Susanna Gregory: A Deadly Brew

Since no one did anything other than gaze at him expectantly, Bartholomew took the initiative and strode across the room to the curtained bed, wondering whether he had already been called too late and the baker was already dead. His footsteps clattered on the wooden floor, sounding even louder in the silent room. He drew the thick material back, and peered inside.

Master Constantine Mortimer lay on the bed in a tangle of covers, his face unhealthily white and his balding pate covered with a sheen of sweat. Both hands were pressed firmly to his stomach. As he heard the curtains open, he looked up and glowered, but his expression softened when he saw Bartholomew. Weakly, he flapped a hand to indicate that the physician should come closer.

Bartholomew fought his way through the hangings, and sat on the edge of the bed. The ailing baker looked at him helplessly, the aggressive demeanour, which filled his family, his apprentices and a good many of his colleagues with fear, absent. Bartholomew leaned over and felt his forehead. It was cold and clammy. Then he felt the lifebeat in Mortimer’s wrist, assessing its strength and speed. It was steady, but rather faster than it should have been for a man of Mortimer’s age and size according to the guidelines established by the great Greek physician Galen. But, even so, Mortimer was not dying as everyone seemed to think.

‘The messenger said you had pains?’ whispered Bartholomew, not liking to speak too loudly in the reverently hushed chamber.

‘Terrible pains, Bartholomew,’ replied Mortimer hoarsely. ‘I am not long for this world.’

He hauled up the front of his expensive linen shirt, revealing a considerable expanse of white, jelly-like flesh for Bartholomew to inspect. Bartholomew rubbed his cold hands together in a vain attempt to warm them, and then gently palpated the baker’s abdomen, assuming his icy fingers rather than discomfort were responsible for the sharp intakes of breath on his patient’s part.

‘What have you eaten over the last day?’ Bartholomew asked, sitting back and replacing the shirt over the vast abdomen.

‘Why?’ whispered Mortimer, his face pale. ‘Was it the last meal I will have on Earth?’

‘You are not dying, Master Mortimer. You have just eaten something that has disagreed with you. What have you had since yesterday?’

In Bartholomew’s experience, patients stricken with stomach aches caused by over-indulgence usually required a moment to recall precisely what they had consumed, and then they often lied about it, embarrassed to admit to their gluttony. But Mortimer answered immediately and with great precision, suggesting that food was something he took very seriously.

‘Dinner last night was light — just a hare pie, venison cooked with cream, a loaf of barley bread and some egg custard to follow. I broke my fast with wine, a bowl of oatmeal, some bacon, a mess of eggs and fresh bread. Then, before I became ill, I had some fruit and a few of the cinnamon cakes my wife makes.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Do you always eat so heartily?’

Mortimer shot him a sharp look. ‘I told you, dinner was light last night. I have been saving myself for the installation feast today.’

Bartholomew sat back and considered. The man was clearly an habitual glutton and so his stomach cramps were unlikely to be caused by simple greed if his constitution was used to such vast quantities of food.

‘Have you eaten anything different over the last day — something you do not usually have?’

‘Only the fruit,’ said Mortimer. ‘And the sugared almonds.’

‘Do you usually avoid fruit?’

‘No,’ replied Mortimer. ‘I will eat most things.’ This Bartholomew could well believe. ‘But these fruits were special. Lemons from Spain.’

‘Lemons?’ queried Bartholomew, surprised. ‘At this time of year? In Cambridge?’

The Master Baker gave a superior smile. ‘They are very expensive so I would not expect a man of your meagre means to know. Thomas Deschalers, the grocer, sold some to me. I ate them quartered and dipped in fine white sugar.’

Bartholomew winced at the mere concept. ‘You ate raw lemons?’

Mortimer nodded, unaware of or indifferent to Bartholomew’s revulsion. ‘With sugar. I am told they are an acquired taste and should not be given to women or children lest they disturb the humours. I bought ten. I gave one to Edward, my eldest son, and I ate the rest myself.’

Bartholomew shuddered, his teeth on edge. ‘I have been to Spain and the people there cook lemons or use the juice for drinking with water. I have never seen anyone eat one raw — sugar or not — and certainly not nine at once. Their juice is sour and has probably upset the balance in your stomach.’

‘But Thomas Deschalers said nothing of this,’ protested Mortimer. ‘He said the King has lemons at his table — and what is good enough for the King is good enough for me. I named my first son after the King, you know.’ He gave Bartholomew an ingratiating smile that vanished as he was racked with a spasm of his gripes. Bartholomew poked his head through the curtains and asked Katherine to fetch warm milk from the kitchen.

She glanced towards the bed, as if trying to see through the thick hangings to where her husband lay like a beached whale. ‘Will he live?’

Bartholomew smiled reassuringly. ‘He is not dying.’

She regarded him uncertainly. ‘Are you sure? He told me he was breathing his last.’

‘It is just indigestion from the lemons. It can be very painful,’ he added when he saw her uncertainty change to anger.

‘Indigestion?’ she repeated in disbelief. ‘He said he was on his deathbed and had me summon all these people. Now you tell me it was his greed with those wretched lemons? I told him to peel them first but he would insist that he knew best!’

With some difficulty, Bartholomew managed to interrupt her tirade and send her for the milk. When it arrived, he added a small amount of finely ground chalk powder and some laudanum. After the potion had been swallowed to the last drop, he untangled the bedclothes and made his patient comfortable for the deep sleep he knew would soon come.

‘I feel better already,’ murmured Mortimer gratefully. ‘The terrible burning has eased. I will have words with Deschalers about those lemons. I wonder how the King’s constitution deals with such sour foods. He must be a strong man indeed.’

‘I am sure his constitution is nothing compared to yours,’ said Bartholomew ambiguously, helping Mortimer to ease further down the bed.

Mortimer closed his eyes drowsily, but then opened them again and fixed the physician with a hard stare. ‘Your reputation belies your abilities, Bartholomew. It is said you indulge in surgery and I was expecting to be sliced open like a pig in order to be cured of my pains, but you have been as gentle with me as a mother with a new-born babe. My only complaint is that your hands are as cold as those of a corpse. Buy some gloves, man!’

Bartholomew nodded vaguely and began to buckle his bag as he prepared to leave. Mortimer reached out and rested a moist, flabby hand on his wrist.

‘I am quite serious, Bartholomew,’ the baker insisted. ‘You will kill someone with shock one day if you continue to place them on bare flesh in so reckless a manner. I have some gloves you can buy. Katherine!’

‘No, please, I-’ began Bartholomew. But it was too late. Katherine was dispatched for the gloves and Bartholomew’s protestations that he did not want any were overridden.

‘Look on them as a tool of your trade,’ preached Mortimer condescendingly. ‘A physician with cold hands is about as desirable as a baker who dribbles in his dough. Ah, here is Katherine with the gloves. Choose a pair, Bartholomew. I will make you a good deal.’