‘Lenne’s son has just been,’ he said, clutching his pet firmly. ‘He wants you to visit his mother’s house. He says there is something seriously amiss, and asks if you will go at once. No, Bird!’
The chicken had wriggled out of his grasp and shot into Bartholomew’s chamber. It fluttered straight under the bed, where it knew it would be difficult to oust. Bartholomew snatched up his medicine bag and headed for the door, content to let his students deal with the feathered intruder. Deynman had already grabbed a sword to encourage it out, and Walter was screeching his horror that a sharp implement might hurt it.
‘I hope so,’ muttered Deynman, poking furiously. ‘It does not deserve to be in a College like Michaelhouse, with its dirty manners and unwelcome visitations. It should be at Valence Marie, where no one cares whether it wipes its teeth on the tablecloth.’
‘Hens do not have teeth,’ said Redmeadow, jumping forward to prevent the agitated Walter from hurling himself on to Deynman’s back.
‘Do not let it near my books,’ warned Bartholomew as he left. He started to run across the yard, not surprised when he heard footsteps behind him and saw Quenhyth following. Redmeadow was not far behind, more than happy to let Deynman manage Bird and its angry owner alone.
‘You might need us,’ said Redmeadow breathlessly, trying to keep up with the rapid pace Bartholomew was setting. ‘And I have been reading about diseases of the lungs all afternoon.’
They dashed up St Michael’s Lane, then along the High Street and left into Shoemaker Row, where the cobblers were beginning to close their shops for the night. Awnings were lowered, windows shuttered, wares carried inside, and the familiar tap of hammers on leather was stilled.
The door was opened immediately and they were ushered inside. As usual, the room was hazy with smoke, and the remains of a simple meal – weak broth and a crust of bread – sat on a stone by the hearth. Mistress Lenne lay on her bed, the covers folded carefully around her. The room had been swept and dusted, and her few belongings arranged neatly on the shelves. Her son had not been idle, and had ensured she would not die in a house that was dirty or untidy.
‘She is not breathing as she should,’ said Lenne, gesturing to the pale, sunken-eyed figure. There was panic in his eyes. ‘I do not know what to do.’
‘You can summon a priest,’ said Bartholomew, crouching next to the old woman and taking one of her bony wrists to feel a weak, thready pulse that beat erratically. ‘You have made her comfortable and she is not in pain. There is no more either of us can do now.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Lenne, aghast. ‘So soon?’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, standing. ‘It will not be long now.’
‘This is my fault,’ whispered Lenne, stricken. ‘I should not have done what she asked.’
‘What?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping he was not about to be burdened with the confession that Lenne had given her some potion prescribed by Rougham – or by Paxtone, for that matter.
‘She asked me to carry her to St Mary the Great,’ said Lenne tearfully. ‘She wanted to visit the Hand of Justice. I told her I did not want to take her, but she begged me so pitifully.’
‘You did the right thing,’ said Bartholomew kindly. ‘Perhaps the journey did hasten her end, but I doubt she would have lived beyond tomorrow anyway. You did what she asked, and I am sure she appreciates that.’
‘I thought the Hand might save her,’ whispered Lenne. ‘I thought it might be moved by her suffering, and reach out to cure her. But I was wrong.’
‘I do not think she wants a cure,’ said Bartholomew, wondering what had induced the old woman to undertake a painful and exhausting journey in the last hours of her life. He was certain it was not to ask for her own recovery, since she had cared little about that after her husband’s death. Perhaps it was to ask forgiveness for ancient sins – long forgotten by humans, but ones she feared would be remembered when her soul was weighed.
Lenne’s eyes filled with tears. Quenhyth offered to fetch a priest, then slipped quietly out of the house when Lenne was unable to reply. Soon he returned with Father William, whom he had spotted leaving St Mary the Great after a hard day of supervising access to the Hand of Justice. William knelt next to Mistress Lenne, and began the final absolution. He spoke in a confident, booming voice that attracted a small group of neighbours, who removed hats and crossed themselves, and stood in a silent, deferential semicircle outside to wait for the end.
It was not long before William completed his business – his absolutions were almost as rapid as his masses, although people liked them because what they lacked in length they more than compensated for in volume. He promised to pray for her that night, then headed for the door, graciously declining Lenne’s offer of a penny for his services. Before he left, he took Bartholomew’s arm and pulled him to one side.
‘Sheriff Tulyet took that poison business seriously,’ he whispered in the physician’s ear.
‘What poison business?’ asked Bartholomew, his attention still fixed on his patient. ‘Bosel?’
William sighed in gusty exasperation. ‘Where Rougham accused you of killing Warde with angelica, but then was caught delivering noxious potions himself. Rougham was taken to the Castle this afternoon, to answer questions about his Water of Snails.’
Bartholomew stared at him. ‘Tulyet cannot do that. Rougham is a scholar, and is bound by the canon law of the Church. The University will riot for certain if it thinks the town is interrogating its clerks.’
‘It was Rougham’s own fault. He refused to acknowledge Brother Michael’s authority. He said Michael is your friend, and is therefore biased. Michael called his bluff, and turned the matter over to Tulyet. But Tulyet could not prove Rougham murdered Warde.’
‘I am not surprised. There is no evidence to suggest Warde was poisoned.’ But even as he spoke, he knew the doubt showed in his face.
‘Are you sure about that?’ demanded William, noticing it. ‘Did you assess the exact nature of the substance in Rougham’s so-called Water of Snails?’
‘No, but–’
‘The whole incident is highly suspicious,’ William went on. ‘You have a man with a minor ailment, who becomes disheartened when his own physician is unable to make him well. So, he hires a second physician. Meanwhile, the first physician sends him a potion, which the patient takes and promptly expires. The first physician denies sending the potion, and accuses the second physician of the crime he committed.’
‘I am not sure it happened quite like that,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was–’
‘Most folk believe Rougham murdered Warde,’ said Quenhyth confidently. ‘He is the kind of fellow to kill, then watch an innocent colleague hanged for his crime.’
‘I agree,’ said William. He nodded towards Mistress Lenne. ‘But you have work to do, Matthew. We can discuss this later, over a cup of mulled ale in the conclave.’
Bartholomew returned to the sickbed and put his head to his patient’s chest to listen to her heartbeat. It was slow and weak, and he knew it would stop altogether in a matter of moments.
‘Say your farewells,’ he said softly to Lenne. ‘She may still be able to hear you.’
‘Now?’ asked Lenne fearfully.
Bartholomew nodded, and moved away to give him some privacy. Quenhyth rubbed a sleeve across his eyes and sniffed as Lenne began to tell his mother that he loved her.
‘I do not know how you do this,’ Redmeadow whispered to Bartholomew in a strangled voice. ‘How can you hear these things day after day, and still want to be a physician?’
‘Being at a deathbed is part of the service you must provide for a patient. You need to ensure she is not in pain, and that she is comfortable. And then you must tell her kinsmen when she is finally dead, so they can prepare her for the grave. It is not unknown for them to start the process while she is still alive, unless a physician is on hand.’