Edith gave Bartholomew a hug. 'Take care,' she whispered. 'Do not take too many chances. I could not bear to lose you.'
She turned away so that he would not see the tears in her eyes, and bustled around the fireplace.
Bartholomew reached over and touched her lightly on the shoulder before following her husband into the yard. It was beginning to snow again, and the wind was bitterly cold. The muddy ruts in the track back to Cambridge had frozen, and the covering of snow made the travelling treacherous. Both horses stumbled several times, and the snow swirled about them so that they could barely see the way.
After a few minutes, Stanmore reined in. 'This is insane, Matt. We must go back. We can try again later.'
'You return. I have to go on,' said Bartholomew.
'Be sensible! We can barely see where we are going.
Come home with me.'
'But I am worried about Alexander. And I promised the miller I would look in on his boy.'
'Go if you must, but I think you are mad. Take the horse. Please do not stable the poor beast at Michaelhouse, but take it to Stephen. He knows how to care for horses, unlike your dreadful porter.'
Bartholomew nodded and with a wave of his hand urged the horse on down the track, while Stanmore retraced his steps. The snow seemed to be coming horizontally, and Bartholomew was quickly enveloped in a soundless world of swirling white. Even the horse's hooves barely made a sound. Despite being cold and tired, he admired the beauty and tranquility of the countryside. The soft sheets of brilliant white stretching in all directions seemed a long way from the putrid black buboes and blood-laden vomit of the plague victims. He stopped the horse, so that he could appreciate the silence and peace.
He was startled to hear a twig snapping behind him. He twisted round in the saddle and saw a shadow flit between the trees. He hoped it was not robbers; he had no wish to be attacked for the few pennies in his pocket. He jabbed his heels into the horse's side to urge it forward, and it broke into a brisk trot. Glancing behind himself frequently, Bartholomew saw nothing but snow-laden trees and the hoof marks of his horse on the path.
He reached the Priory of St Edmund's, its buildings almost invisible in the swirling snow, and continued to Small Bridges Street. The miller was waiting for him, peering anxiously through the snow. As Bartholomew dismounted, he raced to meet him.
'He is well, Doctor, he lives! You saved him! You said he had a chance, and you were right. He is awake now, asking for water.'
Bartholomew gave a brief smile and went to see his small patient. His mother had died of the plague three days before, followed by one of his sisters. The boy looked as though he would recover now, and the rest of the family seemed healthy enough. Leaving them with stern warnings not to drink the river water just because the well was frozen, he mounted and rode back to Michaelhouse, his spirits a little higher. As he turned to wave to the miller, he thought he saw a shadow dart into the long grass by the side of the stream, but it was no more than the merest flash of movement, and however hard he looked, he could see nothing else.
Bartholomew took the horse to Stephen Stanmore's house on Milne Street and stayed for a cup of mulled wine. Stephen looked tired and strained and told him that three of the apprentices had died. Rachel Atkin, whom Bartholomew had persuaded him to take, was proving invaluable in helping to nurse others with the sickness.
When Bartholomew returned to College, Alexander had already died, and Brother Michael was helping Agatha to sew him into a blanket. Cynric was also ill, shivering with fever, and muttering in Welsh.
Bartholomew sat with him until the light began to fade, and went out to check on the plague pits.
Cynric was more friend than servant. They had first met in Oxford when they had been on opposing sides in one of the many town-and-gown brawls. Each had bloodied the other, but rather than continue, Bartholomew, who had had enough of his foray into such senseless behaviour, offered to buy the short Welshman some ale.
Cynric had narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but had gone with Bartholomew, and the two had spent the rest of the day talking and watching their fellow brawlers being arrested. Bartholomew had arranged for the itinerant Cynric to work in the hostel where he studied, and, later, had invited him to Cambridge. Officially, Cynric was Bartholomew's book-bearer, although he did other tasks around the College and had a considerable degree of freedom.
Bartholomew walked back down the High Street to the scrap of land that had been hastily consecrated so that plague victims could be buried. He peered into the pit in the growing gloom, and ordered that the dead-collectors be told to use more lime.
It was still snowing heavily as he walked back to College. The snow was almost knee-deep in places, and walking was hard work. Bartholomew began to feel hot, and paused to wipe the sweat from his face. He also felt dizzy. Probably just tiredness, he thought impatiently, and he tried to hurry through the snow to return to Cynric. Walking became harder and harder, and Bartholomew was finding it difficult to catch his breath.
He was relieved when he finally reached Michaelhouse, and staggered through the gates. He decided that he needed to lie down for a few moments before sitting with Cynric again.
He made his way over to his room, and pushed open the door. He stopped dead in his tracks as Samuel Gray rose languidly from his bed, where, judging from his half-closed eyes and rumpled hair, he had been sleeping.
Bartholomew desperately wanted to rest, and his body felt stiff and sore. It must have been the unaccustomed riding. He took a step forwards, and Gray moved cautiously backwards.
"I have been waiting for you,' said Gray.
Bartholomew swallowed. His throat felt dry and sore.
'What for? Not more messages?'
'No, no, nothing like that,' said Gray.
Bartholomew felt his knees begin to give way. As he pitched forward into the surprised student's arms, he knew he had become a victim of the plague.
Epiphany came and went. Brother Michael, Father William, and a mere handful of students celebrated mass. Alcote slipped into the back of the church, and skittered nervously from pillar to pillar as a few parishioners straggled in. When one of them began to cough, he left and scuttled back to the safety of his room.
Of Wilson, there was no sign.
Cynric had a burning fever for two days, and then woke on the third morning claiming he was well. Agatha, who had been nursing him, heaved a sigh of relief and went about her other duties, secure in her belief that she was immune. When a peddler came to the College selling crudely carved wooden lions covered in gold paint that he assured her would protect her from the plague, she sent him away with some ripe curses ringing in his ears.
The dead-collectors failed to come for Alexander, and so Agatha loaded him onto the College cart with the reluctant help of Gilbert, and took him to the plague pit herself. Agatha had heard that Gregory Colet, devastated by the death of Simon Roper and Bartholomew's sickness, had given up visiting new plague victims and no longer supervised the liming of the plague pits or the cleaning of the streets.
More of the dead-collectors died, and it became almost impossible to persuade people to take their places. Several friars and Canons from the Hospital offered their services, but these were not enough, and soon bodies lay for two or three days on the streets or in houses before they were taken away.
Many people believed that the end of the world was near, and that the plague was a punishment for human sin. It was said that entire villages were wiped out, and that in the cities, at least half the population had perished. Trade was virtually at a standstill, and civil disorder was rife in the cities and towns.