Susanna Gregory: A Plague On Both Your Houses

'She overheard conversations between the Stanmores organising a secret meeting, and she knew you were seeking information about Philippa. She heard them mention your name and so thought you might learn something to your advantage if you eavesdropped. She knew what the back of Bene't Hostel looked like because she and her son were sometimes hired to clean the yard when the smell got too unbearable. You know the rest: we met her by the plague pits and we listened in on the meeting.'

Abigny continued. 'Cynric grew worried about you when you did not return Wednesday night. He was still concerned that the Stanmores might be involved and felt that, in the light of what he had been through with you the night before, you would not have gone to Peterborough without telling him. He did the only thing he could think of and waylaid Mistress Atkin on her way to the market. She already knew that meetings took place in the rooms under the stables when Oswald was away, and so they considered it a possibility that you were being kept there.'

Cynric interrupted. 'I also saw Michael given a note on Thursday, and I followed him to Stanmore's business premises. He also did not return.'

'Cynric, in the absence of anyone else he could trust, asked me to help,' concluded Abigny.

'How long were we in that wretched place anyway?' said Bartholomew, leaning down to rub some warmth into his cold feet.

'It is now almost Saturday morning. When Gray came back with your brother-in-law and said that they had been sent on a wild goose chase regarding Edith's supposed sore arm, Cynric guessed that the hostel men had been up to something.'

Abigny was full of questions, and despite his tiredness, Bartholomew felt that he and Cynric were owed answers. Michael began the long, elaborate explanation that had Bartholomew dozing in the warmth of the fire, and Abigny and Cynric mesmerised. Eventually, Michael rose, and Bartholomew started awake.

"I am afraid we are going to have to go through all this again,' he said. 'The Bishop will arrive this morning.'

Bartholomew groaned. 'We have been talking for days.'

Michael waved a fat white finger at him. 'Which is far preferable to what Swynford and Colet had in mind for you.'

There was no disputing that Michael was right. They stood outside the kitchen for a while, Bartholomew enjoying the clear, crisp smell of night, and looking at the sky he had thought he might never see again.

Cynric yawned hugely. "I had better get some sleep.

The University Debate is due to start in a couple of hours, and I have been invited to earn a shilling by being a deputy beadle and keeping an eye out for pickpockets in the crowd. That is, unless you want me to stay with you,' he added suddenly, looking at Bartholomew anxiously.

Bartholomew smiled and shook his head. 'You will enjoy yourself at the Debate, so go,' he said. He looked up at the sky, and a thought occurred to him. "I thought the Debate had been cancelled because of the plague.'

Michael sniffed. 'It is an important occasion with people coming for miles to listen. Why would the town cancel an event from which it can make money? What is the containment of the Death when there are goods to be sold, beds to be rented, and deals to be made?'

Bartholomew woke to darkness. At first he thoughthe was still in the cellar, but he was warm and comfortable and knew he was in his bed in Michaelhouse. He remembered leaving the window shutters open when he went to sleep — he had been in darkness so long that he felt shutting out any daylight would be a terrible sin. But the shutters were closed now. He snuggled further down under the bedclothes. Perhaps Abigny had closed them after he had gone to sleep; perhaps he had slept right through the day, and it was now night again.

He tensed suddenly. Someone was in the room with him.

'Giles? Michael?' he said, raising himself on one elbow.

There was a scraping noise, and a shutter was thrown open. Bartholomew gazed in horror at the victorious smiles of Swynford and Stephen, each holding an unsheathed sword.

'We have come for you,' said Swynford sweetly. 'We have decided upon the plan for your death and we have come to carry it out. Your escaping and returning here was no great problem, since we had decided to kill you here anyway. You merely saved us the bother of bringing you here ourselves.'

Bartholomew listened intently. It was daytime, but the College was strangely quiet. He could hear shouting, carried distantly on the wind. Swynford heard it, too, and cocked his head to one side.

'The University Debate at St Mary's Church,' he said.

'Always a lively affair. The entire College is there as usual, including your faithful Welsh servant. Giles Abigny is one of the leading participants this year — quite an honour for Michaelhouse; do you not think? Meanwhile, Brother Michael has had a message asking him to meet the Bishop at the Carmelite Friary in Newnham, and, like a good lackey, he has gone scurrying off. When he arrives, he will find Master Yaxley waiting with a surprise for him.

I had already suggested to Alcote that the servants be given the day off. After all, the scholars will be at the Debate, so why would servants be needed?'

Bartholomew was, once again, dazzled by the ruthless efficiency of these men.

'All the scholars and servants have gone,' said Swynford, re-emphasising his point. 'Except you, and the man who will kill you. The Bishop will arrive just in time to try to cover it all up with another tissue of lies.

Of course, it will be much more difficult a second time, and questions will be asked in all kinds of circles.'

Bartholomew stared at him uncomprehendingly.

'Alcote!' said Swynford impatiently. 'Who has still not left his room, even though he is Acting Master. Two birds with one stone. A petty quarrel between two Fellows that erupts into a fight with knives. In the struggle, a lamp will be knocked over, and Michaelhouse will burn. Wilson gave me the idea for this,' he added conversationally. 'You and Alcote will die in the fire, as well as your patients in the plague ward and the monks caring for them.'

Bartholomew pushed the blankets back and climbed out of bed, keeping a wary eye on Swynford and Stephen.

'It is no good expecting a second rescue,' said Swynford. 'Jocelyn, out of kindness, took your patients a large jug of wine a while ago. He will ensure that they all drink some, including the Benedictines who are with them. By now, they should all be sleeping peacefully. It worked so well last time that we could not resist trying it again. In case they wake, he has locked the door of the room to make sure that none will come to cause us trouble.'

Bartholomew looked at them in disgust and reached for his gown. Swynford poked at his hand with the sword.

'You will not be needing that,' he said. 'Shirt and leggings are good enough.' He gave Bartholomew a sharp prod to make him leave the room and walk across the courtyard.

Swynford was right. It was deserted.

Stephen took a grip on his arm to stop him from running away, and jabbed the point of the short sword into his side. "I will use this willingly if you make more trouble,' he hissed. 'You have hindered our cause too much already.'

Bartholomew was marched across the yard and up the stairs to the hall. Colet was there already, pointing a crossbow at the petrified Alcote. A pathetic look of relief came over Alcote's face when he saw Swynford.

'This mad physician brought me here,' he began, and stopped short when he saw the sword Swynford held, and how it was pointed at Bartholomew. He put his hands over his face, and began to weep silently.

'It was Robert,' Bartholomew could hear him moan.

'Robert killed them all.'

Swynford set about preparing the room to make a convincing show of a struggle. He knocked benches over, threw plates and cups onto the floor, and ripped one or two wall-hangings down. When he was satisfied, he turned to his victims.