Susanna Gregory: A Plague On Both Your Houses

'That was most disagreeable,' Colet agreed, 'but it had to be done. I was never as adept at surgery as you, Matt, and I am afraid I made rather a poor job of it. I told you I saw Augustus swallow something. What else could it have been but the seal? After I had completed my inspection of his innards, I wrapped him up and hid him in the blocked-off passageway.' "I take it you found nothing,' said Bartholomew.

'On the contrary,' said Colet. "I found this.' He held up an object for Bartholomew to see. There, glittering in the light from the candle was Colet's golden lion.

Bartholomew felt sick. Colet must be an ill man indeed to have ripped out a man's entrails and to have kept a pathetic ornament he had discovered there.

'And this brings me to the second point I do not understand,' said Michael. 'How did you know about the trap-doors? They were meant to be a secret passed from Master to Master.'

'Poor, sick Augustus told Swynford about them.

Augustus was Master of Michaelhouse once, if you remember,' said Colet. 'They made things easier, but we would have managed without them. We would have just planned differently.' He took the golden lion from his pocket and began to twist it through his fingers. He started suddenly as voices could be heard down the hallway. Swynford. Bartholomew recalled his disapproval of Colet speaking to him before, and was not surprised when Colet left abruptly.

In the darkness, Bartholomew heard Michael move towards the food that Colet had brought. "I wonder what poison they have used,' he mused, smiling grimly as he heard Michael drop the plate.

'Damn you, Matt,' Michael grumbled. 'Do we starve here or die of poison?'

'The choice is probably yours, Brother,' replied Bartholomew.

Once again, time began to drag. Bartholomew and Michael talked more about what Colet had told them, but he had revealed little they did not already know, merely answering how Aelfrith had come to believe Wilson had killed him, and how Swynford had known about the trap-door in Augustus's room. Bartholomew presumed that Stanmore's underground rooms were used for secret meetings only at night, when Oswald Stanmore went home to Trumpington, and Stephen had the premises to himself.

When he heard the scratching noise outside the door, he first assumed it was his imagination, or Michael fidgeting in the darkness. But the sound persisted, and Bartholomew thought he could see the merest glimmer of light under the door. So, this is it, he thought. Swynford had conceived another diabolical plan, and he and Michael would be murdered just like the others who had threatened his objectives. He shook Michael awake, cautioning him to silence with a hand over his mouth.

The door swung open very slowly, and two figures slipped in, one shielding the light from the stub of a candle with his hand. The other closed the door behind them and they stood peering into the gloom.

'Michael! Matt!' came an urgent whisper.

Bartholomew was bracing himself to jump at one of the figures to see if he could overpower him when the candle flared and he found himself looking at Abigny, his youthful face tense and anxious.

'Thank God! You are unharmed!' he whispered, breaking into a smile, and clapping Bartholomew on the back.

'Giles!' exclaimed Bartholomew in amazement.

'How…?'

'Questions later,' said the philosopher. 'Come.'

The other figure at the door gestured urgently, and Abigny led the way out of the chamber and along the passageway. They quickly climbed the wooden stairs and Abignyclosedthetrap-doorcarefully,coveringitwithstraw.

The other person snuffed out the candle, leaving them in darkness and together they set off for the door at the far end of the stables.

They froze at the sound of someone in the yard.

Hastily, Abigny bundled them into a stall with an ancient piebald nag, hoping that it would not give them away.

Bartholomew saw Stephen come into the stable with a lamp, while outside, they could hear some of the men who worked for him chattering and laughing.

Stephen set the lamp down, and went to a splendid black gelding, which he patted and caressed lovingly.

Oswald had bought Stephen the horse to compensate for the one Abigny had stolen.

Bartholomew's legs were like jelly and, judging from Michael's shaking next to him, the fat monk felt the same.

To his horror, Michael give a muffled sneeze. The straw!

Michael frequently complained that straw made him cough. Bartholomew pinched Michael's nose to stop him from sneezing again. Stephen ceased crooning to the horse, and looked up.

'Who is there?' he asked. He picked up the lamp and shone it down the building. Next to them, the piebald horse stirred restlessly, its hooves rustling in the dry straw. Stephen tutted as he heard it, and went back to the black horse. He gave it one last pat on the nose, and left, carefully shutting the stable door behind him. Bartholomew heard the voices of Stephen and his men recede as they crossed the yard to the house.

'We must leave here as soon as we can,' said Abigny.

'Cynric is keeping watch outside.'

He opened the door a crack and peered out. 'They have gone into the house,' he whispered, 'and the candles are out. Come on.'

The night was clear, and the yard was lit brightly by the moon. Bartholomew hoped Stephen's dogs would not begin to bark, for anyone looking out of the windows of the house would surely see them in the yard. Cynric appeared out of nothing, and beckoned them to follow, moving like a cat through the shadows.

To Bartholomew, he, Abigny, and Michael sounded like a herd of stampeding pigs compared to Cynric, and he kept glancing at the house, certain that he would see someone looking out because of the noise.

Finally, they reached the huge gates, where the smaller person stepped forward with a key to unlock the wicket gate. Cynric pushed it open, and all five of them slipped outside.

In the moonlight, Bartholomew saw the face of the small person as she turned to go back inside.

'Rachel Atkin!' he said in surprise.

'Shhh!' she said, glancing fearfully about her. 'Go now, quickly. I must get back to bed before anyone realises I am missing.'

'You were my well-wisher!' he said, light dawning suddenly.

'You must have overheard Stephen talking She put her hand over his mouth. 'Go,' she said again. 'Master Abigny will explain.'

Before he could say anything else, she had slipped back through the wicket gate, and they could hear it being locked from the inside.

Cynric led the way through the dark streets and into Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew sank gratefully into Agatha's chair.

Michael sat heavily on a stool next to him, wiping the sweat from his eyes, and snatched the bottle that Cynric was handing to Bartholomew.

'My need is greater than yours, Physician,' he said, downing a good quarter of the bottle in the first gulp.

Bartholomew sat back in the chair and asked Cynric for some water. Although he wanted to drain it in a single draught, he sipped it slowly, because he knew that the cold water would be likely to give him stomach cramps after so long without drinking.

He leaned forward and touched Abigny on the hand. 'Thank you,' he said. 'And Cynric, too. How did you know?'

Cynric closed the shutters on the windows, and sat near Bartholomew so he could poke at the fire. Michael took another hearty swig from his bottle — another of Master Wilson's, Bartholomew noted.

'Your friend told us,' said Abigny. 'Rachel.'

Bartholomew was amazed. Once he had arranged for Rachel to work for Stephen, he had not given her another thought. He had seen her around Stephen's house several times, and had been told that she was settling in well, but that was all.

Cynric took up the tale. 'She was grateful for what you did for her when her son was killed — she could not have paid for a decent funeral for him, and you saw to it, as well as finding her work and a place to live. She is a silent sort, who people come not to notice after a while.' Cynric paused, and Bartholomew wondered whether Cynric saw some of himself in Rachel Atkin.