'What about the priests? Can they not see that the streets need to be cleared and the bodies removed?'
Michael laughed without humour. 'We are in the business of saving souls,' he said, 'notbodies. And anyway, so many clerics have died that there are barely enough to give last rites. Did you know that there are only three Dominicans left here?'
Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. The large community of Dominicans had continued to work among the poor after the outbreak of the plague, and it seemed that their adherence to their way of life may have brought about their virtual demise.
Gregory Colet was not in his room at Rudde's, and the porter told them that he would be in one of the churches, usually St Botolph's. Bartholomew had always admired St Botolph's, with its slate-grey stone and windows faced with cream ashlar, but as Michael pushed open the great oak door and led the way inside it felt damp and cold. The stained glass that he had coveted for St Michael's Church no longer seemed to imbue it with soft colour, but served to make it dismal.
The feeling of gloom was further enhanced by the sound of muted chanting. Candles were lit in the sanctuary and half a dozen monks and friars from various Orders knelt in a row at the altar. Colet sat to one side, his back against a pillar and his eyes fixed on the twinkling candles. One of the monks saw Bartholomew and Michael and came down the aisle to meet them.
Michael introduced him to Bartholomew as Brother Dunstan of Ely. Dunstan expressed pleasure to see Bartholomew well again.
'God knows we need you now,' he said, his eyes straying to Colet.
'What is wrong with him?' Bartholomew asked.
Dunstan tapped his temple. 'His mind has gone.
He heard that Roper had died and that you had the sickness, and he gave up. He sits here, or in one of the other churches, all day and only goes home to sleep. I think he may be willing himself to die.'
Michael crossed himself quickly while Bartholomew looked at Dunstan in horror.
'No! Not when there are so many others that are being taken who want to live!'
Dunstan sighed. 'It is only what I think. Now I must go. We have so many masses to say for the dead, so much to do…'
Michael followed Dunstan to the altar rail, leaving Bartholomew looking at Colet, still gazing at the candles with vacant eyes. Bartholomew knelt down and touched Colet on the shoulder. Reluctantly Colet tore his eyes from the candles to his friend. He gave the faintest glimmer of a smile.
'Matt! You have escaped the Death!'
He began to look back towards the candles again, and Bartholomew gripped his shoulder.
'What is wrong, Gregory? I need your help.'
Colet shook his head. 'It is too late. You and I can do no more.' He became agitated. 'Give it up, Matthew, and go to the country. Cambridge will be a dead town soon.'
'No!' said Bartholomew vehemently. 'It is far from over. People have recovered and others have escaped infection. You cannot give up on them. They need you and so do I!'
Colet shook Bartholomew's hand away, his agitation quickly disappearing into a lethargic gloom. "I can do no more,' he said, his voice barely audible.
'You must!' pleaded Bartholomew. 'The streets are filthy, and the bodies of the dead have not been collected in days. I cannot do it all alone, Gregory. Please!'
Colet's dull eyes looked blankly at Bartholomew before he turned away to look at the candles. 'Give it up,' he whispered. 'It is over.'
Bartholomew sat for a moment, overwhelmed by the task he now faced alone. Robin of Grantchester might help, but he would do nothing without being paid and Bartholomew had very little money to give him. He glanced up and saw Michael and Dunstan watching him.
'You can do nothing here,' said Dunstan softly, looking at Colet with pity. 'It is best you leave him be.'
Depressed at Colet's state of mind, Bartholomew ate a dreary meal in Michaelhouse's chilly hall, and then went to visit the building where Stanmore had his business.
Stephen greeted Bartholomew warmly, looking so like his older brother that Bartholomew almost mistook him.
Bartholomew was urged inside and made to sit near a roaring fire while Stephen's wife prepared some spiced wine. Stephen reassured him that everyone was well at Trumpington, but there was a reservation in his voice that made Bartholomew uneasy.
'Are you sure everyone is well?' he persisted.
'Yes, yes, Matthew. Do not worry,' he said, swirling the wine in his cup, and assiduously refusing to look Bartholomew in the eye.
Bartholomew leaned over and gripped his wrist.
'Has anyone there had the plague? Did it come with Philippa?'
Stephen sighed. 'They told me not to tell you, because they did not want you to go rushing over there before you were well enough. Yes. The plague struck after you brought Philippa. She became ill before you were scarcely gone from the house. Then Edith was stricken, and three of the servants. The servants died, but Philippa and Edith recovered,' he said quickly as Bartholomew leapt to his feet. 'Sit down again and listen.
They were not ill as long as you. They got those revolting swellings like everyone else, but they also got black spots over their bodies.'
He paused, and Bartholomew felt his heart sink.
'They are well now,' Stephen said again, 'but…' His voice trailed off.
'But what?' said Bartholomew. His voice was calm and steady, but he had to push his hands into the folds of his robe so that Stephen would not see them shaking.
'The spots on Edith healed well enough, but Mistress Philippa has scars.'
Bartholomew leaned back in his chair. Was that it?
He looked perplexed, and Stephen tried to explain.
'There are scars on her face. She will not let anyone see them, and she refuses to speak to anyone. She wears a veil all the time, and they have to leave her food outside the door… where are you going?'
Bartholomew was already at the door, drawing his hood over his head. 'Can I borrow a horse?' he said.
Stephen grabbed his arm. 'This is difficult for me to say, Matt, but she specifically asked that you not be allowed to see her. She does not want to see anyone.'
Bartholomew shook him off. "I am a physician.
There may be something I can do.'
Stephen grabbed him again. 'She does not want you to go, Matt. She left a note saying that you were not to come. No one has seen her for the past week.
Leave her. In time she will come round.'
'Can I borrow a horse?' Bartholomew asked again.
'No,' said Stephen, maintaining his grip.
'Then I will walk,' said Bartholomew, pushing him away and striding out into the yard. Stephen sighed, and shouted for an apprentice to saddle up his mare.
Bartholomew waited in silence, while Stephen chattered nervously. 'Richard is back,' he said. Bartholomew relented a little, and smiled at Stephen.
'Thank God,' he said softly. 'Edith must be so happy.'
'As a monk in a brothel!' said Stephen grinning.
The apprentice walked the horse over and Bartholomew swung himself up into the saddle. Stephen darted into his house and returned with a long blue cloak. 'Wear this, or you will freeze.'
Bartholomew accepted it gratefully. He leaned down to touch Stephen lightly on the shoulder, and was gone, kicking the horse into a canter that was far from safe on the narrow streets.
Once out of the town, he had to slow down out of consideration for Stephen's horse. The road to Trumpington had been well travelled, and the snow had been churned into a deep slush. The weather was warmer than it had been before Christmas, and the frozen mud had thawed into a mass of cold, oozing sludge. The horse slipped and skidded, and had to be urged forward constantly. Bartholomew was beginning to think he would have to lead it, when the path became wider, and he was able to pick his way around the larger morasses.