'But you are a physician! You must be able to do something!'
Bartholomew flinched. These were words he heard every day, but they hurt nevertheless. He went over to look at the old lady, and arranged her arms so that the pressure on the swellings under them would be reduced.
The buboes in her groin had burst, emitting the smell which Bartholomew had come to know well, but that still filled him with disgust. He sent Gray to find a priest to give her last rites, and sat back helplessly. Behind him, Philippa cried softly. He took her hand and led her outside into the clean morning air.
'Why did you come, Matt?' asked Philippa.
'That student came and said I was needed at St Radegund's. He does not seem to know by whom.' "I receive a message to come here, sent by an unknown person, then you do. What is going on? Who wants us here together?' Philippa looked around her as if expecting the unknown person to emerge from the bushes.
'Friend or foe?' asked Bartholomew absently. He was horribly afraid that it was the latter, someone who wanted Philippa to come into contact with a plague victim, and Bartholomew to know it. He felt a sudden anger. Who would want to do such a thing? What had either of them done to harm anyone else? 'Now I am out of that horrid place, I will not go back,' said Philippa with a sudden fierce determination.
"I refuse. I can stay with you and Giles. I can sleep in your medicine room.'
'There is plague at the College, Philippa,' said Bartholomew. 'You would not be safe.'
'There is plague here!' said Philippa vehemently, gesturing to the shack behind them. 'And anyway,' she continued, "I do not approve of the way the nuns skulk behind the convent walls. Sister Clement was the only one with any decency.'
'Do you want to die like that?' asked Bartholomew, gesturing back at the old lady.
'Do you?' countered Philippa. 'You see plague victims every day, and you are well. So is Gregory Colet. Not everyone who touches someone with the Death catches it.'
Bartholomew wondered what to do. It was out of the question to take Philippa to Michaelhouse. Even though Master Wilson was not in a position to do anything about it, the clerics would object. And she could not possibly sleep in the medicines room. The shutters did not close properly, and there were no separate privies that she would be able to use. He would have to take her to Edith's house. Edith had not heeded his advice and locked herself away, and Stanmore was still trying to conduct his trade. Philippa would not be as protected there from the plague as she had been in the convent, but it was the best he could do.
Gray came back over the fields bringing with him an Austin Canon from Barnwell whom he had waylaid.
They listened to his murmurings as he administered last rites to the old nun. After a few minutes he came out, told them that Sister Clement was dead, and went on his way. For him, it would be the first in a long day of such prayers, and who knew whether he would live to see another such day tomorrow?
Bartholomew took Philippa's hand, and together they began to make their way back to Barnwell Causeway.
Gray tagged along behind.
Bartholomew decided to go to Edith's house in Trumpington immediately. They would have to walk because he knew of nowhere where he would be able to hire horses. All the usual places had been struck by the plague, and the horses turned to graze unattended in the fields. Bartholomew turned to Gray.
'Can you tell me anything else about this man who gave you the message? What did he look like?'
Gray shrugged. 'He was wearing a Dominican habit, and his cowl was over his face. He had ink on his fingers, though, and he tripped on the hem of his gown as he left.'
Ink on his fingers. He could be a clerk or a student, unfamiliar enough in the friar's long habit to fall over it when he walked. Were the fanatical scholars after him now? Was this a warning to him that he was vulnerable through Philippa, even though he had thought her safely tucked away in her convent? He wondered why on earth they were bothering. No one who watched the sun rise these days could be certain of seeing it set in the evening. All they had to do was wait. Why had they taken the trouble to poison Aelfrith? As Bartholomew's thoughts of murder came tumbling back, he clutched Philippa's hand tighter, glad to feel something warm and reassuring. She smiled at him, and they began to walk towards Trumpington.
Edith was delighted to see Bartholomew and surprised to see Philippa. She fussed over them both, and found Philippa a small room in the garret where she could have some privacy. Oswald Stanmore was just finishing a late breakfast in the parlour, and chatted to Bartholomew while Edith whisked Philippa away.
'She will be glad of some company,' he said, jerking his thumb towards the stairway where Edith had gone.
'She frets over Richard. We have had no word since the plague came. I keep telling her that she should look on this as a positive sign and that definite news might mean he has been buried.'
Bartholomew said nothing. He did not want to remind Stanmore of the dozens of unnamed bodies he saw tipped into the pits. People often died in the streets, were collected by the carts and their names were never discovered. He was sure that Stanmore must have seen this as he did his business around the town. He tried not to think about it; Bartholomew did not want to imagine Richard tipped into some pit in Oxford, never to be traced by his family.
'How are the figures?' asked Stanmore.
'Another fifteen died yesterday, including eight children,' said Bartholomew. "I have lost count of the total number, and the clerk who is supposed to note numbers of bodies going into the pits is drunk half the time. We will probably never know how many have died in Cambridge.'
'You look exhausted, Matt. Stay here for a few days and rest. You cannot keep going at this pace.'
'The plague will not last forever,' said Bartholomew.
'And how can I leave Colet and Roper to do everything?'
'Simon Roper died this morning,' said Stanmore.
He noticed Bartholomew's shock. 'I am sorry, lad. I thought you would have known.'
Now Bartholomew and Colet were the only ones left, with Robin of Grantchester, the town surgeon, whose methods and hygiene Bartholomew did not trust.
How would they manage? Because there had been cases where Bartholomew had lanced the black swellings and the patient had lived, he wanted to make sure that as many people as possible were given this tiny chance for life. If there were fewer physicians and surgeons, fewer people would be treated, and the plague would take those who might have been able to survive.
' Stay here with Philippa,' said Stanmore persuasively.
'She needs you, too.'
Bartholomew felt himself wavering. It would be wonderful to spend a few hours with Philippa and to forget all the foulness of the past weeks. But he knew that there were people who needed him, perhaps his friends, and he would not forgive himself if one of them died when he might have been able to help. He shook his head.
"I must go back to the College. Alexander was unwell last night. I should check on him, and I must make sure that the pits are being properly limed, or we may never escape from this vile disease.' He stood up and stretched.
' Ride with me then,' said Stanmore, gathering scrolls of neat figures from the table and stuffing them in his bag.
'One of the apprentices can bring the horse back again tonight.'
Edith came in and told them that Philippa was resting. Apparently the death of the old nun had upset her more than Bartholomew had thought. He had become so inured to death that he had made the assumption that others had too, and had not considered that Philippa would be so grieved.