Read A Plague on Both Your Houses Online
Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General
anyway, but in the silence that followed, his face grew anxious and he watched Bartholomew intently.
“I see.’ Bartholomew was suddenly very tired, and
could not stop his eyes from closing. Then he was
shaken awake again. ‘Will you have me?’ the student
asked insistently.
Bartholomew struggled to free himself from Gray’s
grip, but was as weak as a kitten. ‘Why me? What have
I done to deserve this?’ he said, his voice heavy with sleepiness.
Gray looked at him narrowly, trying to assess whether
there was a hidden insult in the question. ‘There are not many of you left,’ he said rudely.
Bartholomew heard Cynric laughing. He could feel
himself drifting into a deep and restful slumber. Gray’s voice brought him awake again.
‘Will you have me? I have a good degree, you
can ask Hugh Stapleton. Oh …’ his voice trailed off.
Stapleton was dead. ‘Master Abigny!’ he exclaimed
jubilantly. ‘You can ask him, he knows me!’ He gave
Bartholomew another gentle shake.
Bartholomew reached up and grabbed a handful of
Gray’s tunic, pulling him down towards the bed. ‘You will never be a good physician unless you can learn when to let your patients rest,’ he whispered, ‘and you will never be a good student unless you learn not to manhandle
your master.’
Releasing Gray’s clothing, he closed his eyes and
was instantly asleep. Gray looked at Cynric. ‘Was that a yes or a no?’ he asked.
Cynric, still smiling, shrugged and left the room,
closing the door softly behind him. Gray stood looking down at Bartholomew for several minutes before tidying the bedclothes and blowing out the candle. He lay down on the pallet bed Cynric had given him and stared into the darkness. He knew that Bartholomew would live now, so
long as he rested and regained his strength.
Bartholomew coughed in his sleep, and Gray raised
himself on one elbow to peer over at him. He believed he had taken no risk in tending Bartholomew, for he was
one of the plague’s first victims in Cambridge and had survived. He did not think he would catch the disease
a second time, and had been making a good deal of
money by offering to tend plague victims in the houses of rich merchants. But that was nothing compared to what
he may have earned by nursing Bartholomew. He had
heard about Bartholomew’s methods and ideas, and had
longed to study with him when he was an undergraduate, but the physician already had as many students as he
could manage.
Gray knew exactly what he wanted from life. He
intended to become an excellent physician and have a
large number of very wealthy patients. Perhaps he might even become the private physician of some nobleman.
Regardless, he intended to find himself a position that would bring him wealth and enough free time to be able to enjoy it. He knew Bartholomew worked among the
poor, but to Gray that meant he would gain far more
experience of diseases than from a physician who tended the rich. He would be happy to work among the poor
during his medical training, but then he would be off
to make his fortune in York or Bristol, or perhaps even London.
Gray smiled to himself and lay back down, his arms
behind his head. He and Cynric had been caring for
Bartholomew continuously for five days and nights, and several times had thought their labours were in vain.
Brother Michael had actually given Bartholomew last
rites before the fever suddenly broke.
Once Bartholomew had slept almost twenty-four hours
without waking, his recovery was rapid. He was out of his bed and taking his first unsteady steps around the College yard within a day, and felt ready to begin his work again within three days. Michael, Cynric, and Gray urged him to rest more, but Bartholomew insisted that tossing restlessly on his bed was more tiring than working. Bartholomew decided that all plague victims in the College should be in one room so that they could have constant attention.
He set about converting the commoners’ dormitory into
a hospital ward, relocating the few surviving commoners elsewhere. Brother Michael’s Benedictine room-mates
willingly offered their services, and Bartholomew hoped that this arrangement might reduce the risks to others.
As soon as he could, Bartholomew went to see
Gregory Colet. As he walked through the wet streets to Rudde’s Hostel, he was shocked at the piles of rubbish and dead animals that littered them. There were three
bodies, crudely wrapped in filthy rags, at the doors of St Michael’s Church that Bartholomew judged to have
been there for several days. Around them, several rats lay dead and dying, some half-buried in mud and refuse.
Brother Michael walked beside him, his cowl
pulled over his head in an attempt to mask the
stench.
‘What has happened here, Michael?’ said Bartholomew
in disbelief. He watched a ragged band of
children playing on a huge pile of kitchen waste outside Garret Hostel, occasionally stopping to eat some morsel that they considered edible. On the opposite side of the street, two large pigs rooted happily among a similar pile of rubbish. He shook his head in despair at the filth and disorder.
Michael shrugged. ‘There is no one left to do
anything. Now that Colet has given up, you and Robin
of Grantchester are the only medics here. All the others are dead or gone.’
‘What about the priests? Can they not see that the
streets need to be cleared and the bodies removed?’
Michael laughed without humour. ‘We are in the
business of saving souls,’ he said, ‘notbodies. And anyway, so many clerics have died that there are barely enough to give last rites. Did you know that there are only three Dominicans left here?’
Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. The large
community of Dominicans had continued to work
among the poor after the outbreak of the plague, and
it seemed that their adherence to their way of life may have brought about their virtual demise.
Gregory Colet was not in his room at Rudde’s,
and the porter told them that he would be in one of
the churches, usually St Botolph’s. Bartholomew had
always admired St Botolph’s, with its slate-grey stone and windows faced with cream ashlar, but as Michael
pushed open the great oak door and led the way inside
it felt damp and cold. The stained glass that he had
coveted for St Michael’s Church no longer seemed to
imbue it with soft colour, but served to make it dismal.
The feeling of gloom was further enhanced by the sound of muted chanting. Candles were lit in the sanctuary and half a dozen monks and friars from various Orders knelt in a row at the altar. Colet sat to one side, his back against a pillar and his eyes fixed on the twinkling candles. One of the monks saw Bartholomew and Michael and came
down the aisle to meet them.
Michael introduced him to Bartholomew as Brother
Dunstan of Ely. Dunstan expressed pleasure to see
Bartholomew well again.
‘God knows we need you now,’ he said, his eyes
straying to Colet.
‘What is wrong with him?’ Bartholomew asked.
Dunstan tapped his temple. ‘His mind has gone.
He heard that Roper had died and that you had the
sickness, and he gave up. He sits here, or in one of the other churches, all day and only goes home to sleep. I think he may be willing himself to die.’
Michael crossed himself quickly while Bartholomew
looked at Dunstan in horror.
‘No! Not when there are so many others that are
being taken who want to live!’
Dunstan sighed. ‘It is only what I think. Now I must
go. We have so many masses to say for the dead, so much to do …’
Michael followed Dunstan to the altar rail, leaving
Bartholomew looking at Colet, still gazing at the candles with vacant eyes. Bartholomew knelt down and touched
Colet on the shoulder. Reluctantly Colet tore his eyes from the candles to his friend. He gave the faintest
glimmer of a smile.
‘Matt! You have escaped the Death!’
He began to look back towards the candles again,
and Bartholomew gripped his shoulder.
‘What is wrong, Gregory? I need your help.’
Colet shook his head. ‘It is too late. You and I
can do no more.’ He became agitated. ‘Give it up,
Matthew, and go to the country. Cambridge will be a
dead town soon.’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘It is far from
over. People have recovered and others have escaped
infection. You cannot give up on them. They need you
and so do I!’
Colet shook Bartholomew’s hand away, his agitation
quickly disappearing into a lethargic gloom. “I can do no more,’ he said, his voice barely audible.
‘You must!’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘The streets are
filthy, and the bodies of the dead have not been collected in days. I cannot do it all alone, Gregory. Please!’
Colet’s dull eyes looked blankly at Bartholomew
before he turned away to look at the candles. ‘Give it up,’ he whispered. ‘It is over.’
Bartholomew sat for a moment, overwhelmed by
the task he now faced alone. Robin of Grantchester
might help, but he would do nothing without being
paid and Bartholomew had very little money to give
him. He glanced up and saw Michael and Dunstan
watching him.
‘You can do nothing here,’ said Dunstan softly,
looking at Colet with pity. ‘It is best you leave him be.’
Depressed at Colet’s state of mind, Bartholomew ate a
dreary meal in Michaelhouse’s chilly hall, and then went to visit the building where Stanmore had his business.
Stephen greeted Bartholomew warmly, looking so like
his older brother that Bartholomew almost mistook him.
Bartholomew was urged inside and made to sit near a
roaring fire while Stephen’s wife prepared some spiced wine. Stephen reassured him that everyone was well at
Trumpington, but there was a reservation in his voice
that made Bartholomew uneasy.
‘Are you sure everyone is well?’ he persisted.
‘Yes, yes, Matthew. Do not worry,’ he said, swirling
the wine in his cup, and assiduously refusing to look
Bartholomew in the eye.
Bartholomew leaned over and gripped his wrist.
‘Has anyone there had the plague? Did it come with
Philippa?’
Stephen sighed. ‘They told me not to tell you,
because they did not want you to go rushing over
there before you were well enough. Yes. The plague
struck after you brought Philippa. She became ill before you were scarcely gone from the house. Then Edith was
stricken, and three of the servants. The servants died, but Philippa and Edith recovered,’ he said quickly as
Bartholomew leapt to his feet. ‘Sit down again and listen.
They were not ill as long as you. They got those revolting swellings like everyone else, but they also got black spots over their bodies.’
He paused, and Bartholomew felt his heart sink.
‘They are well now,’ Stephen said again, ‘but …’ His voice trailed off.
‘But what?’ said Bartholomew. His voice was calm
and steady, but he had to push his hands into the folds of his robe so that Stephen would not see them shaking.
‘The spots on Edith healed well enough, but Mistress
Philippa has scars.’
Bartholomew leaned back in his chair. Was that it?
He looked perplexed, and Stephen tried to explain.
‘There are scars on her face. She will not let anyone
see them, and she refuses to speak to anyone. She wears a veil all the time, and they have to leave her food outside the door … where are you going?’
Bartholomew was already at the door, drawing his
hood over his head. ‘Can I borrow a horse?’ he said.
Stephen grabbed his arm. ‘This is difficult for me
to say, Matt, but she specifically asked that you not be allowed to see her. She does not want to see anyone.’
Bartholomew shook him off. “I am a physician.
There may be something I can do.’
Stephen grabbed him again. ‘She does not want you to go, Matt. She left a note saying that you were not to come. No one has seen her for the past week.
Leave her. In time she will come round.’
‘Can I borrow a horse?’ Bartholomew asked again.
‘No,’ said Stephen, maintaining his grip.
‘Then I will walk,’ said Bartholomew, pushing him
away and striding out into the yard. Stephen sighed,
and shouted for an apprentice to saddle up his mare.
Bartholomew waited in silence, while Stephen chattered nervously. ‘Richard is back,’ he said. Bartholomew
relented a little, and smiled at Stephen.
‘Thank God,’ he said softly. ‘Edith must be so
happy.’
‘As a monk in a brothel!’ said Stephen grinning.
The apprentice walked the horse over and Bartholomew
swung himself up into the saddle. Stephen darted into
his house and returned with a long blue cloak. ‘Wear
this, or you will freeze.’
Bartholomew accepted it gratefully. He leaned down
to touch Stephen lightly on the shoulder, and was gone, kicking the horse into a canter that was far from safe on the narrow streets.
Once out of the town, he had to slow down out
of consideration for Stephen’s horse. The road to
Trumpington had been well travelled, and the snow
had been churned into a deep slush. The weather was
warmer than it had been before Christmas, and the
frozen mud had thawed into a mass of cold, oozing
sludge. The horse slipped and skidded, and had to be
urged forward constantly. Bartholomew was beginning