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  A Plague On Both Your Houses

  ( Matthew Bartolomew - 1 )

  Susanna Gregory

  Susanna Gregory

  A Plague On Both Your Houses

  Prologue

  Cambridge, 1348

  The scholar waited in the black shadows of the churchyard trees for the Sheriffs night patrol to pass by, trying to control his breathing. Two of the men stopped so close that he could have reached out and touched them. They stood for several minutes, leaning against the wall surrounding the churchyard, looking up and down the deserted road. The scholar held his breath until he thought he would choke. He could not be discovered now: there was so much to lose.

  Eventually, the Sheriffs men left, and the scholar took several unsteady breaths, forcing himself to remain in the safety of the shadows until he was certain that they had gone. He jumped violently as a large cat stalked past his hiding place, glancing at him briefly with alert yellow eyes. He watched it sit for a moment in the middle of the road, before it disappeared up a dark alleyway.

  The scholar gripped the voluminous folds of his cloak, so that he would not stumble on them, and slipped out of the trees into the road. The moon was almost full, and shed an eerie white light along the main street. He peered carefully both ways, and, satisfied that there was no one to see him, he made his way stealthily down the street towards his home.

  The main gates of the College were locked, but the scholar had ensured that the little-used back door was left open. He turned from the High Street into St Michael's Lane. He was almost there.

  He froze in horror as he saw someone was already in the lane: another scholar, also disobeying College rules by being out at night, was walking towards him.

  Heart thumping, he ducked into a patch of tall nettles and weeds at the side of the road, in the hope that his stillness and dark cloak would keep him hidden. He heard the footsteps come closer and closer. Blood pounded in his ears, and he found he was trembling uncontrollably. The footsteps were almost level with him. Now he would be uncovered and dragged from his hiding place!

  He almost cried in relief as the footfall passed him by, and faded as his colleague turned the corner into the High Street. He stood shakily, oblivious to the stinging of the nettles on his bare hands, and ran to the back gate. Once inside, he barred it with unsteady hands, and made his way to the kitchens. Faint with relief, he sank down next to the embers of the cooking fire and waited until his trembling had ceased. As he prepared to return to his room to sleep away what little remained of the night, he wondered how many more such trips he might make before he was seen.

  Several hours later, the Bishop's Miller dragged himself from his bed, tugged on his boots, and set off to his work. The sky was beginning to turn from dark blue to silver in the east, and the miller shivered in the crispness of the early morning. He unlocked the door to the building and then went to feed the fat pony that he kept to carry flour to the town.

  A short distance away, he could hear the rhythmic whine and swish of the water-wheel, powered by a fast-running channel diverted from the river. The miller had grown so familiar with its sound that he never noticed it unless there was something wrong.

  And there was something wrong this morning. There was an additional thump in the rhythm.

  The miller sighed irritably. Only the previous week he had been forced to ask the help of his neighbours to free the branch of a tree that had entangled itself in the wheel, and he was loathe to impose on their good graces again so soon. He tossed some oats to the pony, and, wiping his hands on his tunic, he went to investigate.

  As he drew nearer, he frowned in puzzlement. It did not sound like a branch had been caught, but something soggier and less rigid. He rounded the corner and approached the great wheel, creaking and pounding as the water roared past it.

  He felt his knees turn to jelly as he saw the wheel and what was caught in it, and sank onto the grass, unable to tear his eyes away. The body of a man was impaled there, black robes flapping wetly around him as the wheel dragged him under the water again and again.

  As the wheel lifted the body, one arm flopped loose in a ghostly parody of a wave, which continued until the body dived, feet first, back into the water for another cycle. The horrified miller watched the body salute him three times before he was able to scramble to his feet and race towards the town screaming for help.

  1

  The dull thud of horses' hooves and the gentle patter of rain on the wooden coffin were the only sounds to disturb the silence of the dawn.

  Black-gowned scholars walked slowly in single file along the High Street, following the funeral cart past the town gate to the fields beyond, where the body of their Master, Sir John Babington, would be laid in its final resting place.

  Somewhere behind him, Matthew Bartholomew heard one of the students stifle a giggle. He turned round and scowled in the general direction of the offending noise.

  Nerves, doubtless, he thought, for it was not every day that the College buried a Master who had taken his own life in such a bizarre manner.

  The small procession was allowed through the gate by sleepy night-watchmen who came to the door of their guardroom to look. One of them furtively nudged the other and both smirked. Bartholomew took a step towards them, but felt Brother Michael's restraining hand on his shoulder. Michael was right; it would be wrong to turn Sir John's funeral into a brawl. Bartholomew brought his anger under control. Sir John had been one of the few men in the University who had been liked by the townspeople, but they had been quick to turn against him once the manner of his death became known. Had Sir John died a natural death, he would have been buried in the small churchyard of St Michael's, and been given a glorious funeral. Instead, church law decreed that, as a suicide, he should be buried in unconsecrated ground, and be denied any religious ceremony. So, in the first grey light of day, Sir John was escorted out of the city by the scholars of Michaelhouse, to be laid to rest in the waterlogged fields behind the church of St Peter-without-Trumpington Gate.

  The horse pulling the cart bearing the coffin stumbled in the mud, causing the cart to lurch precariously. Bartholomew sprang forward to steady it, and was surprised to see Thomas Wilson, the man most likely to be Sir John's successor, do the same. The eyes of the two men met for an instant, and Wilson favoured Bartholomew with one of his small pious smiles. Bartholomew looked away. No love had been lost between the smug, self-satisfied Wilson and Sir John, and it galled Bartholomew to watch Wilson supervise Sir John's meagre funeral arrangements. He took a deep breath, and tried not to think how much he would miss Sir John's gentle humour and sensible rule.

  Wilson gave an imperious wave of a flabby white hand, and Bartholomew's book-bearer, Cynric ap Huwydd, hurried forward to help the ostler lead the horse off the road and across the rough land to the grave site.

  The cart swayed and tipped, and the coffin bounced, landing with a hollow thump. Wilson seized Cynric's shoulder angrily, berating him for being careless in a loud, penetrating whisper.

  Bartholomew had had enough. Motioning to the other Fellows, he edged Sir John's coffin from the cart, and together they lifted it onto their shoulders. They began the long walk across the fields to where the grave had been dug in a ring of sturdy oak trees. Bartholomew had chosen the spot because he knew Sir John had liked to read in the shade of the trees in the summer, but he began to doubt his choice as the heavy wood cut into his shoulder and his arms began to ache. After a few minutes, he felt himself being nudged aside, and smiled gratefully as the students came forward to take their turn.

  Wilson walked ahead, and stood waiting at the graveside, head bowed and hands folded in his sleeves like a monk. The
students lowered their burden to the ground and looked at Bartholomew expectantly.

  He arranged some ropes, and the coffin was lowered into the ground. He nodded to Cynric and the other book-bearers to start to fill in the grave, and, taking a last look, he turned to go home.

  'Friends and colleagues,' began Wilson in his rich, self-important voice, 'we are gathered together to witness the burial of our esteemed Master, Sir John Babington.'

  Bartholomew froze in his tracks. The Fellows had agreed the night before that no words would be spoken: it was felt that there were none needed — for what could be said about Sir John's extraordinary suicide? It had been decided that the Fellows and the students should escort Sir John to his resting place in silence, and return to the College still in silence, as a mark of respect. Sir John had done much to bring a relative peace to his College in a city where the scholars waged a constant war with each other and with the townsfolk. A few of his policies had made him unpopular with some University authorities, especially those who regarded learning to be the domain of the rich.

  'Sir John,' Wilson intoned, 'was much loved by us all.' At this, Bartholomew gazed at Wilson in disbelief.

  Wilson had led the opposition to almost anything Sir John had tried to do, and on more than one occasion had left the hall at dinner red-faced with impotent fury because Sir John had easily defeated his arguments with his quiet logic.

  ' He will be sorely missed,' continued Wilson, looking down mournfully as Cynric shovelled earth.

  'Not by you!' muttered Giles Abigny, the College's youthful teacher of philosophy, so that only Bartholomew could hear him. 'Not when you stand to gain so much.'

  'May the Lord look upon his soul with mercy,'

  Wilson continued, 'and forgive him for his iniquitous ways.'

  Bartholomew felt the anger boil inside him. He thrust his clenched fists under his scholar's tabard so that they should not betray his fury to the students, and looked to see the reaction of the other Fellows. Abigny was positively glowering at Wilson, while Brother Michael watched with a sardonic smile. The other theologians, FatherWilliam and Father Aelfrith, were more difficult to read. Bartholomew knew that Aelfrith did not like Wilson, but was too politic to allow it to show. William, who had backed Wilson on many occasions against Sir John, now stood listening impassively. The last two Fellows, Roger Alcote and Robert Swynford, who taught the subjects of the Quadrivium, nodded at Wilson's words.

  The book-bearers had almost finished filling in the grave. A miserable drizzle-laden wind swished through the trees, and somewhere a lone blackbird was singing.

  Wilson's voice droned on with its platitudes for a man he had neither liked nor respected, and Bartholomew abruptly turned on his heel and strode away. He heard Wilson falter for an instant, but then continue louder than before so that the wind carried his words to Bartholomew as he walked away.

  'May the Lord look kindly on the College, and guide her in all things.'

  Bartholomew allowed himself a disgusted snort.

  Presumably, Wilson's idea of the Lord guiding the College was to make him, Wilson, the next Master.

  He heard footsteps hurrying behind him, and was not surprised that Giles Abigny had followed his lead and left the group.

  'We will be in trouble, Matt,' he said with a sidelong grin at Bartholomew. 'Walking out on Master Wilson's carefully prepared speech.'

  'Not Master yet,' said Bartholomew, 'although I imagine that will come within the week.'

  They arrived back at the road and paused to scrape some of the clinging mud from their boots. It started to rain hard and Bartholomew felt water trickling down his back. He looked back across the field, and saw Wilson leading the procession back to the College. Abigny took his arm.

  "I am cold and wet. Shall we see if Hugh Stapleton will give us breakfast at Bene't Hostel? What I need now is a roaring fire and some strong wine.' He leaned a little closer. 'Our lives at Michaelhouse will soon change beyond anything we can imagine — if we have a livelihood there at all. Let us make the best of our freedom while we still have it.'

  He tugged at Bartholomew's sleeve, urging him back along the High Street towards Bene't Hostel.

  Bartholomew thought for a moment before following.

  Behind them, Wilson's procession filed through the town gate as he led the way back to Michaelhouse.

  Wilson's lips pursed as he saw Bartholomew and Abigny disappear through the hostel door; he was not a man to forget insults to his pride.

  As Bartholomew had predicted, Wilson was installed as the new Master of Michaelhouse within a week of Sir John's funeral. The students, commoners, and servants watched as the eight Fellows filed into the hall to begin the process of electing a new Master.

  The College statutes ordered that a new Master should be chosen by the Chancellor from two candidates selected by the Fellows. Bartholomew sat at the long table, picking idly at a splinter of wood while his colleagues argued. Wilson had support from Alcote, Swynford and Father William. Bartholomew, Brother Michael and Abigny wanted Father Aelfrith to be the other candidate, but Bartholomew knew which of the two the Chancellor would select, and was reluctant to become too embroiled in a debate he could not win.

  Eventually, seeing that it would divide the College in a way that neither Wilson nor Aelfrith could heal, Aelfrith declined to allow his name to go forward. Alcote offered to take his place, a solution that met with little enthusiasm from either side.

  The Chancellor selected Wilson, who immediately began in the way he intended to continue, by having three students' sent down' for playing dice on a Sunday, sacking the brewer for drinking, and declaring that everyone

  Fellows, commoners and students — should wear only black on Sundays. Bartholomew had to lend several of his poorer students the money to purchase black leggings or tunics, since they only possessed garments made of cheap brown homespun wool, which were harder-wearing and more practical than the more elegant black.

  The day of Wilson's installation dawned clear and blue, although judging from the clatter and raised voices from the kitchen, most of the servants had been up with their duties all night. Bartholomew rose as the sky began to lighten, and donned the ceremonial red gown that marked him as a Doctor of the University.

  He sat on the bed again and looked morosely through the window across the yard. Term had not yet begun, so there were only fifteen students in residence, but they made up for the deficit with excited shouting and a good deal of running. Through the delicate arched windows opposite, he could see Fathers William and Aelfrith trying to quieten them down. Reluctantly, Bartholomew walked across the dry packed earth of the yard for breakfast in the hall, a rushed affair that was clearly an inconvenience for the harried servants.

  The installation itself was grand and sumptuous.

  Dressed in a splendid gown of deep purple velvet with fur trimmings, and wearing his black tabard over the top, Wilson processed triumphantly through Cambridge, scattering pennies to the townsfolk. A few grubby urchins followed the procession, jeering insults, and several of the citizens spat in disdain. Wilson ignored them all, and throughout the long Latin ceremony at Michaelhouse in which he made his vows to uphold the College statutes and rules, he could scarcely keep the smug satisfaction from his face.

  Many influential people were present from the University and the town. The Bishop of Ely watched the proceedings with abored detachment, while the Chancellor and the Sheriff exchanged occasional whispers. Some of the town' s officials and merchants had been invited too.

  They stood together, displaying a magnificent collection of brilliant colours and expensive cloth. Bartholomew saw Thomas Exton, the town's leading physician, dressed in a gown of heavy blue silk, surrounded by his enormous brood of children. Near him was Bartholomew's brother-in-law, Sir Oswald Stanmore, who owned estates to the south of Cambridge, and had made a fortune in the wool trade. He was flanked by his younger brother, Stephen, and Bartholomew's sister Edith.

  Gile
s Abigny had refused to attend, announcing that he had a disputation to organise with Hugh Stapleton, the Principal of Bene't Hostel. Brother Michael made his disapproval of Wilson known by muttering loudly throughout the proceedings, and by coughing, apparently uncontrollably, in those parts that should have been silent. Bartholomew did what was expected of him, but without enthusiasm, his thoughts constantly straying back to Sir John.

  Bartholomew looked at Wilson in his finery seated in the huge wooden chair at the head of the high table in Michaelhouse's hall, and suddenly felt a surge of anger against Sir John. He had done so much to bring long-standing disputes between the University and the town to a halt, and, as a brilliant lawyer and stimulating teacher, had attracted many of the best students to the College. His lifelong ambition had been to write a book explaining the complexities of English law for students, a book that still lay unfinished in his rooms.

  Everything had been going so well for Sir John and for the College under his care, so why had he killed himself?

  Bartholomew, Father Aelfrith, and Robert Swynford had dined with Sir John the night before his death, and he had been in fine spirits then, full of enthusiasm for starting a new section of his book, and looking forward to a sermon he had been invited to give at the University Church. Bartholomew and the others had left Sir John around eight o'clock. Cynric had seen Sir John leave the College a short time later, the last to see him alive. The following morning, Sir John's body had been found in the water-wheel.

  As a practising physician and the College's Master of Medicine, Bartholomew had been summoned to the river bank, where the white-faced miller stood as far away as he could from the corpse. Bartholomew shuddered as he thought about Sir John's body that morning. He tried to concentrate on Father William's rapid Latin in the ceremony that would install Thomas Wilson as the new Master of Michaelhouse.