It was dark by the time they arrived back at Michaelhouse. Bartholomew went to see his patients in the commoners' room. Jerome had recovered from the plague, but it had weakened him, and he was dying slowly from the wasting disease in his chest. As Bartholomew entered the room, he saw Father William was helping one of the Benedictine novices to sew someone into a blanket.
A quick glance around the room told him it was Nicholas, at fifteen Michaelhouse's youngest student, who looked that morning as if he might recover. Bartholomew sat heavily on a stool.
'His end was so quick that there was no time to call you,' William said. The fanatical gleam that was usually in his eyes had dulled, and he looked exhausted. "I have listened to so many dreadful confessions that hell will soon be running out of space.'
Bartholomew wondered if the Franciscan were making a joke, but there was no humour in his face.
'Then perhaps there will be an overspill into heaven,' he replied, standing up.
William grabbed at his sleeve and pulled him down again, whispering angrily in his ear. 'That is heresy, Doctor, and I advise you against such fanciful remarks!'
'So is your belief that hell has limited space,'
Bartholomew retorted. He remembered the rumours when William had first arrived at Michaelhouse that he had been an inquisitor for the Church.
William let go of Bartholomew's sleeve. 'Do not worry,' he said, and Bartholomew saw the gleam come back into his eye as his mind ran over the implications of Bartholomew's reply. "I will not entrap you in a theological debate. But I miss the company of Aelfrith.
There was a man with a lively mind!'
Bartholomew agreed, and wished Aelfrith were alive, so that he could confide his thoughts and feelings to him at that moment. He could have trusted Aelfrith — unlike William or Alcote or Michael — with his concerns about the plague and the College. And thinking of Michael, Bartholomew had not seen him since the previous day.
He asked if William had.
A curious expression passed over William's face.
'No,' he said. 'He has gone somewhere. He has left me with quite a burden, you know.'
Bartholomew thought it curious that Michael had told no one where he was going, but let it pass. He stood up from his stool, stretched his aching limbs, and helped William to carry Nicholas downstairs and across the courtyard to the stables. They placed the body near the door and left as quickly as possible. Bartholomew knew he would never enter the stables again without thinking about Augustus.
The following day, as he walked back along the High Street with Gray, Bartholomew felt the first huge drops of rain from a storm that had been threatening all morning. Gray hailed a student he knew, who invited them into Mary's Hostel to shelter from the worst of the rain. Like Bene't Hostel, Mary's was warm, steamy, and smelled of boiled vegetables. The student brought them spiced wine, and Bartholomew began to relax from the warmth of the fire and the effects of the wine.
He was virtually asleep when he became aware that Gary was introducing him to someone. Embarrassed, he jumped to his feet, and bowed to the scholar who was being presented to him. From Gray's words, he found it was the new Principal of Mary's, Neville Stayne.
Bartholomew had known the previous Principal quite well, but he had died of the plague before Christmas.
His successor was a man in his forties with a shock of oddly wiry black hair that seemed to want to be as far away from his scalp as possible.
Stayne gestured for him to sit again, and perched on a stool next to him, asking him about the progress of the plague in the town. After a while, Stayne brought the subject round to Giles Abigny, who, it seemed, had also spent a good deal of time at Mary's. The members of the hostel were anxious for his safety.
'Have you any idea where he might be?' asked Bartholomew, expecting the same range of speculation and unfounded rumour he had been given everywhere else.
The fire popped and crackled, and Stayne watched it for a moment before answering. "I do not know where he is now, but I believe I saw him two nights ago in Cambridge.'
Bartholomew's stomach lurched. 'Where? What happened?'
'Well, I think I saw him coming out of the alehouse near the Dominican Friary the night before last. I had heard about him taking his sister off somewhere, and so seeing him stuck in my mind.' The Principal leaned back and closed his eyes as he tried to recall what he had seen. 'He was wearing a heavy cloak, and he turned when I called his name. Then he began to walk away from me quickly. He turned a corner, and I ran after him, but when I got there, the street was empty.' He shrugged.
'That is all, I am afraid. If asked to swear in a court of law, I would not be able to say it was definitely Giles.
But it certainly looked like him, and he did turn and then run away when I called his name. Draw your own conclusions.'
Bartholomew and Gray took their leave as soon as the rain had eased. Stayne closed the door behind them and waited. From the small chamber to one side of the hallway, Burwell emerged. The two men spoke together in low tones for a short time, and then Burwell left, his face grim.
There were two alehouses near the Dominican Friary, but no one in either could remember Giles Abigny. When Bartholomew began to describe him, the fat landlord shook his head.
'We are on a main road, and our trade is excellent, even with this pestilence. I cannot remember everyone who buys ale from me. He may have been here, but I cannot be certain.'
The landlord at the other alehouse knew Abigny and was more helpful, but said Abigny had most definitely not been there two nights before. He smiled ruefully, and said that Abigny had once been caught cheating at a game of dice with two of the locals, and had not dared to show his face again for fear of what might happen to him.
They walked back to Michaelhouse, and, after a silent meal, Bartholomew went to the sick-room. The dim light of the grey winter afternoon made it feel gloomy, and Bartholomew stoked up the fire. He was sure that Wilson would have been appalled at the waste of fuel on dying men. He smiled to himself as a picture of Wilson in hell, telling the Devil not to waste wood on his fires, sprang into his mind. He felt someone touch him on the shoulder, and looked up to see William bending over him. He felt slightly uncomfortable. Was the ex-inquisitor reading his mind and seeing heretical thoughts within?
William beckoned him outside, and stood waiting in the chilly hallway outside Augustus's room.
'We have been sent a message from the Chancellor at last,' he said. 'He has chosen Robert Swynford to be our next Master.'
'No great surprise, and he will make a good Master,'
Bartholomew said. 'Will he come back from the country?'
William shook his head. 'Robert also sent a message saying that there has been plague in the house of his relatives and most of the menfolk have died. He asks our indulgence that we allow him to remain away for a few weeks until he is sure the women will be properly cared for. He has asked Alcote to act as his deputy until then.'
Bartholomew wondered if leaving the College in the care of a man who had just been deprived of the position might not be a risky move. Then he thought of Robert Swynford's easy grace and confidence, and knew that he would have no problem whatsoever in wresting delegated power back from Alcote.