‘Where is Rougham?’ demanded Emma, as the door closed behind them. ‘Is he not coming?’
‘He is at the Carmelite Friary,’ explained Meryfeld. ‘Two pilgrim nuns are tipsy, and Rougham anticipates that it will take several hours to make them sober again. He begs to be excused.’
Bartholomew strongly suspected that the nuns were an excuse, and that Rougham just had more sense than to become embroiled with Emma de Colvyll.
‘We can manage without him,’ said Heslarton. ‘Besides, I am uncomfortable with too many men of learning about. Your Latin is a foreign language to me.’
Gyseburne raised his eyebrows. ‘It is a foreign language to most people,’ he drawled laconically. ‘Literally. But we shall use the vernacular, if you prefer.’
‘English would be better,’ said Heslarton. ‘But enough chatter. My mother needs your services.’
‘What seems to be the trouble?’ asked Meryfeld. He rubbed his hands together and beamed.
‘I have toothache,’ declared Emma. ‘And I want a cure. You can examine me first.’
Meryfeld stepped forward obligingly. Gyseburne seemed to be waiting for Bartholomew to start a conversation in the interim, so the physician said what was on his mind.
‘Did you hear about the prank where St Mary the Great was illuminated like a great candle? Well, it occurred to me that the substance used might be adapted to produce a bright and steady lamp – which would be hugely helpful for night consultations.’
Gyseburne’s expression was unreadable. ‘Well, yes, it would, although I imagine you were thinking it would aid nocturnal surgery. Such activities are demeaning for physicians, and you should not debase yourself, or our profession, by employing them.’
Bartholomew supposed he should not have expected anything else from a traditional man like Gyseburne. ‘Actually, it was the difficulty of seeing inside mouths that prompted the idea.’
‘Is that so?’ said Gyseburne flatly, fixing Bartholomew with a hard, searching look. ‘When a real surgeon arrives – and the Archbishop of York is trying to recruit one as I speak – will you give up these undignified activities and let him deal with the gore?’
Bartholomew glanced at Gyseburne’s urine flask and wondered why one bodily fluid should be considered distasteful, while another was seen as holding all the answers. It defied all logic. Fortunately, he was spared from having to answer, because Meryfeld had finished, and it was Gyseburne’s turn to examine Emma.
Predictably, Gyseburne requested a sample, and then stood for a long time, swirling it about in a flask, his grim face more sombre than ever. Bartholomew was not sure whether he was stumped for answers, or whether he really was able to interpret the stuff better than anyone else. Eventually, he turned and regarded Bartholomew with his dark, unfathomable eyes.
‘On reflection, a bright, unwavering lamp would be useful, so perhaps we should conduct a few experiments. I can provide some brimstone – one of my patients is a dyer, so has plenty of it.’
Meryfeld beamed at them. ‘You intend to invent a decent lamp? Splendid! May I join you?’
‘You promised to speak English,’ objected Heslarton, looking irritably from one to the other. ‘But you are gabbling away in Latin.’
‘Actually, that was French,’ countered Gyseburne haughtily. ‘The language of choice for those of us who have anything worth saying.’
‘I do not care,’ declared Emma irritably, while Heslarton frowned, trying to work out whether he had been insulted. ‘Tell me your verdicts. In plain speech. You first, Meryfeld.’
‘You have an excess of choler,’ replied Meryfeld without hesitation. ‘Which is hot and dry. To remedy this, I recommend we increase your phlegm, which is cold and wet. We shall achieve this by using herbs of Mars, such as mint and pears, which are cold in the fourth degree.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly. Mint and pears were governed by Venus, and were not cold at all. Moreover, they were unlikely to have any impact on a toothache.
‘Gyseburne?’ asked Emma. ‘What is your opinion?’
‘You have a rotten tooth, madam,’ replied Gyseburne. ‘And the pus in your urine means poison is already seeping into your body. I recommend you have the fang removed immediately, before you fall into a deadly fever from which you will not recover.’
‘I like his diagnosis best,’ said Emma, pointing at Meryfeld. ‘So he is hired. Bartholomew and Gyseburne are dismissed. He will make me this potion tonight, and thus begin my treatment. I shall expect to be cured by morning.’
Meryfeld blanched as it occurred to him that winning Emma as a client was not necessarily a good thing, while Bartholomew was not sure whether to be relieved that the burden of dealing with her was no longer his, or worried that she was embarking on a course of treatment that would fail.
‘My medicine will not work that quickly,’ gulped Meryfeld, alarmed. ‘You must be patient, because it might be weeks before you notice a difference.’
‘But by then you might be dead,’ said Gyseburne, emptying his flask on the fire and heading for the door. ‘Remove the offending tooth, madam. It is the only thing that will save your life.’
‘Nonsense,’ objected Meryfeld, stung. ‘Hot, dry pains in the head mean that–’
He was interrupted by a howl from upstairs. It was immediately followed by thundering footsteps and a lot of shouting. Words were muffled by the thick walls, but Bartholomew understood it was something to do with Emma’s portly, sharp-tongued daughter. Then the chubby-faced maid burst in.
‘Alice has been murdered!’ she cried. ‘She is dying as I speak!’
Emma betrayed no emotion at the announcement, although the blood drained from Heslarton’s face. Meryfeld, as newly appointed Household Physician, darted towards the stairs to do his duty, Heslarton hot on his heels. Before she followed, Emma indicated that Bartholomew and Gyseburne were to go, too. Gyseburne nodded acquiescence, clearly pleased to have the chance to salve his curiosity. Bartholomew went only when Emma shot him the kind of glance that said there would be trouble if he did not.
There were several chambers on the uppermost floor, and Alice occupied the largest. She was lying on the floor, a ring of servants standing mute and shocked around her. Heslarton released a strangled cry, and rushed to her side. When Meryfeld began to ask about her birth and stars, apparently intending to deliver a diagnosis based on a horoscope, Bartholomew stepped forward and rested his hand on the pulse in her neck. It was weak and slow, and when he prised open her eyes, her pupils were unnaturally large. She was shuddering violently.
‘Poison,’ whispered Gyseburne in his ear, crouching next to him. ‘I have seen this before.’
‘In Cambridge?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.
Gyseburne shook his head. ‘York. In Master Langelee’s house, when he worked for the Archbishop. It was a curious case, and I never could decide whether he had fed his guests something toxic, or whether the potion was intended for him, and he had had a narrow escape.’
Bartholomew regarded him in horror. ‘What are you–’
‘Not now,’ interrupted Gyseburne. ‘Should we make Alice vomit, do you think? Or walk with her, to dissolve it in her blood? Or shall we cover her with blankets, and sweat it from her body?’
‘It is too late,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the pulse flutter into nothing. ‘She is gone.’
‘No!’ declared Emma, more angry than distressed when she heard his words. ‘She cannot be dead! I will not allow it!’
Meryfeld helped her to sit on the bed, and gestured for the chubby maid to bring her wine.