Susanna GREGORY - A Vein of Deceit

‘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, seeing 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.