Now it seemed he had made the right decision, but for entirely the wrong reasons. Everyone was involved, even his young nephew.
He watched Yaxley and Burwell through the crack in the shutter as they fussed about the hall hiding evidence that the meeting had taken place. The rushes were stamped down, furniture moved back into place, and wax from the candles scraped away. Eventually, they were satisfied, and went to their beds, leaving the hall in darkness. Bartholomew sighed in relief, and began to flex his frozen limbs. He was so cold and stiff, he wondered whether he would be able to climb down the ivy and back up over the wall without falling and giving himself away. He rubbed his arms and legs vigorously for a few moments to try to warm them, and then began his descent. He almost slipped twice, and discovered that it was much easier climbing up slime-covered vines than down them. He really did lose his footing when he was near the bottom, and landed with a crackle of dead, broken branches in the bushes.
Cynric was there to help him up. 'You will wake the dead!' he whispered irritably. 'Try to be quieter.'
Bartholomew followed him across the disgusting yard, even more slippery now that some of the filth had turned to ice in the night air. Getting over the wall proved difficult, for Bartholomew could not feel his cold fingers sufficiently to find handholds in the stones. They managed eventually, and Cynric retraced his silent steps back through the shadows into Michaelhouse. The front gates were closed, but Cynric, showing characteristic foresight, had left the back gate unlocked, and they made their way through the College vegetable gardens, past the laundry, and into the College itself. It occurred to Bartholomew that Wilson must have made the same journey when he returned from seeing his lover, the Abbess.
Bartholomew sank gratefully into Agatha's chair. His knees were still trembling from the shock of hearing that his family was involved in the University's business, and that there were people who obviously wanted him out of the way. How had he managed to manoeuver himself into the position where he stood virtually alone against his family and friends? He had no wish to see the country short of trained clergy and educated men who would be able to serve their people, and he had no wish to see the social order of England crumble because there was only one University from which these men could graduate.
It was probably fair to say that he actually approved of the aims of this clandestine group. But there remained something odd about the whole business, a sinister edge to it that Bartholomew could not define.
Cynric began to prod some life into the embers, and they both stretched cold hands towards the meagre flames. Bartholomew went into a storeroom and emerged with one ofWilson' s bottles of wine. Cynric took the bottle and pulled the cork out with his teeth. He took a hearty swig, and passed it to Bartholomew.
Bartholomew followed suit, grimacing at the strength of the wine. Cynric grinned at him, and took the bottle again. 'This was the one Gilbert said was the best,' he said, peering at the label in the firelight.
'This single bottle cost six marks; Wilson was saving it for when the Bishop came.'
Bartholomew took the bottle and studied it. The parchment wrapped round it said it came from the French Mediterranean, and so would be more expensive than English wine, or wine from the north of France. He took another sip. It had a tarry flavour that Bartholomew was already beginning to like. He took a third swallow and passed it back to Cynric, who raised it into the air in a salute.
'To Master Wilson, for leaving us his wine. And for leaving us.' He gave a short laugh, and drank. 'Now,' he said, 'what did you learn?'
Bartholomew began to relate what he had learned, embarrassed that his voice cracked when he mentioned the involvement of his family. Cynric sat quietly, not interrupting.
Eventually, Bartholomew faltered and stopped.
What more could he say? He started to tell Cynric that he would talk to Stanmore, and reason with him about the University business, but got no further than the first few words. Would Stanmore then be forced to kill him, as Sir John and Aelfrith had been killed because they had been in the way? Or would it be Stephen or Richard who would perform that duty?
He rubbed his eyes hard, feeling an aching tiredness underneath that made them burn. He was at his wits' end, and knew no more what to do than would the great rat that sat boldly washing its whiskers in the middle of the kitchen floor. He watched as it snapped into alertness, standing on hind legs and sniffing the air, before scampering away to disappear down a hole in the corner. At the same time, there was a chill draught as the door was opened.
'Matt?' said Philippa softly, walking towards him and dropping to her knees by his chair. She took one of his hands in hers. 'You look tired and miserable. Tell me what is wrong.'
Bartholomew looked in astonishment over her fair head to Abigny, who stood in the doorway.
'The last time we met, you were wearing a dress,'
Bartholomew said coldly, trying to control the sick, churning feeling in his stomach.
'I was a damn fine woman!' Abigny said proudly.
'Fooled your family for almost four days. Would have done for longer if you had not been so ungentlemanly as to burst into a woman's boudoir unannounced.'
Bartholomew half rose, pulling his hand away from Philippa, but then sat back down again, uncertain what he had been intending to do. Abigny settled himself comfortably on one of the benches.
'We owe you an explanation,' he said.
Bartholomew looked at him warily. 'I should say you do,' he said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. When he dared to glance at Philippa again, she smiled at him lovingly, but without remorse. Chilled, he moved away so that no part of her touched him.
'Oh, Matt!' she said, giving him a playful push. 'Do not sulk! You knew why I went!' 'I know nothing!' he said with a sudden intensity. 'I left you with Edith, then there was some peculiar story about you refusing to see me, then Giles pretended to be you for God knows how long, and then you both disappeared!'
'What?' she said, her small face puckered. 'No! Giles explained it all to you. You know I would never give you cause for concern!' She turned to her brother. 'You did tell him. You told me you did!' Her voice was accusing, and Abigny stood and backed away, his hands raised in front of him in a placatory gesture.
'I decided against it. I thought it was best. You do not know him like I do; he would have tried to see you, and then you both would have been in danger! I did what I thought was right.'
Philippa stopped from where she had been advancing on her brother, and looked back at Bartholomew with a curious mixture of shame and resignation. 'Well, then,' she said in a small voice. 'You do owe Matt an explanation.'
Cautiously, alert to every movement his sister made, Abigny perched on the edge of the table. Philippa stayed where she was, at a distance from either of them. Abigny took a deep breath, and began to speak.
'In order that you understand what I did, and why, I must start at the beginning. When Philippa was still a baby, she was married. The marriage was legal, although it was of course never consummated. Her husband died shortly after, and Philippa inherited a considerable amount of property in Lincoln. Before our father died, he arranged for Philippa to stay at St Radegund's until she chose either to marry, or to take the veil. The Abbess, of course, was keen that Philippa should take the veil, because then all her property would go to the convent.'
He shuffled on the table, while Philippa watched him, her face pale.
'The fact that you were paying her obvious attention was not likely to encourage her to a life of chastity, so the Abbess, God rot her soul, decided she would remove you: if you could be persuaded to give up your courting, she imagined that Philippa, in paroxysms of grief, would become a nun, and all her worldly wealth would go to the convent. Her plan was that her dreadful nephews, the Olivers, were to start a riot and the blacksmith was paid to deliver a warning — 'stay away'. It seems the warning was too obtuse for you, because you continued to visit Philippa. The blacksmith swore he had given you the message when pressed by the Olivers. Then the plague came, and the Abbess was able to imprison Philippa in the convent under her policy of isolation.
'Anyway, to take things in order, I managed to work out what the Abbess had done by listening at doors and chatting to the nuns, who told me that the Abbess was bringing great pressure on Philippa to take her vows.'
Philippa nodded her agreement. 'She told me it was my duty to take the veil because so many clerics were dying of the plague. She said there were not enough left to say masses for the dead, and that I could not, in all conscience, refuse to commit myself to a monastic life when there were the souls of so many at stake.'
Abigny watched her for a moment before continuing.
'I became afraid that the Abbess might use the Death to her own advantage, and that she might kill Philippa for the property and blame it on the plague.
