He tried to detect whether there was anyone hiding in the hedges at the sides of the field, but he could see nothing moving. A sound behind him made him spin round and almost lose his balance.
His heart beat wildly and he felt his knees turn to jelly. He grabbed at the fence with one hand, while the other groped for the long knife that he had tucked into his belt.
A figure stood outside the fence, heavily cloaked and hooded. It made no attempt to climb over, and when Bartholomew took a step forward, it held up its hand.
'Stay!'
It was a woman's voice. Bartholomew's heart leapt.
'Philippa!' he exclaimed.
The figure was still for a moment, and then shook her head. 'Not Philippa. I am sorry.'
Bartholomew's hopes sank. It was not Philippa's voice: it was deeper, older, and with an accent that suggested the speaker came from the Fens rather than the town.
The woman looked around her quickly. "I am glad you came, but it is not safe for us to meet like this.'
She glanced around again, and leaned over the fence so she would not have to speak so loudly. 'There is a meeting tomorrow at Bene't Hostel. I cannot say what it is about, but you should try to find out because I think it will affect you. The best way would be for you to go to the back of the house and climb to the window in the room they use for the hall. There is a deep sill there, and you will be able to hear what is being said through the shutters. You must take utmost care, for these are dangerous men. But I think you will be safer knowing than not knowing what they say.'
Bartholomew was totally confused. 'Is this about Philippa?' he asked.
The figure took a step away. "I cannot say. You will have to listen and work it out for yourself.'
'But who are you?' Bartholomew asked.
The woman took another step away. 'Please! I will lose everything if anyone finds out I met with you tonight.
Now I must go. Please do not follow me. I ask you this because I took a risk for you tonight.'
Bartholomew assented. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'
The woman stopped and he could feel her looking at him from the depths of her hood. 'You have done enough,' she said softly, and slipped away into the mist.
Bartholomew looked after her, totally mystified.
What kind of meeting held at Benet Hostel could possibly have any relevance to him? And how was he supposed to climb up the back of the building and eavesdrop like some spy? Was this a ploy to discredit him, to get him into some dreadfully compromising position so that he could be dismissed from the University? Were there Oxford scholars plotting against him? Wilson and Aelfrith would probably think so, but there was something about the Oxford plot that Bartholomew could not accept. He understood why Wilson and Aelfrith had believed in it, but he still felt that the entire business was far more important to Cambridge than Oxford, and that Oxford would not waste time on it.
Cynric materialised in front of him, making him jump almost as much as he had when the woman had appeared. Cynric put his hand on his shoulder.
'Easy, boy! Not so jumpy. Shall I follow her?'
Bartholomew dug his nails into the fence, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. The woman had taken a risk to give him information she considered to be important to him, and had asked him not to put her in further danger by following her home.
'No, Cynric,' he said. 'Let her go.'x pLAQue on botI} your Rouses 'Who was it?' Cynric asked, sounding disappointed.
Bartholomew had the feeling his book-bearer was enjoying this nocturnal escapade.
"I do not know, but I think she means us no harm,' he said, climbing slowly over the fence.
'What did she want?'
Bartholomew was silent for a moment before telling Cynric what she had said.
Cynric rubbed his hands together gleefully. 'Should not be too difficult to do,' he said. He screwed up his eyes as he thought. 'Yes. It is possible to climb up the back of Bene't Hostel. It is all covered with ivy that they have never bothered to cut. They throw their rubbish in the back yard, and one of the garderobe chutes empties there. No one bothers to go there because it is so filthy, so I think we should have no problems.'
'We?' queried Bartholomew nervously. "I cannot drag you into this 'You cannot keep me out of it! And anyway, I am much better at this sort of thing than you are.'
Bartholomew had to acknowledge that he was right, but he did not feel comfortable with the notion of dragging Cynric into anything unsavoury or dangerous.
He stared out into the mist in the direction in which the woman had gone. The fog thinned slightly for a few moments, and Bartholomew could see the King's Head opposite.
As he watched, a figure emerged. Bartholomew tensed. It looked like Oswald Stanmore. He blinked, and the figure had gone. He shook himself. He was imagining things. Stanmore would be tucked up safe and warm in his bed in Trumpington by now, and would never be seen frequenting a disreputable place like the King's Head. Bartholomew was obviously tired and prone to an overactive imagination. He took hold of Cynric's sleeve and tugged, indicating the way back down the High Street towards home.
Cynric was already making plans for entering Bene't's yard the next night, and Bartholomew, seeing his eyes gleam with excitement, did not have the heart to tell him he could not go. He was not even sure whether he wanted to go himself. The mist clung to their clothes as they walked, and seemed to muffle the usual sounds of the night. Distantly, Bartholomew heard wailing. Another plague death? Or a cat hunting among the piles of rubbish? He was glad when the walls of Michaelhouse loomed up out of the fog, and too tired to speculate any further on his well-wisher's intentions. He fell asleep in his clothes listening to the regular breathing of Gray in the other bed.
Early the next day, Bartholomew received a message from the barber-surgeon Robin of Grantchester saying that he had convened a meeting with representatives from the town to discuss what they were going to do about the settlement near All Saints-next-the-Castle, where all had lain dead for many weeks. Rumours abounded that the dead walked down into Cambridge at night, and were spreading the pestilence. The meeting was acrimonious, and the real issue about what should be done about the community beyond the Castle was sidestepped until Bartholomew rapped on the table with the hilt of Stanmore's dagger to make the voices subside.
'Everyone who lived in settlement beyond the Castle is either dead or has left,' he said. "I have seen that there are bodies rotting in virtually every house. While I do not believe they walk in the town at night, the area should be cleared in the interests of health. I propose we burn it down.'
Horrified faces stared at him, open-mouthed.
'With the bodies still inside?' whispered Stephen Stanmore.
'Unless you would like to go and fetch them out,' said Bartholomew.
'But that is sacrilege!' said Father William, aghast.
'Those people must be buried decently.'
'So fetch them, and then we will burn the houses.'
There was a silence, and then mutterings of reluctant assent. Clerics and medics alike accepted that there was no other safe way to deal with the problem, but no one had wanted to be the one to suggest such an unpopular solution.
Bartholomew had a hasty meal with William, and set off for the settlement. Two lay-brothers had volunteered to help, and people came out of their houses to watch them pass. The burning did not take long: the houses were flimsy and, despite the rain that had drenched them during the past few weeks, fired easily.
When the flames died down, Bartholomew found he was shaking, and wondered if he had really condemned the spirits of the people to walk in perpetual torment as the rector of St Clement's had claimed. William scattered holy water about, and Bartholomew watched it hiss and evaporate as it touched the still-hot embers of the houses.