person hidden away.'
'Have you heard anything from her?'
Again, a shake of the head.
'Do you know if the Abbess has heard of her whereabouts?'
'She has not! And she is very angry about it' Emelda giggled. 'It is hard to keep secrets in a small community like this, and I know that she has those beastiy nephews of hers trying to find out where Philippa is. I hope you find her before they do.'
Inside the convent, a bell began to ring. 'Terce,' said Emelda. 'I must go.' She smiled at the two men and slipped quickly through the door again.
Gray led the way through the undergrowth and back to the road. Bartholomew was full of questions.
'That was the door Philippa spoke about, the door that Sister Clement used when she went out to work among the sick. How did you know about it?' he demanded.
'And you did not tell me you had a cousin in the convent!
What was it you handed to her in that package?'
Gray raised his hand to slow the stream of questions, reminding Bartholomew unpleasantly of Wilson.
'Emelda has been at St Radegund's since we were children, and she told me about the gate. I never told you about her because you have never asked about my family. And what I gave her was my business.'
Gray knew he had overstepped his bounds before Bartholomew said a word. 'Sorry, sorry,' he muttered.
'I will tell you, but you have to promise not to fly into a temper.' 'I will promise no such thing,' said Bartholomew coldly.
Gray sighed. 'All right,' he said. 'It is medicine for my mother. She is in there too. She took orders when I was old enough to look after myself, but now she has a wasting sickness and every week I take her medicine to relieve her pain.'
He looked defiantly at Bartholomew before continuing.
'That was one of the reasons why I had to become apprenticed to you. I was making a lot of money nursing rich plague victims, but Jonas refused to sell me the medicine. I stole it from Roper when I was with him, and now I steal it from you.'
He stopped walking, and looked at Bartholomew belligerently, waiting. Bartholomew stopped too, and studied this strange young man. 'Why did you not just ask me?' he said gently.
'Because you are always too busy, and because my mother comes from a rich priory and I thought you might rather give the medicine to the poor.'
Bartholomew was shocked. Did he really appear so insensitive to Gray? 'I have never refused medicine to anyone, rich or poor,' he said.
Gray suddenly lost his belligerence, and looked at the ground. 'I know. I am sorry,' he said in a quavering voice. 'It just seemed easier to steal the medicine than to ask for it.'
Bartholomew realised that this was why Gray had persuaded him to go to St Radegund's — not to ask about Philippa, but to deliver medicine for his mother, perhaps the strain of his mother's illness accounted for his dreadful behaviour earlier that day. 'Perhaps I could examine her…?' he suggested.
Gray grimaced. 'I wish you could, but that old bitch, the Abbess, will not let anyone in or out, and my mother is too ill to be moved now. The medicine is the only thing that helps.'
'Which medicine is it?' asked Bartholomew.
Gray told him. 'My God, man!' Bartholomew exploded. 'Concentrated opiates can be a powerful poison! No wonder Jonas refused to sell it to you! It does have pain-relieving powers, but if someone gives her too much, she could die!'
Gray winced and took a step back. 'I know,' he said defensively, 'but I know how much she can have.
I watched Roper giving it out to one of his sons when he had a similar wasting disease. I measure it out and put it in little packets for Emelda to give her.'
'Oh, lord!' groaned Bartholomew. 'What have I done to deserve a student like this?' He looked at Gray.
'I suppose you knew my supply was running low, and that I have been wondering where it had gone, and that is why you have chosen now to tell me?'
The answer was in the way Gray hung his head and refused to meet his eyes.
Bartholomew began walking again. Gray followed.
On the one hand Bartholomew was relieved that his medicines had not been the cause of Aelfrith's death; on the other hand, he was disturbed that Gray had stolen such a powerful drug from him and prescribed it to someone.
'You are a disreputable rascal, Gray. You lie and steal, and I cannot trust you. We will go to Jonas now, together, and replenish my stocks of this wretched stuff.
Then will measure it out for your mother, and we will go together and discuss with Emelda what else we can do to make your mother's life more bearable. Medicine is not just giving out potions, you know. There are many other things that can be done to effect a cure or to relieve symptoms.'
Detecting that a lecture was about to begin, Gray skipped a little to catch up to him to listen properly. He would need to work hard to gain the trust of his teacher, but at least he knew Bartholomew was prepared to allow him to try.
Bartholomew, meanwhile, glanced at Gray walking beside him — a liar and a thief. He could not possibly confide in the student, and, excluding his family, there was not a single person left in the world whom he could trust.
It was dusk by the time Bartholomew and Gray arrived back at Michaelhouse. The rain had turned the beaten earth of the yard into a quagmire, and the honey-coloured stones of the buildings looked dismal and dirty in the fading light. Like a skull, Bartholomew thought suddenly, and the windows and doors were like eyeless sockets and broken teeth. He pinched himself hard, surprised at his morbid thoughts; he was becoming preoccupied with death.
As if to reinforce his thoughts, Father William emerged from the staircase leading to the plague room.
He was dragging something behind him, a long shape sewn into a blanket. Bartholomew went to help.
'Who is it?' he asked, taking a corner of the blanket and helping William to haul it through the mud. He wondered what he would have thought of this manhandling of the body of a colleague before the plague had struck and inured him to such things.
'Gilbert,' said William shortly, oblivious to the muddy puddles through which he dragged the body.
'Like his master, isolation did not keep him from the Death.'
The stables, used as a mortuary for College plague victims, smelled so strongly of death and corruption that William backed out so fast he fell. Bartholomew went to help him up.
'Holy Mother!' the friar exclaimed, clambering to his feet with his wide sleeve firmly pressed to his nose.
'Thank the Lord we have no horses! They would have died breathing that stench!' He walked away as quickly as he could, turning to shout at Bartholomew, 'Get rid of the corpses, Doctor. Do your job!'
Bartholomew went back into the stables, covering his nose and mouth with his cloak. William was right: the odour was terrible. The porter, hearing William's shouting, came over to say that the carts had not been for the bodies for several days, and so it was not surprising that they were beginning to smell. Bartholomew tipped rushes from a hand-cart so he could begin to load the bodies onto it. The scholars would have to take their colleagues to the plague pit themselves if the official carts did not come.
Gray came to help, but gagged and complained so much that Bartholomew told him to wait outside.
Bartholomew hated what he was doing. These ungainly lumps sewn tightly into rough College blankets had been people he had known. There were five College students, two of the commoners, and now Gilbert. Eight College members who had been his friends and colleagues.
But there were nine shrouded bodies. He frowned and counted again, running through the names of the dead scholars one by one. He must have forgotten someone.
He took a body by the feet, and began to drag it to where Gray waited outside by the empty cart.
'Who has died since we buried Wilson?' Bartholomew asked.
Gray looked taken aback. 'I thought you kept a note of all these things,' he said. Seeing a flash of annoyance pass across Bartholomew's face, he recited the names.
