Philippa,' said Bartholomew anxiously. 'Please do not visit her if you are seeing people who may be infected.'
'Poppycock! She will die if it is her time,' said Abigny, pulling on some of his brightest clothes. Bartholomew knew only too well that this meant he was planning on impressing some female friends.
'And you will die before it is yours if you take the pestilence to her!' he said with quiet menace. He had always found Abigny rather shallow and selfish, although he could be an entertaining companion, but he had always believed the philosopher to be genuinely fond of his sister. Through the past few black weeks, it had been the thought of Philippa's face that had allowed Bartholomew to continue his bleak work. He could not bear to think of her falling prey to the filthy disease.
Abigny stopped dressing and looked at Bartholomew.
'Matthew, I am sorry,' he said with sincerity.
'You should know better than to think I would harm Philippa. No, I do not have the plague…' He raised his hand to stop Bartholomew from coming further into the room. 'Hugh Stapleton died last night'
Bartholomew leaned against the door. Stapleton had run Bene't Hostel, and had been a close friend of Abigny's. Abigny spent more time at the Hostel than he did at Michaelhouse, and regularly took his meals there.
'I am sorry, Giles,' he said. He had seen so many die over the last several days, including Aelfrith, that it was difficult to sound convincing. He wondered whether he would be bereft of all compassion by the time the plague had run its course.
Abigny nodded. 'I am away to enjoy the pleasures of life, and I will not see Philippa,' he said. 'I was with Hugh when he died, and he told me to enjoy life while I had it. That is exactly what I am going to do.'
He flung his best red cloak over his shoulders and walked jauntily out of the yard. Bartholomew followed him as far as the stable where Father Aelfrith's body lay.
While Abigny enjoyed life, Bartholomew had a colleague to bury. He glanced up and saw Wilson lingering at the window. Had he killed Aelfrith? 'Father Aelfrith is dead,' Bartholomew yelled up at him, drawing the attention of several students who were walking around the yard to the hall. 'Will you come to see him buried, Master Wilson?'
The shadowy shape disappeared. Bartholomew took a spade from the stable and walked to St Michael's churchyard.
6
Christmas at Cambridge was usually a time for celebration and for a relaxing of the rules that governed scholars' lives. Fires would be lit in the conclave, and students and Fellows could gather round and tell each other stories, or even play cards. Since it was dark by four o'clock in the evening, a night by the fire in a candle-lit conclave was a pleasant change from the usual practice of retiring to dark, unheated rooms.
But the plague was still raging in Cambridge at Christmas, and few felt like celebrating. Bedraggled groups of children stood in the snow singing carols for pennies. Food was scarce because many of the farmers who grew the winter vegetables or tended the livestock were struck with the plague. Many who were fit did not wish to risk a journey into the town, where they might come into contact with infected people.
The cart patrolling the streets collecting the dead became a common sight. Old women who had lost entire families followed it around, offering prayers for the dead in return for money or food. Houses stood empty, and at night, after the curfew bell had rung and the depleted and exhausted patrols of University beadles and Sheriffs men slept, small bands of vagrants and thieves would loot the homes of the dead and the sick. The thieves soon became bolder, coming in from surrounding villages and even attacking during the daylight hours.
To make matters worse, it was a cold winter, with gales howling across the flat land, bringing with them driving snow. On clear days and nights, the temperature dropped so low that sick people had to go out foraging for sticks to build fires to melt ice for water to drink.
The monks at Barnwell Priory lost a third of their number, although St Radegund's fared better and only three nuns became ill. More than half of the monks at the great monasteries at Ely and Norwich perished, and Bartholomew began to appreciate the Bishop's point as he saw more and more people die without being given last rites. Some did not care, but only wished to end their agony; others died in terror of going straight to hell as a punishment for various petty sins. The church walls were full of paintings of the damned being devoured by demons in hell, so Bartholomew did not wonder that people were afraid.
It was impossible to tell how many members the University lost. At the first sign of the plague, some left the town and did not return. As the numbers of deaths rose, harried clerks began to lose count, and many people ended up in the plague pits without any record being made. By January, King's Hall lost ten of its scholars, and Michaelhouse lost eleven.
Bartholomew had thought that perhaps the scholars might fare better than the townspeople because they were younger, fitter, and usually better fed. But the plague struck indiscriminately, and by Christmas the old commoners were still alive and well, but several healthy young students were dead.
However much Bartholomew thought and studied and worked, he could not understand why some people died and others recovered, or why, in the same household, some people caught the disease while others remained healthy, even after being in contact with the sick. He and Colet compared experiences regularly, and argued endlessly and without conclusion. Colet had given up leeching buboes, and incised them where he could, like Bartholomew. But he still believed that leeching after the incisions caused the recovery of his patients.
Bartholomew believed the keys were rest, a warm bed, and clean water. Since neither had a better record of success than the other, each refused to adopt the other's methods. But Colet's patients were generally wealthy, with warm homes and clean bedding. Bartholomew's patients were poor, and warmth and cleanliness were not always easy to attain.
Bartholomew continued on his rounds, lancing the black swellings whenever he thought it might ease a patient's pain. Two more physicians died, and another two fled, so that only Bartholomew, Colet, and Simon Roper from Bene't Hostel were left. They found they could not trust the town officials to carry out their recommendations and had to supervise virtually everything, from the digging of the pits and the proper use of lime, to the cleaning of the streets of the dead rats and refuse that built up.
Bartholomew, arriving home at dawn after staying with a family that had five of seven children dying, was awoken within minutes by hammering on the door.
Wearily, he struggled out of bed to answer it. A young man stood there, his long, unruly hair at odds with his neat scholar's tabard.
'I thought you would have been up by now,' said the man cheekily.
'What do you want?' Bartholomew asked thickly, so tired he could barely speak.
'I have been sent to fetch you to St Radegund's.'
Bartholomew's blood ran cold, and he was instantly awake. 'Why, what has happened?' he asked in a whisper, almost afraid to ask. 'Is it Philippa Abigny?'
'Oh, no,' said the student. 'A man wants you. But you had better hurry up or he said you will be too late.'
Bartholomew hastened back inside to dress. When he emerged, the tousle-haired man was leaning against the wall chatting to the porter. Bartholomew ignored him and made his way up St Michael's Lane at a steady trot. He heard footsteps behind him, and the young man caught him and tried to match his pace.
'If you want to travel quickly, why do you not take a horse?' he asked between gasps.
'I do not have a horse,' answered Bartholomew.
'Who has asked for me? Is it Giles Abigny?' The fear he felt earlier returned. He hoped Abigny had not become ill and gone to the convent for help. St Radegund's had escaped lightly until now, perhaps because the Prioress had determined on a policy of isolation, and no one was allowed in; money in a pot of vinegar was left outside the gates for all food that was delivered. Bartholomew hoped the Prioress had managed to continue so, not only because Philippa was inside, but also because he wanted to know if the plague could be averted in this way.
'You do not have a horse?' queried the student, losing his stride. 'A physician?'
