Susanna Gregory: A Plague On Both Your Houses

He released the woman's hands, and went to examine the blacksmith's leg. It was a clean break, with no punctured skin. It only needed to be set, and, given time and rest, would heal well enough.

As he gently squeezed and probed the break, testing for splinters of bone, the blacksmith leaned towards him. Bartholomew realised that the ale fumes on his breath probably accounted for the fact that he did not scream, as many patients might, when his leg was examined. He should set it as soon as possible for the same reason.

'Why did you interfere?' the blacksmith slurred.

Bartholomew ignored him, and went to look at the last injury, a man complaining of pains in his back.

'It was under control,' the blacksmith continued.

'We knew what we were doing.' "I am sure you did,' said Bartholomew absently, running his hands down the man's spine. He straightened up. 'Just bruised,' he said to the man, 'go home and rest, and in a few days it will feel better.' He turned to the blacksmith. "I can set your leg now, or you can go to a surgeon. I do not care which you choose.'

The blacksmith looked dubious, and narrowed his eyes. "I have heard of you, Physician. You tell the other doctors that they should not use leeches…'

There was a muted snigger from the listening beadles, and Bartholomew cut the blacksmith off abruptly by standing and preparing to leave. He had no desire to enter into a medical debate with the man. He knew his medical teaching was regarded with suspicion, even fear, by some people, but no one could deny that fewer patients died under his care than that of his colleagues.

His success where they had failed often drove desperate people to him, and those he had healed usually rallied to his defence when others questioned or criticised his methods.

'And how much will it cost me?' sneered the blacksmith, seizing a corner of Bartholomew's gown to prevent him from walking away.

Bartholomew looked down at him. 'A shroud and a gravedigger for the woman's son.'

The blacksmith met his eyes, peering up to see if he could detect any trickery there. After a moment's thought, he nodded, and lifted his arms so that the beadles could help him into Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew had a small surgery.

Bartholomew quickly bandaged the first man's head, and sent him home. The woman still sat on the ground, staring into space. The beadles had lifted the bodies of the young men onto a cart to be taken to StMichael's Church, while Brother Michael had finished his prayers and was walking back into the College. Coming to a decision, Bartholomew reached down and took the woman by the hand, pulling her to her feet. He ignored the surprised looks of the porters at the gate, and made for the kitchens, Rachel Atkin in tow.

All the College servants were furiously busy preparing for Master Wilson's feast. Bartholomew pushed his way through the kitchens to the servants' living quarters beyond. Agatha, the enormous laundress, sat there, folding napkins in readiness for the feast. She looked up as he entered, her bushy grey eyebrows coming together as she saw the woman.

'Now what?' she demanded, struggling to heave her considerable bulk to her feet. 'What troubles have you brought me this time, you young scoundrel?'

Bartholomew smiled. Women were not generally employed in the Colleges, but Agatha was quite an exception. Sir John had hired her when he first came to Michaelhouse, Instantly recognising her abilities for organisation and efficiency. She had gradually established herself as undisputed leader of the College staff, and the College owed its smooth and generally conflict-free running to Agatha.

'You are always saying that you need an assistant,' he said, smiling at her. 'Could you take this one, just for a few days?'

'She is stark staring mad!' Agatha bellowed, peering suspiciously into Rachel Atitin's face.

'No, not mad, just grieving for her son,' said Bartholomew gently. Rachel began to look around her vacantly. 'Will you give her a chance? Not tonight — she should sleep. But maybe for a few days?'

'Are you insane?' Agatha shouted. 'What will Windbag Wilson say when he hears you have brought a woman into the College? He only tolerates me because he knows in his heart that I am twice the man that he will ever be. He will be after your blood, Master Matthew. I have heard that he is going to demand that all the Fellows take major holy orders like Michael and the Franciscans. He will have something to say about women in the College, you can be sure of that!'

'Just for a few days until I can think of something else. Please, Agatha?'

Agatha hid a smile, and put her hands on her ample hips. She had had a soft spot for the dark-haired physician ever since he had arrived at the College to teach medicine four years before and had cured her of a painful swelling on her foot. She had been dubious of accepting his help because he had abandoned the usual implements of his trade — leeches, star-charts, and urine examination and had even been known to practise surgery, a task normally left to barbers. But Bartholomew's treatment of Agatha's foot had worked, and Agatha was not a woman to question something that improved the quality of her life so dramatically.

She eyed the woman impassively noting her old but clean dress, and the careful darns. 'Out of the question! You will be expecting me to share my own room with her next!'

'No, I…' began Bartholomew, but stopped as Agatha elbowed him out of the way, and steered Rachel towards one of the small rooms in which the servants slept. He needed to say no more. Rachel Atkin was in good hands for now, and he was sure he and Agatha could work out something between them later.

He dodged his way back through the frenetic activity of the kitchens and walked across the courtyard towards his room. The Sheriff and Wilson had gone, but students and servants were scurrying back and forth as the bell rang to announce that the feast was about to begin.

The blacksmith lay on the pallet in the tiny chamber Bartholomew used to store his medicines, and where the College's three precious medical books were kept chained to the wall. Engaging the help of two burly porters, Bartholomew pulled and heaved on the leg until he was certain the bones were in correct alignment.

The porters exchanged grimaces of disgust as the sound of grating bone filled the room. But the blacksmith had apparently taken several healthy swigs from the jug of wine that stood on the table and was virtually unconscious by the time Bartholomew began: with the exception of one or two grunts, he lay motionless through the entire proceeding. Bartholomew bound the leg tightly between two sticks of wood, and checked his patient for signs of shock or fever.

The porters left, and Bartholomew covered the blacksmith with his cloak and left him to sleep. His family could collect him in the morning. He went into the room that he shared with Abigny, and slumped on his bed, suddenly feeling drained. What a day! He had sat through Wilson's interminable installation, narrowly averted a riot, almost been locked out of the College to face an enraged mob, attended four patients, and set a broken leg.

He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, feeling a warm lethargy creep over him. It would be pleasant to drift off to sleep. The courtyard outside was quiet now, and he could just hear the murmur of voices coming from the feast in the hall. His place at the high table would be empty and he would be missed. He should go or Wilson would take his absence as a personal insult, and would try to make life unbearable for him. He sat still for a few minutes, and then forced himself to stand up. He need only stay until the speeches were over. Speeches!

He almost sat down again at the thought of listening to Master Wilson pontificate, but he had not eaten since breakfast, and the smells of cooking from the kitchen had been delicious.