'Nathaniel the Fleming has the plague,' he said. "I have been called to give him last rites.'
'Not leeches?' asked Bartholomew, his own weariness making him obtuse.
William looked askance at him. 'Doctor Colet has already leeched him, but the poisons were too deep in his body to draw out.' He reached a meaty hand towards Bartholomew. 'What of Aelfrith? Will you see him taken to the plague pit?'
Bartholomew looked up at the pale blue sky. Did William know? Should he tell him? What if William and Wilson were in league, and had poisoned Aelfrith together? Bartholomew looked at the friar's face, grey with fatigue, and recalled also that Aelfrith and William had been close friends. 'Shall I bury him in the churchyard instead?' he asked, to buy himself more time to think.
William looked startled. 'Can we? Is it not safer for the living to bury him in lime in the plague pits?' "I do not see why,' Bartholomew said, watching William closely. 'Others were buried in the churchyard before the plague came in earnest.'
William pursed his lips. "I have been thinking about that. Perhaps it is their corrupted flesh lying in hallowed ground that is causing the contagion to spread. Perhaps the way to stop the Death is to exhume them all and rebury them in the plague pits.'
Now it was Bartholomew's turn to be startled. Here was a theory he had not encountered before. He mulled it over in his mind briefly, reluctant to dismiss any chance of defeating the plague without due thought, no matter how unlikely a solution it might seem. But he shook his head. "I suspect that would only serve to put those that perform the exhumation at risk, if not from the plague, then from other diseases. And I cannot see that they are a danger to the living.'
William looked at him dubiously. 'Will you bury Aelfrith, then? In the churchyard?'
Bartholomew nodded, and then hesitated. IfWilliam were involved in Aelfrith's murder, incautious questioning would only serve to endanger his own life, and if he were not, it would be yet another burden for the exhausted friar. 'Were you… surprised that he was taken?' Bartholomew asked, before realising how clumsy the question was.
William looked taken aback. 'He was fit enough at the midday meal,' he replied. 'Just tired like us all, and saddened because he had heard the deathbed confession of the Principal of All Saints' Hostel. Now you mention it, poor Aelfrith was taken very quickly. It was fortunate that Brother Michael was near, or he might have died un shriven.'
He began to walk away, leaving Bartholomew less certain than ever as to whether he was involved. Were his reactions, his words, those of a killer? And what of Wilson? What was his role in Aelfrith's death?
Before leaving, he decided to see Abigny briefly.
He pushed the door open slowly, and a boot flew across the room and landed at his feet. Bartholomew pushed the door all the way open and peered in.
'Oh. It is you, Matt. I thought it was that damned rat again. Did you see it? It is as big as a dog!' Abigny untangled himself from his bed. 'What a time I had last night, Physician. What delights I sampled! None of the young ladies want to meet their maker without first knowing of love, and I have been only too happy to oblige. You should try it.'
'Giles, if you are sampling the delights of as many poor ladies as you say, I hope you do not plan to visit Philippa,' said Bartholomew anxiously. 'Please do not visit her if you are seeing people who may be infected.'
'Poppycock! She will die if it is her time,' said Abigny, pulling on some of his brightest clothes. Bartholomew knew only too well that this meant he was planning on impressing some female friends.
'And you will die before it is yours if you take the pestilence to her!' he said with quiet menace. He had always found Abigny rather shallow and selfish, although he could be an entertaining companion, but he had always believed the philosopher to be genuinely fond of his sister. Through the past few black weeks, it had been the thought of Philippa's face that had allowed Bartholomew to continue his bleak work. He could not bear to think of her falling prey to the filthy disease.
Abigny stopped dressing and looked at Bartholomew.
'Matthew, I am sorry,' he said with sincerity.
'You should know better than to think I would harm Philippa. No, I do not have the plague…' He raised his hand to stop Bartholomew from coming further into the room. 'Hugh Stapleton died last night'
Bartholomew leaned against the door. Stapleton had run Bene't Hostel, and had been a close friend of Abigny's. Abigny spent more time at the Hostel than he did at Michaelhouse, and regularly took his meals there.
"I am sorry, Giles,' he said. He had seen so many die over the last several days, including Aelfrith, that it was difficult to sound convincing. He wondered whether he would be bereft of all compassion by the time the plague had run its course.
Abigny nodded. "I am away to enjoy the pleasures of life, and I will not see Philippa,' he said. "I was with Hugh when he died, and he told me to enjoy life while I had it. That is exactly what I am going to do.'
He flung his best red cloak over his shoulders and walked jauntily out of the yard. Bartholomew followed him as far as the stable where Father Aelfrith's body lay.
While Abigny enjoyed life, Bartholomew had a colleague to bury. He glanced up and saw Wilson lingering at the window. Had he killed Aelfrith? 'Father Aelfrith is dead,' Bartholomew yelled up at him, drawing the attention of several students who were walking around the yard to the hall. 'Will you come to see him buried, Master Wilson?'
The shadowy shape disappeared. Bartholomew took a spade from the stable and walked to St Michael's churchyard.
6
Christmas at Cambridge was usually a time for celebration and for a relaxing of the rules that governed scholars' lives. Fires would be lit in the conclave, and students and Fellows could gather round and tell each other stories, or even play cards. Since it was dark by four o'clock in the evening, a night by the fire in a candle-lit conclave was a pleasant change from the usual practice of retiring to dark, unheated rooms.
But the plague was still raging in Cambridge at Christmas, and few felt like celebrating. Bedraggled groups of children stood in the snow singing carols for pennies. Food was scarce because many of the farmers who grew the winter vegetables or tended the livestock were struck with the plague. Many who were fit did not wish to risk a journey into the town, where they might come into contact with infected people.
The cart patrolling the streets collecting the dead became a common sight. Old women who had lost entire families followed it around, offering prayers for the dead in return for money or food. Houses stood empty, and at night, after the curfew bell had rung and the depleted and exhausted patrols of University beadles and Sheriffs men slept, small bands of vagrants and thieves would loot the homes of the dead and the sick. The thieves soon became bolder, coming in from surrounding villages and even attacking during the daylight hours.
To make matters worse, it was a cold winter, with gales howling across the flat land, bringing with them driving snow. On clear days and nights, the temperature dropped so low that sick people had to go out foraging for sticks to build fires to melt ice for water to drink.
The monks at Barnwell Priory lost a third of their number, although St Radegund's fared better and only three nuns became ill. More than half of the monks at the great monasteries at Ely and Norwich perished, and Bartholomew began to appreciate the Bishop's point as he saw more and more people die without being given last rites. Some did not care, but only wished to end their agony; others died in terror of going straight to hell as a punishment for various petty sins. The church walls were full of paintings of the damned being devoured by demons in hell, so Bartholomew did not wonder that people were afraid.