A Plague on Both Your Houses (22 page)

numbers of bodies going into the pits is drunk half the time. We will probably never know how many have died in Cambridge.’

‘You look exhausted, Matt. Stay here for a few days

and rest. You cannot keep going at this pace.’

‘The plague will not last forever,’ said Bartholomew.

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

‘Simon

Roper died this morning,’ said Stanmore.

He noticed Bartholomew’s shock. ‘I am sorry, lad. I

thought you would have known.’

Now Bartholomew and Colet were the only ones

left, with Robin of Grantchester, the town surgeon,

whose methods and hygiene Bartholomew did not trust.

How would they manage? Because there had been cases

where Bartholomew had lanced the black swellings and

the patient had lived, he wanted to make sure that as

many people as possible were given this tiny chance

for life. If there were fewer physicians and surgeons, fewer people would be treated, and the plague would

take those who might have been able to survive.

‘ Stay here with Philippa,’ said Stanmore persuasively.

‘She needs you, too.’

Bartholomew felt himself wavering. It would be

wonderful to spend a few hours with Philippa and to

forget all the foulness of the past weeks. But he knew that there were people who needed him, perhaps his

friends, and he would not forgive himself if one of them died when he might have been able to help. He shook

his head.

“I must go back to the College. Alexander was

unwell last night. I should check on him, and I must

make sure that the pits are being properly limed, or

we may never escape from this vile disease.’ He stood

up and stretched.

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

‘One of the apprentices can bring the horse back again tonight.’

Edith came in and told them that Philippa was

resting. Apparently the death of the old nun had

upset her more than Bartholomew had thought. He

had become so inured to death that he had made the

assumption that others had too, and had not considered that Philippa would be so grieved.

Edith gave Bartholomew a hug. ‘Take care,’ she

whispered. ‘Do not take too many chances. I could not

bear to lose you.’

She turned away so that he would not see the

tears in her eyes, and bustled around the fireplace.

Bartholomew reached over and touched her lightly

on the shoulder before following her husband into

the yard. It was beginning to snow again, and the wind was bitterly cold. The muddy ruts in the track back to Cambridge had frozen, and the covering of snow made

the travelling treacherous. Both horses stumbled several times, and the snow swirled about them so that they could barely see the way.

After a few minutes, Stanmore reined in. ‘This

is insane, Matt. We must go back. We can try

again later.’

‘You return. I have to go on,’ said Bartholomew.

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

Come home with me.’

‘But I am worried about Alexander. And I promised

the miller I would look in on his boy.’

‘Go if you must, but I think you are mad. Take

the horse. Please do not stable the poor beast at

Michaelhouse, but take it to Stephen. He knows how

to care for horses, unlike your dreadful porter.’

Bartholomew nodded and with a wave of his hand

urged the horse on down the track, while Stanmore

retraced his steps. The snow seemed to be coming

horizontally, and Bartholomew was quickly enveloped

in a soundless world of swirling white. Even the horse’s hooves barely made a sound. Despite being cold and

tired, he admired the beauty and tranquility of the

countryside. The soft sheets of brilliant white stretching in all directions seemed a long way from the putrid black buboes and blood-laden vomit of the plague victims. He stopped the horse, so that he could appreciate the silence and peace.

He was startled to hear a twig snapping behind

him. He twisted round in the saddle and saw a shadow

flit between the trees. He hoped it was not robbers; he had no wish to be attacked for the few pennies in his

pocket. He jabbed his heels into the horse’s side to

urge it forward, and it broke into a brisk trot. Glancing behind himself frequently, Bartholomew saw nothing

but snow-laden trees and the hoof marks of his horse

on the path.

He reached the Priory of St Edmund’s, its buildings

almost invisible in the swirling snow, and continued to Small Bridges Street. The miller was waiting for him,

peering anxiously through the snow. As Bartholomew

dismounted, he raced to meet him.

‘He is well, Doctor, he lives! You saved him! You

said he had a chance, and you were right. He is awake

now, asking for water.’

Bartholomew gave a brief smile and went to see

his small patient. His mother had died of the plague

three days before, followed by one of his sisters. The boy looked as though he would recover now, and the

rest of the family seemed healthy enough. Leaving them with stern warnings not to drink the river water just

because the well was frozen, he mounted and rode

back to Michaelhouse, his spirits a little higher. As

he turned to wave to the miller, he thought he saw

a shadow dart into the long grass by the side of the

stream, but it was no more than the merest flash of

movement, and however hard he looked, he could see

nothing else.

Bartholomew took the horse to Stephen Stanmore’s

house on Milne Street and stayed for a cup of mulled

wine. Stephen looked tired and strained and told him

that three of the apprentices had died. Rachel Atkin,

whom Bartholomew had persuaded him to take, was

proving invaluable in helping to nurse others with the sickness.

When Bartholomew returned to College, Alexander

had already died, and Brother Michael was helping

Agatha to sew him into a blanket. Cynric was also

ill, shivering with fever, and muttering in Welsh.

Bartholomew sat with him until the light began to

fade, and went out to check on the plague pits.

Cynric was more friend than servant. They had first

met in Oxford when they had been on opposing sides in

one of the many town-and-gown brawls. Each had bloodied the other, but rather than continue, Bartholomew,

who had had enough of his foray into such senseless

behaviour, offered to buy the short Welshman some ale.

Cynric had narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but had gone with Bartholomew, and the two had spent the rest of

the day talking and watching their fellow brawlers being arrested. Bartholomew had arranged for the itinerant

Cynric to work in the hostel where he studied, and,

later, had invited him to Cambridge. Officially, Cynric was Bartholomew’s book-bearer, although he did other

tasks around the College and had a considerable degree of freedom.

Bartholomew walked back down the High Street to

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

It was still snowing heavily as he walked back to

College. The snow was almost knee-deep in places, and

walking was hard work. Bartholomew began to feel hot,

and paused to wipe the sweat from his face. He also felt dizzy. Probably just tiredness, he thought impatiently, and he tried to hurry through the snow to return

to Cynric. Walking became harder and harder, and

Bartholomew was finding it difficult to catch his breath.

He was relieved when he finally reached Michaelhouse,

and staggered through the gates. He decided that he

needed to lie down for a few moments before sitting

with Cynric again.

He made his way over to his room, and pushed

open the door. He stopped dead in his tracks as Samuel Gray rose languidly from his bed, where, judging from

his half-closed eyes and rumpled hair, he had been

sleeping.

Bartholomew desperately wanted to rest, and his

body felt stiff and sore. It must have been the unaccustomed riding. He took a step forwards, and Gray moved

cautiously backwards.

“I have been waiting for you,’ said Gray.

Bartholomew swallowed. His throat felt dry and sore.

‘What for? Not more messages?’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ said Gray.

Bartholomew felt his knees begin to give way. As

he pitched forward into the surprised student’s arms,

he knew he had become a victim of the plague.

Epiphany came and went. Brother Michael, Father

William, and a mere handful of students celebrated

mass. Alcote slipped into the back of the church,

and skittered nervously from pillar to pillar as a few parishioners straggled in. When one of them began to

cough, he left and scuttled back to the safety of his room.

Of Wilson, there was no sign.

Cynric had a burning fever for two days, and then

woke on the third morning claiming he was well. Agatha, who had been nursing him, heaved a sigh of relief and

went about her other duties, secure in her belief that she was immune. When a peddler came to the College

selling crudely carved wooden lions covered in gold

paint that he assured her would protect her from the

plague, she sent him away with some ripe curses ringing in his ears.

The dead-collectors failed to come for Alexander,

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

More of the dead-collectors died, and it became

almost impossible to persuade people to take their

places. Several friars and Canons from the Hospital

offered their services, but these were not enough, and soon bodies lay for two or three days on the streets or in houses before they were taken away.

Many people believed that the end of the world

was near, and that the plague was a punishment for

human sin. It was said that entire villages were wiped out, and that in the cities, at least half the population had perished. Trade was virtually at a standstill, and civil disorder was rife in the cities and towns.

Bartholomew knew little about the days he was ill.

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

After five days, he saw a candle flickering on the shelf under the window. He watched it for a while, wondering why the shutters were closed and a candle burning when he could see daylight seeping under the door. As he

tried to turn his head, a searing pain in his neck brought everything back to him. He remembered walking back

from the plague pit and finding the obnoxious student

sleeping on his bed, and recalled meeting Philippa in

the shack in the convent grounds.

‘Philippa!’ he said, his voice no more than a

whisper.

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

The student had appeared, and was leaning over him,

dark rings under his eyes, and his hair even more rumpled than Bartholomew remembered.

‘What are you doing here?’ Bartholomew croaked.

‘Tsk, man! The lad has been looking after you day

and night! Show a little gratitude.’

Bartholomew gave a weak grin. ‘Cynric! Thank

God! I thought you might be gone.’ He reached for

Cynric’s hand to assure himself his imagination was not playing tricks.

Cynric, touched, became brusque. ‘Lie still, or those

incisions will start bleeding again.’

‘What incisions? Did Gregory Colet come?’

‘Master Colet has given up on the world, and spends

his days on his knees with the monks. It is young Samuel who has been looking after you.’

Bartholomew looked appalled, and winced as he

tried to move his arms to check where the swellings

on his neck would have been. “I feel as though I have

been savaged by a dog,’ he groaned. ‘What has he done

to me?’

‘He cut the swellings open to drain them. Just as

you have been doing to others, Master Physician. Now

you know how it feels,’ said Cynric, ruefully rubbing his own lacerated neck.

Bartholomew looked at the student. ‘Who are you?’

he asked, wondering why a fit and healthy young man

would opt to care for a plague victim he did not know.

‘Samuel Gray,’ said the student, promptly.

‘Yes, from Bene’t Hostel. But that is not what I

meant. What do you want from me?’

Gray looked at the floor. “I followed you to

Trumpington, and then back in the snow. When you

returned from seeing the miller’s boy, I came here while you went off to see to Cynric. I was waiting for you, but you were such a long time, I fell asleep.’ He looked up and met Bartholomew’s eyes. “I was Master Roper’s student, and he is dead, so I would like to study under you.’

His speech over, he tried to look nonchalant, as if

Bartholomew’s response was not that important to him