'And I did not say Matins and Lauds last night.'
'Your stomach must still be asleep,' said Bartholomew, 'if you are considering prayers before breakfast.' 'I always say prayers before breakfast,' snapped Michael, and then relented. 'I am sorry, Matt. I cannot stick knives in boils and try to relieve fevers like you do.
My way of fighting this monstrous pestilence is to keep my offices, no matter what happens. I hope it may make a difference.' He gave a rueful look. 'This will be the first time I have failed since this business began.' 'I was thinking yesterday that the clerics were doing more good than the physicians ever could,' said Bartholomew, startled by Michael's confession. 'Do not be too hard on yourself, Brother. Or, as you said to me last night, you will be no good to yourself or your patients,' he said in a very plausible imitation of Michael's pompous voice that made Agatha screech with laughter.
Michael laughed too, more at Agatha's reaction than at Bartholomew's feeble attempt at humour. 'Oh lord, Matthew,' he said. 'I never thought we would laugh again. Give me the oatcakes, Mistress Agatha. I had nothing but maggoty apples last night.'
Agatha pulled the oatcakes out of the oven and plumped herself down on a stool next to Bartholomew.
'I am gone for three days to tend to my relatives, and the College falls apart,' she said. 'Filth in the kitchens, rats in the rooms, and the food all gone.'
Michael coughed, his mouth overfull of fresh warm oatcake. 'The servants have mostly left,' he said. 'That great lump of lard in the Master's room will not stir himself to take charge as he should, and the College is ruled by chaos.'
'Not any more,' said Agatha grandly, 'for I am back.
And make no mistake, young sirs, no pestilence is going to get me! I have been three days going from house to house, seeing my relatives die, and I am still free from the pestilence. Some of us will not be taken!'
Bartholomew and Michael stared at her in astonishment.
'You may be right,' said Bartholomew. 'Gregory Colet and I wondered whether some people may have a natural resistance to the plague.'
'Not resistance, Master Bartholomew,' said Agatha proudly, 'I am one of God's chosen.' She shifted her ample skirts importantly. 'He strikes down those that anger him, and spares those he loves.'
'That cannot be, Mistress,' said Bartholomew. 'Why would God strike down children? And what of the monks and friars who risk themselves to give comfort to the people?'
'Monks and friars!' spat Agatha. 'I have seen the lives they lead: wealth, rich foods, women, and fine clothes! God will direct them to hell first!'
'Thank you for your kind words, Mistress,' said Michael, eyeing her dolefully. 'And how long would you say I have before God banishes me to hell?'
Agatha grinned sheepishly. 'I did not say he would take you all. But what other reason can there be that some die and some live? The physicians do not know.
Gregory Colet told me I may be right, and the priests believe some are chosen to live and others to die.'
'Perhaps some people have a balance of humours in their bodies that gives them a resistance to the plague,' mused Bartholomew, taking another oatcake.
'And have you compared the humours of those that live with those that die?' asked Michael.
Bartholomew nodded, frustrated. 'But I can see no pattern in it as yet.'
Michael patted his shoulder. 'Well, perhaps the balance is too fine to be easily seen,' he said. 'But if your theory is true, I do not want to know for it would mean that I am doomed — to live or die — as my body directs, and that nothing I do — no matter how I pray or try to live a godly life, will make a difference. And then I would be without hope and without God.'
Bartholomew raised his hands. 'It would be no kind of answer anyway,' he said.
'I want to know how to cure this foul disease, not forecast for people whether they will live or die.'
Michael stood up, stuffing the rest of the oatcakes in his scrip for later. 'As much as I like your company, sitting here discussing the causes of the Death with two people who have no more idea why it has come than I have will benefit no one. I must say my prayers and visit the people.'
He marched out of the kitchen, and Bartholomew heard his strong baritone singing a psalm as he went to the porter's lodge. He also glimpsed Wilson's white face at his window, surveying the domain he dared not rule.
'You can stay a while, if you do not mind me clattering,' said Agatha. Bartholomew recognised this as a rare compliment, for Agatha did not approve of idle hands in the kitchen. She was already beginning to reimpose her order on the chaos, for the boys who worked in the scullery had been set to work washing floors, and Cynric and Alexander were collecting the bedclothes of those who had died to be taken to the laundry.
'Thank you, Mistress, but I must meet with Gregory Colet to see that the new pit is dug.'
He left Agatha to her work, and went to draw some water from the well. Back in the room where he stored his medicines, he washed quickly in the freezing water and changed his clothes. His clean ones were not quite dry, but it was going to rain again anyway, he thought. As he emerged from the storeroom, he saw Father William and hailed him over. He looked tired, and his eyes were red-rimmed.
'Nathaniel the Fleming has the plague,' he said. 'I have been called to give him last rites.'
'Not leeches?' asked Bartholomew, his own weariness making him obtuse.
William looked askance at him. 'Doctor Colet has already leeched him, but the poisons were too deep in his body to draw out.' He reached a meaty hand towards Bartholomew. 'What of Aelfrith? Will you see him taken to the plague pit?'
Bartholomew looked up at the pale blue sky. Did William know? Should he tell him? What if William and Wilson were in league, and had poisoned Aelfrith together? Bartholomew looked at the friar's face, grey with fatigue, and recalled also that Aelfrith and William had been close friends. 'Shall I bury him in the churchyard instead?' he asked, to buy himself more time to think.
William looked startled. 'Can we? Is it not safer for the living to bury him in lime in the plague pits?' 'I do not see why,' Bartholomew said, watching William closely. 'Others were buried in the churchyard before the plague came in earnest.'
William pursed his lips. 'I have been thinking about that. Perhaps it is their corrupted flesh lying in hallowed ground that is causing the contagion to spread. Perhaps the way to stop the Death is to exhume them all and rebury them in the plague pits.'
Now it was Bartholomew's turn to be startled. Here was a theory he had not encountered before. He mulled it over in his mind briefly, reluctant to dismiss any chance of defeating the plague without due thought, no matter how unlikely a solution it might seem. But he shook his head. 'I suspect that would only serve to put those that perform the exhumation at risk, if not from the plague, then from other diseases. And I cannot see that they are a danger to the living.'
William looked at him dubiously. 'Will you bury Aelfrith, then? In the churchyard?'
Bartholomew nodded, and then hesitated. IfWilliam were involved in Aelfrith's murder, incautious questioning would only serve to endanger his own life, and if he were not, it would be yet another burden for the exhausted friar. 'Were you… surprised that he was taken?' Bartholomew asked, before realising how clumsy the question was.
William looked taken aback. 'He was fit enough at the midday meal,' he replied. 'Just tired like us all, and saddened because he had heard the deathbed confession of the Principal of All Saints' Hostel. Now you mention it, poor Aelfrith was taken very quickly. It was fortunate that Brother Michael was near, or he might have died un shriven.'
He began to walk away, leaving Bartholomew less certain than ever as to whether he was involved. Were his reactions, his words, those of a killer? And what of Wilson? What was his role in Aelfrith's death?
Before leaving, he decided to see Abigny briefly.
He pushed the door open slowly, and a boot flew across the room and landed at his feet. Bartholomew pushed the door all the way open and peered in.
'Oh. It is you, Matt. I thought it was that damned rat again. Did you see it? It is as big as a dog!' Abigny untangled himself from his bed. 'What a time I had last night, Physician. What delights I sampled! None of the young ladies want to meet their maker without first knowing of love, and I have been only too happy to oblige. You should try it.'
'Giles, if you are sampling the delights of as many poor ladies as you say, I hope you do not plan to visit
