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

assistant,’
    he said, smiling at her. ‘Could you take this one, just for a few days?’
    ‘She is stark staring mad!’ Agatha bellowed, peering
    suspiciously into Rachel Atitin’s face.
    ‘No, not mad, just grieving for her son,’ said
    Bartholomew gently. Rachel began to look around her
    vacantly. ‘Will you give her a chance? Not tonight - she should sleep. But maybe for a few days?’
    ‘Are you insane?’ Agatha shouted. ‘What will Windbag
    Wilson say when he hears you have brought a woman into the College? He only tolerates me because he knows in his heart that I am twice the man that he will ever be. He will be after your blood, Master Matthew. I have heard that he is going to demand that all the Fellows take major
    holy orders like Michael and the Franciscans. He will
    have something to say about women in the College, you
    can be sure of that!’
    ‘Just for a few days until I can think of something
    else. Please, Agatha?’
    Agatha hid a smile, and put her hands on her ample
    hips. She had had a soft spot for the dark-haired physician ever since he had arrived at the College to teach medicine four years before and had cured her of a painful swelling on her foot. She had been dubious of accepting his help because he had abandoned the usual implements of his
    trade - leeches, star-charts, and urine examination and had even been known to practise surgery, a task
    normally left to barbers. But Bartholomew’s treatment
    of Agatha’s foot had worked, and Agatha was not a woman to question something that improved the quality of her life so dramatically.
    She eyed the woman impassively noting her old
    but clean dress, and the careful darns. ‘Out of the
    question! You will be expecting me to share my own
    room with her next!’
    ‘No, I …’ began Bartholomew, but stopped as
    Agatha elbowed him out of the way, and steered Rachel
    towards one of the small rooms in which the servants
    slept. He needed to say no more. Rachel Atkin was in
    good hands for now, and he was sure he and Agatha
    could work out something between them later.
    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