A Plague On Both Your Houses

Book 1: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Fiction; Medieval; Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Medical Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

For the twentieth anniversary of the Matthew Bartholomew series, Sphere is delighted to reissue the first three books with beautiful new series-style covers.

Matthew Bartholomew, unorthodox but effective physician to Michaelhouse college in medieval Cambridge, is as worried as anyone about the pestilence that is ravaging Europe and seems to be approaching England. But he is distracted by the sudden and inexplicable death of the Master of Michaelhouse - a death the University authorities do not want investigated.

But Matt is determined to get to the truth, leading him into a tangle of lies and intrigue that cause him to question the innocence of his closest friends - and even his family - just as the Black Death finally arrives...

A Plague on Both Your Houses is the book that introduced Matthew Bartholomew to the world.

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 415

Sample

Cambridge, 1348

THE SCHOLAR WAITED IN THE BLACK SHADOWS OF the churchyard trees for the Sheriff’s night patrol to pass by, trying to control
his breathing. Two of the men stopped so close that he could have reached out and touched them. They stood for several minutes,
leaning against the wall surrounding the churchyard, looking up and down the deserted road. The scholar held his breath until
he thought he would choke. He could not be discovered now: there was so much to lose.


Eventually, the Sheriff’s men left, and the scholar took several unsteady breaths, forcing himself to remain in the safety
of the shadows until he was certain that they had gone. He jumped violently as a large cat stalked past his hiding place, glancing
at him briefly with alert yellow eyes. He watched it sit for a moment in the middle of the road, before it disappeared up
a dark alleyway.


The scholar gripped the voluminous folds of his cloak, so that he would not stumble on them, and slipped out of the trees
into the road. The moon was almost full, and shed an eerie white light along the main street. He peered carefully both ways,
and, satisfied that there was no one to see him, he made his way stealthily down the street towards his home.


The main gates of the College were locked, but the scholar had ensured that the little-used back door was left open. He turned
from the High Street into St Michael’s Lane. He was almost there.


He froze in horror as he saw someone was already in the lane: another scholar, also disobeying College rules by being out
at night, was walking towards him. Heart thumping, he ducked into a patch of tall nettles and weeds at the side of the road,
in the hope that his stillness and dark cloak would keep him hidden. He heard the footsteps come closer and closer. Blood
pounded in his ears, and he found he was trembling uncontrollably. The footsteps were almost level with him. Now he would
be uncovered and dragged from his hiding place!


He almost cried in relief as the footfall passed him by, and faded as his colleague turned the corner into the High Street.
He stood shakily, oblivious to the stinging of the nettles on his bare hands, and ran to the back gate. Once inside, he barred
it with unsteady hands, and made his way to the kitchens. Faint with relief, he sank down next to the embers of the cooking
fire and waited until his trembling had ceased. As he prepared to return to his room to sleep away what little remained of
the night, he wondered how many more such trips he might make before he was seen.


Several hours later, the Bishop’s Mill miller dragged himself from his bed, tugged on his boots, and set off to his work.
The sky was beginning to turn from dark blue to silver in the east, and the miller shivered in the crispness of the early morning. He unlocked the door to the building and then went to feed the fat pony that he kept to carry
flour to the town.


A short distance away, he could hear the rhythmic whine and swish of the water-wheel, powered by a fast-running channel diverted
from the river. The miller had grown so familiar with its sound that he never noticed it unless there was something wrong.
And there was something wrong this morning. There was an additional thump in the rhythm.


The miller sighed irritably. Only the previous week he had been forced to ask the help of his neighbours to free the branch
of a tree that had entangled itself in the wheel, and he was loathe to impose on their good graces again so soon. He tossed
some oats to the pony, and, wiping his hands on his tunic, he went to investigate. As he drew nearer, he frowned in puzzlement.
It did not sound like a branch had been caught, but something soggier and less rigid. He rounded the corner and approached
the great wheel, creaking and pounding as the water roared past it.


He felt his knees turn to jelly as he saw the wheel and what was caught in it, and sank onto the grass, unable to tear his
eyes away. The body of a man was impaled there, black robes flapping wetly around him as the wheel dragged him under the water
again and again. As the wheel lifted the body, one arm flopped loose in a ghostly parody of a wave, which continued until the
body dived, feet first, back into the water for another cycle. The horrified miller watched the body salute him three times
before he was able to scramble to his feet and race towards the town screaming for help.


THE DULL THUD OF HORSES’ HOOVES AND THE gentle patter of rain on the wooden coffin were the only sounds to disturb the silence
of the dawn. Black-gowned scholars walked slowly in single file along the High Street, following the funeral cart past the
town gate to the fields beyond, where the body of their Master, Sir John Babington, would be laid in its final resting place.
Somewhere behind him, Matthew Bartholomew heard one of the students stifle a giggle. He turned round and scowled in the general
direction of the offending noise. Nerves, doubtless, he thought, for it was not every day that the College buried a Master
who had taken his own life in such a bizarre manner.


The small procession was allowed through the gate by sleepy night-watchmen who came to the door of their guardroom to look.
One of them furtively nudged the other and both smirked. Bartholomew took a step towards them, but felt Brother Michael’s
restraining hand on his shoulder. Michael was right; it would be wrong to turn Sir John’s funeral into a brawl. Bartholomew
brought his anger under control. Sir John had been one of the few men in the University who had been liked by the townspeople,
but they had been quick to turn against him once the manner of his death became known. Had Sir John died a natural death, he would have been buried in the small
churchyard of St Michael’s, and been given a glorious funeral. Instead, church law decreed that, as a suicide, he should be
buried in unconsecrated ground, and be denied any religious ceremony. So, in the first grey light of day, Sir John was escorted
out of the city by the scholars of Michaelhouse, to be laid to rest in the waterlogged fields behind the church of St Peter-without-Trumpington Gate.


The horse pulling the cart bearing the coffin stumbled in the mud, causing the cart to lurch precariously. Bartholomew sprang
forward to steady it, and was surprised to see Thomas Wilson, the man most likely to be Sir John’s successor, do the same.
The eyes of the two men met for an instant, and Wilson favoured Bartholomew with one of his small pious smiles. Bartholomew
looked away. No love had been lost between the smug, self-satisfied Wilson and Sir John, and it galled Bartholomew to watch
Wilson supervise Sir John’s meagre funeral arrangements. He took a deep breath, and tried not to think how much he would miss
Sir John’s gentle humour and sensible rule.


Wilson gave an imperious wave of a flabby white hand, and Bartholomew’s book-bearer, Cynric ap Huwydd, hurried forward to
help the ostler lead the horse off the road and across the rough land to the grave site. The cart swayed and tipped, and the
coffin bounced, landing with a hollow thump. Wilson seized Cynric’s shoulder angrily, berating him for being careless in a
loud, penetrating whisper.


Bartholomew had had enough. Motioning to the other Fellows, he edged Sir John’s coffin from the cart, and together they lifted it onto their shoulders. They began the long walk across the fields to where the grave had been
dug in a ring of sturdy oak trees. Bartholomew had chosen the spot because he knew Sir John had liked to read in the shade
of the trees in the summer, but he began to doubt his choice as the heavy wood cut into his shoulder and his arms began to
ache. After a few minutes, he felt himself being nudged aside, and smiled gratefully as the students came forward to take
their turn.


Wilson walked ahead, and stood waiting at the graveside, head bowed and hands folded in his sleeves like a monk. The students
lowered their burden to the ground and looked at Bartholomew expectantly. He arranged some ropes, and the coffin was lowered
into the ground. He nodded to Cynric and the other book-bearers to start to fill in the grave, and, taking a last look, he
turned to go home.


‘Friends and colleagues,’ began Wilson in his rich, self-important voice, ‘we are gathered together to witness the burial
of our esteemed Master, Sir John Babington.’


Bartholomew froze in his tracks. The Fellows had agreed the night before that no words would be spoken: it was felt that there
were none needed – for what could be said about Sir John’s extraordinary suicide? It had been decided that the Fellows and the
students should escort Sir John to his resting place in silence, and return to the College still in silence, as a mark of
respect. Sir John had done much to bring a relative peace to his College in a city where the scholars waged a constant war
with each other and with the townsfolk. A few of his policies had made him unpopular with some University authorities, especially those who regarded learning to be the domain of the rich.


‘Sir John,’ Wilson intoned, ‘was much loved by us all.’ At this, Bartholomew gazed at Wilson in disbelief. Wilson had led
the opposition to almost anything Sir John had tried to do, and on more than one occasion had left the hall at dinner red-faced
with impotent fury because Sir John had easily defeated his arguments with his quiet logic.


‘He will be sorely missed,’ continued Wilson, looking down mournfully as Cynric shovelled earth.

‘Not by you!’ muttered Giles Abigny, the College’s youthful teacher of philosophy, so that only Bartholomew could hear him.
‘Not when you stand to gain so much.’


‘May the Lord look upon his soul with mercy,’ Wilson continued, ‘and forgive him for his iniquitous ways.’

Bartholomew felt the anger boil inside him. He thrust his clenched fists under his scholar’s tabard so that they should not
betray his fury to the students, and looked to see the reaction of the other Fellows. Abigny was positively glowering at Wilson,
while Brother Michael watched with a sardonic smile. The other theologians, Father William and Father Aelfrith, were more
difficult to read. Bartholomew knew that Aelfrith did not like Wilson, but was too politic to allow it to show. William, who
had backed Wilson on many occasions against Sir John, now stood listening impassively. The last two Fellows, Roger Alcote
and Robert Swynford, who taught the subjects of the Quadrivium, nodded at Wilson’s words.


The book-bearers had almost finished filling in the grave. A miserable drizzle-laden wind swished through the trees, and somewhere a lone blackbird was singing. Wilson’s voice droned on with its platitudes for a man he had neither
liked nor respected, and Bartholomew abruptly turned on his heel and strode away. He heard Wilson falter for an instant, but
then continue louder than before so that the wind carried his words to Bartholomew as he walked away.


‘May the Lord look kindly on the College, and guide her in all things.’

Bartholomew allowed himself a disgusted snort. Presumably, Wilson’s idea of the Lord guiding the College was to make him,
Wilson, the next Master. He heard footsteps hurrying behind him, and was not surprised that Giles Abigny had followed his
lead and left the group.


‘We will be in trouble, Matt,’ he said with a sidelong grin at Bartholomew. ‘Walking out on Master Wilson’s carefully prepared
speech.’


‘Not Master yet,’ said Bartholomew, ‘although I imagine that will come within the week.’

They arrived back at the road and paused to scrape some of the clinging mud from their boots. It started to rain hard and
Bartholomew felt water trickling down his back. He looked back across the field, and saw Wilson leading the procession back
to the College. Abigny took his arm.


‘I am cold and wet. Shall we see if Hugh Stapleton will give us breakfast at Bene’t Hostel? What I need now is a roaring fire
and some strong wine.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘Our lives at Michaelhouse will soon change beyond anything we can imagine – if
we have a livelihood there at all. Let us make the best of our freedom while we still have it.’


He tugged at Bartholomew’s sleeve, urging him back along the High Street towards Bene’t Hostel. Bartholomew thought for a
moment before following. Behind them, Wilson’s procession filed through the town gate as he led the way back to Michaelhouse.
Wilson’s lips pursed as he saw Bartholomew and Abigny disappear through the hostel door; he was not a man to forget insults
to his pride.


As Bartholomew had predicted, Wilson was installed as the new Master of Michaelhouse within a week of Sir John’s funeral.
The students, commoners, and servants watched as the eight Fellows filed into the hall to begin the process of electing a
new Master. The College statutes ordered that a new Master should be chosen by the Chancellor from two candidates selected
by the Fellows. Bartholomew sat at the long table, picking idly at a splinter of wood while his colleagues argued. Wilson
had support from Alcote, Swynford and Father William. Bartholomew, Brother Michael and Abigny wanted Father Aelfrith to be
the other candidate, but Bartholomew knew which of the two the Chancellor would select, and was reluctant to become too embroiled
in a debate he could not win. Eventually, seeing that it would divide the College in a way that neither Wilson nor Aelfrith
could heal, Aelfrith declined to allow his name to go forward. Alcote offered to take his place, a solution that met with
little enthusiasm from either side.


The Chancellor selected Wilson, who immediately began in the way he intended to continue, by having three students’ sent down’
for playing dice on a Sunday, sacking the brewer for drinking, and declaring that everyone – Fellows, commoners and students – should wear only black on Sundays. Bartholomew had to lend several of his poorer students
the money to purchase black leggings or tunics, since they only possessed garments made of cheap brown homespun wool, which
were harder-wearing and more practical than the more elegant black.


The day of Wilson’s installation dawned clear and blue, although judging from the clatter and raised voices from the kitchen,
most of the servants had been up with their duties all night. Bartholomew rose as the sky began to lighten, and donned the
ceremonial red gown that marked him as a Doctor of the University. He sat on the bed again and looked morosely through the
window across the yard. Term had not yet begun, so there were only fifteen students in residence, but they made up for the
deficit with excited shouting and a good deal of running. Through the delicate arched windows opposite, he could see Fathers
William and Aelfrith trying to quieten them down. Reluctantly, Bartholomew walked across the dry packed earth of the yard
for breakfast in the hall, a rushed affair that was clearly an inconvenience for the harried servants.


The installation itself was grand and sumptuous. Dressed in a splendid gown of deep purple velvet with fur trimmings, and
wearing his black tabard over the top, Wilson processed triumphantly through Cambridge, scattering pennies to the townsfolk.
A few grubby urchins followed the procession, jeering insults, and several of the citizens spat in disdain. Wilson ignored
them all, and throughout the long Latin ceremony at Michaelhouse in which he made his vows to uphold the College statutes
and rules, he could scarcely keep the smug satisfaction from his face.


Many influential people were present from the University and the town. The Bishop of Ely watched the proceedings with a bored
detachment, while the Chancellor and the Sheriff exchanged occasional whispers. Some of the town’s officials and merchants
had been invited too. They stood together, displaying a magnificent collection of brilliant colours and expensive cloth. Bartholomew
saw Thomas Exton, the town’s leading physician, dressed in a gown of heavy blue silk, surrounded by his enormous brood of
children. Near him was Bartholomew’s brother-in-law, Sir Oswald Stanmore, who owned estates to the south of Cambridge, and
had made a fortune in the wool trade. He was flanked by his younger brother, Stephen, and Bartholomew’s sister Edith.


Giles Abigny had refused to attend, announcing that he had a disputation to organise with Hugh Stapleton, the Principal of
Bene’t Hostel. Brother Michael made his disapproval of Wilson known by muttering loudly throughout the proceedings, and by
coughing, apparently uncontrollably, in those parts that should have been silent. Bartholomew did what was expected of him,
but without enthusiasm, his thoughts constantly straying back to Sir John.


Bartholomew looked at Wilson in his finery seated in the huge wooden chair at the head of the high table in Michaelhouse’s
hall, and suddenly felt a surge of anger against Sir John. He had done so much to bring long-standing disputes between the
University and the town to a halt, and, as a brilliant lawyer and stimulating teacher, had attracted many of the best students
to the College. His lifelong ambition had been to write a book explaining the complexities of English law for students, a
book that still lay unfinished in his rooms. Everything had been going so well for Sir John and for the College under his care, so why had he killed himself?

Bartholomew, Father Aelfrith, and Robert Swynford had dined with Sir John the night before his death, and he had been in fine
spirits then, full of enthusiasm for starting a new section of his book, and looking forward to a sermon he had been invited
to give at the University Church. Bartholomew and the others had left Sir John around eight o’clock. Cynric had seen Sir John
leave the College a short time later, the last to see him alive. The following morning, Sir John’s body had been found in
the water-wheel.


As a practising physician and the College’s Master of Medicine, Bartholomew had been summoned to the river bank, where the
white-faced miller stood as far away as he could from the corpse. Bartholomew shuddered as he thought about Sir John’s body
that morning. He tried to concentrate on Father William’s rapid Latin in the ceremony that would install Thomas Wilson as
the new Master of Michaelhouse.


Finally, Father William nodded to Cynric, who began to ring the bell to proclaim that the College ceremony was over. Noisily,
the students began to clatter out of the hall, followed rather more sedately by the Fellows and commoners, all moving towards
St Michael’s Church, where the College would ask God’s blessing on Wilson’s appointment. Bartholomew paused to offer his arm
to Augustus of Ely, one of the commoners, who had taught law at the University for almost forty years before old age made
his mind begin to ramble, and he had been given permission by Sir John to spend the rest of his days housed and fed by the
College. Michaelhouse had ten commoners. Six were old men, like Augustus, who had given a lifetime’s service to the University; the others were visiting
scholars who were using Michaelhouse’s facilities for brief periods of study.


Augustus turned his milky blue eyes on Bartholomew and gave him a toothless grin as he was gently escorted out of the dim
hall into the bright August sunshine.


‘This is a sad day for the College,’ he crowed to Bartholomew, drawing irritable looks from some of the other scholars.

‘Hush, Augustus,’ said Bartholomew, patting the veined old hand. ‘What is done is done, and we must look to the future.’

‘But such sin should not go unpunished,’ the old man continued. ‘Oh, no. It should not be forgotten.’

Bartholomew nodded patiently. Augustus’s mind had become even more muddled after the death of Sir John. ‘It will not be forgotten,’
he said reassuringly. ‘Everything will be well.’


‘Fool!’ Augustus wrenched his arm away from Bartholomew, who stared at him in surprise. ‘Evil is afoot, and it will spread
and corrupt us all, especially those who are unaware.’ He took a step backwards, and tried to straighten his crooked limbs.
‘Such sin must not go unpunished,’ he repeated firmly. ‘Sir John was going to see to that.’


‘What do you mean?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered.

‘Sir John had begun to guess,’ said Augustus, his faded blue eyes boring into Bartholomew. ‘And see what happened.’

‘The man is senile.’ Robert Swynford’s booming voice close behind him made Bartholomew jump. Augustus began to sway back and forth, chanting a hymn under his breath. ‘See? He does not know what rubbish he speaks.’
He put his arm over Augustus’s shoulders and waved across for Alexander the Butler to come to take him back to his quarters.
Augustus flinched away from his touch.


‘I will take him,’ said Bartholomew, noting the old man’s distress. ‘He has had enough for today. I will make a posset that
will ease him.’


‘Yes, all the pomp and ceremony has shaken his mind even more than usual,’ said Swynford, eyeing Augustus with distaste. ‘God
preserve us from a mindless fool.’


‘God preserve us from being one,’ snapped Bartholomew, angered by Swynford’s intolerance. He was surprised at his retort.
He was not usually rude to his colleagues. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that Wilson’s installation and old Augustus’s
words had unsettled him.


‘Come, Matt,’ said Swynford, dropping his usual bluff manner. ‘It has been a hard time for us all. Let us not allow the ramblings
of a drooling old man to spoil our chances of a new beginning. The man’s mind has become more unhinged since Sir John died.
You said so yourself only yesterday.’


Bartholomew nodded. Two nights before, the entire College had been awakened by Augustus, who had locked himself in his room
and was screaming that there were devils trying to burn him alive. He had the window shutters flung open, and was trying to
crawl out. It had taken Bartholomew hours to calm him, and then he had had to promise to stay in Augustus’s room for the rest
of the night to ensure the devils did not return. In the morning, Bartholomew had been prodded awake by an irate Augustus demanding to know what he was doing uninvited in his quarters.


Augustus stopped swaying and looked at Bartholomew, a crafty smile on his face. ‘Just remember, John Babington, hide it well.’

Swynford tutted in annoyance. ‘Take him to his bed, Alexander, and see that one of the servants stays with him. The poor man
has totally lost the few remaining wits he had.’


Alexander solicitously escorted Augustus towards the north wing of the College where the commoners lived. As they went, Bartholomew
could hear Augustus telling Alexander that he would not need any supper as he had just eaten a large rat he had seen coming
out of the hall.


Swynford put his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder and turned him towards St Michael’s. ‘Tend to him later, Matt. We should take
our places in the church.’


Bartholomew assented, and together they walked up St Michael’s Lane to the High Street. Throngs of people milled around outside
the church, attracted no doubt by hopes of more scattered pennies.


They elbowed their way through the crowd, earning hostile glances from some people. The last fight between the scholars and
the townspeople had been less than a month before, and two young apprentices had been hanged for stabbing a student to death.
Feelings still ran high, and Bartholomew was glad when he reached the church doors.


Father William had already begun to celebrate the mass, gabbling through the words at a speed that never failed to impress
Bartholomew. The friar glanced across at the late-comers as they took their places at the altar rail, but his face betrayed no sign of annoyance. Brother Michael, for all his mumblings during the College
ceremony, had rehearsed his choir well, and even the clamour of the people waiting outside lessened as angelic voices soared
through the church.


Bartholomew smiled. Sir John had loved the choir, and often gave the children extra pennies to sing while he dined in College.
Bartholomew wondered whether Master Wilson would spare a few pennies for music to brighten the long winter evenings. He stole
a glance at Wilson to see if there was any indication that he was appreciating the singing. Wilson’s head was bowed as he
knelt, but his eyes were open and fixed on his hands. Bartholomew looked closer, and almost laughed aloud. Wilson was calculating
something, counting on his fat, bejewelled fingers. His mind was as far from Michael’s music or William’s mass as Augustus’s
would have been.


The church became stuffy from the large number of people packed into it, and an overwhelming number of smells began to pervade:
strongly scented cloth, sweat, incense, feet, and, as always, the rank stink of the river underlying it all. Occasionally,
a cooling breeze would waft in through one of the glassless windows, bringing a moment of relief to those inside. Despite Father
William’s speedy diction, the ceremonial mass was long, and, for those townspeople who did not know Latin, incomprehensible.
Students and citizens alike became bored: first they shuffled, trying to ease legs aching from standing, and then, restlessly,
they began to whisper to each other.


Finally, the mass ended, and Wilson led the way out of the church and back to College for the celebratory feast. The sky that
had been a brilliant blue for most of the day had started to cloud over. Bartholomew shivered, finding the fresh air chilly after the closeness of the church.


Outside, the crowd of townspeople had grown, drawn by the pomp and splendour. Bartholomew could see that their mood was surly,
resentful of the wealth that bespoke itself in the gowns of many of the scholars, and of their assumed superiority. As Wilson’s
procession filed out of the church, Bartholomew could hear whispered comments about idle scholars draining the town of its
affluence, comments that became more than whispers as the crowd grew in confidence.


Aware that such an ostentatious display of Michaelhouse wealth might serve to alienate the townspeople, Wilson had ordered
that coins be distributed among the poor to celebrate his new post. Cynric and the other book-bearers, who had been told to
give out the small leather bags containing pennies, were almost mobbed as the crowd surged towards them. Immediately, any
semblance of order was lost, as handfuls of money were grabbed by those strong enough to push their way to the front. Fists
began to fly, and the book-bearers beat a hasty retreat, leaving the crowd to fight over the coins.


Bartholomew saw students begin to group together, some of them holding sticks and small knives. Hastily he ordered them back
to their Colleges or hostels. It would take very little to spark off a town brawl. Even the sight of a group of students,
armed and spoiling for a fight, could be enough to start a full scale riot.


Most of the students left, many looking disappointed, but Bartholomew saw two of Michaelhouse’s students, the Oliver brothers,
darting here and there. Within a few minutes they had assembled a group of at least thirty black-gowned scholars, some from Michaelhouse, but most from other Colleges and hostels.


He groaned to himself. He strongly suspected that the Oliver brothers had been involved in starting the last town brawl. And
what better time for another than now? The townsfolk were already massed, many angry that they had not managed to grab any
of Wilson’s money, and resentment still festered regarding the hanging of the two apprentices. It would take only a shouted
insult from a student to a townsperson, and all hell would break loose. Some