'What signs?' Bartholomew felt his eyes begin to close, no matter how hard he struggled to keep them open. He tried to remember when he had last slept; a couple of hours two nights before? 'When the plague first started in the Far East, there were three signs,' began Michael. Bartholomew gave up on keeping his eyes open, and just listened.
'On the first day, it rained frogs and serpents. On the second day, there was thunder so loud that people hearing it were sent mad, and lightning that came as sheets of fire. On the third day a great pall of black smoke issued from the earth, blotting out the sun and all the light. On the fourth day, the plague came.
'There have been other signs too,' Michael continued after a moment. 'In France, a great pillar of fire was seen over the Palace of the Popes in Avignon. A ball of fire hung over Paris. In Italy, when the plague arrived, it came with a terrible earthquake that sent noxious fumes all over the surrounding country and killed all the crops.
Many died from famine as well as the plague.'
'There have been no such signs here, Brother,' said Bartholomew, almost asleep. 'Perhaps we are not so evil as the French or the Italians.'
'Perhaps not,' said Michael. 'Or perhaps God does not want to waste His signs on the irredeemable.'
Bartholomew woke with a start. He was cold and very stiff, and still lying on the bench. Wincing, he eased himself up, wondering why he had not gone to bed to wake warm and rested. Daylight was flooding in through the window, and there was a crackle of burning wood.
He looked behind him.
'Oh, you are awake, lazy-bones,' grunted Agatha.
'Sleeping in the kitchen indeed! Master Wilson will not be impressed.'
The kitchen had been cleaned since the previous night: the food swept away and the dead rat removed.
One of the fireplaces had been cleared out and a warm blaze replaced the cold ashes. Stiffly, Bartholomew went to sit beside it on a stool, smelling the fresh oatcakes cooking on the circular oven next to the fire. Brother Michael still slept in Agatha's chair, black circles under his eyes and his mouth dangling open. Bartholomew's suspicions of the night before seemed unreasonable.
Even if Michael had been connected with the death of Aelfrith in some way, he obviously meant Bartholomew no harm, when he could easily have dispatched him as he lay sleeping on the bench.
Bartholomew stretched himself and filched an oatcake when he thought Agatha was not looking.
The sudden movement woke Michael, who sat looking around stupidly. 'What time is it?' he asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes and rubbing his cold hands together.
'A little before eight, I would say,' said Agatha. 'Now you sit down,' she continued, pushing Michael back in his chair. "I have made you some oatcakes — if this greedy physician has not eaten them all.'
'But I have missed Prime,' said Michael, horrified.
'And I did not say Matins and Lauds last night.'
'Your stomach must still be asleep,' said Bartholomew, 'if you are considering prayers before breakfast.' "I always say prayers before breakfast,' snapped Michael, and then relented. "I am sorry, Matt. I cannot stick knives in boils and try to relieve fevers like you do.
My way of fighting this monstrous pestilence is to keep my offices, no matter what happens. I hope it may make a difference.' He gave a rueful look. 'This will be the first time I have failed since this business began.' "I was thinking yesterday that the clerics were doing more good than the physicians ever could,' said Bartholomew, startled by Michael's confession. 'Do not be too hard on yourself, Brother. Or, as you said to me last night, you will be no good to yourself or your patients,' he said in a very plausible imitation of Michael's pompous voice that made Agatha screech with laughter.
Michael laughed too, more at Agatha's reaction than at Bartholomew's feeble attempt at humour. 'Oh lord, Matthew,' he said. "I never thought we would laugh again. Give me the oatcakes, Mistress Agatha. I had nothing but maggoty apples last night.'
Agatha pulled the oatcakes out of the oven and plumped herself down on a stool next to Bartholomew.
"I am gone for three days to tend to my relatives, and the College falls apart,' she said. 'Filth in the kitchens, rats in the rooms, and the food all gone.'
Michael coughed, his mouth overfull of fresh warm oatcake. 'The servants have mostly left,' he said. 'That great lump of lard in the Master's room will not stir himself to take charge as he should, and the College is ruled by chaos.'
'Not any more,' said Agatha grandly, 'for I am back.
And make no mistake, young sirs, no pestilence is going to get me! I have been three days going from house to house, seeing my relatives die, and I am still free from the pestilence. Some of us will not be taken!'
Bartholomew and Michael stared at her in astonishment.
'You may be right,' said Bartholomew. 'Gregory Colet and I wondered whether some people may have a natural resistance to the plague.'
'Not resistance, Master Bartholomew,' said Agatha proudly, 'I am one of God's chosen.' She shifted her ample skirts importantly. 'He strikes down those that anger him, and spares those he loves.'
'That cannot be, Mistress,' said Bartholomew. 'Why would God strike down children? And what of the monks and friars who risk themselves to give comfort to the people?'
'Monks and friars!' spat Agatha. "I have seen the lives they lead: wealth, rich foods, women, and fine clothes! God will direct them to hell first!'
'Thank you for your kind words, Mistress,' said Michael, eyeing her dolefully. 'And how long would you say I have before God banishes me to hell?'
Agatha grinned sheepishly. "I did not say he would take you all. But what other reason can there be that some die and some live? The physicians do not know.
Gregory Colet told me I may be right, and the priests believe some are chosen to live and others to die.'
'Perhaps some people have a balance of humours in their bodies that gives them a resistance to the plague,' mused Bartholomew, taking another oatcake.
'And have you compared the humours of those that live with those that die?' asked Michael.
Bartholomew nodded, frustrated. 'But I can see no pattern in it as yet.'
Michael patted his shoulder. 'Well, perhaps the balance is too fine to be easily seen,' he said. 'But if your theory is true, I do not want to know for it would mean that I am doomed — to live or die — as my body directs, and that nothing I do — no matter how I pray or try to live a godly life, will make a difference. And then I would be without hope and without God.'
Bartholomew raised his hands. 'It would be no kind of answer anyway,' he said.
"I want to know how to cure this foul disease, not forecast for people whether they will live or die.'
Michael stood up, stuffing the rest of the oatcakes in his scrip for later. 'As much as I like your company, sitting here discussing the causes of the Death with two people who have no more idea why it has come than I have will benefit no one. I must say my prayers and visit the people.'
He marched out of the kitchen, and Bartholomew heard his strong baritone singing a psalm as he went to the porter's lodge. He also glimpsed Wilson's white face at his window, surveying the domain he dared not rule.
'You can stay a while, if you do not mind me clattering,' said Agatha. Bartholomew recognised this as a rare compliment, for Agatha did not approve of idle hands in the kitchen. She was already beginning to reimpose her order on the chaos, for the boys who worked in the scullery had been set to work washing floors, and Cynric and Alexander were collecting the bedclothes of those who had died to be taken to the laundry.
'Thank you, Mistress, but I must meet with Gregory Colet to see that the new pit is dug.'
He left Agatha to her work, and went to draw some water from the well. Back in the room where he stored his medicines, he washed quickly in the freezing water and changed his clothes. His clean ones were not quite dry, but it was going to rain again anyway, he thought. As he emerged from the storeroom, he saw Father William and hailed him over. He looked tired, and his eyes were red-rimmed.