A Plague On Both Your Houses mb-1 Read online

  The evening dragged on, speeches were made, and the candles gradually dipped lower in their silver holders.

  The guests began to leave. First the Bishop made his exit, sweeping out of the hall in his fine robes, followed as ever by his discreet chain of silent, black-robed clerics.

  The Chancellor and the Sheriff left together, and Bartholomew wondered what they had been plotting All evening. Edith, Bartholomew's sister, earned a nasty look from Wilson when she kissed her brother on the cheek and whispered an invitation to dine with her and Sir Oswald the following day.

  The noise level in the hall rose as more wine was consumed, especially by the students and the commoners.

  Bartholomew began to grow drowsy, and wished Wilson would leave the feast so he could go to bed. It would be considered bad manners for a Fellow to leave the high table before the Master, and so Bartholomew waited, struggling to keep his eyes open and not to go face down in his food like Francis Eltham.

  He watched expectantly as Alexander, the College Butler, made his way to Wilson, hoping that some urgent College business might draw him from the hall, so that the Fellows might leave. Wilson spun round in his chair to gaze at Alexander in shock. He then looked at Bartholomew, and whispered in the Butler's ear. Alexander nodded, and moved towards the physician.

  'Begging your pardon, sir,' he began softly, 'but it is Master Augustus. I think he is dead.'

  2

  Bartholomew stared up at Alexander in disbelief. He half suspected a practical joke by Abigny, but realised that even Abigny's sometimes outrageous sense of humour would not allow him to stoop to such a prank.

  'What happened?' he asked hoarsely.

  Alexander shrugged, his face pale. "I went to take him and Brother Paul some wine, since Master Wilson thought they were too ill to attend the feast.'

  Bartholomew grimaced. Wilson did not want Augustus at the feast because he was afraid the old man's ramblings might embarrass him. I went to Brother Paul first, but he was already asleep. Then I went in to Augustus. He was lying on his bed, and I think he is dead.'

  Bartholomew rose, motioning for Brother Michael to go with him. If Augustus were dead, then Michael would anoint the body and say prayers for his soul, as he had for the two men outside the College gates.

  Although Michael was a monk and not a friar — and would therefore not usually have been authorised to perform priestly duties — he had been granted special dispensation by the Bishop of Ely to give last rites and hear confessions. This was because, unlike the Franciscan and Dominican friars, Benedictine monks were scarce in Cambridge, and the Bishop did not want his few monks confessing their sins to rival Orders.

  'What is going on?' panted Michael, as he hurried to keep up with Bartholomew. Michael was a man who loved his food, and, despite Bartholomew's advice to moderate himself for the sake of his health, he was grossly overweight. A sheen of sweat glistened on his face and soaked into his lank brown hair just from the exertion of leaving the hall so quickly.

  'Alexander says Augustus is dead,' Bartholomew replied tersely.

  Michael stopped abruptly, and gripped Bartholomew's arm. 'But he cannot be!'

  Bartholomew peered at Michael in the darkness of the courtyard. His face was so deathly white that it was almost luminous, and his eyes were round with horror.

  "I went to see him after I had finished with those town lads,' Michael went on.' He was rambling like he does, and I told him I would save him some wine from the feast.'

  Bartholomew steered Michael towards Augustus's room. "I saw him after you, on my way to the hall. He was sound asleep.'

  Together they climbed the narrow wooden stairs to Augustus's tiny chamber. Alexander was waiting outside the door holding a lamp that he passed to Bartholomew.

  Michael followed the physician over to the bed where Augustus lay, the lamp and the flames from the small fire in the hearth casting strange shadows on the walls.

  Bartholomew had expected Augustus to have slipped away in his sleep, and was shocked to see the old man's eyes open and his lips drawn back over long yellow teeth in a grimace that bespoke of abject terror. Death had not crept up and claimed Augustus unnoticed. Bartholomew heard Michael take a sharp breath and his robes rustled as he crossed-himself quickly.

  Bartholomew put the lamp on the window-sill and sat on the edge of the bed, putting his cheek to Augustus's mouth to see if he still breathed — although he knew that he would not. He gently touched one of the staring eyes with his forefinger to test for a reaction. There was none. Brother Michael was kneeling behind him intoning the prayers for the dead in his precise Latin, his eyes closed so he would not have to look at Augustus's face. Alexander had been sent to fetch oil with which to anoint the dead man.

  To Bartholomew it seemed as if Augustus had had some kind of seizure; perhaps he had frightened himself with some nightmare, or with some of his wild imaginings — as when he had tried to jump out of the window two nights before. Bartholomew felt sad that Augustus had died afraid: three generations of students had benefited from his patient teaching, and he had been kind to Bartholomew, too, when the younger man had first been appointed at Michaelhouse. When Sir John had arranged Bartholomew's fellowship, not all members of the College had been supportive. Yet Augustus, like Sir John, had seen in Bartholomew an opportunity to improve the strained relationship between the College and the town; Bartholomew had been given Sir John's blessing to work among the poor and not merely to pander to the minor complaints of the wealthy.

  The gravelly sound of Michael clearing his throat jerked Bartholomew back to the present. Sir John was dead, and so, now, was Augustus. Michael had finished his prayers, and was stepping forward to anoint Augustus's eyes, mouth and hands with a small bottle of chrism that Alexander had fetched. He did so quickly, concentrating on his words so that he would not have to see Augustus's expression of horror. Bartholomew had seen many such expressions before: his Arab master had once taken him to the scene of a battle in France, where they had scoured the field looking for the wounded among the dead and dying, and so Augustus's face did not hold the same horror for him as it did for Michael.

  While waiting for Michael, Bartholomew looked around the room. Since the commotion two nights before, Wilson had decreed that Augustus should not be allowed the fire he usually had during the night.

  Wilson said, with good reason, that it was not safe, and that he could not risk the lives of others by allowing a madman to be left alone with naked flames.

  Bartholomew suspected that Wilson was also considering the cost, because he had questioned Sir John on several occasions about the necessity of the commoners having a fire in July and August. Michaelhouse was built of stone, and Bartholomew knew that Augustus was not the only old man to complain of being cold, even in the height of summer. That a small fire burned merrily in the hearth suggested that one kind-hearted servant had chosen to ignore Wilson's orders and let Augustus have his comfort.

  'Matt, come away. We have done all we can here.'

  Bartholomew glanced up at Michael. His face was shiny with sweat, and had an almost greenish hue. The chrism in the small bottle he held shook as his hands trembled, and he was looking everywhere except at Bartholomew and Augustus.

  'What is the matter with you?' asked Bartholomew, perplexed. Michael had often accompanied Bartholomew to pray for patients beyond his medicine and had seen death many times. He had not been especially close to Augustus, and so his behaviour could not be explained by grief.

  Michael took a handful of Bartholomew's gown and pulled hard. Just come away. Leave him be, and come with me back to the hall.' Bartholomew resisted the tug, and the small bottle fell from Michael's hand and bounced onto the floor.

  'Pull yourself together, man,' Bartholomew said, exasperated, and leaned down to retrieve the bottle, which had rolled under the bed. He picked it up to hand back to Michael, and was startled to see the hem of the monk's robes disappearing through the door.

  Michael had,
quite literally, fled.

  Bartholomew looked to Alexander, who appeared as bewildered as Bartholomew felt. 'Go back to the feast,' he said, seeing the steward's unease. 'You will be needed there. I will see to Augustus.'

  Alexander left, shutting the door behind him, and Bartholomew heard his feet clattering down the stairs and the outside door slam shut. He chewed on his lower lip, bemused. What had been the matter with Michael?

  They had known each other since Bartholomew had been made a Fellow, and Bartholomew had never seen him in such a state before. Usually the obese monk was well in control of his emotions, and he rarely allowed himself to be so discomfited that he was unable to come up with a sardonic remark or cutting response.

  As Bartholomew put the bottle of chrism down on the window-sill, he noticed that the lid had come off and that his hand was greasy with the highly scented oil. He wiped it on a napkin that lay on a desk under the window, and dropped to his hands and knees with the lamp to look for the bottle-top. It had rolled to the far side of the bed, and Bartholomew had to lie flat to reach it. As he stood up, he noticed that his clothes were covered with small flecks of black. Puzzled, he peered closely at some of the bits that clung to his sleeve. They looked like flakes of burned parchment. He brushed them off; they must have come from the fire in the hearth. He was about to leave when the edge of the bedclothes caught his eye. On the light green blanket was a pale scorch mark about the size of his hand. Curious, he inspected the rest of the covering, and found a similar spot at the corner.

  Augustus's screams of two nights before came tearing into his mind. Augustus had claimed that devils had come to burn him alive! Bartholomew shook his head.

  He was being ridiculous. Agatha had probably burned the blanket while it was being laundered, although he would not wish to be the one to ask her. Nevertheless, he took the lamp, and, lying flat on his back, he inspected the wooden slats underneath the bed. He swallowed hard.

  The boards were singed, and one was even charred.

  Augustus had not been imagining things. There had been a fire under his bed.

  Still lying on his back, he thought about the events of two days before. It had been deep in the night, perhaps one or two o' clock, when Augustus had started to yell.

  Bartholomew had thrown on his gown and run to the commoners' dormitory, which was diagonally opposite his own room across the courtyard. By the time he had arrived, Alcote, Alexander, and Father William were already there with Wilson's book-bearer, Gilbert, and the commoners from the next room. Alcote and William said that they had been working together in William's rooms on material for a public debate they were to hold the next day, and since William's room was directly below that of Augustus, had been the first to arrive. Gilbert, always ferreting information and gossip for Wilson, had materialised from nowhere, and Alexander never seemed to sleep.

  Bartholomew screwed up his eyes. But one other person had also arrived before him. Brother Michael had been there. He had been dishevelled, as was Bartholomew, having been woken from his sleep, but Michael's room was above Bartholomew's, so he must have moved with uncharacteristic haste to have arrived first. Unless he had been there already. The thought came unbidden into Bartholomew's mind. Michael was dishevelled. Had he been involved in a tussle with Augustus and set a fire under the bed? Was Brother Michael the devil of Augustus's mind? But Augustus's door had been locked from the inside, and Michael had helped Bartholomew to break it down.

  It made no sense. Why would Michael wish Augustus harm? Michael was a monk: a rarity in the University, where friars and priests abounded, but Benedictine monks were uncommon. Bartholomew reached for the damaged wood and scratched it with his fingernail. It was quite deeply burnt, not merely singed, so whoever had started the fire had meant business. Bartholomew thought again. The room had been horribly smoky, enough to make his eyes smart, but the windows were open, and the draught was sucking the smoke back down the chimney where it was billowing into the room. He remembered asking Alexander to douse the fire to allow some fresh air to circulate. Any evidence of smoke from under the bed would have been masked by the fire in the hearth.

  He felt angry at himself. He had not believed for an instant that there could have been any degree of truth in Augustus's story. But what if his other ramblings held grains of truth? What of his statements today? What had he said? Something to the effect that evil was afoot and would corrupt them all, especially those who were unaware, and that Sir John had begun to guess and look what had happened to him.

  Bartholomew felt his blood run cold. Sir John' s sudden demise had taken everyone by surprise; he had certainly not seemed suicidal the night of his death as Bartholomew could attest. What if he had not committed suicide? What if there was truth in senile Augustus's mumblings, and Sir John had begun to guess something?

  But what? Michaelhouse had its petty rivalries and bids for power, as, no doubt, every other College and hostel in the University did. But Bartholomew found it hard to imagine that there could be anything so important as to warrant the taking of lives. And anyway, Michael and Bartholomew had seen Augustus alive before the feast, and none of the Fellows, commoners, or students had left the hall before Bartholomew had been summoned by Alexander.

  He slid out from under the bed for a second time and dusted himself off. He looked down at Augustus's sprawled corpse, at the horrified look on the face. Sitting on the bed, he began a rigorous inspection of the body.

  He sniffed at the mouth to check for any signs of poison; he ran his fingers through Augustus's wispy hair to see if he had been struck on the head; he lifted the bed-gown to look for any small puncture marks or bruises; and, finally, he examined the hands. There was nothing, not even a fibre trapped under the fingernails. There was not a mark on the body, and not the merest hint of blood. Aware that the chrism may have masked the smell of poison, Bartholomew prised the dead man's mouth open again, and, holding the lamp close, looked carefully for any redness or swelling on the tongue or gums. Nothing.

  He began to feel foolish. It had been a long day, and he was tired. Henry Oliver's attempt to leave him to the mercies of the town mob must have upset him more than he had thought, and it had not been pleasant to see the loathsome Wilson sit so smugly in Sir John's chair. I am as bad as old Augustus with his imaginings, Bartholomew thought irritably. The old commoner had most likely set the bed alight himself, not realising what he had done.

  Bartholomew straightened Augustus's limbs, pulled the bed-gown down over the ancient knees, and covered him decently with the blanket. He kicked and poked at the fire until he was sure it was out, fastened the window-shutters, and, taking the lamp, left the room.

  He would ask Father Aelfrith to keep vigil over the body.

  It was getting late, and the feast should almost have run its course by now.

  As he made his way down the stairs, he thought he saw a shadow flit across the doorway, and his heart almost missed a beat. But when he reached the courtyard, there was nothing to be seen.

  The feast seemed to have degenerated somewhat since he had left, and the floor and tables were strewn with thrown food and spilt wine. Abigny was standing on one of the students' tables reciting ribald poetry to a chorus of catcalls and cheers, while the two Franciscans looked on disapprovingly. Brother Michael had returned to his place, and gave Bartholomew a wan smile. Alcote and Swynford were deep in their cups, and Wilson, too, was flushed, although with wine or the heat of the room Bartholomew could not tell.

  'You have been a damned long time!' Wilson snapped at Bartholomew as he approached. 'What of old Augustus? How is he?'

  'Dead,' Bartholomew said bluntly, watching for any reaction on the smug face. There was nothing, not even a flicker of emotion.

  'Well, it is for the best. The man had lived his threescore years and ten. What kept you?'

  Bartholomew suddenly found himself being examined closely by Wilson's heavily-lidded eyes. He stared back, hoping that the dislike he felt for the man did not sh
ow in his face. "I had to make my examinations,' he responded.

  The lazy hooded eyes were deceptive, and Wilson pounced like a cat. 'What examinations?' he said sharply.

  'What are you saying? Michael returned ages ago. What were you doing?'

  'Nothing that need concern you, Master Wilson,' replied Bartholomew coldly. He resented being questioned so. For all Wilson knew, he might have been visiting a patient, and that was none of his business.

  'Everything in the College concerns me, Doctor Bartholomew. You may have had a loose rein under Babington, but you are under my authority now. I ask again: what examinations?'

  Bartholomew felt like emptying a nearby pitcher of wine over Wilson's head and walking out, but he had no wish to lose his fellowship over the likes of Wilson.

  He swallowed down several retorts of which the facetious Brother Michael would have been proud, and answered calmly, 'Augustus had not died in his sleep as I thought he might. His eyes were open and he looked terrified.

  It is my duty to make sure that the causes of death were natural.'

  '"Causes of death were natural",' Wilson mimicked with a sneer. 'And? What did you find?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Of course you found nothing,' spat Wilson. 'Augustus probably frightened himself to death with one of his flights of imagination. What did you expect?' He turned to Swynford and gave one of his superior 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.'