A Plague on Both Your Houses (5 page)

but especially a commoner. The commoners’ room and

Augustus’s chamber were dark, but Bartholomew could

make out Augustus lying on the bed, and could hear

his slow, rhythmic breathing. In the main dormitory,

Brother Paul, another commoner too frail to attend

the feast, coughed wetly and muttered in his sleep.

Satisfied, Bartholomew made his way to the hall,

and tried to slip as unobtrusively as possible into his seat at the high table at the raised end of the hall. Wilson leaned forward and shot him an unpleasant look. Next

to Bartholomew, Giles Abigny had already had far too

much to drink, and was regaling Brother Michael with

a story of his experiences with a prostitute in London.

For a monk, Michael was showing an unseemly interest.

On Bartholomew’s other side, the two Franciscan friars, Aelfridi and William, were already deep in some debate about the nature of original sin, while Wilson, Alcote and Swynford huddled together plotting God knew what.

Bartholomew ate some of the spiced venison slowly,

realising that he had grown so used to plain College fare, that the strongly flavoured meats and piquant sauces were too rich for him. He wondered how many scholars would

over-indulge and make themselves sick. The ever-growing pile of gnawed bones and the grease-splattered table near Michael indicated that he had no such reservations.

A roar of laughter from the students jolted him

from his thoughts. Members of the College usually spoke Latin, or occasionally court French, at the few meals

where speaking was permitted, and the conversation

was generally learned. But tonight, as a gesture of

courtesy to his secular guests, Wilson had decreed that the conversation might be in any language. Bartholomew glanced around the hall, noting the brightly coloured

tapestries, begged and borrowed from other Colleges

for the occasion, that adorned the walls. The walls were normally bare so as not to distract scholars from their studies, and the benches, now draped with rich cloths, were plain wood. The guests from the town added

splashes of colour among the students’ black gowns.

Servants scurried here and there bearing large jugs of wine and platters of food that left trails of spilled grease.

In the gallery normally occupied by the Bible scholar, a small group of musicians fought to make their singing

heard over the hubbub.

Down the table, Brother Michael chortled with

unmonklike delight as he listened with rapt attention

to Abigny. Fortunately for him, his imprudent laughter was screened from the austere Franciscan Fellows by

another roar of laughter from the students.

The Oliver brothers were the centre of attention,

a group of younger students gathering round them

admiringly. Bartholomew heard Elias telling them how

he had been the last one through the gates to make sure that all the others were safe inside. At that moment,

Henry looked up towards the high table, and stared at

Bartholomew, his blue eyes blazing with hatred. They

held each other’s gaze for a moment, before Henry,

with a sneer, looked away.

Bartholomew was puzzled. He had had very little

to do with the Oliver brothers - they were not his

students, and he had never had to deal with them for

any disciplinary breaches. He found it hard to believe that all the hatred that Henry had put into that look

came from the incident outside the church. The mob

had been in an ugly mood, and he had averted what

might very easily have turned into a bloodbath. So what had he done to earn such emotions?

He tried to put it out of his mind. He was tired,

and was probably reading far too much into Henry

Oliver’s looks. He sipped at the fine wine from France that Wilson had provided to toast his future success as Master, and leaned his elbows on the table. Abigny, his story completed, slapped Bartholomew on the back.

“I heard you have secreted a woman in the

College

Abigny’s voice was loud, and several students looked

at him speculatively. Brother Michael’s eyebrows shot

up, his baggy green eyes glittering with amusement.

The Franciscans paused in their debate and looked at

Bartholomew disapprovingly.

‘Hush!’ Bartholomew chided Abigny. ‘She is in the

care of Agatha, and not secreted anywhere.’

Abigny laughed, and draped his arm round Bartholomew’s shoulders. Bartholomew pulled away as

wine fumes wafted into his face. “I wish I were a

physician and not a philosopher. What better excuse

to be in a woman’s boudoir than to be leeching her

blood.’

“I do not leech the blood of my patients,’ said

Bartholomew irritably. They had been down this path

before. Abigny loved to tease Bartholomew about his

unorthodox methods. Bartholomew had learned medicine

at the University in Paris from an Arab teacher who

had taught him that bleeding was for charlatans too lazy to discover a cure.

Abigny laughed again, his cheeks flushed pink with

wine, but then leaned closer to Bartholomew. ‘But you

and I may not be long for our free and easy lives if

our new Master has anything to say. He will have us

taking major orders as he and his two sycophants over

there plan to do.’

‘Have a care, Giles,’ said Bartholomew nervously.

He was acutely aware that the students’ conversation

at the nearest table had stopped, and Bartholomew

knew that some of the scholars were not above telling

tales to senior College members in return for a lenient disputation, or spoken exam.

‘What will it be for you, Matt?’ Abigny continued,

ignoring his friend’s appeal for discretion. ‘Will you become an Austin Canon and go to work in St John’s

Hospital? Or would you rather become a rich, fat

Benedictine, like Brother Michael here?’

Michael pursed his lips, but humour showed in his

eyes. Like Bartholomew, being the butt of Abigny’s jokes was nothing new to him.

Abigny blundered on. ‘But, my dear friend, I would

not want you to take orders with the Carmelites, like

good Master Wilson. I would kill you before I would let that happen. I …’

‘Enough, Giles!’ Bartholomew said sharply. ‘If you

cannot keep your council, you should not drink so much.

Pull yourself together.’

Abigny laughed at his friend’s admonition, took

a deep draught from his goblet, but said no more.

Bartholomew sometimes wondered about the philosopher’s behaviour. He was fair and fresh-faced, like

a young country bumpkin. But his boyish looks belied

a razor-like mind, and Bartholomew had no doubt that

if he dedicated himself to learning he could become one of the foremost scholars in the University. But Abigny was too lazy and too fond of the pleasures of life.

Bartholomew thought about Abigny’s claim. Most

Cambridge masters, including Bartholomew, had taken

minor holy orders so that they were ruled by church

law rather than secular law. Some, like Brother Michael and the Franciscans, were monks or friars and had taken major orders. This meant that they could not marry or

have relations with women, although not all monks and

friars in the University kept these vows as assiduously as they might.

As a boy, Bartholomew had been educated at the

great Benedictine Abbey at Peterborough, and, as one

of their brightest students, had been expected to take his vows and become a monk. His sister and brother-in-law, acting in loco parentis, had other ideas, and a marriage was planned that would have benefited their cloth trade.

Bartholomew, however, had defied them both, and had

run away to Oxford and then Paris to study medicine.

Since leaving Peterborough, Bartholomew had not given

a monastic vocation another thought, other than taking the minor orders that would protect him from the

rigours of secular law. Perhaps, a few months ago,

the prospect of never having a relationship with a

woman would not have mattered, but Bartholomew

had met Philippa Abigny - Giles’s sister - and was

not at all sure that a vow of chastity was what he

wanted.

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.’

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