze replaced the cold ashes. Stiffly, Bartholomew went to sit beside it on a stool, smelling the fresh oatcakes cooking on the circular oven next to the fire. Brother Michael still slept in Agatha’s chair, black circles under his eyes and his mouth dangling open. Bartholomew’s

suspicions of the night before seemed unreasonable.

Even if Michael had been connected with the death of

Aelfrith in some way, he obviously meant Bartholomew

no harm, when he could easily have dispatched him as

he lay sleeping on the bench.

Bartholomew stretched himself and filched an

oatcake when he thought Agatha was not looking.

The sudden movement woke Michael, who sat looking

around stupidly. ‘What time is it?’ he asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes and rubbing his cold hands

together.

‘A little before eight, I would say,’ said Agatha. ‘Now you sit down,’ she continued, pushing Michael back

in his chair. “I have made you some oatcakes - if this greedy physician has not eaten them all.’

‘But I have missed Prime,’ said Michael, horrified.

‘And I did not say Matins and Lauds last night.’

‘Your stomach must still be asleep,’ said Bartholomew, ‘if you are considering prayers before

breakfast.’

“I always say prayers before breakfast,’ snapped

Michael, and then relented. “I am sorry, Matt. I cannot stick knives in boils and try to relieve fevers like you do.

My way of fighting this monstrous pestilence is to keep my offices, no matter what happens. I hope it may make a difference.’ He gave a rueful look. ‘This will be the first time I have failed since this business began.’

“I was thinking yesterday that the clerics were

doing more good than the physicians ever could,’ said

Bartholomew, startled by Michael’s confession. ‘Do not be too hard on yourself, Brother. Or, as you said to

me last night, you will be no good to yourself or your patients,’ he said in a very plausible imitation of

Michael’s pompous voice that made Agatha screech

with laughter.

Michael laughed too, more at Agatha’s reaction

than at Bartholomew’s feeble attempt at humour. ‘Oh