Another cry shattered the silence of the night. In desperation, Bartholomew pulled a surgical knife from his medical bag and began to hack at the rope that had wrapped itself around his foot. He could not really see what he was doing, and the carpenter jerked away in alarm.
‘I cannot imagine why you are in such a hurry,’ Blaston muttered, standing well back. ‘You are not a midwife, so you are not obliged to attend pregnant—’
‘He is different from the other physicians,’ interrupted Yolande briskly. ‘The Frail Sisters trust him with their personal ailments, because Matilde said they could.’
Suddenly, Bartholomew was free. He began to run again, aiming for the faint gleam ahead that represented his book-bearer’s lamp. Cynric, of course, was far too nimble to become enmeshed in the carpenter’s carelessly strewn materials. There were two more wails before the physician reached Edith’s house, and without bothering to knock, he flung open the door and rushed inside.
Edith’s husband, Oswald Stanmore, was a wealthy merchant, and his Milne Street property was luxurious. Thick woollen rugs were scattered on the floor, and fine tapestries hung on the walls. Not for him the stinking tallow candles used by most people; his were beeswax, and gave off the sweet scent of honey. A number were lit, casting an amber glow around the room. They illuminated Edith, kneeling next to someone who flailed and moaned. The rugs beneath the patient were soaked in blood; there was far too much of it, and Bartholomew knew he had been called too late.
‘Thank God you are here, Matt!’ Edith cried when she saw him. Her face was pale and frightened. ‘Mother Coton says she does not know what else to try.’
Bartholomew’s heart sank. Mother Coton was the town’s best midwife, and if she was stumped for solutions, then he was unlikely to do any better. He knelt next to the writhing woman and touched her face. It was cold and clammy, and her breathing was shallow. He had been expecting someone younger, and was surprised to see a woman well into her forties. Her body convulsed as she was seized by another contraction, and the scream that accompanied it was loud enough to hurt his ears.
‘It is getting worse,’ said Edith in a choked voice. ‘Do something!’
‘She took a potion to rid herself of her child,’ explained Mother Coton. She was a large, competent person, whose thick grey hair was bundled into a neat coif. ‘Pennyroyal, most likely.’
‘No,’ objected Edith. ‘I am sure she—’
‘I know the symptoms,’ interrupted Mother Coton quietly. ‘I have seen them hundreds of times. She brought this on herself.’
‘But Joan wanted this child,’ cried Edith, distressed. ‘She had all but given up hope of providing her husband with an heir, and was delighted when she learned she was pregnant.’
Mother Coton declined to argue. She turned to the physician. ‘Can you save her? You snatched Yolande de Blaston from the jaws of death after I told her family to expect the worst. God knows how – witchcraft, probably. Will you do the same for this woman?’
‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, hating the dismay that immediately flooded into Edith’s face. It upset him so much that he barely registered why Mother Coton thought he had been successful with Yolande; he was used to people assuming his medical triumphs owed more to sorcery than book-learning and a long apprenticeship with a talented Arab medicus, but he did not like it, and usually made a point of telling them they were mistaken. ‘I can only ease her passing.’
‘No!’ shouted Edith, beginning to cry. ‘You must help her. Please, Matt!’
Her tears tore at his heart, but she was asking the impossible. He began to drip a concentrated form of poppy juice between the dying woman’s lips, hoping it would dull the pain and make her last few moments more bearable.
‘I have never seen this lady before,’ said Mother Coton to Edith, while he worked. ‘And I know most of the pregnant women in Cambridge. Is she a visitor?’
Edith nodded, sobbing. ‘We were childhood friends, although I have not seen her for years – not since she married and left Cambridge. We met by chance in the Market Square two days ago, and she has been staying with me since. She came to buy ribbons for the baby clothes she plans to make.’
‘Then I am sorry for your loss,’ mumbled Mother Coton, in the automatic way that suggested these were words uttered on far too regular a basis.
‘Is Joan’s husband staying here, too?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘If so, we should summon him.’
‘He is lord of Elyan Manor, in Suffolk. But he did not come with her to shop for baby baubles – he stayed home.’ Edith’s hands flew to her mouth in horror. ‘Oh, Lord! What will Henry say when he learns what has happened? He will be distraught – Joan said this child means a lot to him.’
‘She came alone?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Suffolk was a long way away, especially for a woman at such an advanced stage in her pregnancy.
‘She came with her household priest, who had business with King’s Hall. He is staying at the Brazen George.’ Edith clambered quickly to her feet. ‘I shall send a servant to—’
‘It is too late,’ said Bartholomew, as Joan’s life-beat fluttered into nothing. ‘I am sorry.’
Edith stared at him, and any colour remaining in her face drained away. ‘Then she has been murdered,’ she declared in an unsteady voice. ‘Do not look at me in that disbelieving way, Matt. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’
Bartholomew was used to losing patients – he had been a physician for many years, and was the first to admit that the field of medicine was woefully inadequate, even among the most dedicated and skilled of practitioners – but that did not mean he found it easy. Even when he did not know the victim, there were grieving friends and kin to comfort, and dealing with death was the part of his profession he most disliked. He led Edith to a bench, and held her in his arms while she wept.
‘She was my oldest friend,’ she whispered, heartbroken. ‘We spent all day picking ribbons for her baby. Then we ate just after sunset, and sat laughing about old times. How can she be dead now?’
Bartholomew had no answer. He glanced up, and saw Mother Coton was still with them. He had sent his book-bearer to fetch a bier, while two maids were swabbing the blood from the floor, so she was not lingering to be helpful. It took him a moment to realise she was waiting to be paid.
Fees were usually the last thing on his mind on such occasions, and it was a constant source of amazement to him that others felt differently. He could not pay her himself – Mother Coton’s charges were princely and he was far from rich – so he was obliged to interrupt Edith’s tearful reminiscences and remind her of her obligations. Fortunately, the need to address practical matters forced Edith to compose herself. Wiping her eyes, she took a key from a chain around her neck and unlocked a chest.
‘I do not care what your experience tells you, Mother Coton,’ she said, handing over several coins with a defiant glare. ‘Joan did not take something to end her pregnancy.’
The midwife made no reply, although her expression said she thought Edith would accept her diagnosis in time. Bartholomew was inclined to agree: Joan’s symptoms matched those of an attempt to abort. Of course, Edith’s testimony suggested Joan was happy with the prospect of motherhood, but it was not unknown for women to change their minds, and Joan was old for a first pregnancy – perhaps she had not wanted to risk dying in childbirth.
One of the maids picked up Joan’s cloak, intending to lay it over the body. As she did so, a little pottery jar dropped out. Had it landed on the flagstones, it would have shattered, but it fell on a rug, then rolled under the bench. Bartholomew bent to retrieve it.
‘A tincture containing pennyroyal,’ he said, after removing the stopper and sniffing the contents. He poured a little into his hand, then wiped it off on his leggings. ‘Not the herb, but the oil, which can be distilled by steaming. It is highly toxic.’
Mother Coton nodded her satisfaction at being right. ‘It is the plant of choice for expelling an unwanted child
.’
‘Then someone gave it to her,’ said Edith firmly. ‘She did not take it of her own volition.’
Mother Coton looked as if she might argue, but then raised her shoulders in a shrug, and when she spoke, her voice was kinder than it had been. ‘You should rest now, Mistress Stanmore. It has been a long night, and things will look different in the morning.’
One of the maids escorted her out, while the other took away the blood-soaked rugs and finished cleaning the floor. She was efficient, and it was not long before all evidence of traumatic death had been eradicated – with the exception of the cloak-covered corpse. Edith stared unhappily at it.
‘Where is Oswald?’ Bartholomew asked, realising for the first time that his brother-in-law had not made an appearance. Stanmore was solicitous of Edith, and although theirs had been an arranged marriage, they were touchingly devoted to each other.
‘Lincolnshire. He told you at least twice that he was going, and asked you to look after me.’
‘Did he?’ Bartholomew was appalled to find he could not remember. Term had just started, and he had been saddled with more students than he could properly manage. He was struggling to cope. Of course, that was no excuse for failing in his obligations to his family.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Otherwise he would have ordered me to stay at our manor in Trumpington, where he thinks isolation will keep me safe. He does not like the notion of me being in town alone.’
‘Then I have let him down,’ said Bartholomew guiltily. ‘I have barely seen you since term began.’
She shot him a wan smile. ‘It was what I was hoping. I do not want a protector breathing down my neck, and the servants are here. So are the apprentices. And then Joan came …’
‘You say she was visiting Cambridge?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing her need to talk.
Edith nodded through fresh tears. ‘She was my closest friend when we were children. Do you not remember her? Our favourite game was to dress you and the dog up like twins.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘It seems to have slipped my mind.’
‘She has not changed.’ Edith’s smile was distant. ‘We still laugh at the same things, and she was so happy to be giving her husband an heir. She thought she was too old to conceive.’
Bartholomew would have thought so, too. ‘It is unusual to be pregnant for the first time at her age.’
Edith’s thoughts were miles away, and she did not hear him. ‘She joked with your colleague Wynewyk in the Market Square – she persuaded him to choose the colour of the ribbon she was buying, and their witty banter attracted quite a crowd. They were flirting, making people laugh.’
Bartholomew regarded her askance. ‘I sincerely doubt it! Wynewyk prefers to flirt with men.’
‘Well, he was doing it with Joan today,’ said Edith stiffly. ‘They were very funny.’
Bartholomew did not want to argue with her. ‘Why was she staying with you, if you had not met for so many years?’
‘Her husband does business with King’s Hall, and sent his priest there to draft some agreements. She decided to travel with him, to shop for baby trinkets. She was going to lodge in the Brazen George, but when we met by chance in the Market Square I decided she would be more comfortable here, with me. But someone still managed to kill her …’
‘No one killed her,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘And if you say she wanted this child, then we must assume her death was an accident – she took the pennyroyal by mistake. Her pregnancy was obviously well along, so no apothecary would have prescribed it. She must have bought that tincture herself, without realising it would harm her.’
Edith sniffed, then nodded, although he could see she was not convinced. He supposed she did not have the energy to debate the matter; it was very late, and he knew from the amount of spilled blood that the battle to save Joan had raged for some time before he had been summoned.
‘We ate supper and talked a while,’ said Edith unhappily. ‘Then she went to bed, while I stayed up, sewing Oswald a new shirt. Not long after, she stumbled into this room, and there was blood … I wanted to call you, but she said she needed a midwife. Perhaps I should have ignored her wishes …’
‘Mother Coton knows what she is doing. You did the right thing.’
Edith sniffed again, then looked up when there was a soft tap and the maid answered the door. ‘Here is Cynric, and he has brought three of your pupils to carry Joan away. He is a thoughtful soul.’
Bartholomew’s book-bearer had been with him since he was an undergraduate, and was more friend than servant – and wholly indispensable. As he watched Cynric usher the students inside, he thought, not for the first time, what an ill-matched trio his apprentices were. Valence was tall, fair and amiable; Risleye was short, dark and sly; while red-haired Tesdale was one of the laziest lads he had ever encountered.
‘Valence is a pleasant young man,’ said Edith, regarding them critically. ‘But I cannot imagine what possessed you to accept Tesdale and Risleye. Surely, nicer lads applied for the honour of being taught by you? Moreover, I thought Risleye was Master Paxtone’s protégé, so why have you been lumbered with him?’
‘He is a good student,’ replied Bartholomew. But he could see from Edith’s expression that this was not enough of an answer to satisfy, and because he was sorry for her distress over Joan, he pandered to her curiosity. ‘Paxtone said he was unteachable, and asked me to take him instead. It happens sometimes – a tutor and a pupil finding themselves incompatible.’
‘I imagine you think Risleye is unteachable, too,’ said Edith, indignant on her brother’s behalf. ‘But I doubt Paxtone will consent to take him back again. It was unfair to foist such a fellow on you. Risleye is a horrible creature – spiteful, greedy and opinionated.’
She was right: Bartholomew was finding Risleye something of a trial. The lad was devious, argumentative and arrogant. However, he was also conscientious, intelligent and eager to learn, virtues that might turn him into a decent physician one day; and, Bartholomew thought, if Risleye knew his medicine, then his odious personality was irrelevant.
‘And Tesdale is almost as bad,’ Edith went on when he made no reply. ‘His sole purpose in life seems to be devising ways to shirk his duties. And he has a nasty temper.’
Bartholomew started to object, but stopped when he realised she was right about Tesdale, too: the lad was hotheaded, and was always the last to volunteer for any tasks that needed performing. But he also possessed a gentle, confident manner that patients liked, which was enough to make Bartholomew determined to do his best by the lad – the plague had left a dearth of qualified physicians in England, and he felt a moral responsibility to train as many new ones as possible. However, his resolve was tested when Tesdale shoved past the maid and, without so much as a nod to Edith, began to hold forth.
‘It was not me, sir,’ he declared without preamble. ‘Risleye is lying.’
‘I am not,’ declared Risleye, fists clenched angrily at his side. ‘My essay on Galen has been stolen. The thief waited until I had added the finishing touches, then broke into my private chest and made off with it.’
‘You are wrong, Risleye,’ said Valence softly. ‘And this is not the right place for—’
‘He thinks I took it, because I am too lazy to write my own,’ interrupted Tesdale resentfully. ‘But I would not touch his stupid essay with a long pole.’
‘These three were the only ones awake,’ muttered Cynric to Bartholomew, apparently feeling some explanation was needed for his choice of bier-bearers. ‘I shall know better next time.’
‘I was awake because my work is stolen,’ snapped Risleye, overhearing. ‘Michaelhouse is full of thieves, and it is not safe to close your eyes there.’
‘You lost it,’ countered Tesdale angrily. ‘It will turn up in the morning and—’
‘Oh, yes!’ snarled Risleye. ‘After someone has copied all my ideas, to pass off as his own.’
‘Stop,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply, seein
g Edith’s distaste at the clamouring voices in the place where her friend lay dead. ‘Help Cynric, and remember why you are here.’
‘Because you want us to shift a cadaver?’ asked Risleye, frowning his puzzlement at the remark.
‘Because he wants us to take his sister’s friend to the church,’ said Valence quietly. ‘Which we must do with the minimum of fuss, to avoid unnecessary distress.’
‘Very well,’ said Tesdale with a huge yawn. ‘And then we should go home – I am exhausted.’
Edith watched in distaste as Risleye, Cynric and Valence lifted Joan on to the bier. Tesdale did not help, and confined himself to issuing instructions. ‘I cannot imagine how you put up with them,’ she said.
There were times – and they were becoming increasingly frequent as term went on – when the physician wondered the same thing.
‘You are needed at Michaelhouse,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew, as he and the students carried the body out of Edith’s house. ‘Wynewyk is ill.’
Bartholomew was surprised – his colleague had seemed well enough earlier. Leaving Cynric and the students to deal with Joan, he hurried back to the College, his footsteps echoing hollowly along the empty lanes. He was not sure how much time had passed since he had arrived at his sister’s home, but it was still dark and there was no sign of daybreak.
He knocked on the gate and was admitted by Walter the porter, who greeted him with a scowl. Recently, a prankster had relieved Walter’s beloved pet peacock of its tail, and because the incident occurred shortly after Bartholomew had given a lecture on superstitious beliefs – including one that said peacock feathers could cure aching bones – Walter held the physician personally responsible.
‘How long until dawn?’ Bartholomew asked pleasantly. He disliked discord and wanted peace.
‘How should I know?’ snapped Walter. ‘Do you think I have nothing better to do than watch an hour candle burn?’
A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 2
