Bartholomew watched the guttering candle. 'But the University at Oxford is stronger, bigger, and older than Cambridge. Why should they bother?'
Wilson made an impatient sound, and slowly shook his head. 'You will not be convinced, I see. Aelfrith said as much. But you will see in the end. Anyway, it matters not why you choose to seek the seal, only that you do so. Believe it will lead you to your woman if you wish.
Believe it will avenge Babington's death. But find it.'
He closed his eyes, his face an ashen-grey.
'And the second thing?' Bartholomew asked. 'You said there were two things you wanted done.' "I want you to see that I am not thrown into one of your filthy plague pits. I want to be buried in the church near the high altar, and I want an effigy carved in black marble. I am choosing you to do this because I know you are dealing with burials these days, and because you have already had the plague and might now survive the longest. Any of the others might catch it, and I cannot rely on them to carry out my wishes. You will find money for the tomb in my purse in the College chest.'
Bartholomew stared at him in disbelief, and almost laughed. Wilson was incorrigible! Even with so little time left, his mind was on pomp and ceremony. Bartholomew wanted to tell him that it would give him great pleasure to see his fat corpse dumped into the plague pit, but he was not Wilson, and so he merely said he would do what he could.
Wilson seemed to be fading fast, now he had completed his business. Sweat coursed down his face and over his jowls, and Bartholomew noticed that one of the swellings on his neck must have burst when he was moving his head. Thankfully, he did not seem to be in any pain. Perhaps the shock of the burns had taken the feeling from his body, or perhaps Wilson was able to put it to the back of his mind while he tied up the loose ends in his life.
'Tell Michael to come,' he whispered. "I have done with you now.'
Bartholomew was peremptorily dismissed with the characteristic flap of the flabby hand that had been the cause of so much resentment among the College servants. He went to the door and called for Michael.
Michael huffed up the stairs and spread out his accoutrements, obviously still indignant about his dismissal from the room earlier.
Bartholomew left so that Wilson could make his confession in private, and went to examine the other plague cases in the commoners' room. He was summoned back by Michael after only a few minutes.
'The Master had little to confess,' said Michael in amused disbelief. 'He says he has lived a godly life, and has done no harm to anyone who did not deserve it.
God's teeth, Matt.' Michael shook his head in wonder.
'It is as well he has asked you not to put him in the plague pit. In a tomb of his own, the Devil will be able to come to claim him that much quicker!'
8
Wilson died shortly after he was absolved of his sins. Bartholomew helped Cynric stitch the body into one of the singed wall-hangings that Michael and Gray had used to put out the flames.
Bartholomew did not want the body to stay in the College, nor did he want it lying in the church where it might infect others. The only solution was to dig a temporary grave so that it could be retrieved when the tomb was ready.
Gray went to purchase a coffin at an extortionate price — they had become a rare commodity- and at dawn that day, Cynric and Gray dug a deep grave at the back of the church. Agatha, Cynric and Gray watched from a distance as Bartholomew and Michael lowered the coffin, while William muttered a requiem mass at top speed.
When it was over, they went into the church for the morning service and then back to College for breakfast.
The hall was cold and gloomy, and Bartholomew suggested that they all eat in the kitchen, where it was warm and Cynric would not have so far to carry the food. The other scholars had tended to prepare their own breakfasts in their rooms since the onset of the plague, to avoid unnecessary contact.
William gulped down some bread and watered wine, and went to take the news of Wilson's death to the Chancellor. Agatha watched him go.
'Would it be an unchristian thing to be thankful that that pompous old windbag was dead?' she asked Michael.
'Yes,' replied Michael, his hands full of chicken and his face covered in grease.
'Well, then,' she said, 'you have advance warning of what I will say in my confession. The College will be better without him. What will happen now?'
Michael swallowed a huge mouthful of food, and almost choked. Bartholomew pounded him on the back.
'The Fellows choose two names from their number, and the Chancellor picks one of them,' Michael said between coughs. As soon as he stopped coughing, he crammed as much food into his mouth as would fit, and went through the same process again.
'So, which two Fellows will you choose?' asked Agatha, beginning to clear away the table.
Michael swallowed hard, tears coursing down his cheeks. 'Dry, this chicken,' he remarked, making Bartholomew laugh. 'One nomination will have to be Swynford, I suppose. I would like you to be the other, Matt.' "I am not doing it,' Bartholomew gasped in amazement.
"I do not have time.'
'Well, who else then?' asked Michael.
'You, Swynford, William, Alcote. Any of you would do well.' Bartholomew wondered which of them would promote the cause of the University, and which might be Oxford's spies. He rose and washed his hands in a bowl of water near the fire. Behind him, he could hear the cracking of bones as Michael savaged the remains of his chicken. Gray dabbled his hands quickly in the cold water, and wiped them on his robe. He did not see why Bartholomew was always washing his hands; they only became dirty again, especially in the shabby hovels that Bartholomew frequented.
Bartholomew's first duty of the day was to examine Alyngton and five students in the commoners' room. He lanced the swellings that looked as though they would drain, and left Michael's Benedictine room-mates with instructions on how to keep the sick scholars comfortable.
That done, he visited three patients in the river men's houses down by the wharf.
Gray followed him from house to house carrying the heavy bag that contained Bartholomew's instruments and medicines. Bartholomew could feel the student's disapproval as he entered the single-roomed shacks that were home to families of a dozen. The only patient of which Gray did not disapprove was the wife of a merchant. She was one of the few cases with which Bartholomew had had success, and was lying in a bed draped with costly cloths, tired, but still living.
The grateful merchant pressed some gold coins into Bartholomew's hand. Bartholomew wondered whether they would be sufficient to bribe people to drive the carts that collected the dead.
Once the urgent calls were over, Bartholomew turned to Gray.
"I need to discover what happened to Philippa,' he said. "I am going to try to see if anyone knows Giles Abigny's whereabouts.'
Gray's face broke into a smile. 'You mean you plan to visit a few of his favourite spots?' he asked cheerfully.
'Oh, good. Beats traipsing around those dismal hovels.
Where shall we begin?'
Bartholomew was thankful that Gray had so readily agreed to help. 'The King's Head,' he said, saying the first place that came into his head.
Gray frowned. 'Not a good place to start,' he said.
'We would be better going there later when it is busier.
We should visit Bene't's first — that is where he spent most of his time outside Michaelhouse. Hugh Stapleton's brother, Cedric, is ill and now Master Roper is dead, they have no physician. We could see him first and then wheedle an invitation to eat there.'
Bartholomew saw he had a lot to learn in the sleazy ways of detection. He walked with Gray up the High Street to Bene't Street. Gray strolled nonchalantly into Bene't Hostel and a notion went through Bartholomew's mind that the scholars there might consider him to have poached Gray from them. The student had attached himself to Bartholomew with gay abandon, and Bartholomew had not asked whether he had sought permission from the Principal — whoever that was now that Hugh Stapleton had died.