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yellow plague,’ he began, topping up his guest’s goblet. ‘Have you experience of them elsewhere? There has not been such a murrain for many years, though it seems that some older people recollect them.’
    Clement considered this as he sipped his wine. ‘I have never seen this yellow variety, where the bodily humours are stained with bile,’ he admitted. ‘There are many sorts of fever, as everyone knows, and some seem to pass easily from person to person. But this present ailment is outside my experience.’
    ‘You know there has been an outbreak in the city, with five dead already?’
    The physician nodded. ‘I had heard that, but they were down in the poorer area of the town, I understand. Where living conditions are bad, then it seems that whatever poison causes it can spread more easily.’
    ‘Is there nothing that can be done to limit the spread of this sickness?’ demanded John. ‘With more than four thousand people crammed inside these walls, there could be devastation!’
    The physician raised his hands helplessly. ‘As no one knows the cause or how it is spread, what can we do? I think the power of prayer is our only defence. We must throw ourselves on the mercy of God the Father and His Blessed Son and Virgin Mother.’
    At this, the doctor crossed himself, reminding de Wolfe of his clerk’s almost obsessional habit – and confirming the fact that Clement of Salisbury was an extremely devout man. Matilda growled in agreement and imitated the physician by making the sign of the cross herself. John noted that Cecilia said nothing and did not join them in their fervent religious gestures.
    ‘I have heard the plague being blamed on an excess of rats about the place, as is more common in slums like Bretayne,’ he persisted, doggedly determined to squeeze any useful information out of this professional man. Again, he failed to get any satisfaction, for Clement replied that though it was possible, these distempers could arise anywhere, whether there were rats or not. As without exception those ubiquitous vermin were everywhere, this was hardly useful. Even in this house, old Brutus caught at least one every day, usually in the kitchen or yard, but sometimes in this very hall.
    Mary came in with the first ‘remove’ of the meal, balancing a tray heaped with food. Matilda, with a scowl at her husband to get him out of his chair, conducted her guests to the long table of dark oak and sat them together on a side bench, while she and John took the one opposite. He promptly rose again to fetch a pitcher of different wine from a side table, and while he was refilling his looted glasses Mary began placing dishes on the table. For a small gathering like this, there were only three removes and each consisted of three dishes, from which the diners could choose what they wanted. Again, Matilda had insisted on using pewter plates instead of the usual trenchers of thick bread. There were horn spoons at each place, but everyone also used the small eating-knife they always carried, together with their fingers. There were bowls of lavender-scented water on the table, together with napkins to wipe their hands. Mary was an excellent cook, though she received nothing but grumbles and criticisms from her mistress. This evening, she had started with pastries filled with beef marrow, a large platter of boiled mutton slices and a brewet of veal pieces with a spiced sauce of pounded crayfish tails.
    The physician seemed very fond of his food, and his eyes lit up at the sight of the cook-maid’s efforts. ‘A most attractive menu,’ he enthused as he helped his wife to slices of mutton and a couple of the small pastries.
    ‘She does her best, poor girl,’ said Matilda deprecatingly, which was an insult to Mary’s prowess, especially as she had to cook everything with the primitive facilities of the shed in the yard, which was also her sleeping quarters.
    Eating took precedence over conversation, and the food rapidly