Edward Marston - The Serpents of Harbledown

“As well as can be expected.”

“Have you given her physic?”

“I have prepared a sleeping draught for her. Eadgyth needs rest.

Grief is a form of illness. It taxes the mind and debilitates the body. Sleep is the only cure.”

Helto the Doctor was a tall, thin, angular man with a peremptory manner which did nothing to recommend him to Ralph. The doctor was used to talking to patients who were too unwell to answer back and too weak to resist any medicine he prescribed or any course of treatment he advocated. Five minutes alone with Eadgyth had been followed by some clipped orders to Osbern. Intercepting him as he was about to leave, Ralph was less inclined to defer to him or to tolerate his professional brusqueness.

“Is there no more you can do for her?” he demanded.

“No, my lord.”

“Could you not at least show the woman some sympathy?”

“I do,” said Helto, bridling at the implied criticism. “I have the greatest sympathy for Eadgyth and by far the most understanding of her condition. She has been a patient of mine for many years and it was I who helped to bring her child into the world.”

“I am sure you are an able midwife,” said Ralph.

“Do I detect a note of sarcasm, my lord?”

“You hear only a slight irritation.”

“With me? What is the cause?”

“Your haste, for one thing. The lady of the house lies in obvious distress yet you do little more than look at her before you are rushing out of the house again.”

Helto was checked. There was an authority and firmness of purpose about Ralph that he did not care to challenge. A Norman lord who was the guest of the town reeve had to be a person of some consequence. The doctor rubbed his palms and swiftly adopted a more respectful tone.

“I am sorry, my lord,” he said. “My haste must not be taken as indifference. There are facts about the patient that you do not know and cannot be expected to know. Eadgyth is not in robust health,” he confided. “She may look plump and rosy-cheeked to you but she is still sickening. When the baby was born, there were … complications. I can say no more than that. Childbirth is always an ordeal. I thank God that I was able to save both mother and son.”

Ralph felt a sharp twinge of remorse. His own wife had died in childbirth and their son had followed his mother to the grave soon after. It had been a devastating experience. He was thankful that it had not been visited on Osbern.

“Eadgyth is fragile,” continued Helto. “A blow like this has reminded us how far her recovery still has to go. Now you will understand why I did not need to spend an hour in her bedchamber to determine what was ailing her. I am a frequent caller at this house. One look at her is enough.”

Ralph warmed to the man. There was a genuine concern in his voice. Helto the Doctor must have spent at least twenty years in his profession and he was well-regarded enough to be the physician of the town reeve’s wife. It was wrong to doubt his ability or to question his methods.

“I have done all that is needful here,” said Helto. “If I was speeding away, it is because I have to call on someone else who has been laid low by this melancholy event.”

“Oh?”

“The dead girl’s father. Alwin the Sailor.”

“Eadgyth went to offer him solace.”

“Yes, my lord. And she is now in need of it herself. I begin to wonder where they will end.”

“ ‘They’?”

“These ever-widening circles of grief,” explained the doctor.

“Bertha’s death is like a stone dropped into a pool. Her father is distraught. In comforting him, Eadgyth is crushed by the weight of a double suffering. Osbern is anxious about her and the lady Golde is troubled by his evident distress. You, in turn, are no doubt worried that your wife will take on too great a burden.”

“She did that when she married me,” said Ralph easily. “But I take your point. One stone. Endless circles.”

“That snake has poisoned the lives of many people.”

“Is that how the girl died?”

“It is, my lord.”

“Has that been confirmed?”

“I examined the body myself at St. Mildred’s Church. The fatal marks were upon her neck.”

“Her neck?” said Ralph in surprise. “How so? The snake could surely not have dropped down on her from a tree. And she would hardly have lain on the ground to offer it so enticing a target.”

“She may have done so. Unintentionally.”

“Explain.”

“Come, my lord,” said Helto with a knowing smile. “We have both been young. The summer sun has warmed our blood. Bertha was a comely girl. When she lay down on the grass yesterday, it is possible that she was not alone.”

“A lover?”

“She had many admirers.”

Ralph tensed. “Then why did the rogue not come to her aid when the snake bit the girl? Why did he not carry her at once to a doctor? What sort of lover abandons his mistress like that?”

“He may already have left her.”

“Would she stay on the ground alone?”

“Why not?” argued Helto. “Musing on her lover. Or even falling into a light sleep that left her off guard. I am not saying that it did happen that way but it could have. It would certainly account for the wound upon her neck.”

Ralph was unconvinced. “Other girls might have come to grief that way but not this one. Bertha was by report devout and caring.

Look at the work she did at the leper hospital. That was a martyrdom. Here was no normal, carefree, amorous girl.”

“That is true.”

“Bertha had all the attributes of a nun.”

Helto the Doctor whispered a discreet contradiction.

“Not all, my lord. I do assure you.”

When they reached the leper hospital, Brother Martin first showed him around the little church. He drew particular attention to the medicine cupboard, which was filled with oils, lotions and ointments. Bound by cord, various herbs were hanging from hooks to dry or lying in jars to be ground and mixed. The monk did not only care for the souls of his tiny community. He was its father, its teacher, its cook, its doctor and its link with the outside world.

Gervase Bret was deeply impressed by his dedication.

“What sorts of herbs did Bertha bring you?” he said.

“Whatever was in season. Rosemary, rue, mint, figwort. I use them all. Parsley, lavender, thyme, sage, mustard seed and a dozen more besides. A lotion of pellitory will soothe the skin.

Crushed lavender will sweeten the air. A mustard poultice will draw the sting of an ulcer. And so on. Bertha knew them and their properties as well as I.”

“How will you manage without her?”

“We will not.”

“Can nobody else take on her office?”

“I may scrounge a boy from the Master of the Novices for one day a week but what use will he be? It would take me an age to teach him which herbs to pick and where to find them. And what boy could match the medicine that Bertha brought?”

“Medicine?”

“Herself, Master Bret,” said the monk, closing the door of his cupboard. “Leprosy is not simply a foul disease. It is a steep and twisting staircase into the grave. Its victims know that. There is no escape. Their hope is eaten away just as mercilessly as their bodies.” He led Gervase outside. “Bertha could not arrest their decay but she was a salve to their minds. She offered friendship and understanding to wretches who have seen little of either.”

He pointed to the wattle huts, primitive dwellings into which the lepers crawled at night like dogs into their kennels. Their fetid lodgings might provide shelter from the elements but scant comfort and only the most meagre decoration. Some of the occupants were asleep in their huts, others were sitting outside the door, others again were talking in a somnolent group. The whole place was still dazed by the shock of Bertha’s death.