Bartholomew and Cynric hurried through the College, they could hear Henry Oliver's enraged yells coming from the commoners' room. Cynric told Bartholomew that two students had found him lying outside the King's Head tavern, and had brought him back so he could be cared for in the plague ward. Oliver, it seemed, had other ideas, and had kicked and struggled as much as his weakened body would allow, demanding to be taken to his own room.
The Benedictines were having a difficult time trying to quieten him down, and his shouts and curses were disturbing the other patients. One of the monks was almost lying on top of him to keep him in the bed.
When Oliver saw Bartholomew standing in the doorway, his struggles increased.
'Keep him away from me,' he screamed. 'He will kill me!'
Slowly Bartholomew approached the bed, and laid his hand gently on the sick student's head. Oliver shrank away, pushing himself as far back against the wall as he could.
'Come, now, Henry,' Bartholomew said softly. 'No one is going to hurt you. You are ill and need help, and this is the best place for you to get it.'
'No!' Oliver yelled, his eyes darting frantically round the room. 'You will kill me here!'
'Now why would I do that?' asked Bartholomew, reaching out to turn Oliver's head gently, so he could inspect the swellings in his neck.
Oliver's breath came in short agonised gasps. 'The Master told me,' he whispered, flashing a terrified glance at Bartholomew.
'Swynford?' asked Bartholomew, astonished. 'Swynford told you I would kill you?'
Oliver shook his head. 'Master Wilson. Wilson said you would kill him. And you did!' He sank back against the wall, exhausted. Bartholomew looked at him thunderstruck, while the monk knelt to begin taking off Oliver's wet clothes.
The Benedictine smiled briefly at Bartholomew.
'Delirious,' he said. 'They claim all sorts of things, you know. Poor Jerome over there keeps saying he was responsible for the murder of Montfitchet!'
Bartholomew groaned. It was all happening too fast.
Did this mean that Jerome, in his feverish delirium, was declaring that he was the murderer? And why had Wilson told Oliver that Bartholomew was going to kill him?
His energy spent, Oliver was unresisting while the monk and Bartholomew put him to bed. He began to squirm and struggle again when Bartholomew examined him, but not with the same intensity as before. The swellings were as soft as rotten apples in his armpits and groin, and Bartholomew knew that lancing them would bring no relief. While the monks tended to the other patients, Bartholomew tried to make Oliver drink some water.
Oliver spat the water from his mouth, and twisted away from Bartholomew.
'Poison!' he hissed, his eyes bright with fever.
Bartholomew took a sip from the water cup himself, and offered it again to Oliver, who took it reluctantly, but drank thirstily.
'Now,' said Bartholomew. 'You must rest.'
He stood to leave, but Oliver caught at the edge of his sleeve. 'Master Wilson said he was in fear of his life from you, Physician,' he said. 'My aunt believes you killed him.'
Bartholomew had had enough of Oliver and his unpleasant accusations. 'Well, she is wrong,' he said.
'And how would she know anyway, since Wilson never left his room to talk to anyone, and your aunt never leaves her Priory?'
Oliver sneered and spat onto the floor. 'He went to see her, he said.
'Wilson visited your aunt?'
'Of course!' Oliver said, his voice dripping contempt.
'Most days, between Compline and Matins.'
'In the middle of the night?' said Bartholomew, amazed. 'Wilson visited your aunt in the middle of the night?'
'They were lovers,' said Oliver, 'although what she ever saw in that fat pig I will never know.'
'He was going to take major orders,' said Bartholomew, bemused, 'vowing to abstain from physical relationships with women.'
Oliver gave a short bark of laughter. 'My aunt had already taken such a vow,' he said, 'but what did that matter?'
Bartholomew stared at the student. Oliver glowered back at him spitefully, and once again, Bartholomew wondered what he had done to earn himself such an intense dislike. Oliver, however, was growing exhausted, and Bartholomew did not want to tire him further with more questions. He went to sit with Jerome, who was still fighting his illness with a spirit of defiance that Bartholomew never guessed he had. Jerome's skeletal hand gripped his.
"I did it,' he muttered. "I killed Montfitchet. I made him drink the wine when he said he had already had enough. Jocelyn and I made him drink the Master's health, and he died. His death is on my head.'
'Did you know the wine was drugged?' asked Bartholomew.
The old man shook his head slowly, his eyes filling with tears. 'No, I did not. But that does not absolve me,' he whispered.
Bartholomew rose to leave. 'Father William will come to you,' he said. 'He will absolve you.' He felt a sudden urge just to leave Michaelhouse and Cambridge and go to York or Lincoln where he could practise medicine in peace, and escape from the vile intrigues and affairs of the University. Even Father Jerome, who had probably never harmed anyone in his life, had been drawn into its murky depths, and would die believing he had committed a crime in which he had played no knowing part.
As he left the commoners' room and made his way back to the kitchen, he thought about Oliver's words.
Oliver had said that Wilson had left the College almost every night to visit his mistress, the Abbess. That certainly explained how he might have caught the plague when, in everyone's eyes, he had isolated himself from the outside world. Bartholomew and Cynric had slipped unnoticed in and out of College the night before, so there was no reason why Wilson could not have done the same.
But it still made no sense. Bartholomew had already established that Wilson could not have been the murderer, because Augustus's body had been dumped in the stables after Wilson had been buried. Did Wilson believe Bartholomew was the murderer? Did he talk to him on his deathbed so that Bartholomew would fall into some kind of trap and be exposed? But that made no sense either, because if Wilson believed Bartholomew to be capable of committing so grave a sin as murder, why did he ask him to ensure that his tomb was built?
Why not Michael, or William?
He went to huddle near the kitchen fire, elbowing Cynric to one side so that they could share the warmth.
They could not risk going too early in case they were seen, so Bartholomew dozed until Cynric announced it was time to leave. The Welshman made Bartholomew change his white shirt and dispensed with cloaks and scholar's robes because they were difficult in which to climb. Both wore two pairs of woollen leggings and two dark tunics to protect them against the cold. When he was satisfied that they were well prepared for a long chilly wait on a narrow window-sill, Cynric led the way out of the College.
Bartholomew was amazed at the way the nimble Welshman could blend into the shadows, and felt clumsy and graceless by comparison. When they reached Bene't Hostel, it was in total darkness, but Cynric insisted on waiting and watching for a long time before he decided it was safe. He slipped down a narrow passageway like a cat, Bartholomew following as quietly as he could. The passageway had originally led to the yard at the back of the hostel, but had been blocked off by a wall when the yard had become more of a refuse pit.
The wall had not been built of the best materials, and Bartholomew found it easy to gain hand- and footholds in the crumbling mortar, and climb to the top. Cynric pressed him back into the shadows, where they waited yet again to ensure it was safe to continue. At last Cynric motioned that they could drop over the wall into the yard below. Bartholomew was used to foul smells, but the stench that rose from the deep layer of slime on the floor of the yard made his eyes water. Cynric quickly led the way to a row of straggly shrubs that grew against the wall of the hostel.
Bartholomew cursed under his breath as he skidded on something slippery and almost fell. Cynric grabbed at his arm, and they waited in tense silence until they were certain that no one had heard. They reached the bushes where they could hide from anyone looking out of the windows, and Bartholomew smothered an exclamation of disgust as his outstretched hand touched a rotten slab of meat that had been thrown there.
Cynric pushed his way through the bushes until he reached the ivy that climbed the wall of the house. It was ancient and sturdy, and Bartholomew nodded that he could climb up it without difficulty. They had agreed that Bartholomew would climb to the window-sill, while Cynric would keep watch down the passageway from the top of the wall for any indication that the well-wisher had led them into a trap. If that were the case, they would effect an escape by climbing up the ivy, and over the roofs.
Gingerly, Bartholomew set his foot on the vine, and began to climb. The slop drain was apparently directly above, for the ivy was treacherously slick, and all manner of kitchen waste was caught on its branches.
Bartholomew tried not to think about it, and continued upwards. Glancing down, he could not see Cynric. He must already have slid into his vantage point in the shadows at the top of the wall.
The sound of soft singing came through the slop drain. Bartholomew prayed that it was not a scullery boy who would throw the kitchen waste down on his head. Cautiously, he climbed a little further, noting that the singer's words were slurred and his notes false.
One of the scholars, objecting to an early night, must have slipped down to the pantry to avail himself of the wine and ale stored there. From his voice, it would take a thunderbolt to disturb him, not someone climbing stealthily outside.
He climbed higher, until he saw the lancet windows of the hall just above him. For an awful moment, he thought the woman had misinformed him, for there was no deep window-sill on which he could wait and listen, but then he realised that he was too far to one side, and needed to move to his right. This proved more difficult than he had anticipated, and he had to climb down past the kitchen drain before he could find a stem of the ivy large enough to bear his weight.
At last he saw the window-sill above him, and he was able to grasp its edge with both hands and haul himself up. The shutters were firmly closed, but he could just see the merest flicker of light underneath them, suggesting that someone was there. He almost fell when a branch he had been holding snapped sharply in his hand. He held his breath and waited for the shutters to be flung open and his hiding place discovered, but there was no sound from within, and gradually he relaxed.
He eased himself to one side of the sill, his back propped up against the carved stone window-frame. He learned that, by huddling down a little, he could see a fraction of the main table in the large hall through a split in the wood of the shutter. But, although one of the Sub-Principal's precious candles burned, there seemed to be no one there to appreciate it. The meeting was evidently not due to start for a while. Bartholomew tried to make himself more comfortable. A chill wind was beginning to blow, and, although the sky was clear and it seemed unlikely to rain, he knew that, despite Cynric's precautions, he was going to be very cold before he could go home.
He heard the church clock strike the hour twice before anything happened. He was beginning to wonder whether he had been sent on a wild-goose chase, and was considering giving up. It was freezing on the window-sill, and the bitter wind cut right through his clothes. He felt that if he did not climb down the vine soon, he would be too cold to do so at all.
Suddenly, he became aware that something was happening. Huddling down to peer through the split wood, he saw Master Burwell pacing around the hall, and heard him giving orders to Jacob Yaxley, who had been ousted from his room to make way for the plague ward. Yaxley was lighting more candles and sweeping the remains of the scholars' evening meal off the table onto the rushes. Burwell walked across Bartholomew's line of vision and seemed to be talking to someone else.
The wind rattled one of the shutters, and Bartholomew swore softly. If this happened, he would not be able to hear what was going on in the meeting. Carefully, he broke off a piece of vine, and jammed it under the loose wood. The wind gusted again, and Bartholomew saw with satisfaction that he seemed to have solved that problem at least.
The clock struck the hour again, and the activity in the hall increased dramatically. There was a growing murmur of voices, and Bartholomew could see a number of people filing into the hall. He was surprised: he had been expecting a small gathering of perhaps four or five people, but there were at least fifteen men, with a promise of more to come.
He heard someone banging softly on the table to bring the meeting to order.
'Gentlemen. I would not have called you here in this manner unless there was an important reason,' Burwell began. "I am afraid that our cause has suffered a grave setback.'
There was a mumble of concerned voices, and Burwell waited for them to die down before continuing.
'We have heard that the Acting Master of Michaelhouse has established contact with Oxford.'
The voices this time were louder, and held questions.
Burwell raised his hand. "I do not need to spell out the implications of this to you, gentlemen. We have been uncertain of Master Alcote's loyalties, and this proves we were correct. Our spies have intercepted messages from him telling which hostels were the weakest and most likely to flounder under pressure.
Oxford will now see that pressure will be brought to bear against these places, and the University will be undermined as they fall.'
The room erupted into confusion again, and Burwell had to bang on the table to bring the meeting back under control.
'What do you suggest we do?' asked one man.
Although he had his back to Bartholomew, he recognised the wiry black hair as belonging to the Principal of Mary's Hostel, Neville Stayne.
Burwell sighed. 'We could take Alcote from the equation,' he said. Bartholomew saw Stayne nod his head in approval, but there were voices of dissent.
'Who would succeed him? We might end up in a worse state,' asked another voice that Bartholomew did not recognise.
'It is most likely that Swynford would return,'
Burwell said. 'He is an unknown quantity to us: we do not know where his loyalties lie, but since he is not obviously for Oxford, like Alcote, it might be possible to talk to him and put forward our point of view.'
Bartholomew could see Stayne nodding again.
'But how would we rid ourselves of Alcote's mastership?' another person asked.
Burwell spread his hands. 'There are ways and means,' he said simply.
"I am concerned about the physician,' said Stayne, abruptly changing the subject. 'He has been asking questions at Mary's about Abigny.'
'We agreed that he would be left alone,' someone said firmly. Bartholomew felt physically sick as he recognised the voice of his brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore. He struggled to get a better view of the men seated at the table, and saw the blue sleeve embroidered in silver thread that was unmistakably Stanmore's. Bartholomew's shock made him clumsy, and he fell back harder against the window-frame than he had intended.
'What was that?' said Stayne, coming to his feet and looking towards the window suspiciously. Burwell joined him, and together they approached the window.
Bartholomew could see them standing only inches from it. He held his breath. Stanmore, too, came over, and to Bartholomew's horror, began to open the shutters. Now he would be discovered! He heard Stanmore swear as the shutter jammed. Bartholomew glanced down and saw that the twig of ivy he had used to stop the shutter from rattling was preventing Stanmore from opening the window.
'It is stuck,' Bartholomew heard him mutter. A sudden gust of wind rattled the other shutter.
'It is only the wind,' Burwell said, relief in his voice.
'We are all so nervous we are even afraid of the wind.
Come and sit down again.'
Bartholomew saw him put a hand on Stanmore's shoulder to lead him back to his seat. He let out a shuddering breath, and tried to concentrate on what was being said.
'No harm comes to Bartholomew,' said Stanmore firmly, 'or we are out of this. Your University can go to the Devil.'
'Hush, hush,' said Burwell placatingly. 'We will leave it to you to keep him out of our way. But you must understand that we cannot allow him to jeopardise the social stability of this country, which is what his meddling might bring about if he exposes some of our actions and the University falls.' "I will talk to him,' mumbled Stanmore. "I can ask him to join us.'
Stayne tutted angrily. 'He will not! I believe he holds Us responsible for the death of Babington. He will not join us, and even if he did, I would not trust him.'
'Let us not leap to conclusions,' said Burwell, intervening smoothly. 'Let Stanmore talk to Bartholomew, and we will leave it at that. For now,' he added ominously.
Bartholomew felt as though he was listening to arrangements for his own death and, despite the cold, felt beads of sweat break out on his face and prickling at the small of his back. Was it Burwell's group who had paid the blacksmith and the men in the lane to kill him? How had Stanmore become involved in all this?
He had nothing to do with the University. Bartholomew fought to quell the cold, sick feeling in his stomach, and concentrate on the meeting.
'Bartholomew is not the main problem,' Burwell continued. 'Michaelhouse is. Something is afoot at Michaelhouse of which we know nothing. I heard that Wilson never left his room, so how did the plague take him? How was it that the Michaelhouse Fellows arranged for him to be buried in the churchyard, and not in the plague pit? What of the rumours about the commoners that died that were so firmly quashed last summer? And finally,' he said, "I still do not accept that Babington killed himself. Neither did Father Aelfrith or Master Wilson when I questioned them. I think Michaelhouse is a rotten apple, and the quicker it folds in on itself and collapses, the better for us all.'
There were mutters of assent, and the meeting went on to discuss various scraps of information that had been gleaned via the spy networks: there had been a convening of anti-Cambridge scholars at Bernard Hall in Oxford; one of Cambridge's spies had been killed in a town brawl; and two new halls had been established in Oxford, but none in Cambridge.
'We must not allow them to become too much bigger than us,' said Yaxley. 'The bigger they become, the easier they will be able to crush us.'
'We are putting pressure on that widow who lives in the house near St Nicholas's Church to bequeath it to us,' said Burwell.'That will become StNicholas Hostel, and we are in the process of altering the house by Trumpington Gate. It should be ready for new scholars in a matter of weeks.'
Heads nodded, and murmurs of approval were given. Bartholomew saw Stayne glance at the hour candle. 'It is growing late,' he said, 'and we must end this meeting. So, we are all to keep a keen ear for potential houses that can be converted into hostels; Stanmore is to deal with his brother-in-law; and as for Michaelhouse, do we act, or let it drown in its own corruption?' "I do not see what else we can do but watch,' said Burwell. 'We know Father William sympathises with us generally, and we know that Alcote and Bartholomew do not. We do not know where Swynford or the Benedictine stand, and that flighty boy — Abigny — has apparently vanished. I suggest we wait and watch. We especially watch Alcote and his dealings. I would like everyone here to make that a priority.'
The meeting began to break up. Bartholomew saw Stanmore clearly through the crack in the shutter, and watched him leave the hall, followed by Richard and Stephen. Stephen looked unhappy and fiddled with the silver clamp on the cloak Stanmore had lent him when Abigny had stolen his. Richard looked solemn, but Bartholomew could see the excitement in his eyes at being included in such a meeting.
Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. He had battled to keep his problems from Stanmore and his family in the belief that it would keep them from harm, despite his increasing loneliness and desperation to talk to someone. Now it seemed he had made the right decision, but for entirely the wrong reasons. Everyone was involved, even his young nephew.
He watched Yaxley and Burwell through the crack in the shutter as they fussed about the hall hiding evidence that the meeting had taken place. The rushes were stamped down, furniture moved back into place, and wax from the candles scraped away. Eventually, they were satisfied, and went to their beds, leaving the hall in darkness. Bartholomew sighed in relief, and began to flex his frozen limbs. He was so cold and stiff, he wondered whether he would be able to climb down the ivy and back up over the wall without falling and giving himself away. He rubbed his arms and legs vigorously for a few moments to try to warm them, and then began his descent. He almost slipped twice, and discovered that it was much easier climbing up slime-covered vines than down them. He really did lose his footing when he was near the bottom, and landed with a crackle of dead, broken branches in the bushes.
Cynric was there to help him up. 'You will wake the dead!' he whispered irritably. 'Try to be quieter.'
Bartholomew followed him across the disgusting yard, even more slippery now that some of the filth had turned to ice in the night air. Getting over the wall proved difficult, for Bartholomew could not feel his cold fingers sufficiently to find handholds in the stones. They managed eventually, and Cynric retraced his silent steps back through the shadows into Michaelhouse. The front gates were closed, but Cynric, showing characteristic foresight, had left the back gate unlocked, and they made their way through the College vegetable gardens, past the laundry, and into the College itself. It occurred to Bartholomew that Wilson must have made the same journey when he returned from seeing his lover, the Abbess.
Bartholomew sank gratefully into Agatha's chair. His knees were still trembling from the shock of hearing that his family was involved in the University's business, and that there were people who obviously wanted him out of the way. How had he managed to manoeuver himself into the position where he stood virtually alone against his family and friends? He had no wish to see the country short of trained clergy and educated men who would be able to serve their people, and he had no wish to see the social order of England crumble because there was only one University from which these men could graduate.
It was probably fair to say that he actually approved of the aims of this clandestine group. But there remained something odd about the whole business, a sinister edge to it that Bartholomew could not define.
Cynric began to prod some life into the embers, and they both stretched cold hands towards the meagre flames. Bartholomew went into a storeroom and emerged with one ofWilson' s bottles of wine. Cynric took the bottle and pulled the cork out with his teeth. He took a hearty swig, and passed it to Bartholomew.
Bartholomew followed suit, grimacing at the strength of the wine. Cynric grinned at him, and took the bottle again. 'This was the one Gilbert said was the best,' he said, peering at the label in the firelight.
'This single bottle cost six marks; Wilson was saving it for when the Bishop came.'
Bartholomew took the bottle and studied it. The parchment wrapped round it said it came from the French Mediterranean, and so would be more expensive than English wine, or wine from the north of France. He took another sip. It had a tarry flavour that Bartholomew was already beginning to like. He took a third swallow and passed it back to Cynric, who raised it into the air in a salute.
'To Master Wilson, for leaving us his wine. And for leaving us.' He gave a short laugh, and drank. 'Now,' he said, 'what did you learn?'
Bartholomew began to relate what he had learned, embarrassed that his voice cracked when he mentioned the involvement of his family. Cynric sat quietly, not interrupting.
Eventually, Bartholomew faltered and stopped.
What more could he say? He started to tell Cynric that he would talk to Stanmore, and reason with him about the University business, but got no further than the first few words. Would Stanmore then be forced to kill him, as Sir John and Aelfrith had been killed because they had been in the way? Or would it be Stephen or Richard who would perform that duty?
He rubbed his eyes hard, feeling an aching tiredness underneath that made them burn. He was at his wits' end, and knew no more what to do than would the great rat that sat boldly washing its whiskers in the middle of the kitchen floor. He watched as it snapped into alertness, standing on hind legs and sniffing the air, before scampering away to disappear down a hole in the corner. At the same time, there was a chill draught as the door was opened.
'Matt?' said Philippa softly, walking towards him and dropping to her knees by his chair. She took one of his hands in hers. 'You look tired and miserable. Tell me what is wrong.'
Bartholomew looked in astonishment over her fair head to Abigny, who stood in the doorway.
'The last time we met, you were wearing a dress,'
Bartholomew said coldly, trying to control the sick, churning feeling in his stomach.
"I was a damn fine woman!' Abigny said proudly.
'Fooled your family for almost four days. Would have done for longer if you had not been so ungentlemanly as to burst into a woman's boudoir unannounced.'
Bartholomew half rose, pulling his hand away from Philippa, but then sat back down again, uncertain what he had been intending to do. Abigny settled himself comfortably on one of the benches.
'We owe you an explanation,' he said.
Bartholomew looked at him warily. "I should say you do,' he said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. When he dared to glance at Philippa again, she smiled at him lovingly, but without remorse. Chilled, he moved away so that no part of her touched him.
'Oh, Matt!' she said, giving him a playful push. 'Do not sulk! You knew why I went!' "I know nothing!' he said with a sudden intensity. 'I left you with Edith, then there was some peculiar story about you refusing to see me, then Giles pretended to be you for God knows how long, and then you both disappeared!'
'What?' she said, her small face puckered. 'No! Giles explained it all to you. You know I would never give you cause for concern!' She turned to her brother. 'You did tell him. You told me you did!' Her voice was accusing, and Abigny stood and backed away, his hands raised in front of him in a placatory gesture.
"I decided against it. I thought it was best. You do not know him like I do; he would have tried to see you, and then you both would have been in danger! I did what I thought was right.'
Philippa stopped from where she had been advancing on her brother, and looked back at Bartholomew with a curious mixture of shame and resignation. 'Well, then,' she said in a small voice. 'You do owe Matt an explanation.'
Cautiously, alert to every movement his sister made, Abigny perched on the edge of the table. Philippa stayed where she was, at a distance from either of them. Abigny took a deep breath, and began to speak.
'In order that you understand what I did, and why, I must start at the beginning. When Philippa was still a baby, she was married. The marriage was legal, although it was of course never consummated. Her husband died shortly after, and Philippa inherited a considerable amount of property in Lincoln. Before our father died, he arranged for Philippa to stay at St Radegund's until she chose either to marry, or to take the veil. The Abbess, of course, was keen that Philippa should take the veil, because then all her property would go to the convent.'
He shuffled on the table, while Philippa watched him, her face pale.
'The fact that you were paying her obvious attention was not likely to encourage her to a life of chastity, so the Abbess, God rot her soul, decided she would remove you: if you could be persuaded to give up your courting, she imagined that Philippa, in paroxysms of grief, would become a nun, and all her worldly wealth would go to the convent. Her plan was that her dreadful nephews, the Olivers, were to start a riot and the blacksmith was paid to deliver a warning — "stay away". It seems the warning was too obtuse for you, because you continued to visit Philippa. The blacksmith swore he had given you the message when pressed by the Olivers. Then the plague came, and the Abbess was able to imprison Philippa in the convent under her policy of isolation.
'Anyway, to take things in order, I managed to work out what the Abbess had done by listening at doors and chatting to the nuns, who told me that the Abbess was bringing great pressure on Philippa to take her vows.'
Philippa nodded her agreement. 'She told me it was my duty to take the veil because so many clerics were dying of the plague. She said there were not enough left to say masses for the dead, and that I could not, in all conscience, refuse to commit myself to a monastic life when there were the souls of so many at stake.'
Abigny watched her for a moment before continuing.
"I became afraid that the Abbess might use the Death to her own advantage, and that she might kill Philippa for the property and blame it on the plague.
I decided I had to take Philippa away from her. So I sent you a message with that cocky medical student, and his cousin, Sister Emelda, agreed to pass a note to Philippa. You were supposed to meet each other in the shed, fall into each other's arms, marry, and live happily ever after. But poor Sister Clement chose that shed in which to die, and you, of course,' he said, bowing to Bartholomew, 'began to suspect all sorts of foul play, and took Philippa to your sister's home.'
He stopped for a minute, and chewed on one of his nails. 'Philippa could not be safe there. The Abbess would work out where she was and take her back. And this time, I was certain she would kill Philippa. You had upset my plans horribly. Instead of taking her to the safety of matrimony, you took her to the very unsafety of Trumpington — and on top of that, she got the plague.
I was furious with you,' he said to Bartholomew with a flash of defiance.
Bartholomew interrupted him, piecing together Abigny's story with what he had learned himself. 'So you hung around Trumpington until she began to recover, seen by the Gilbertine friar and the barmaid from the Laughing Pig,' he said, his voice hard. 'Then you stayed with Philippa for a few days, pretending Philippa was distressed because of her scars, so that poor Edith would not know there were two of you.'
The barmaid had told him Abigny seemed terrified of something. Could it have been the Abbess? Or was Abigny afraid of a more sinister foe — the Oxford scholars, or even the Cambridge men? 'More or less,' said Abigny, unperturbed by Bartholomew's hostility. He glanced at Philippa who stood motionless near the door. He continued. "I took her to Hugh Stapleton's house in Fen Ditton, where she would be safe, and I took Philippa's place in Edith's house, waiting with my crossbow to see whether the Oliver brothers would come. It was a tense wait, I can tell you.
I was almost relieved when you came and uncovered my disguise in that dramatic way, and I could get away from such a nerve-racking situation. We have both been at Fen Ditton ever since.'
'You used my sister!' said Bartholomew, his voice dangerously quiet. He stood abruptly and swung round to face Abigny, who blanched, but did not flinch. 'How did you know the Abbess or the Olivers would not harm her while you skulked in her house?' "I reasoned it out. I made sure that news of my escape was common gossip. The Abbess would hardly go there if she knew Philippa was gone.'
'But you were there for almost a week!' exploded Bartholomew. 'They might have come then.'
'And who took Philippa there in the first place?' yelled Abigny, his temper snapping. 'If anything, this was all your fault!'
Cynric, anticipating violence, uncoiled himself from the fire and moved between them, but Philippa was there before him.
'Please,' she said. 'Hear Giles out'
Abigny mastered his temper with an effort, and resumed his explanation. Bartholomew listened, his face white with fury. "I assumed that the Abbess would not harm you. With Philippa gone, what possible importance could you be to her? Well, I misread her. She held you responsible for Philippa's flight, while Wilson, her lover, claimed that you meant him harm. Within days, Wilson lay dead, burned to death in his own room with you conveniently first at the scene. Sister Emelda told me that she had overheard the Abbess and Henry Oliver discussing how they sent hired thugs to kill you. The Abbess was furious that your brother-in-law made a timely intervention. Not only that, but the money she paid to the thug that was killed was stolen! She sent Elias Oliver to retrieve it from the body: he found the body but the purse had gone.'
Bartholomew gritted his teeth, trying to master the fury, mingled with relief, that welled up inside him. If the blacksmith had been given a clearer message to deliver, perhaps some of this might not have happened. Philippa came to stand next to him. 'Hugh Stapleton's son came a few hours ago to tell us that the Abbess was dead,' she said.
'Apparently Henry Oliver became ill in the convent, and passed the sickness to her. We went immediately to hear the truth from Sister Emelda. And the next thing we did was to come see you.'
Bartholomew let out a huge sigh and stared up at the ceiling, feeling the energy drain out of him. He flopped back into the chair, trying to make sense of what he had heard. He looked at Philippa, her face ashen, and at Abigny, eyeing him expectantly. Could he believe their story? It was certainly true that Henry Oliver had the plague, and may well have passed it to his beloved aunt. Henry had said that Wilson believed Bartholomew meant to kill him. And the essence of the story fitted in with the facts as he knew them. But was there something more? Could he trust Abigny's explanation? How could he be certain that they were not somehow tied up with the University business and the murder of his friends?
It seemed pertinent to Bartholomew that Abigny fled to the house owned by Hugh Stapleton — the dead Principal of Bene't's Hostel — where he had so recently heard his death discussed by his own family.
Outside, the first streaks of dawn were lightening the sky. Philippa rose to leave.
'It seems there have been misunderstandings,' she said coolly, her gaze moving from Bartholomew to Abigny, 'and I am sorry that people have been hurt.
But I am not sorry to be alive, and I doubt that I would be had not Giles acted as he did.' She turned to Abigny. "I will never forgive you for lying to me, although I appreciate you felt it was in my best interests.'
She swept from the kitchen before Bartholomew could respond. Abigny darted after her, and Bartholomew heard the philosopher's voice echoing across the yard as he tried to reason with her. Bartholomew was overwhelmed with a barrage of emotions — anger, grief, hurt, relief. The whole business had gone far enough.
He had spent weeks agonising over Philippa's safety, and had undergone all kinds of mental torment because he did not want to run the risk of endangering his family when he had been desperate to confide in someone.
Now, within a few hours, his trust in his family and in Philippa had been shattered. Gradually, as he considered what he had learned, his confusion hardened into cold anger. He stood up abruptly and reached for his cloak.
Cynric looked at him in alarm.
"I am going to see Oswald,' he said. 'Perhaps then I might learn the truth.'
'No!' exclaimed Cynric, starting forward. 'Do not act foolishly because a woman has upset you. You know Sir Oswald is involved in all this. What can be gained by a confrontation?'
Bartholomew's face lit in a savage smile that made Cynric step back. 'A confrontation is the only way I will gain any peace. This wretched business has taken my friends, my family, and now it seems it will destroy all I had with Philippa.'
He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving Cynric uncertain as to what to do.
The gates to Stanmore's business premises were just being opened by a yawning apprentice. He told Bartholomew no one else was awake, and suggested he wait in the kitchen. Bartholomew ignored him and made for the solar. This large room leading off the hall on the first floor served as Stanmore's office, and contained all his records of sale and purchase, as well as the petty cash. As Bartholomew expected, the door was locked, but he knew the spare key was kept in a hidden pocket in one of the tapestries that lined the wall of the hall.
He found it, unlocked the door and entered.
Stanmore was meticulous in his business dealings, and records of all the transactions he had undertaken were stored neatly in numbered scrolls on the shelves.
Bartholomew began to sort through them, knocking some onto the floor and piling others onto the table.
He was not sure exactly what he was looking for, but he knew Stanmore well enough to know that if he had done business with the University men, there would be a record of it.
'Matt! What are you doing?' Stephen Stanmore stood in the doorway, still wearing his night clothes. Perhaps the apprentice had woken him up and told him Bartholomew was waiting. Bartholomew ignored him, and continued his search. He saw that, two years before, Bene't Hostel had bought a consignment of blankets from Stanmore, who had been paid handsomely. Stephen watched him for a few moments, and then disappeared. When he came back, Oswald Stanmore was with him, followed by a sleepy-eyed Richard, whose drowsiness disappeared in an instant when he saw his uncle ransacking his father's office. They must have declined to make the journey back to Trumpington in the dark and stayed the night with Stephen.
'Matt?' said Stanmore, watching Bartholomew in bewilderment. 'What do you want? Perhaps I can find it for you?'
Bartholomew waved the document at him. "I am looking for transactions you have had with the men of Bene't Hostel,' he said tightly. "I am looking for evidence that shows that you were involved in the murders of my friends and colleagues.'
Bartholomew saw Stephen turn white, while Richard's mouth dropped open. Stanmore took a step towards him. 'Matt! What are you talking about?'
Bartholomew's eyes blazed. 'Enough lies! Where are they, Oswald? Where are the documents that show how much it cost to buy you?'
Stanmore froze in his tracks, and looked unsteadily at Bartholomew as realisation began to dawn on his face.
"I do not know what you mean,' he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
Bartholomew advanced towards him menacingly.
"I thought your rescue was timely two nights ago. You knew, because your Bene't Hostel associates planned it with the Abbess of St Radegund's! Why did you bother, Oswald? Or does your conscience balk at the murder of relatives?'
The door was flung open, and Hugh stood there, brandishing his crossbow. He saw Bartholomew moving threateningly towards Stanmore, saw his face dark with anger, and fired without a moment's hesitation. Simultaneously, Richard screamed and Stanmore lunged forward and knocked into Hugh so that the bolt thudded harmlessly into the ceiling. Hugh started to reload while Bartholomew gazed open-mouthed in shock. He had known Hugh since he was a child, and yet Hugh had not given a second thought to shooting him. Had the plague and the University business changed their lives so much? 'This is not necessary, Hugh,' said Stanmore in an attempt to sound in control. 'Please leave us.'
Hugh looked as if to demur, but Stephen took him roughly by the shoulder and pushed him from the room, closing the door behind him. Richard stared at the quarrel that was embedded, still quivering, in the wooden ceiling. Stanmore lost his usual, confident bearing, and slumped into a chair, where Richard and Stephen came to stand behind him. Bartholomew suddenly noticed the similarity between the three of them.
Oswald and Stephen had always been alike, and Richard was beginning to look like a younger version, without the silver beard.
Bartholomew eyed Stanmore sitting in his chair with his head bowed, and moved cautiously to the other side of the room, where he could see all three of them at once.
It was Richard who broke the silence.
'You are wrong,' he said, his voice unsteady. 'My father would never let them harm you. He always made sure they understood that.'
Stanmore seemed to pull himself together. He gestured that Bartholomew should sit next to him.
Bartholomew declined, and stood waiting, tense and wary. Stanmore took a deep breath and began to speak, his voice sometimes so low that Bartholomew had to strain to hear it.
'It started about a year ago,' he said. 'You know I maintain my own network of informants about the town?
Well, word came to me that there were moves by Oxford scholars to try to undermine the University here, but I assumed that it was merely overpaid scholars with too much time on their hands playing games. Perhaps it started like that, but last year the business seemed to escalate. There were all sorts of rumours of spies, secret messages, and the like. Then people began to die: there were the two lads who had eaten bad oysters, and the Master of King's Hall, to name but three. Anyway, it became clear that there was a plot afoot to strike at the University through some of its most powerful members — the Fellows and Masters of the Colleges.'
He paused and studied his fingernails. Bartholomew waited impatiently.
'Last spring, Burwell came to me and told me that the hostels had set up a secret committee to look into the matter. Deaths were occurring in the Colleges, and there was speculation by the hostels that the Colleges were riddled with spies from Oxford. The hostel group believed that Oxford, by striking at the Colleges, might force prospective benefactors like the Bishop of Norwich and Edmund Gonville to withhold money from Cambridge, because the Colleges appeared to be rank with corruption. The hostel group did not include anyone from the Colleges because they could not be sure who was honest and who was a spy. Are you following me?'
Bartholomew nodded restlessly.
'The hostel group also decided to include some trustworthy citizens from the town. The hostels are poor, unlike the Colleges that have their endowments and support from the King, and it takes money to set up a system of spies. They included me and five others because we conduct a lot of business with the University, and it is in our interests to ensure that the University does not flounder. So, we provided them with money, and they ensured that we had custom. A harmless relationship.'
'It was not harmless for Augustus, Sir John, or Aelfrith,' said Bartholomew coldly.
Stanmore looked up sharply. 'Father Aelfrith? He died of the plague.'
'He was poisoned,' said Bartholomew bluntly.
Stanmore stared at Bartholomew in disbelief. "I did not know,' he said eventually. 'But I have not finished, Matt. For a while, it seemed as if the hostels' system of spies was having some success, for the deaths ceased.
Then, without warning, they started again. Two Fellows from the Hall of Valence Marie died, Sir John committed suicide, and then there were all those rumours about the commoners being killed for his seal. We have been meeting regularly and secretly to try to find out what is happening. In the last few months, most of the trouble has been at Michaelhouse. There is something going on there that none of us understand. Perhaps the entire conspiracy against the University is coming from Michaelhouse.'
He glanced up at Stephen, who nodded agreement Bartholomew kept his expression neutral, although his mind was teeming. Aelfrith had told him that there were deaths at King's Hall, Clare, and Peterhouse, and then a long gap before those at Valence Marie and Michaelhouse. Bartholomew wondered, since Stanmore's information coincided with Aelfrith's, if Stanmore's motives were pure after all.
'The University buys cloth from me rather than from other merchants,' Stanmore continued. 'In turn, I give them money to help them maintain their network of informants. But I have most certainly not been involved in murder, and I have never done anything that would harm you. That was one of the conditions on which I joined the hostels' group — that if there was anything that would affect you, I would be told first so that I could keep you out of it.'
'And what about the plan to dispose of Alcote?' asked Bartholomew.
Stanmore looked at him in shock. 'How do you know about that?' He put his head back in his hands again. 'Oh, God, no! We have a spy in our midst, too! Do not tell me our group is known of in Michaelhouse. If that is so,' he said, looking up at Bartholomew, 'then all our lives could be in danger.' He turned to Richard. 'Why did I involve you in this?' he cried, suddenly desolate.
Richard met his eyes with a level stare. 'You did not, Father. I was approached independently of you.'
He looked at Bartholomew. 'At Oxford, I can listen and learn, and I, too, can send back information that may help to put an end to this silly plot.'
Bartholomew ignored him. 'You did not answer my question,' he said to Stanmore. 'What about the plan… how was it put?… to take Alcote out of the equation?'
'It was you!' said Stephen suddenly. 'That noise we heard outside the window. It was you listening!'
Bartholomew continued to hold Stanmore's eyes.
'Well?' he said.
'Not what you think,' he said wearily. 'Our group does not condone murder. There are other ways. A word to the Chancellor to say that women have been seen coming out of his room early in the morning. Or even boys. A rumour that he has been drinking too much, or that his College has become riotous. It is not necessary to kill to remove a man from office. And if Alcote is a spy for Oxford, as our intelligence suggests, then he should not be in a position to run your College anyway, would you not agree?'
'But who are you to judge?' Bartholomew said quietly. He glanced round at the three men, and was suddenly sick of it all. He wanted to make for the door.
Richard barred his way. Bartholomew did not want to manhandle him and stopped in his tracks.
'We have done nothing wrong,' Richard said with dignity, 'except to try to sort out this mess, to stop more people from dying. I would do the same again. And I also want you to know that Father has been using the hostels' spies to try to find out about Philippa for you.
He has paid a good deal of money and spent a lot of his time following false leads and asking questions on your behalf. We all have. Father and I spent all of the night before last in that seedy King's Head because someone had told us that a traveller would be there who may have seen Abigny on the London Road.'
A memory flashed into Bartholomew's mind. He had thought he had seen Stanmore coming out of the King's Head after he had met his well-wisher by the plague pit.
So, his eyes had not deceived him after all.
"I am sorry,' Stanmore said. 'We found the traveller, but he could tell us nothing about Abigny.'
Bartholomew suddenly felt ashamed and bewildered.
He had become so confused by all the lies and deceit, and so accustomed to suspecting his colleagues of intrigues, that he had applied the same rules to his family. Perhaps he had also misjudged Philippa and Abigny. Stanmore's neat office was in total disarray, with scrolls scattered everywhere and a crossbow quarrel in the ceiling. Bartholomew sank down onto a stool, uncertain whether his weariness came from the fact that his family's apparent involvement appeared to be harmless after all, or from the battering his senses had taken in the past few hours.
In an unsteady voice, Stanmore said, "I dread to think what Edith will say if she ever learns that her beloved brother was shot at in her husband's office.'
'Your steward seems somewhat trigger-happy,' said Bartholomew, also shakily, when he recalled how Stanmore's quick reaction had saved his life. 'Remind me never to haggle over cloth prices in your office.'
'It is a dangerous game we play, Matt,' Stanmore said. 'You were attacked by the river; Giles Abigny pursues some strange business of his own under my very roof; and Richard and I were ambushed by footpads the other night. Hugh saved our lives, as he saved yours down by the river, and doubtless the responsibility is beginning to tell on him. He had never, in thirty years of service, been called upon to use his crossbow, and then, in a matter of days, he is required to use it three times.'
Bartholomew looked from Richard to Stanmore, bewildered. 'Ambushed?'
Richard nodded vigorously. 'When we left the King's Head. Four men ambushed us just outside the gates here.
Hugh shot one of them and captured another.'
'They were farmers from out Shelford way,' said Stanmore. 'They heard how easy it was to steal in Cambridge with so many dead of the plague, and thought to try it for themselves. Of course, it is easy to steal from the dead and dying, but these four fellows felt that was unethical, and decided to steal from the living instead.'
'The Sheriff should shoot anyone seen out after the curfew,' said Stephen. 'His laxity is the cause of all this villainy.'
'And what if he had seen you out last night as you returned from Bene't's?' retorted Bartholomew. "I am often called out to patients at night, and would not relish being shot at before I had a chance to explain myself.'
'We would not have been able to explain our business last night, Stephen,' Stanmore agreed. 'We swore an oath of secrecy, and we could hardly tell the watch where we had been and what we had been discussing.'
Stephen acquiesced with a sideways tilt of his head, and there was silence. As if it were a magnet, the gaze of all four lit upon the crossbow bolt.
'What will mother say?' Richard said, echoing his father's words.
'Why would she find out?' asked Bartholomew with a weak smile.
'Well, thank the Lord we have resolved all that!' said Richard heartily, his natural cheerfulness bubbling to the surface again. "I hated having secrets from you, Uncle Matt. We all wanted to tell you, but we were afraid it might put you in danger, being at Michaelhouse and all. We have tried hard to keep you away from it as much as we could, but I suppose it is your home.'
Bartholomew smiled at him. Richard was at an age where he could make astonishingly adult observations, but could still make things childishly simple.
Bartholomew could see that Richard considered that no lasting damage had been done by the scene in his father's study, and was quite happy to continue his life exactly the same way as before.
"I will tell the cook to make us some breakfast,' he said, marching out of the room.
'You really let him spy in Oxford?' asked Bartholomew, after he had gone.
Stanmore looked askance at him. 'Of course not, Matt.
What do you think I am? He is a bright boy, and he is good at listening, but the information he sends us is nothing. It pleases him to think he is helping, and I would not hurt his feelings by telling him otherwise.' "I believe I owe you an apology,' said Bartholomew, 'And we owe you one. We should have told you. We wanted to, but we honestly believed you would be safer not knowing. I had decided I would tell you everything if you ever asked, but you never mentioned anything to me. I also did not want to distress you by telling you I thought Sir John had been murdered. Especially since there was nothing you could have done, and I was afraid you would start on some investigation of your own that might lead you into danger.'
He laughed softly. 'We involve a child like Richard, and we keep you in the dark. How stupid we must seem to you!' "I am sorry,' said Bartholomew. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. 'All this intrigue, with the plague on top of it, must be addling my mind, like Colet. I misjudged you.'
The Stanmores dismissed his words with impatient shakes of their heads. Stephen suddenly gave him a hard poke in the chest. 'You lose my best horse, and now you tear our offices apart. Just stay away from my hounds and my falcons,' he said, feigning severity. Bartholomew smiled and followed Stephen down the stairs, where Richard was shouting that breakfast was ready. Hugh slouched in the inglenook in the fireplace, and looked uneasily at Bartholomew. Stanmore whispered in his ear, and he gave Bartholomew a grin before leaving the room.
'What did you say to him?' Bartholomew asked.
'Oh, I just told him you had spent the night sampling Master Wilson's best wine,' said Stanmore.
'You told him I was drunk?' asked Bartholomew incredulously.
Stanmore nodded casually. 'He loathed Wilson, and it will give him great pleasure to think you have been drinking his wine. His collection of fine wines is quite the envy of the town, you know.'
Bartholomew did not, and sat for a while, talking to the Stanmores before they were obliged to attend to their business. Bartholomew fell asleep in the parlour, and only awoke when a clatter of horses' hooves echoed in the yard. He sat up and stretched, scrubbing at his face with his hands, and thinking about what he should do that day. He glanced out of the window, and stared morosely at the raindrops that pattered in the mud. He wondered why he felt so gloomy when Philippa was safe, and his family had exonerated themselves from the evil doings of the University.
But the University was still at the heart of the matter.
Despite all that he had learned over the last few hours, there were questions that remained unanswered. Such as who had killed Sir John. He knew why, but he was no further forward in discovering who. Did the same person murder Sir John, poison Aelfrith, and take Augustus's body? Bartholomew rubbed his chin. Whoever killed Sir John for the seal must also have killed Augustus and desecrated his body — also for the seal. But why had Aelfrith spoken Wilson's name on his deathbed?
Bartholomew knew that Wilson had not killed Augustus, and if not Augustus, then probably not Sir John.
Could it have been Alcote? He was the spy in their midst, according to the hostels' information. Was he also the murderer? Wilson had said that Alcote had been so drunk that he had not known when Wilson had left their room to search Augustus's room for the seal. But supposing Alcote had not been drunk, and had been pretending? Then he too could have been up and sneaking around the College. But Wilson had said that Augustus had already gone from the room when he got there, and Wilson and Alcote had been together until then.
Of course, Bartholomew thought, all this was assuming everyone was telling the truth. Alcote and Wilson may have been in this together, each lying to protect the other. Bartholomew wondered if Alcote knew of Wilson's nocturnal visits to the Abbess, and whether he approved. He wondered whether he should warn Alcote that his information had been intercepted.
Bartholomew had no doubt that the Stanmores believed that Alcote would merely be discredited to remove him from his position of power, but Bartholomew thought of Sir John, Augustus, Paul, Montfitchet, and Aelfrith, and was not so sure.
He thought of Alcote — small, fussy, and petty. Could he have had the strength to drive the knife so deeply into Paul's body? Could he have overpowered Sir John?
Bartholomew thought of Wilson hauling himself through the trap-door, and of Michael' s strong arm in hauling him to his feet once. Perhaps he spent too much time with the weak and dying, and no longer appreciated the strength of the healthy, strength that could be magnified by fear or desperation.
The more he thought about it, the less he understood. Despite all that he had learned from eavesdropping, Philippa and Abigny, and his confrontation with the Stanmores, he was as much in the dark as ever. Far from easing his mind, his conversation had made him even more concerned for the safety of his family. Abigny had thought nothing of endangering Edith when he was trying to help Philippa. Bartholomew thought about what Stanmore had told him of the Oxford plot, and wondered whether the survival of the University was enough of a reason for men like Yaxley, Stayne, and Burwell to become involved. Stanmore claimed he knew nothing of murder, and Bartholomew believed him. But Yaxley, Burwell, and Stayne might. So was the University's survival sufficient reason for which to commit murder?
Wilson intimated on his deathbed that there were those who cared passionately about it, and might give their lives for it. Would they also take lives?
And so he came back to the same question yet again: who was the murderer in Michaelhouse? All the Fellows had alibis for Augustus's death, so was the killer an outsider after all? And where was Michael? Had he fled Cambridge to escape the plague like so many others, or was he, too, lying dead somewhere? Bartholomew stood watching the rain for a while longer, but his thoughts began to repeat themselves. He wondered what he should do next. He was too battered emotionally for a confrontation with Philippa, Abigny, or one of the hostel men, but he still had patients to see. Reluctantly, he left the warmth of Stephen's house, and prepared to trudge back to Michaelhouse.