The evening dragged on, speeches were made, and the candles gradually dipped lower in their silver holders.
The guests began to leave. First the Bishop made his exit, sweeping out of the hall in his fine robes, followed as ever by his discreet chain of silent, black-robed clerics.
The Chancellor and the Sheriff left together, and Bartholomew wondered what they had been plotting All evening. Edith, Bartholomew's sister, earned a nasty look from Wilson when she kissed her brother on the cheek and whispered an invitation to dine with her and Sir Oswald the following day.
The noise level in the hall rose as more wine was consumed, especially by the students and the commoners.
Bartholomew began to grow drowsy, and wished Wilson would leave the feast so he could go to bed. It would be considered bad manners for a Fellow to leave the high table before the Master, and so Bartholomew waited, struggling to keep his eyes open and not to go face down in his food like Francis Eltham.
He watched expectantly as Alexander, the College Butler, made his way to Wilson, hoping that some urgent College business might draw him from the hall, so that the Fellows might leave. Wilson spun round in his chair to gaze at Alexander in shock. He then looked at Bartholomew, and whispered in the Butler's ear. Alexander nodded, and moved towards the physician.
'Begging your pardon, sir,' he began softly, 'but it is Master Augustus. I think he is dead.'
2
Bartholomew stared up at Alexander in disbelief. He half suspected a practical joke by Abigny, but realised that even Abigny's sometimes outrageous sense of humour would not allow him to stoop to such a prank.
'What happened?' he asked hoarsely.
Alexander shrugged, his face pale. "I went to take him and Brother Paul some wine, since Master Wilson thought they were too ill to attend the feast.'
Bartholomew grimaced. Wilson did not want Augustus at the feast because he was afraid the old man's ramblings might embarrass him. I went to Brother Paul first, but he was already asleep. Then I went in to Augustus. He was lying on his bed, and I think he is dead.'
Bartholomew rose, motioning for Brother Michael to go with him. If Augustus were dead, then Michael would anoint the body and say prayers for his soul, as he had for the two men outside the College gates.
Although Michael was a monk and not a friar — and would therefore not usually have been authorised to perform priestly duties — he had been granted special dispensation by the Bishop of Ely to give last rites and hear confessions. This was because, unlike the Franciscan and Dominican friars, Benedictine monks were scarce in Cambridge, and the Bishop did not want his few monks confessing their sins to rival Orders.
'What is going on?' panted Michael, as he hurried to keep up with Bartholomew. Michael was a man who loved his food, and, despite Bartholomew's advice to moderate himself for the sake of his health, he was grossly overweight. A sheen of sweat glistened on his face and soaked into his lank brown hair just from the exertion of leaving the hall so quickly.
'Alexander says Augustus is dead,' Bartholomew replied tersely.
Michael stopped abruptly, and gripped Bartholomew's arm. 'But he cannot be!'
Bartholomew peered at Michael in the darkness of the courtyard. His face was so deathly white that it was almost luminous, and his eyes were round with horror.
"I went to see him after I had finished with those town lads,' Michael went on.' He was rambling like he does, and I told him I would save him some wine from the feast.'
Bartholomew steered Michael towards Augustus's room. "I saw him after you, on my way to the hall. He was sound asleep.'
Together they climbed the narrow wooden stairs to Augustus's tiny chamber. Alexander was waiting outside the door holding a lamp that he passed to Bartholomew.
Michael followed the physician over to the bed where Augustus lay, the lamp and the flames from the small fire in the hearth casting strange shadows on the walls.
Bartholomew had expected Augustus to have slipped away in his sleep, and was shocked to see the old man's eyes open and his lips drawn back over long yellow teeth in a grimace that bespoke of abject terror. Death had not crept up and claimed Augustus unnoticed. Bartholomew heard Michael take a sharp breath and his robes rustled as he crossed-himself quickly.
Bartholomew put the lamp on the window-sill and sat on the edge of the bed, putting his cheek to Augustus's mouth to see if he still breathed — although he knew that he would not. He gently touched one of the staring eyes with his forefinger to test for a reaction. There was none. Brother Michael was kneeling behind him intoning the prayers for the dead in his precise Latin, his eyes closed so he would not have to look at Augustus's face. Alexander had been sent to fetch oil with which to anoint the dead man.
To Bartholomew it seemed as if Augustus had had some kind of seizure; perhaps he had frightened himself with some nightmare, or with some of his wild imaginings — as when he had tried to jump out of the window two nights before. Bartholomew felt sad that Augustus had died afraid: three generations of students had benefited from his patient teaching, and he had been kind to Bartholomew, too, when the younger man had first been appointed at Michaelhouse. When Sir John had arranged Bartholomew's fellowship, not all members of the College had been supportive. Yet Augustus, like Sir John, had seen in Bartholomew an opportunity to improve the strained relationship between the College and the town; Bartholomew had been given Sir John's blessing to work among the poor and not merely to pander to the minor complaints of the wealthy.
The gravelly sound of Michael clearing his throat jerked Bartholomew back to the present. Sir John was dead, and so, now, was Augustus. Michael had finished his prayers, and was stepping forward to anoint Augustus's eyes, mouth and hands with a small bottle of chrism that Alexander had fetched. He did so quickly, concentrating on his words so that he would not have to see Augustus's expression of horror. Bartholomew had seen many such expressions before: his Arab master had once taken him to the scene of a battle in France, where they had scoured the field looking for the wounded among the dead and dying, and so Augustus's face did not hold the same horror for him as it did for Michael.
While waiting for Michael, Bartholomew looked around the room. Since the commotion two nights before, Wilson had decreed that Augustus should not be allowed the fire he usually had during the night.
Wilson said, with good reason, that it was not safe, and that he could not risk the lives of others by allowing a madman to be left alone with naked flames.
Bartholomew suspected that Wilson was also considering the cost, because he had questioned Sir John on several occasions about the necessity of the commoners having a fire in July and August. Michaelhouse was built of stone, and Bartholomew knew that Augustus was not the only old man to complain of being cold, even in the height of summer. That a small fire burned merrily in the hearth suggested that one kind-hearted servant had chosen to ignore Wilson's orders and let Augustus have his comfort.
'Matt, come away. We have done all we can here.'
Bartholomew glanced up at Michael. His face was shiny with sweat, and had an almost greenish hue. The chrism in the small bottle he held shook as his hands trembled, and he was looking everywhere except at Bartholomew and Augustus.
'What is the matter with you?' asked Bartholomew, perplexed. Michael had often accompanied Bartholomew to pray for patients beyond his medicine and had seen death many times. He had not been especially close to Augustus, and so his behaviour could not be explained by grief.
Michael took a handful of Bartholomew's gown and pulled hard. Just come away. Leave him be, and come with me back to the hall.' Bartholomew resisted the tug, and the small bottle fell from Michael's hand and bounced onto the floor.