A Plague on Both Your Houses (21 page)

old commoners were still alive and well, but several

healthy young students were dead.

However much Bartholomew thought and studied

and worked, he could not understand why some people

died and others recovered, or why, in the same household, some people caught the disease while others

remained healthy, even after being in contact with the sick. He and Colet compared experiences regularly, and argued endlessly and without conclusion. Colet had given up leeching buboes, and incised them where he could,

like Bartholomew. But he still believed that leeching

after the incisions caused the recovery of his patients.

Bartholomew believed the keys were rest, a warm bed,

and clean water. Since neither had a better record of

success than the other, each refused to adopt the other’s methods. But Colet’s patients were generally wealthy,

with warm homes and clean bedding. Bartholomew’s

patients were poor, and warmth and cleanliness were

not always easy to attain.

Bartholomew continued on his rounds, lancing the

black swellings whenever he thought it might ease a

patient’s pain. Two more physicians died, and another

two fled, so that only Bartholomew, Colet, and Simon

Roper from Bene’t Hostel were left. They found they

could not trust the town officials to carry out their recommendations and had to supervise virtually everything,

from the digging of the pits and the proper use of lime, to the cleaning of the streets of the dead rats and refuse that built up.

Bartholomew, arriving home at dawn after staying

with a family that had five of seven children dying, was awoken within minutes by hammering on the door.

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

“I thought you would have been up by now,’ said

the man cheekily.

‘What do you want?’ Bartholomew asked thickly, so

tired he could barely speak.

“I have been sent to fetch you to St Radegund’s.’

Bartholomew’s blood ran cold, and he was instantly

awake. ‘Why, what has happened?’ he asked in a whisper, almost afraid to ask. ‘Is it Philippa Abigny?’

‘Oh, no,’ said the student. ‘A man wants you. But you

had better hurry up or he said you will be too late.’

Bartholomew hastened back inside to dress. When

he emerged, the tousle-haired man was leaning against

the wall chatting to the porter. Bartholomew ignored

him and made his way up St Michael’s Lane at a steady

trot. He heard footsteps behind him, and the young

man caught him and tried to match his pace.

‘If you want to travel quickly, why do you not take

a horse?’ he asked between gasps.

“I do not have a horse,’ answered Bartholomew.

‘Who has asked for me? Is it Giles Abigny?’ The fear he felt earlier returned. He hoped Abigny had not become

ill and gone to the convent for help. St Radegund’s had escaped lightly until now, perhaps because the Prioress had determined on a policy of isolation, and no one was allowed in; money in a pot of vinegar was left outside the gates for all food that was delivered. Bartholomew hoped the Prioress had managed to continue so, not only because Philippa was inside, but also because he wanted to know if the plague could be averted in this way.

‘You do not have a horse?’ queried the student,

losing his stride. ‘A physician?’

‘Who asked for me?’ Bartholomew asked again. He

was beginning to be annoyed.

“I do not know, just some man. I am only the

messenger.’

Bartholomew increased his speed, and quickly left

the student puffing and wheezing behind him. It was only a matter of moments before the walls of St Radegund’s

loomed up out of the early morning mist. He pounded

on the door, leaning against the wall to get his breath, his legs unsteady from a brisk run on an empty stomach and anticipation of what was to come.

A small grille in the door snapped open. ‘What do

you want?’ came a sharp voice.

‘It is Matthew Bartholomew. I was sent for,’ he

gasped.

‘Not by us,’ and the grille slammed shut.

Bartholomew groaned and banged on the door

again. There was no reply.

‘You are unlikely to get an answer now.’

Bartholomew spun round, and the student found

himself pinned against the wall by the throat. ‘Hey! I am only the messenger!’ he croaked, eyes wide in his face.

Bartholomew relented and loosened his grip,

although not by much.

‘Who sent for me?’ he asked again, his voice

dangerously quiet.

“I do not know his name. I will have to show you,’

the student said, trying to prise Bartholomew’s hands

from his throat, some of his former cockiness gone.

He led the way around the walls towards the

convent gardens. ‘My name is Samuel Gray,’ he said.

Bartholomew ignored him. “I am a medical student at

Bene’t Hostel.’

Bartholomew saw they were heading for a small

shack where garden tools were kept. He and Philippa

had sheltered there from a summer thunderstorm once

as they had walked together among the fruit bushes.

That had been only a few short months before, but to

Bartholomew it seemed in another lifetime. Gray reached the hut first, and pushed open the door. Bartholomew

took a step inside and peered into the gloom, trying to see what was inside.

‘Philippa!’ She was kneeling in a corner next to a

figure lying on the floor.

‘Matt!’ She leapt to her feet, and before Bartholomew

could prevent her, she had thrown herself into

his arms. His first instinct was to force her away, lest he carried the contagion with him somehow in his clothes, but the shack was already rank with the smell of the

plague, so there was little point. He allowed all else to be driven from his mind as he enjoyed the first contact he had had with Philippa since the plague began.

Suddenly she pushed him away. ‘What are you doing

here?’ she said. ‘Who asked you to come?’

Bartholomew gazed at her in confusion. He looked

around at Gray, who stood at the door looking as

surprised as Bartholomew.

“I do not know,’ Gray said. ‘It was a man. He told

me to bring you here, and that he would be waiting to

meet you.’

Bartholomew looked back at Philippa. “I do not

know of any man,’ she said. “I have been here since

dawn. I had a message to come, and I found Sister

Clement here. She has the plague.’

‘But who told you to come? And how did you get

out? I thought the convent was sealed.’

“I do not know, to answer your first question. A

message came written on a scrap of parchment pushed

under the door. I came here immediately. In answer

to your other question, there is a small gate near the kitchens that is always open, although few know of it.

Sister Clement has been using it regularly to slip out and go among the poor.’ Her voice caught, and Bartholomew

put his arms round her again.

He said nothing while she sobbed quietly, and Gray

shuffled his feet in the doorway. On the floor, Sister Clement was near the end, her laboured breathing

almost inaudible. Philippa looked at her, and raised her eyes pleadingly to Bartholomew. ‘Can you help her?’

Bartholomew shook his head. He had seen so many

similar cases during the last few weeks that he did not even need to examine her to know that there was nothing he

could do. Even lancing the swellings at this point would do no more than cause unnecessary suffering.

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

something!’

Bartholomew flinched. These were words he heard

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

The buboes in her groin had burst, emitting the smell

which Bartholomew had come to know well, but that

still filled him with disgust. He sent Gray to find a priest to give her last rites, and sat back helplessly. Behind him, Philippa cried softly. He took her hand and led

her outside into the clean morning air.

‘Why did you come, Matt?’ asked Philippa.

‘That student came and said I was needed at

St Radegund’s. He does not seem to know by whom.’

“I receive a message to come here, sent by an

unknown person, then you do. What is going on? Who

wants us here together?’ Philippa looked around her as if expecting the unknown person to emerge from the

bushes.

‘Friend or foe?’ asked Bartholomew absently. He

was horribly afraid that it was the latter, someone who wanted Philippa to come into contact with a plague

victim, and Bartholomew to know it. He felt a sudden

anger. Who would want to do such a thing? What had

either of them done to harm anyone else?

‘Now I am out of that horrid place, I will not go

back,’ said Philippa with a sudden fierce determination.

“I refuse. I can stay with you and Giles. I can sleep in your medicine room.’

‘There is plague at the College, Philippa,’ said

Bartholomew. ‘You would not be safe.’

‘There is plague here!’ said Philippa vehemently,

gesturing to the shack behind them. ‘And anyway,’ she

continued, “I do not approve of the way the nuns skulk behind the convent walls. Sister Clement was the only

one with any decency.’

‘Do you want to die like that?’ asked Bartholomew,

gesturing back at the old lady.

‘Do you?’ countered Philippa. ‘You see plague

victims every day, and you are well. So is Gregory

Colet. Not everyone who touches someone with the

Death catches it.’

Bartholomew wondered what to do. It was out of the

question to take Philippa to Michaelhouse. Even though Master Wilson was not in a position to do anything about it, the clerics would object. And she could not possibly sleep in the medicines room. The shutters did not close properly, and there were no separate privies that she

would be able to use. He would have to take her to

Edith’s house. Edith had not heeded his advice and

locked herself away, and Stanmore was still trying to

conduct his trade. Philippa would not be as protected

there from the plague as she had been in the convent,

but it was the best he could do.

Gray came back over the fields bringing with him

an Austin Canon from Barnwell whom he had waylaid.

They listened to his murmurings as he administered last rites to the old nun. After a few minutes he came out, told them that Sister Clement was dead, and went on

his way. For him, it would be the first in a long day of such prayers, and who knew whether he would live to

see another such day tomorrow?

Bartholomew took Philippa’s hand, and together

they began to make their way back to Barnwell Causeway.

Gray tagged along behind.

Bartholomew decided to go to Edith’s house in

Trumpington immediately. They would have to walk

because he knew of nowhere where he would be able

to hire horses. All the usual places had been struck by the plague, and the horses turned to graze unattended

in the fields. Bartholomew turned to Gray.

‘Can you tell me anything else about this man who

gave you the message? What did he look like?’

Gray shrugged. ‘He was wearing a Dominican habit,

and his cowl was over his face. He had ink on his fingers, though, and he tripped on the hem of his gown as

he left.’

Ink on his fingers. He could be a clerk or a student,

unfamiliar enough in the friar’s long habit to fall over it when he walked. Were the fanatical scholars after him

now? Was this a warning to him that he was vulnerable

through Philippa, even though he had thought her

safely tucked away in her convent? He wondered why

on earth they were bothering. No one who watched the

sun rise these days could be certain of seeing it set in the evening. All they had to do was wait. Why had they taken the trouble to poison Aelfrith? As Bartholomew’s thoughts of murder came tumbling back, he clutched

Philippa’s hand tighter, glad to feel something warm

and reassuring. She smiled at him, and they began to

walk towards Trumpington.

Edith was delighted to see Bartholomew and surprised

to see Philippa. She fussed over them both, and found

Philippa a small room in the garret where she could have some privacy. Oswald Stanmore was just finishing a late breakfast in the parlour, and chatted to Bartholomew

while Edith whisked Philippa away.

‘She will be glad of some company,’ he said, jerking

his thumb towards the stairway where Edith had gone.

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

Bartholomew said nothing. He did not want to

remind Stanmore of the dozens of unnamed bodies he

saw tipped into the pits. People often died in the streets, were collected by the carts and their names were never discovered. He was sure that Stanmore must have seen

this as he did his business around the town. He tried

not to think about it; Bartholomew did not want to

imagine Richard tipped into some pit in Oxford, never

to be traced by his family.

‘How are the figures?’ asked Stanmore.

‘Another fifteen died yesterday, including eight

children,’ said Bartholomew. “I have lost count of the total number, and the clerk who is supposed to note