A Vein of Deceit (2 page)

October 1357, Cambridge

The scream echoed along Milne Street a second time. Doors were opening, lights flickered under window shutters, and voices
murmured as neighbours were startled awake. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and Doctor of Medicine at the College of Michaelhouse,
broke into a run. Folk were beginning to emerge from their houses, asking each other why Edith Stanmore was making such an
unholy racket in the middle of the night. The noise was coming from her house, was it not?

It was cold for the time of year, and Bartholomew could see his breath pluming in front of him as he sprinted along the road;
it was illuminated by the faint gleam of the lamp his book-bearer, Cynric, was holding. There was rain in the air, too, spiteful
little droplets carried in a bitter wind that stung where they hit. He glanced up at the sky, trying to gauge the hour. Other
than the disturbance caused by the howls, the town was silent, and the velvety blackness indicated it was the darkest part
of the night, perhaps one or two o’clock.

‘What is happening?’ called one of Milne Street’s residents, peering out of his door. It was Robert de Blaston the carpenter;
his wife Yolande was behind him. ‘Who is making that awful noise? Is it your sister? I can see from here that her lamps are
lit.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped it was
not
Edith howling
in such agony. She was his older sister, who had raised him after the early death of their parents, and he loved her dearly.
Stomach churning, he forced himself to slow down as he negotiated his way past Blaston’s home. The recent addition of twins
to the carpenter’s ever-expanding brood meant they had been forced to move to a larger property, and he was in the process
of renovating it; the road outside was littered with scaffolding, wood and discarded pieces of rope. Bartholomew’s instinct
was to ignore the hazard and race as fast as he could to Edith’s house, but common sense prevailed – he would be no use to
her if he tripped and knocked himself senseless.

‘It is not Edith – it is a woman in labour,’ said Yolande, seeing his stricken expression and hastening to reassure him. Bartholomew
supposed she knew what she was talking about: the twins brought her number of offspring to fourteen. ‘Edith must have taken
in a Frail Sister.’

Bartholomew faltered. A lady named Matilde had coined that particular phrase, as a sympathetic way of referring to Cambridge’s
prostitutes. He had been on the verge of asking Matilde to marry him, but had dallied too long, and she had left the town
more than two years before without ever knowing his intentions. It had been one of the worst days of his life, and even the
expression ‘Frail Sisters’ was enough to make him reflect on all that his hesitancy had caused him to lose. But he came to
his senses sharply when he blundered into some of Blaston’s building paraphernalia and became hopelessly entangled.

‘There are more Frail Sisters than usual,’ Yolande went on, watching her husband try to free him – a task not made any easier
by the physician’s agitated struggles. ‘Summer came too early and spoiled the crops, so a lot of women are forced to earn
money any way they can.’

Another cry shattered the silence of the night. In desperation, Bartholomew pulled a surgical knife from his medical bag and
began to hack at the rope that had wrapped itself around his foot. He could not really see what he was doing, and the carpenter
jerked away in alarm.

‘I cannot imagine why you are in such a hurry,’ Blaston muttered, standing well back. ‘You are not a midwife, so you are not
obliged to attend pregnant—’

‘He is different from the other physicians,’ interrupted Yolande briskly. ‘The Frail Sisters trust him with their personal
ailments, because Matilde said they could.’

Suddenly, Bartholomew was free. He began to run again, aiming for the faint gleam ahead that represented his book-bearer’s
lamp. Cynric, of course, was far too nimble to become enmeshed in the carpenter’s carelessly strewn materials. There were
two more wails before the physician reached Edith’s house, and without bothering to knock, he flung open the door and rushed
inside.

Edith’s husband, Oswald Stanmore, was a wealthy merchant, and his Milne Street property was luxurious. Thick woollen rugs
were scattered on the floor, and fine tapestries hung on the walls. Not for him the stinking tallow candles used by most people;
his were beeswax, and gave off the sweet scent of honey. A number were lit, casting an amber glow around the room. They illuminated
Edith, kneeling next to someone who flailed and moaned. The rugs beneath the patient were soaked in blood; there was far too
much of it, and Bartholomew knew he had been called too late.

‘Thank God you are here, Matt!’ Edith cried when she saw him. Her face was pale and frightened. ‘Mother Coton says she does
not know what else to try.’

Bartholomew’s heart sank. Mother Coton was the town’s
best midwife, and if she was stumped for solutions, then he was unlikely to do any better. He knelt next to the writhing
woman and touched her face. It was cold and clammy, and her breathing was shallow. He had been expecting someone younger,
and was surprised to see a woman well into her forties. Her body convulsed as she was seized by another contraction, and the
scream that accompanied it was loud enough to hurt his ears.

‘It is getting worse,’ said Edith in a choked voice. ‘
Do
something!’

‘She took a potion to rid herself of her child,’ explained Mother Coton. She was a large, competent person, whose thick grey
hair was bundled into a neat coif. ‘Pennyroyal, most likely.’

‘No,’ objected Edith. ‘I am sure she—’

‘I know the symptoms,’ interrupted Mother Coton quietly. ‘I have seen them hundreds of times. She brought this on herself.’

‘But Joan
wanted
this child,’ cried Edith, distressed. ‘She had all but given up hope of providing her husband with an heir, and was delighted
when she learned she was pregnant.’

Mother Coton declined to argue. She turned to the physician. ‘Can you save her? You snatched Yolande de Blaston from the jaws
of death after I told her family to expect the worst. God knows how – witchcraft, probably. Will you do the same for this
woman?’

‘I cannot,’ said Bartholomew, hating the dismay that immediately flooded into Edith’s face. It upset him so much that he barely
registered why Mother Coton thought he had been successful with Yolande; he was used to people assuming his medical triumphs
owed more to sorcery than book-learning and a long apprenticeship with a talented Arab
medicus
, but he did not like it, and usually
made a point of telling them they were mistaken. ‘I can only ease her passing.’

‘No!’ shouted Edith, beginning to cry. ‘You must help her. Please, Matt!’

Her tears tore at his heart, but she was asking the impossible. He began to drip a concentrated form of poppy juice between
the dying woman’s lips, hoping it would dull the pain and make her last few moments more bearable.

‘I have never seen this lady before,’ said Mother Coton to Edith, while he worked. ‘And I know most of the pregnant women
in Cambridge. Is she a visitor?’

Edith nodded, sobbing. ‘We were childhood friends, although I have not seen her for years – not since she married and left
Cambridge. We met by chance in the Market Square two days ago, and she has been staying with me since. She came to buy ribbons
for the baby clothes she plans to make.’

‘Then I am sorry for your loss,’ mumbled Mother Coton, in the automatic way that suggested these were words uttered on far
too regular a basis.

‘Is Joan’s husband staying here, too?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘If so, we should summon him.’

‘He is lord of Elyan Manor, in Suffolk. But he did not come with her to shop for baby baubles – he stayed home.’ Edith’s hands
flew to her mouth in horror. ‘Oh, Lord! What will
Henry
say when he learns what has happened? He will be distraught – Joan said this child means a lot to him.’

‘She came alone?’ asked Bartholomew, surprised. Suffolk was a long way away, especially for a woman at such an advanced stage
in her pregnancy.

‘She came with her household priest, who had business with King’s Hall. He is staying at the Brazen George.’
Edith clambered quickly to her feet. ‘I shall send a servant to—’

‘It is too late,’ said Bartholomew, as Joan’s life-beat fluttered into nothing. ‘I am sorry.’

Edith stared at him, and any colour remaining in her face drained away. ‘Then she has been murdered,’ she declared in an unsteady
voice. ‘Do not look at me in that disbelieving way, Matt. I have never been more sure of anything in my life.’

Bartholomew was used to losing patients – he had been a physician for many years, and was the first to admit that the field
of medicine was woefully inadequate, even among the most dedicated and skilled of practitioners – but that did not mean he
found it easy. Even when he did not know the victim, there were grieving friends and kin to comfort, and dealing with death
was the part of his profession he most disliked. He led Edith to a bench, and held her in his arms while she wept.

‘She was my oldest friend,’ she whispered, heartbroken. ‘We spent all day picking ribbons for her baby. Then we ate just after
sunset, and sat laughing about old times. How can she be dead now?’

Bartholomew had no answer. He glanced up, and saw Mother Coton was still with them. He had sent his book-bearer to fetch a
bier, while two maids were swabbing the blood from the floor, so she was not lingering to be helpful. It took him a moment
to realise she was waiting to be paid.

Fees were usually the last thing on his mind on such occasions, and it was a constant source of amazement to him that others
felt differently. He could not pay her himself – Mother Coton’s charges were princely and he was far from rich – so he was
obliged to interrupt Edith’s
tearful reminiscences and remind her of her obligations. Fortunately, the need to address practical matters forced Edith
to compose herself. Wiping her eyes, she took a key from a chain around her neck and unlocked a chest.

‘I do not care what your experience tells you, Mother Coton,’ she said, handing over several coins with a defiant glare. ‘Joan
did
not
take something to end her pregnancy.’

The midwife made no reply, although her expression said she thought Edith would accept her diagnosis in time. Bartholomew
was inclined to agree: Joan’s symptoms matched those of an attempt to abort. Of course, Edith’s testimony suggested Joan was
happy with the prospect of motherhood, but it was not unknown for women to change their minds, and Joan was old for a first
pregnancy – perhaps she had not wanted to risk dying in childbirth.

One of the maids picked up Joan’s cloak, intending to lay it over the body. As she did so, a little pottery jar dropped out.
Had it landed on the flagstones, it would have shattered, but it fell on a rug, then rolled under the bench. Bartholomew bent
to retrieve it.

‘A tincture containing pennyroyal,’ he said, after removing the stopper and sniffing the contents. He poured a little into
his hand, then wiped it off on his leggings. ‘Not the herb, but the oil, which can be distilled by steaming. It is highly
toxic.’

Mother Coton nodded her satisfaction at being right. ‘It is the plant of choice for expelling an unwanted child.’

‘Then someone gave it to her,’ said Edith firmly. ‘She did not take it of her own volition.’

Mother Coton looked as if she might argue, but then raised her shoulders in a shrug, and when she spoke, her voice was kinder
than it had been. ‘You should rest now, Mistress Stanmore. It has been a long night, and things will look different in the
morning.’

One of the maids escorted her out, while the other took away the blood-soaked rugs and finished cleaning the floor. She was
efficient, and it was not long before all evidence of traumatic death had been eradicated – with the exception of the cloak-covered
corpse. Edith stared unhappily at it.

‘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.’