experience of diseases than from a physician who tended the rich. He would be happy to work among the poor during his medical training, but then he would be off to make his fortune in York or Bristol, or perhaps even London.
Gray smiled to himself and lay back down, his arms behind his head. He and Cynric had been caring for Bartholomew continuously for five days and nights, and several times had thought their labours were in vain.
Brother Michael had actually given Bartholomew last rites before the fever suddenly broke.
Once Bartholomew had slept almost twenty-four hours without waking, his recovery was rapid. He was out of his bed and taking his first unsteady steps around the College yard within a day, and felt ready to begin his work again within three days. Michael, Cynric, and Gray urged him to rest more, but Bartholomew insisted that tossing restlessly on his bed was more tiring than working. Bartholomew decided that all plague victims in the College should be in one room so that they could have constant attention.
He set about converting the commoners' dormitory into a hospital ward, relocating the few surviving commoners elsewhere. Brother Michael's Benedictine room-mates willingly offered their services, and Bartholomew hoped that this arrangement might reduce the risks to others.
As soon as he could, Bartholomew went to see Gregory Colet. As he walked through the wet streets to Rudde's Hostel, he was shocked at the piles of rubbish and dead animals that littered them. There were three bodies, crudely wrapped in filthy rags, at the doors of St Michael's Church that Bartholomew judged to have been there for several days. Around them, several rats lay dead and dying, some half-buried in mud and refuse.
Brother Michael walked beside him, his cowl pulled over his head in an attempt to mask the stench.
'What has happened here, Michael?' said Bartholomew in disbelief. He watched a ragged band of children playing on a huge pile of kitchen waste outside Garret Hostel, occasionally stopping to eat some morsel that they considered edible. On the opposite side of the street, two large pigs rooted happily among a similar pile of rubbish. He shook his head in despair at the filth and disorder.
Michael shrugged. 'There is no one left to do anything. Now that Colet has given up, you and Robin of Grantchester are the only medics here. All the others are dead or gone.'
'What about the priests? Can they not see that the streets need to be cleared and the bodies removed?'
Michael laughed without humour. 'We are in the business of saving souls,' he said, 'notbodies. And anyway, so many clerics have died that there are barely enough to give last rites. Did you know that there are only three Dominicans left here?'
Bartholomew gazed at him in shock. The large community of Dominicans had continued to work among the poor after the outbreak of the plague, and it seemed that their adherence to their way of life may have brought about their virtual demise.
Gregory Colet was not in his room at Rudde's, and the porter told them that he would be in one of the churches, usually St Botolph's. Bartholomew had always admired St Botolph's, with its slate-grey stone and windows faced with cream ashlar, but as Michael pushed open the great oak door and led the way inside it felt damp and cold. The stained glass that he had coveted for St Michael's Church no longer seemed to imbue it with soft colour, but served to make it dismal.
The feeling of gloom was further enhanced by the sound of muted chanting. Candles were lit in the sanctuary and half a dozen monks and friars from various Orders knelt in a row at the altar. Colet sat to one side, his back against a pillar and his eyes fixed on the twinkling candles. One of the monks saw Bartholomew and Michael and came down the aisle to meet them.
Michael introduced him to Bartholomew as Brother Dunstan of Ely. Dunstan expressed pleasure to see Bartholomew well again.
'God knows we need you now,' he said, his eyes straying to Colet.
'What is wrong with him?' Bartholomew asked.
Dunstan tapped his temple. 'His mind has gone.
He heard that Roper had died and that you had the sickness, and he gave up. He sits here, or in one of the other churches, all day and only goes home to sleep. I think he may be willing himself to die.'
Michael crossed himself quickly while Bartholomew looked at Dunstan in horror.
'No! Not when there are so many others that are being taken who want to live!'
Dunstan sighed. 'It is only what I think. Now I must go. We have so many masses to say for the dead, so much to do…'
Michael followed Dunstan to the altar rail, leaving Bartholomew looking at Colet, still gazing at the candles with vacant eyes. Bartholomew knelt down and touched Colet on the shoulder. Reluctantly Colet tore his eyes from the candles to his friend. He gave the faintest glimmer of a smile.
'Matt! You have escaped the Death!'
He began to look back towards the candles again, and Bartholomew gripped his shoulder.
'What is wrong, Gregory? I need your help.'
Colet shook his head. 'It is too late. You and I can do no more.' He became agitated. 'Give it up, Matthew, and go to the country. Cambridge will be a dead town soon.'
'No!' said Bartholomew vehemently. 'It is far from over. People have recovered and others have escaped infection. You cannot give up on them. They need you and so do I!'
Colet shook Bartholomew's hand away, his agitation quickly disappearing into a lethargic gloom. 'I can do no more,' he said, his voice barely audible.
'You must!' pleaded Bartholomew. 'The streets are filthy, and the bodies of the dead have not been collected in days. I cannot do it all alone, Gregory. Please!'
Colet's dull eyes looked blankly at Bartholomew before he turned away to look at the candles. 'Give it up,' he whispered. 'It is over.'
Bartholomew sat for a moment, overwhelmed by the task he now faced alone. Robin of Grantchester might help, but he would do nothing without being paid and Bartholomew had very little money to give him. He glanced up and saw Michael and Dunstan watching him.
'You can do nothing here,' said Dunstan softly, looking at Colet with pity. 'It is best you leave him be.'
Depressed at Colet's state of mind, Bartholomew ate a dreary meal in Michaelhouse's chilly hall, and then went to visit the building where Stanmore had his business.
Stephen greeted Bartholomew warmly, looking so like his older brother that Bartholomew almost mistook him.
Bartholomew was urged inside and made to sit near a roaring fire while Stephen's wife prepared some spiced wine. Stephen reassured him that everyone was well at Trumpington, but there was a reservation in his voice that made Bartholomew uneasy.
'Are you sure everyone is well?' he persisted.
'Yes, yes, Matthew. Do not worry,' he said, swirling the wine in his cup, and assiduously refusing to look Bartholomew in the eye.
Bartholomew leaned over and gripped his wrist.
'Has anyone there had the plague? Did it come with Philippa?'
Stephen sighed. 'They told me not to tell you, because they did not want you to go rushing over there before you were well enough. Yes. The plague struck after you brought Philippa. She became ill before you were scarcely gone from the house. Then Edith was stricken, and three of the servants. The servants died, but Philippa and Edith recovered,' he said quickly as Bartholomew leapt to his feet. 'Sit down again and listen.
They were not ill as long as you. They got those revolting swellings like everyone else, but they also got black spots over their bodies.'
He paused, and Bartholomew felt his heart sink.
'They are well now,' Stephen said again, 'but…' His voice trailed off.
'But what?' said Bartholomew. His voice was calm and steady, but he had to push his hands into the folds of his robe so that Stephen would not see them shaking.
'The spots on Edith healed well enough, but Mistress Philippa has scars.'
Bartholomew leaned back in his chair. Was that it?
He looked perplexed, and Stephen tried to explain.
