Walking became harder and harder, and Bartholomew was finding it difficult to catch his breath.
He was relieved when he finally reached Michaelhouse, and staggered through the gates. He decided that he needed to lie down for a few moments before sitting with Cynric again.
He made his way over to his room, and pushed open the door. He stopped dead in his tracks as Samuel Gray rose languidly from his bed, where, judging from his half-closed eyes and rumpled hair, he had been sleeping.
Bartholomew desperately wanted to rest, and his body felt stiff and sore. It must have been the unaccustomed riding. He took a step forwards, and Gray moved cautiously backwards.
'I have been waiting for you,' said Gray.
Bartholomew swallowed. His throat felt dry and sore.
'What for? Not more messages?'
'No, no, nothing like that,' said Gray.
Bartholomew felt his knees begin to give way. As he pitched forward into the surprised student's arms, he knew he had become a victim of the plague.
Epiphany came and went. Brother Michael, Father William, and a mere handful of students celebrated mass. Alcote slipped into the back of the church, and skittered nervously from pillar to pillar as a few parishioners straggled in. When one of them began to cough, he left and scuttled back to the safety of his room.
Of Wilson, there was no sign.
Cynric had a burning fever for two days, and then woke on the third morning claiming he was well. Agatha, who had been nursing him, heaved a sigh of relief and went about her other duties, secure in her belief that she was immune. When a peddler came to the College selling crudely carved wooden lions covered in gold paint that he assured her would protect her from the plague, she sent him away with some ripe curses ringing in his ears.
The dead-collectors failed to come for Alexander, and so Agatha loaded him onto the College cart with the reluctant help of Gilbert, and took him to the plague pit herself. Agatha had heard that Gregory Colet, devastated by the death of Simon Roper and Bartholomew's sickness, had given up visiting new plague victims and no longer supervised the liming of the plague pits or the cleaning of the streets.
More of the dead-collectors died, and it became almost impossible to persuade people to take their places. Several friars and Canons from the Hospital offered their services, but these were not enough, and soon bodies lay for two or three days on the streets or in houses before they were taken away.
Many people believed that the end of the world was near, and that the plague was a punishment for human sin. It was said that entire villages were wiped out, and that in the cities, at least half the population had perished. Trade was virtually at a standstill, and civil disorder was rife in the cities and towns.
Bartholomew knew little about the days he was ill.
Occasionally he was conscious enough to hear low voices, and he heard the College bell ringing for meals and for church services. The swellings on his neck, groin, and under his arms gave him intense pain, and he was usually aware of little else.
After five days, he saw a candle flickering on the shelf under the window. He watched it for a while, wondering why the shutters were closed and a candle burning when he could see daylight seeping under the door. As he tried to turn his head, a searing pain in his neck brought everything back to him. He remembered walking back from the plague pit and finding the obnoxious student sleeping on his bed, and recalled meeting Philippa in the shack in the convent grounds.
'Philippa!' he said, his voice no more than a whisper.
'She is well, but worried about you, as is your sister.'
The student had appeared, and was leaning over him, dark rings under his eyes, and his hair even more rumpled than Bartholomew remembered.
'What are you doing here?' Bartholomew croaked.
'Tsk, man! The lad has been looking after you day and night! Show a little gratitude.'
Bartholomew gave a weak grin. 'Cynric! Thank God! I thought you might be gone.' He reached for Cynric's hand to assure himself his imagination was not playing tricks.
Cynric, touched, became brusque. 'Lie still, or those incisions will start bleeding again.'
'What incisions? Did Gregory Colet come?'
'Master Colet has given up on the world, and spends his days on his knees with the monks. It is young Samuel who has been looking after you.'
Bartholomew looked appalled, and winced as he tried to move his arms to check where the swellings on his neck would have been. 'I feel as though I have been savaged by a dog,' he groaned. 'What has he done to me?'
'He cut the swellings open to drain them. Just as you have been doing to others, Master Physician. Now you know how it feels,' said Cynric, ruefully rubbing his own lacerated neck.
Bartholomew looked at the student. 'Who are you?' he asked, wondering why a fit and healthy young man would opt to care for a plague victim he did not know.
'Samuel Gray,' said the student, promptly.
'Yes, from Bene't Hostel. But that is not what I meant. What do you want from me?'
Gray looked at the floor. 'I followed you to Trumpington, and then back in the snow. When you returned from seeing the miller's boy, I came here while you went off to see to Cynric. I was waiting for you, but you were such a long time, I fell asleep.' He looked up and met Bartholomew's eyes. 'I was Master Roper's student, and he is dead, so I would like to study under you.'
His speech over, he tried to look nonchalant, as if Bartholomew's response was not that important to him anyway, but in the silence that followed, his face grew anxious and he watched Bartholomew intently.
'I see.' Bartholomew was suddenly very tired, and could not stop his eyes from closing. Then he was shaken awake again. 'Will you have me?' the student asked insistently.
Bartholomew struggled to free himself from Gray's grip, but was as weak as a kitten. 'Why me? What have I done to deserve this?' he said, his voice heavy with sleepiness.
Gray looked at him narrowly, trying to assess whether there was a hidden insult in the question. 'There are not many of you left,' he said rudely.
Bartholomew heard Cynric laughing. He could feel himself drifting into a deep and restful slumber. Gray's voice brought him awake again.
'Will you have me? I have a good degree, you can ask Hugh Stapleton. Oh…' his voice trailed off.
Stapleton was dead. 'Master Abigny!' he exclaimed jubilantly. 'You can ask him, he knows me!' He gave Bartholomew another gentle shake.
Bartholomew reached up and grabbed a handful of Gray's tunic, pulling him down towards the bed. 'You will never be a good physician unless you can learn when to let your patients rest,' he whispered, 'and you will never be a good student unless you learn not to manhandle your master.'
Releasing Gray's clothing, he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep. Gray looked at Cynric. 'Was that a yes or a no?' he asked.
Cynric, still smiling, shrugged and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Gray stood looking down at Bartholomew for several minutes before tidying the bedclothes and blowing out the candle. He lay down on the pallet bed Cynric had given him and stared into the darkness. He knew that Bartholomew would live now, so long as he rested and regained his strength.
Bartholomew coughed in his sleep, and Gray raised himself on one elbow to peer over at him. He believed he had taken no risk in tending Bartholomew, for he was one of the plague's first victims in Cambridge and had survived. He did not think he would catch the disease a second time, and had been making a good deal of money by offering to tend plague victims in the houses of rich merchants. But that was nothing compared to what he may have earned by nursing Bartholomew. He had heard about Bartholomew's methods and ideas, and had longed to study with him when he was an undergraduate, but the physician already had as many students as he could manage.
Gray knew exactly what he wanted from life. He intended to become an excellent physician and have a large number of very wealthy patients. Perhaps he might even become the private physician of some nobleman.
Regardless, he intended to find himself a position that would bring him wealth and enough free time to be able to enjoy it. He knew Bartholomew worked among the poor, but to Gray that meant he would gain far more
