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Susanna Gregory: A Plague On Both Your Houses

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Susanna Gregory A Plague On Both Your Houses

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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.

He brushed hastily at the dust and mud that clung to his best gown, and straightened the black robe underneath.

He walked across the courtyard, stopping on the way to look in on Augustus. The commoners shared a large dormitory on the upper floor of the southern wing, but because Augustus talked to himself and kept the others awake, he had been given a small room of A pLAGUE ON BOTl) YOUR l)OUSeS his own, an unusual privilege for any College member, but especially a commoner. The commoners' room and Augustus's chamber were dark, but Bartholomew could make out Augustus lying on the bed, and could hear his slow, rhythmic breathing. In the main dormitory, Brother Paul, another commoner too frail to attend the feast, coughed wetly and muttered in his sleep.

Satisfied, Bartholomew made his way to the hall, and tried to slip as unobtrusively as possible into his seat at the high table at the raised end of the hall. Wilson leaned forward and shot him an unpleasant look. Next to Bartholomew, Giles Abigny had already had far too much to drink, and was regaling Brother Michael with a story of his experiences with a prostitute in London.

For a monk, Michael was showing an unseemly interest.

On Bartholomew's other side, the two Franciscan friars, Aelfridi and William, were already deep in some debate about the nature of original sin, while Wilson, Alcote and Swynford huddled together plotting God knew what.

Bartholomew ate some of the spiced venison slowly, realising that he had grown so used to plain College fare, that the strongly flavoured meats and piquant sauces were too rich for him. He wondered how many scholars would over-indulge and make themselves sick. The ever-growing pile of gnawed bones and the grease-splattered table near Michael indicated that he had no such reservations.

A roar of laughter from the students jolted him from his thoughts. Members of the College usually spoke Latin, or occasionally court French, at the few meals where speaking was permitted, and the conversation was generally learned. But tonight, as a gesture of courtesy to his secular guests, Wilson had decreed that the conversation might be in any language. Bartholomew glanced around the hall, noting the brightly coloured tapestries, begged and borrowed from other Colleges for the occasion, that adorned the walls. The walls were normally bare so as not to distract scholars from their studies, and the benches, now draped with rich cloths, were plain wood. The guests from the town added splashes of colour among the students' black gowns.

Servants scurried here and there bearing large jugs of wine and platters of food that left trails of spilled grease.

In the gallery normally occupied by the Bible scholar, a small group of musicians fought to make their singing heard over the hubbub.

Down the table, Brother Michael chortled with unmonklike delight as he listened with rapt attention to Abigny. Fortunately for him, his imprudent laughter was screened from the austere Franciscan Fellows by another roar of laughter from the students.

The Oliver brothers were the centre of attention, a group of younger students gathering round them admiringly. Bartholomew heard Elias telling them how he had been the last one through the gates to make sure that all the others were safe inside. At that moment, Henry looked up towards the high table, and stared at Bartholomew, his blue eyes blazing with hatred. They held each other's gaze for a moment, before Henry, with a sneer, looked away.

Bartholomew was puzzled. He had had very little to do with the Oliver brothers — they were not his students, and he had never had to deal with them for any disciplinary breaches. He found it hard to believe that all the hatred that Henry had put into that look came from the incident outside the church. The mob had been in an ugly mood, and he had averted what might very easily have turned into a bloodbath. So what had he done to earn such emotions?

He tried to put it out of his mind. He was tired, and was probably reading far too much into Henry Oliver's looks. He sipped at the fine wine from France that Wilson had provided to toast his future success as Master, and leaned his elbows on the table. Abigny, his story completed, slapped Bartholomew on the back.

"I heard you have secreted a woman in the College Abigny's voice was loud, and several students looked at him speculatively. Brother Michael's eyebrows shot up, his baggy green eyes glittering with amusement.

The Franciscans paused in their debate and looked at Bartholomew disapprovingly.

'Hush!' Bartholomew chided Abigny. 'She is in the care of Agatha, and not secreted anywhere.'

Abigny laughed, and draped his arm round Bartholomew's shoulders. Bartholomew pulled away as wine fumes wafted into his face. "I wish I were a physician and not a philosopher. What better excuse to be in a woman's boudoir than to be leeching her blood.' "I do not leech the blood of my patients,' said Bartholomew irritably. They had been down this path before. Abigny loved to tease Bartholomew about his unorthodox methods. Bartholomew had learned medicine at the University in Paris from an Arab teacher who had taught him that bleeding was for charlatans too lazy to discover a cure.

Abigny laughed again, his cheeks flushed pink with wine, but then leaned closer to Bartholomew. 'But you and I may not be long for our free and easy lives if our new Master has anything to say. He will have us taking major orders as he and his two sycophants over there plan to do.'

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