Read Online A Killer in Winter by Susanna Gregory - Free Book Online Page B

becoming alarmed. His book-bearer was never garrulous, and certainly did not
     normally waste breath telling people things they already knew, such as the names of their own brothers-inlaw and their servants’
     domestic arrangements.
    ‘Sir Oswald has an unexpected guest,’ said Cynric. ‘A woman. Well, a woman and two men, actually. They arrived in Cambridge
     more than a week ago, but Mistress Stanmore only met them yesterday. They asked her to recommend a decent tavern, because
     they had been staying at the King’s Head, but one of the gentlemen found it was not to his taste.’
    ‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, wryly. ‘The King’s Head is no place for decent folk.’
    ‘Mistress Stanmore felt obliged to invite them to stay withher,’ Cynric continued nervously. ‘She said it would have been rude not to, because the best inns are full at this time of
     year.’
    ‘Who are these folk?’ asked Michael, amused by Cynric’s rambling. ‘Joseph and Mary?’
    ‘I do not think the lady is pregnant,’ replied Cynric, quite seriously. ‘I could not tell under her cloak, but her husband
     is not a man who would turn a lady’s head.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Although I suppose he must have turned hers at one point,
     or they would not have wed.’
    ‘Who is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Cynric had started his Christmas celebrations early, and had been at the
     ale. ‘Do I know him?’
    ‘Sir Walter Turke,’ said Cynric. ‘I do not believe that you have met.’
    The name meant nothing to Bartholomew. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he asked.
    ‘You knew Turke’s wife during the pestilence,’ replied Cynric uneasily. ‘She had the disease, but survived.’
    ‘There were not many of those,’ said Michael, unnecessarily unkind. ‘This woman should come leaping to your mind.’
    But she did not, and Bartholomew gazed blankly at Cynric, searching the half-forgotten faces in his memory for a woman who
     had married a fellow called Turke. He tended to suppress thoughts of those black, dismal days, when his painstakingly acquired
     skills and experience were useless in the face of the wave of sickness that swamped most of the civilised world, and nothing
     came to him.
    ‘Actually,’ said Cynric, speaking reluctantly when he saw Bartholomew was not going to guess who he meant. ‘You were betrothed
     to her yourself. But after the Death, she went to London and wed Sir Walter Turke instead. Her name was Philippa Abigny.’
    His message delivered, Cynric escaped to his other duties with obvious relief. A private man himself, he disliked witnessing
     the rawer emotions of others, and he had hadno idea how the physician might react to the news. He need not have worried. Bartholomew did not react at all, too startled
     by the sudden incursion of his past into the present to know what he thought about the prospect of the beautiful Philippa
     Abigny touching his life again.
    ‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed Michael in astonishment, watching Cynric all but run in the direction of the kitchen before Bartholomew
     or Michael could question him further. ‘I did not think she would ever show her face here again. What she did to you was not
     right.’
    ‘You mean because she broke our betrothal to marry someone richer?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was for the best. Who knows
     whether we could have been happy with each other?’
    ‘You can probably say that about most things,’ said Michael philosophically. ‘But she was wrong to abandon you so abruptly.
     You could have applied to the Pope to have her marriage annulled, you know. You would have been within your rights, given
     that your betrothal had been of several years’ duration.’
    ‘But then I would have had to marry her,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And I am not sure that is what I wanted.’
    Michael chuckled. ‘You prefer the lovely Matilde these days, I suppose. Well, whatever you think, it will be interesting to