The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

‘It was made to my own prescription, dear woman,’ he replied slowly, as she took a sip of the brown fluid, then made a grimace of disgust.

‘It’s horrible! You know how careful you must be. We should get an extra taster, after what happened in February.’

Her husband made limp gesture of dismissal. ‘Edward always tries everything first – and so far, he has remained hale and hearty.’

Somewhat reluctantly, she replaced the goblet on the stool and bent down to rearrange the pillow that cushioned Robert’s head.

‘You claimed then that someone was trying to poison you,’ she said accusingly, ‘and now you are ill again.’

‘This is quite different from that time,’ he countered, a hint of irritation strengthening his tone. ‘Then I had yellow jaundice from an excess of bile in my liver. This time, I have palpitations, cramps and trembling. If I am being poisoned, then I intend to defeat it by taking nothing but simple food and drink that cannot be adulterated.’

Eleanor delicately lifted her skirts from the ground and sat down at the end of the bench alongside his feet.

‘It seems beyond belief that anyone in Bristol would wish you harm, Robert! You do so much good in treating many people.’

‘Perhaps too many! That may be the problem,’ he murmured obscurely.

His wife’s smooth brow creased in perplexity. ‘Too many? How can that be?’

‘There are those who are jealous of my success, as you well know. They are envious of the number and quality of my patients and would wish to gather some of them for themselves.’

Eleanor shook her head dismissively. ‘You have said this before, Robert, but I can’t believe that your colleagues would contemplate murder just to further their own ambitions!’

The physician gave a wry smile. ‘They are not my colleagues, lady – they are my competitors! Just as a baker or a tanner competes for trade with his fellows, my medical brothers would cut each other’s throats to gain a dozen more patients.’

The handsome woman considered this for a moment. ‘I admit that I don’t like any of them much – though that scrawny William Blundus seems modest enough and popular with the common folk.’

‘Then he might have most to gain from having more patients, especially ones who could pay,’ said Edward, cynically. ‘But I wouldn’t trust the other two, either. Humphrey de Cockville is too full of his own importance and would kill to have some of my richer customers.’

‘What about Erasmus Crote?’ asked Eleanor. ‘He’s such a whining, miserable fellow that I could easily see him hatching some devious plot.’

Her husband shrugged and winced as his muscles cramped with the movement. ‘Of course, it may be someone who has nothing to do with doctoring. Maybe you have a secret lover who lusts after you and wants to get rid of an inconvenient husband!’

Eleanor reddened and stood up. ‘Don’t jest about it, Edward! I think we should get an experienced physician from outside Bristol to see you. Perhaps you are suffering from some obscure disease, and not being poisoned at all. That was your diagnosis, but even you are not infallible.’

‘Thank you for your confidence in my talents, lady,’ he replied rather sourly. ‘And who do you suggest we could consult?’

‘I hear that the new infirmarian at Keynsham Abbey is greatly to be recommended. The mayor’s wife told me that he attended the university in Bologna.’

‘Certainly one of the most famous schools,’ he admitted. ‘Even older than Salerno and Montpellier. I’ll think about it, before we decide.’

‘And I’ll watch the kitchen like a hawk,’ said his wife resolutely. ‘Nothing will go on your plate or in your cup that I have not tasted myself!’

The physician’s house on High Street was in the lower part, just above the bridge crossing the River Avon to Redcliffe. At the top of that street was the High Cross, the focal point of the city, from which four main roads radiated out to the gates set in the city wall. On one of them, Corn Street, three men sat in a back room of the Anchor alehouse. On a table before them stood a jug of wine, a fresh loaf and half a small cheese. They were not real friends, merely acquaintances, their only common bond being that they were members of the medical profession.

‘He’s no better. I saw him yesterday and he looks worse than last week,’ said William Blundus, wrapping his fingers around his wine-cup. ‘He has strange symptoms; I don’t know what’s wrong with him.’

Blundus was a thin man, slightly stooped and though hardly forty, had grey hair speckling his mousy thatch. A sad, lugubrious face was creased with worry lines and his down-turned mouth suggested that he was a chronic pessimist.

The man next to him was very different. A rotund fellow of about fifty, he had a puffy face with rolls of fat beneath his chin like a prize porker. Bald but for a rim of ginger hair around the back of his head, he had a pink complexion from which a pair of gimlet-like blue eyes stared aggressively at the world.

‘You don’t know what’s wrong him?’ he repeated in a rasping voice. ‘Well, diagnosis was never your strong point, William!’

Humphrey de Cockville’s sarcasm was ignored by the others, who were used to his waspish tongue.

‘I wish the man no harm,’ said the third doctor, Erasmus Crote, though the others knew full well that he was lying. ‘But it’s an ill wind that blows no good, for I’ve picked up three of his patients since he’s been indisposed.’

Humphrey leaned forward to cut a wedge of cheese with a knife he took from the pouch on his belt.

‘It’s unfair that profitable work for us in Bristol is spread so unevenly,’ he complained. ‘Robert Giffard must have twice the number of patients that I see – and he attends upon most of the important families in the city and county.’

‘And wealthy ones, as well as being important!’ Erasmus added enviously. ‘Most of the ships moored along The Backs belong to patients of his.’

Blundus nodded his scrawny head in agreement. ‘All my flock are as poor as a village priest – the richest man I have is a saddle-maker!’

There was a silence as they poured more wine from the jug and Crote hacked the loaf into three, putting the two ends in front of his companions, keeping the softer middle for himself.

‘I think I’ll call to see him today,’ he said. ‘We must all show a little concern for one of our medical brethren,’ he added piously.

Humphrey de Cockville cackled at his colleague’s hypocrisy. ‘You want to make sure he’s dying, eh? Then you can chisel away a few more of his patients before we get them.’

Erasmus scowled, his long face creasing in dislike of the fat physician. Crote was older than the other two, being in his early fifties. A sour, humourless widower, he always felt resentfully inferior to them. Blundus had trained in St Bartholomew’s in London and de Cockville in Montpellier, both prestigious medical schools, whilst Crote had been merely an assistant to a physician in his native Dublin. However, he considered himself equally skilful and prided himself on his ability to treat skin diseases better than anyone in the West of England.

‘I merely wish to show my concern for him and to offer any help I can,’ he growled.

‘And to ogle that beautiful wife of his at close quarters, no doubt!’ sneered Humphrey. ‘Though you’re a score of years too old to be thinking of bedding her if he dies.’

Crote’s sallow face flushed with annoyance, partly because there was some truth in de Cockville’s taunt. Eleanor Giffard was indeed very handsome, but he would have little to offer her if she became a widow, especially with a dozen rich merchants all eager to snap her up if she became available.