A Plague on Both Your Houses (7 page)

smiles, as if mocking the skills of medicine over his

own common sense.

‘There could be all manner of causes, Master Wilson,’

said Bartholomew, masking his anger with cold politeness. ‘What if he had died of the plague that is said to be sweeping towards us from the west? I am sure you

would want to be the first to know such things.’

Bartholomew had the satisfaction of seeing Wilson

blanch when he mentioned the plague. Good, he

thought, with uncharacteristic malice, now I know how

to get under the skin of this arrogant man.

Wilson recovered his composure quickly. “I hope you

are not so poor a doctor as to confuse plague with

old age,’ he said, putting his elbows on the table and placing together flabby hands shiny with grease from

his dinner.

Bartholomew smiled. ‘Let us hope not, for all our

sakes,’ he replied. ‘And now, sirs, I bid you good-night,’

and with a small bow took his leave of the new Master.

If Wilson really did doubt his skills, Bartholomew hoped he would spend some restless nights wondering whether

he was as safe as he might be from the plague that was rumoured to be devastating the West Country.

He paused to ask Aelfrith if he would keep vigil over

Augustus. The friar looked straight ahead of him while Bartholomew imparted his news, and then rose and left

the hall without a word.

Bartholomew walked back past Brother Michael and

heard the monk follow him out into the cool night air.

‘Are you well, Brother?’ Bartholomew asked, trying

to sound casual.

‘Now, yes. I do not know what happened to me in

there. Something about the old man’s face. I am sorry

I left in a rush, but I thought I was going to be sick,’

Michael had looked sick in the room. Perhaps he had

over-eaten at the feast. It would not be the first time the monk had made himself ill with his greed for food and

wine. “I think some of the students will be sick in the morning, by the look of them now,’ said Bartholomew,

with a smile. “I am willing to wager that none of them attend your lecture at six tomorrow morning.’

‘And neither will I,’ replied Michael. ‘Our fine new

Master has given all Michaelhouse scholars and masters tomorrow off. Is this the way he intends to continue the academic tradition of Michaelhouse?’

‘Michael!’ laughed Bartholomew. ‘You are too incautious by far. Watch what you say, for shadows may have

sharp hearing.’

Brother Michael’s fat face suddenly became serious.

‘More than we think, Matt. Heed your own words!’

With that, he hurried over to the stairs that led up

to his room, leaving Bartholomew standing in the

courtyard alone.

Bartholomew rose with the first grey light of dawn the next morning to find that a small core of students were still enjoying Wilson’s wine; he could hear them singing in the hall. Many had not been in their beds for more

than two or three hours, Abigny among them. The

philosopher lay sprawled on his back snoring loudly

as Bartholomew went to find some breakfast.

As he walked across the courtyard, Bartholomew

breathed in deeply. The air was cold and fresh, quite

different from how it would be later when the hot sun

would make the flies swarm over the putrid ditches that criss-crossed Cambridge.

He walked slowly along the cobbled footpath that

ran around the courtyard, savouring the early morning, and admiring, as he often did, the fine building

that was the centre of Michaelhouse. The north

wing, in which Bartholomew lived, was the newest

part, and was two storeys of dark yellow stone with

slender arched windows. Regularly spaced along the

front were three doorways leading to barrel-vaulted

porches. Each porch contained doors leading to the

two rooms on the lower floor, and a wooden staircase

leading to two more rooms on the upper floor. The

rooms were small, cramped, and in short supply, and

Bartholomew felt himself fortunate that he shared his

room with Abigny, and not three students, as did Father William.

The oldest part of Michaelhouse was the south wing,

where the commoners, William, Swynford, and Aelfrith

lived, and was, Bartholomew thought, the finest building.

It was also built around three staircases and contained twelve rooms of different sizes on two floors, but the original simple arched windows had been recently replaced

by larger, wider ones that filled the scholars’ rooms with light. Delicate traceries in stone had been carved at each window apex, each bearing the initials ‘HS’ in honour

of Michaelhouse’s founder, Hervey de Stanton, Edward

Its Chancellor of the Exchequer. Unlike the north wing, the staircases in the south wing were built of stone, with brightly painted vaulted ceilings.

Joining the two wings was what had once been the

house of a wealthy merchant, who had bequeathed it

to the newly founded College. It was dominated by its

handsome entrance, with the arms of Hervey de Stanton

picked out in blue and gold above. The lower floor

comprised a handsome reception room with a large

spiral staircase leading to the hall on the upper storey, and the service rooms and kitchens, shielded from guests by a carved oak screen. The upper floor displayed a long line of arched windows that allowed light into the hall, and the little conclave, or combination room, at the far end. The hall was built of a pale, honey-coloured stone that changed with the light; at sunset it glowed a deep rose pink, while at noon it often appeared almost white.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew caught a

flicker of light through the closed shutters on the upper floor of the south wing, and remembered Aelfrith and

his vigil. He retraced his steps, thinking he would offer to relieve the friar for a while. He opened the door at the base of the stairs quietly, for he did not wish to awaken anyone who might have only recently retired to

bed. Because the stairs were stone, Bartholomew found

it easy to walk soundlessly. The stairway was dark and he kept one hand on the wall to feel his way upwards.

Reaching Augustus’s little chamber, he opened the door, and stopped dead.

Aelfrith, his back to Bartholomew, was squatting

in the middle of the floor, vigorously scratching at the floorboards by the light of a single candle. Augustus’s body lay next to him in a tangle of bedclothes and strewn pieces of parchment. In the dim light, Bartholomew

could see that, here and there, parts of the plaster

covering the walls had been chipped away.

Bartholomew took a step backwards, but shock

made his movements clumsy, and he bumped into

the door. Aelfrith jumped to his feet, spinning round

to face him. Bartholomew was only aware of his dark

robes, and the light was too weak to allow him to make out any expression on the face, enveloped as it was in a deep hood.

‘Aelfrith!’ Bartholomew exclaimed in a horrified

whisper. ‘What are you doing?’

Aelfrith turned to point at something, and then,

before Bartholomew had time to react, dived forward,

slamming him backwards into the door. Bartholomew

felt all the breath rush out of him, and scrabbled at

the billowing robes ineffectually as Aelfrith grabbed a handful of his hair. Bartholomew, numb with disbelief, saw the silhouette of something sharp in Aelfrith’s free hand. The sight of it jolted him out of his shock, and he twisted out of Aelfrith’s grip so that the knife screeched harmlessly against the wall.

Bartholomew grasped the hand holding the knife,

and, for a few seconds, the struggle was at a stalemate.

Then Aelfrith, perhaps made strong by panic, gave

an almighty heave that sent Bartholomew sprawling

backwards down the stairs. For a few moments,

Bartholomew’s world spun in all directions, until a

sharp ache from a knee twisted in the fall brought

everything back into focus. He was dimly aware of

footsteps, although he had no idea from where they

came. He picked himself up slowly, wincing at the pain in his leg. His fall had wedged him against the door,

and so Aelfrith could not have left the building.

Cautiously, he hobbled up the stairs with as much

silence as he could manage. The door to Augustus’s room was still open, and the body still lay on the floor entangled in the blankets. Beyond, the door to the commoners’

room was also ajar. Bartholomew swallowed, and began

to inch forward. Aelfrith had to be in the commoners’

room: there was no way out of this part of the building other than the door against which Bartholomew had

fallen. He pushed the commoners’ door so that it lay

flat against the wall, and edged his way along it.

The commoners’ room was lighter than Augustus’s,

because all the shutters had been thrown open to keep the room cool through the summer night. The commoners

slept on pallets, simple mattresses of straw, that could be piled up on top of each other during the day to

make more room. Bartholomew could see that all the

commoners were there, and all asleep. He could see

enough of their faces or bodies to know that none

of them was Aelfrith, and there were no alcoves or

garderobes in which to hide. Aelfrith was not there.

He backed out, and went to Augustus’s room. He

was totally mystified. There was nowhere for Aelfrith to hide, and he could not have left the building without

passing Bartholomew on the stairs. Bartholomew leaned

against the wall. Now that the first danger appeared to be over, he was beginning to shake with the shock, and his knee ached viciously. Legs trembling, he sank down onto the bed.

His heart leapt into his mouth as Augustus gave a long, low groan. Bartholomew stared at the body in horror.

With a shaking hand, he reached out slowly, and grasped the bedcovers that had wrapped themselves around the

corpse, easing them off the face.

He recoiled in confusion as the unmistakable bristly

tonsure of Aelfrith emerged from under the tangle of

blankets. For a few seconds, Bartholomew sat stupefied, just staring at the inert form on the floor. If this was Aelfrith, who was the man who had attacked him? And

more to the point, where was Augustus? He crouched

down beside the man on the floor. Gently, he eased him onto his side, noting the deep gash on the side of his head.

Aelfrith’s eyes fluttered open, and Bartholomew helped him to a sitting position. For a few minutes, all Aelfrith did was to hold his head in his hands and moan. Bartholomew limped to the table, and soaked a napkin in water from the nightstand to press against the swelling. Eventually, Aelfrith squinted up at him.

‘What happened?’ he croaked.

Bartholomew stared at him, trying to make sense

out of the happenings of the last few minutes. ‘You tell me,’ he said finally, easing himself back down onto the bed. ‘Where is Augustus?’

Aelfrith turned his head sharply to look at the bed,

wincing at the quickness of the movement. He gazed

at the empty bed, and then peered underneath it. He

looked back at Bartholomew, his eyes wide with shock.

‘Where is Augustus?’ he repeated.

Bartholomew watched as Aelfrith hauled himself to

his feet and threw open the shutters. Both men looked

around the small room in the better light. It was a mess.

Augustus’s few possessions had been scattered, his spare clothes pulled from the shelf and hurled to the ground, and a small box on the table ransacked so that odd bits of parchment lay everywhere. Bartholomew recalled that

his attacker had been doing something in the middle of the floor, and leaned forward to see that the floorboards had been prised up in places. The sharp knife that had almost been the end of Bartholomew had evidently been

used to scratch loose plaster from the walls, for small piles of dust and rubble lay all around the room.

‘Tell me what happened,’ said Bartholomew.

Aelfrith shook his head, and sank down onto the

bed next to him. “I do not know. I was kneeling, facing the crucifix next to the window, when I heard a sound.

I thought it might be Brother Paul; he has taken a turn for the worse recently, so I went to make sure he was

sleeping. He was curled up under his blanket fast asleep, so I came back here. I knelt down again, and that is all I can remember. The next thing I knew was that you were

helping me up from the floor, and that Augustus was

gone.’ He turned suddenly, and gripped Bartholomew’s

arm. ‘Matthew, are you sure that Augustus was …’ he faltered.

Bartholomew nodded, remembering the extensive

examination he had made. Not only was Augustus dead,

but rigor mortis had begun to set in, and no drugs or

poisons, however sophisticated, could mimic that.

‘But who would do this?’ Aelfrith blurted out. ‘What

could anyone want to gain from poor old Augustus? And

where is the man who attacked me?’

Bartholomew leaned back against the wall and

closed his eyes. He thought about Augustus’s previous

claims and the burnt bed; about the unexpected death

of Sir John; about Brother Michael’s strange behaviour; and about the other Fellows’ reactions - Wilson’s lack of emotion when told that Augustus was dead, Swynford’s

dismissal of Augustus as a senile old man, and even

Aelfrith’s expressionless acceptance.

He began to feel sick in the pit of his stomach. All

his suspicions of the night before came clamouring back to him. There were too many questions, and too many