Simon stood up and sighed. ‘Thank you, Thomas. An excellent first lesson. Tomorrow I shall reciprocate by teaching you about the life of St Francis.’
‘Thank you, Simon, that won’t be necessary.’
Again they left at dawn, riding side by side on a road that widened as they approached Oxford. Thankfully, the showers had cleared and the August sky was blue. ‘When were you last here, Thomas?’ asked Simon, when the city defences came into sight.
‘It must be eight years ago now. I went to visit Abraham and to attend a college feast.’
‘You’ll see much changed. The king is in Christ Church, the queen in Merton, and their households are billeted everywhere.’ He hesitated. ‘Their presence has sharpened the divide between university and town.’
‘In what way?’
‘Both the king and the queen have large households. And there are the soldiers. They all have to be housed and fed. The king urges restraint, but is not always heeded. And his nephews are not easily controlled when they’re here. If they weren’t royal princes, Rupert and Maurice would be highwaymen. They exert much influence over the young. The townspeople can be resentful.’
‘With good reason, no doubt. The town must be overflowing. And not just with bodies.’
‘It is. Humans and animals create waste. Much waste. The drains can’t cope.’
Two miles from the town, Thomas’s sensitive nose had already detected the stench of excrement and decay. He shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead. ‘And the town itself? Is there much damage to buildings or to the colleges?’
‘You’ll see for yourself. I thought it best to warn you.’
‘How pragmatic of you.’
Soon Thomas did begin to see for himself. They passed through the remains of three deserted villages burned to the ground as a precaution against siege, and rode around huge earthworks thrown up as defences. Long poles, sharpened to a wicked point, had been stuck into the earthworks to deter oncoming cavalry, and gangs of bare-chested labourers with shovels and picks worked frantically to build more. It was as if Fairfax, Waller, Ireton and their entire armies were all expected within the hour.
As they approached the ancient city wall, also strengthened by earthworks in the gaps where the stone had crumbled away, the stench of death hit Thomas in a wave so thick he could almost touch it. He put a hand to his face and tried to take shallow breaths. Just outside the wall, they came upon a heap of decaying corpses and a gang of women digging a large pit. ‘Plague, Simon?’ asked Thomas.
‘Morbus campestris. Too many people and too much foul water.’
Inside and outside the wall, the streets overflowed with people, and the open sewers with their waste. Damn my nose, thought Thomas, too sharp for its own good. They made their way slowly up St Aldate’s towards Pembroke. Soldiers and their horses blocked the way, beggars pleading for alms pulled at their habits, and pigs foraged among mounds of stinking refuse. There were even dung heaps on the street corners. It took them more than an hour to reach the entrance to Pembroke. There they dismounted and led their horses through a side gate and into a small paved courtyard, where a college servant took charge of them.
They walked through an arch into the main courtyard, and Thomas looked around at his old college. It was unrecognizable. What had once been a neat cobbled yard, surrounded by high stone walls and the arched entrances to staircases leading to the scholars’ rooms, was a mess of wrecked furniture, broken bottles, old clothes and rotting food. Most of the doors around the yard had been pulled off their hinges, windows had been shattered, and a chimney had fallen off a roof, scattering bricks below. Thomas saw no scholars. Three officers in dashing blue uniforms stood talking in one corner, while their swords were sharpened by a grinder with a whetstone. A woman with two small girls, all three wearing ribbons in their hair and fine lace aprons over their dresses, emerged from a doorway and picked their way across the yard to the main entrance. The officers swept off their feathered hats and bowed low. Courtly manners and high fashion amid squalor and decay. Soldiers for scholars, guns for gowns. Thomas stood and stared.
There was a tap on his shoulder. ‘Master Hill?’ Thomas turned and saw a familiar face, more lined now but as open and kindly as it had always been. ‘I thought it was you, sir. Master Fletcher told me to look out for you. He said you might be a monk.’ The man tipped his cap and held out a hand, which Thomas shook warmly.
‘A friar, Silas, and only pretending. Father de Pointz is the real priest. Simon, this is Silas Merkin, head servant of the college.’
‘Welcome, sirs. I’ll show you to your room, Master Hill. It’s a little small but it’s the best I can do. I had to get rid of a young captain to get it for you. Nasty beggar, he is. Made a great fuss. I couldn’t have shifted him without Master Fletcher’s help. We’ve over a hundred in college, including women and children. They’ve been throwing out the furniture and making beds on the floor.’ Silas had never been short of a word or two.
‘Now you’re safely here, Thomas, I’ll say farewell,’ said Simon. ‘I’ll be at Merton with the queen. I’ll call on you soon.’
Silas showed Thomas to a room under a low arch at the opposite end of the courtyard to the one through which they had entered. It was indeed small — nothing like the comfortable room near the main entrance in which he remembered reading and rereading Plato and Aristotle, poring all night over Euclid’s geometry, and occasionally entertaining a young lady. He would have but a narrow bed, a low chest, a washstand with a jug of water, a small table and a hard chair for company. On the bed, two linen shirts, two pairs of breeches, three pairs of stockings, a plain brown coat and a pair of boots had been laid out. ‘Master Fletcher asked me to find these for you, sir. There’s clean water in the well by the chapel, and a new privy beside it. We dug the drain ourselves. It runs into the sewers, but now they’re blocked it won’t be long before it’s overflowing. Soldiers do seem to shit a lot. And here’s your key. Be sure to keep the door locked. I’ll tell Master Fletcher you’re here. He’s still in his old rooms, thank the Lord. It wouldn’t do to move him now, not with his eyes as they are.’
‘His eyes, Silas?’
‘Yes, sir. Didn’t you know? Master Fletcher sees very little now.’
‘I didn’t know. Thank you for telling me.’
When Silas had gone, Thomas got out of his habit, washed his face and hands, trimmed his new beard with the razor, and put on a clean shirt and breeches. He would call on Abraham immediately.
CHAPTER 3
Abraham’s rooms were directly across the courtyard. Thomas climbed a narrow spiral staircase, knocked on the door, and entered at the familiar sound of his old friend’s voice. God’s wounds, he thought, I could be sixteen again. Abraham was sitting by the window in a high-backed oak chair. In profile against the light, he looked just as he had a dozen years ago. Hair swept back from a high forehead, Roman nose, back straight. But when he turned his face to the room, Thomas could see that his old friend had aged. His hair and beard were white, and he wore a shawl over his coat. His blue eyes were watery, his skin pale, and two deep lines ran from nose to mouth. The remains of a meal were on a table beside him. ‘Is that you, Thomas?’ Abraham asked, when he heard his visitor come in. His voice, too, had aged. The muscular baritone had lost much of its power.
‘It is, Abraham,’ he replied, taking the outstretched hand in both of his. ‘Do I find you well?’
‘Quite well, thank you, except for these.’ Abraham pointed to his eyes. ‘They see only shadows and shapes these days.’