A Plague on Both Your Houses Read Online Free PDF Page A

Norfolk, Suffolk, and Huntingdonshire fought scholars
    from Yorkshire and the north, and they all fought the
    students from Wales, and Ireland. Masters and scholars who were priests, friars, or monks were always at odds with those who were not. And there was even dispute between the different religious Orders, the large numbers of
    Franciscan, Dominican, Augustinian, and Carmelite
    friars, who begged their livings, at loggerheads with
    the rich Benedictines and the Austin Canons who ran
    the Hospital of St John.
    As the gates opened, he glowered in at the assembly,
    making no attempt to enter. The Senior Proctor, the man who kept law and order in the University, stood next to the Sheriff, his beadles - men who were University constables - ranged behind him. Master Wilson hurried forward, his gorgeous purple gown billowing about him.
    ‘My Lord Sheriff, Master Proctor,’ he began, ‘the
    townies have attacked us totally unprovoked!’
    “I admire a man who takes such care to seek the truth
    before speaking,’ Bartholomew said in an undertone
    to Abigny. Wilson’s was also an imprudent remark,
    considering many of his guests were townspeople.
    Abigny snorted in disgust. ‘He should have known
    better than to try to distribute money today. He must
    have known what might happen.’
    “I suggested he should let the priests give it out
    at mass on Sunday,’ said Bartholomew, watching with
    distaste as Wilson regaled the Sheriff with claims that the townspeople had attacked the College out of pure
    malice.
    ‘But that might have entailed some of the credit
    passing to the priests and not to him,’ said Abigny nastily.
    He gestured outside. ‘See to your patients, Physician.’
    Bartholomew remembered the groans and shrieks as
    the crowd had surged against Michaelhouse’s wall, chastened that he had not thought to see to the injured sooner.
    By the gate, a beadle stood by two prostrate forms, while more beadles bent over others further down the lane.
    ‘Dead, Doctor,’ said the beadle, recognising Bartholomew.
    Bartholomew knelt to examine the bodies.
    Both were young men, one wearing the short coat of
    an apprentice. He pressed down on the young man’s
    chest, feeling the sogginess that meant his ribs were
    broken and the vital organs underneath crushed. The
    neck of the second man was broken, his head twisted at an obscene angle. Death would have come instantly to
    both of them. Bartholomew crossed himself, and paused
    at the gate to shout for Brother Michael to do what he could for their unshriven souls.
    The other beadles moved aside to allow Bartholomew
    to examine the injured. Miraculously, there
    were only four of them, although Bartholomew was sure
    others had been helped home by friends. None of the
    four was in mortal danger. One middle-aged man had a
    superficial head wound that nevertheless bled copiously.
    Bartholomew gave him a clean piece of linen to stem
    the bleeding, and moved on to examine the next one.
    The woman seemed to have no injuries, but was deeply
    in shock, her eyes wide and dull, and her whole body
    shaking uncontrollably.
    ‘Her son is over there.’ Bartholomew saw that the
    speaker was the blacksmith, lying against the wall with his leg at an awkward angle. He followed the blacksmith’s
    nod and saw that he meant one of the men who had
    died. He turned back to the woman and took her cold,
    clammy hands in his.
    ‘Where is her husband? Can we send for someone
    to come to take her home?’
    ‘Her husband died last winter of the ague. The lad
    was all she had. Doubtless she will starve now.’
    ‘What is her name?’ Bartholomew asked, feeling
    helpless.
    ‘Rachel Atkin,’ the blacksmith replied. ‘What do
    you care?’
    Bartholomew sighed. He saw cases like Rachel’s
    almost every day, old people and women with children
    deprived of those who could provide for them. Even
    giving them money, which he did sometimes, did no
    more than relieve the problem temporarily. Poverty was one