Susanna GREGORY - The Killer of Pilgrims

‘I mean making sure the cooks do not stint on food,’ replied Michael tartly. ‘I have not had a decent meal in weeks, and the Purification is one of my favourite festivals.’

Bartholomew suspected it was one of his favourites because a former Fellow had bequeathed funds to provide a post-church feast. It was not a large benefaction, however, and there were more mouths to feed than in previous years: the monk was likely to be disappointed. Still, Bartholomew thought, surveying the ample bulk with a professional eye, it would do him no harm. Michael had lost some of his lard over the previous weeks – a combination of being busy, and the College’s dwindling resources – and was much healthier for it.

‘Are you coming?’ asked Michael, when the physician made no reply. ‘We have delivered the bad news, so you are free to leave.’

‘Where are you going, Doctor?’ demanded Emma, when the scholars aimed for the door. ‘Your chasing criminals on my behalf did nothing to relieve the agonies in my jaws, so we shall finish the consultation we began earlier. The monk can leave, though.’

‘I cannot stay,’ said Michael, determined to give the impression that he was leaving because he wanted to, not because he had been dismissed. ‘I am far too busy. Good morning, madam.’

‘I am going to the kitchen,’ announced Odelina, when he had gone. ‘The cook is making marchpanes, and you may share them, Celia. Mother may not – she needs to watch her figure.’

As Odelina was a good deal portlier than her dam, Bartholomew expected a tart rejoinder, but Alice merely rolled her eyes and followed her daughter out. It was not many moments before Bartholomew and Emma were alone.

‘My torment is getting worse,’ said the old lady, putting a gnarled hand to her face.

‘Well, yes, it will,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As I have explained before, you have a rotten tooth, and the pain will persist until it is taken out.’

‘But you have also informed me that the procedure will hurt.’

‘It will hurt,’ Bartholomew acknowledged. ‘But not for very long, and then you will recover. However, if you delay, the poisons may seep into your blood. They could make you extremely ill.’

Emma shook her head firmly. ‘I do not approve of this “cure” of yours. Devise another.’

Bartholomew stifled a sigh. ‘There is no other cure, but if you do not believe me, then hire another medicus . Gyseburne and Meryfeld arrived in the town a few weeks ago, and they are skilled practitioners. Or there is Rougham of Gonville Hall.’

Emma grimaced. ‘Rougham is a pompous ass, while Gyseburne and Meryfeld are not members of the University. Besides, you come free, in return for my generosity in mending Michaelhouse’s roof, and I do not see why I should squander money needlessly. So, you had better consult a few books and invent a different treatment, because I am not letting you near me with pliers.’

Bartholomew tried to make her see reason. ‘But it is the only–’

‘Why can you not calculate my horoscope, and use it to provide me with potent herbs? I know you own such potions, because Celia Drax told me you gave her some when she was your patient.’

‘Potent herbs will afford you temporary relief, but they will not solve the problem long-term.’

‘I will take my chances,’ said Emma brusquely. ‘Besides, only barbers pull teeth, and you are a physician. It would be most improper for you to do it.’

It was something Bartholomew’s colleagues were always telling him – that not only was it forbidden for scholar-physicians to practise surgery, it was demeaning, too. But Bartholomew believed patients should have access to any treatment that might help them, and as the town’s only surgeon now confined himself to trimming hair, he had no choice but to perform the procedures himself.

‘It is the only–’ he began again.

Emma cut across him. ‘Give me some of your sense-dulling potions, so I can rest for a few hours. The agony kept me awake all last night, and I am exhausted. We shall discuss the matter again later, when my wits are not befuddled by exhaustion.’

Bartholomew was tempted to refuse, in the hope that pain would bring her to her senses, but there was something in her beady-eyed glare that warned him against it. He was not usually intimidated by patients, especially ones who were less than half his size, but Emma was not like his other clients. With a resentful sigh, he did as he was told.

It was mid-morning by the time Bartholomew had finished with Emma, and he left her house with considerable relief. Cynric, his book-bearer, was waiting outside with a list of other people who needed to see him. The most urgent was Isnard the bargeman, who had cut his hand. The gash needed to be sutured, and Bartholomew wondered how his fellow physicians treated wounds, when they would not insert stitches themselves and there was no surgeon to do it for them.

As he sewed, half listening to Isnard’s inconsequential chatter, he thought how fortunate he was that Master Langelee had never tried to meddle with the way he practised medicine. But would it last? He had recently learned that most of his patients were cheerfully convinced that he was a warlock, and that they believed he owed his medical successes to a pact made with the Devil. They did not care, as long as he made them better, but his colleagues objected to having a perceived sorcerer in their midst, and constantly pressed Langelee to do something about him.

He left Isnard, still pondering the matter. He heard a yell, and glanced across the river to the water meadows beyond, where a group of townsmen were playing camp-ball. Camp-ball was a rough sport, and the rivalry between teams was intense. The men stopped playing when they saw him looking, and stared back in a way that was distinctly unfriendly. He could only suppose they were practising some new manoeuvre and did not want him to report it to the opposition.

Ignoring their scowls, he entered the row of hovels opposite, to tend two old women, neither of whom he could help. Their bodies were weakened by cold and hunger, and they did not have the strength to fight the lung-rot that was consuming them. When he had finished, sorry his skills were unequal to saving their lives, he headed towards the Carmelite convent on Milne Street, where a case of chilblains awaited his attention. He had not gone far before he met someone he knew.

Griffin Welfry was a jovially friendly Dominican in his thirties, with a shock of tawny hair and a tonsure barely visible beneath it. He wore a leather glove on his left hand, and had once confided to Bartholomew that it was to conceal the disfiguring result of a childhood palsy. He was flexing the afflicted fingers as he walked along the towpath.

‘No, it is not the cold affecting it,’ he said in answer to Bartholomew’s polite enquiry. ‘It is agitation. The Prior-General of my Order has arranged for me to be appointed Seneschal – the University official who liaises with the exchequer in London.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Bartholomew warmly. He liked Welfry, and was pleased his considerable abilities were being recognised. ‘You will make a fine Seneschal.’

‘Do you think so?’ asked Welfry doubtfully. ‘My Prior-General told me only a few months ago that I was good for nothing except making people laugh. He intended it as an insult, but I was flattered. As far as I am concerned, humour is one of God’s greatest gifts.’

Bartholomew did not need to be reminded of Welfry’s love of mirth. All the Cambridge Dominicans liked practical jokes, but Welfry excelled at them, and since he had arrived a few months before, his brethren had rarely stopped smirking. Indeed, Bartholomew was fairly certain it had been Welfry who had hoisted the ox and cart on the Gilbertines’ roof.