When Bartholomew began to describe him, the fat landlord shook his head.
'We are on a main road, and our trade is excellent, even with this pestilence. I cannot remember everyone who buys ale from me. He may have been here, but I cannot be certain.'
The landlord at the other alehouse knew Abigny and was more helpful, but said Abigny had most definitely not been there two nights before. He smiled ruefully, and said that Abigny had once been caught cheating at a game of dice with two of the locals, and had not dared to show his face again for fear of what might happen to him.
They walked back to Michaelhouse, and, after a silent meal, Bartholomew went to the sick-room. The dim light of the grey winter afternoon made it feel gloomy, and Bartholomew stoked up the fire. He was sure that Wilson would have been appalled at the waste of fuel on dying men. He smiled to himself as a picture of Wilson in hell, telling the Devil not to waste wood on his fires, sprang into his mind. He felt someone touch him on the shoulder, and looked up to see William bending over him. He felt slightly uncomfortable. Was the ex-inquisitor reading his mind and seeing heretical thoughts within?
William beckoned him outside, and stood waiting in the chilly hallway outside Augustus's room.
'We have been sent a message from the Chancellor at last,' he said. 'He has chosen Robert Swynford to be our next Master.'
'No great surprise, and he will make a good Master,'
Bartholomew said. 'Will he come back from the country?'
William shook his head. 'Robert also sent a message saying that there has been plague in the house of his relatives and most of the menfolk have died. He asks our indulgence that we allow him to remain away for a few weeks until he is sure the women will be properly cared for. He has asked Alcote to act as his deputy until then.'
Bartholomew wondered if leaving the College in the care of a man who had just been deprived of the position might not be a risky move. Then he thought of Robert Swynford's easy grace and confidence, and knew that he would have no problem whatsoever in wresting delegated power back from Alcote.
'But Alcote is hiding in his room like Wilson was,' said Bartholomew. 'How can he run the College?' 'I assume Swynford has not been told that,' said William. 'Alcote has asked for various documents to be sent to him, so it seems he will at least see to the administration.'
Bartholomew went outside for some air and to stretch limbs cramped from bending over his patients all afternoon. The rain had stopped, and the clouds were beginning to clear. The porter saw him and scuttled over, stopping a good ten feet from Bartholomew, a large pomander filled with powerful herbs pressed to his face.
Bartholomew realised that he had not seen the porter's face since the day he had returned from the house of Agatha's cousin and announced to Michaelhouse that the plague had come. The man held a note that he placed on the ground so he would not have to go nearer to Bartholomew than necessary. When he saw Bartholomew pick it up, he scurried back into the safety of his lodge. Bartholomew watched as he slammed the door. Perhaps the porter was right, and Bartholomew did carry a dangerous miasma around with him. He felt well enough, but how did he know he did not carry the contagion with him, in his breath, his clothes? He sighed heavily and turned his attention to the scrap of parchment in his hand which, in almost illegible writing, said that he was needed at the tinker's house near the river.
Bartholomew collected his cloak and bag of medicines, and set off. A wind was getting up, and it seemed to be growing colder by the moment. Bartholomew wondered whether the river would freeze over, as it had done the year before. As first, he had welcomed this, because it had cut down the smell. But then people just threw rubbish onto the ice rather than into the water, and it was not long before the smell was worse than it had been when the river was running.
He reached the river, and turned to walk along the row of shacks where the river people lived. He recalled that the last patient he had seen before the plague had been the tinker's little girl, and he remembered that he had seen her body buried in one of the first plague pits to be dug. The last house in the row belonged to the tinker, but only one child stood outside to greet him this time.
Entering the single room, he walked over to the pile of rags in one corner that served as a bed, and crouched down to look at the person huddled there.
He was pleasantly surprised to see a healthy woman lying on the bed.
She appeared startled to see him, and exchanged a puzzled glance with the child who had followed him in.
'You sent for me,' said Bartholomew, kneeling on the earth floor. 'What can I do?'
The woman exchanged another look with the child, who shook her head. 'I would not send for you for this, Doctor,' the woman said. 'My baby is coming. The midwife is dead, and I had to send my lad to fetch a woman to help me. I do not need a physician.'
Bartholomew returned her puzzled look. 'But you sent me a note…'
He stopped as the woman tensed with a wave of contractions. When she relaxed again, she blurted out,
'I did no such thing. I cannot write, and nor can my children. I do not need a physician.'
And could not pay for one was the unspoken addendum. Bartholomew shrugged. 'But since I am here, and since your time is close, perhaps I can help.
And I will require no payment,' he added quickly, seeing concern flitting across the woman's face.
Bartholomew sent the child to fetch some water and cloths, and not a minute too soon, for the top of the baby's head was already showing. Between gasps, the tinker's wife told him how the other women who lived nearby were either dead or had the pestilence, and she had sent her son to fetch her sister from Haslingfield.
But since that was several miles, she had known help might come too late. Physicians usually left childbirth to the midwives, and Bartholomew was only ever called if there was a serious problem, usually when it was far too late for him to do much about it. He was not surprised to find that he was enjoying doing something other than dealing with plague victims. When the baby finally slid into his hands all slippery and bawling healthily, he was more enthusiastic over it than were the exhausted mother and her wide-eyed daughter.
'It is a beautiful girl,' he said, giving the baby to the mother to nurse, 'perfectly formed and very healthy.' He pulled back the cloth so he could look at her face, and exchanged grins with the mother. He took one of the tiny hands in his. 'Look at her fingernails!' he exclaimed.
The tinker's wife began to laugh. 'Why, Doctor, anyone would think a newborn baby was something special to hear you going on!' she said. 'You would not be like this if it was your ninth in twelve years!'
Bartholomew laughed with her. 'I would be happy to help with any more babies you might have, Mistress Tinker,' he said, 'and would consider it a privilege to be asked.'
Bartholomew left the house feeling happier than he had since the plague had started. He made his way back along the river, whistling softly to himself. As he turned the corner to go back to College, a figure stepped out of the shadows in front of him, wielding what looked to be a heavy stick.
Bartholomew stopped in his tracks and glanced behind him, cursing himself for his foolishness. Another two shadowy forms stood there similarly armed. The note! It had been a trap! He swallowed hard, a vision of Augustus's mutilated body coming to mind. His stomach was a cold knot of fear. He had a small knife that he used for medical purposes, but it would be useless against three men armed with staves. He twisted the strap of his bag around his hand, and suddenly raced forward, swinging the bag at the figure in front of him as he did so. He felt it hit the man, and heard him grunt as he fell. Bartholomew kept going, hearing the footsteps of the two behind him following.
He fell heavily to the ground as a fourth figure shot out of some bushes in the lane and crashed into him. He twisted round, and saw one of the men who had followed raise his stick high into the air for a blow that would smash his head like an egg. He kicked out at the man's legs, and saw him lose his balance. Bartholomew tried to scramble to his feet, but someone else had grabbed him by his cloak and was trying to pull it tight around his throat.
Bartholomew struggled furiously, lashing out with fists and feet, and hearing from the obscenities and yelps that a good many of his blows were true.
He brought his knee up sharply into the groin of one man, but he could not hold out for ever against four. He looked up, and saw for the second time an upraised stick silhouetted against the dark sky, but now he was pinned down and unable to struggle free. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow that he was certain would be the last thing he would know.
