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Authors: Candace Robb
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approaching, Cuthbert took a step backwards. ‘Pray, there is no need for me to feel it. I shall gladly take Don Erkenwald’s word for it.’
Bess did not like it. There was something between the two men, some animosity that might work against her uncle. ‘I wish you both to witness it. I want there to be no suspicion that I am protecting my uncle, or accepting the words of a confused man, as you called him. You must feel the back of the head.’
The cellarer looked to Erkenwald.
‘You are the master in Sir Richard’s absence. I think he would expect you to have examined Master Warrene,’ Erkenwald said.
Cuthbert crossed himself and, muttering a prayer, stepped forward and allowed his hand to be guided to the wound, though he tried to jerk it away at once. ‘It bleeds!’
Erkenwald held him still a moment. ‘The man is dead. He no longer bleeds. You feel that there is a wound there?’
‘Yes, I feel it.’
Erkenwald released Cuthbert.
The cellarer took out a cloth and wiped his hand. ‘And yet what does it prove save he was hit? Perhaps by Master Taverner.’
‘Then come with me and feel another knobbly wound,’ Bess said.
Cuthbert sighed. ‘It is my duty.’
When Bess turned to ask Honoria to summon someone to replace the shroud, she discovered that the lay sister had disappeared.
*
Satisfied that both Cuthbert and Erkenwald had now heard Julian’s story, noted the serious and similar wounds, and that Cuthbert had promised to write to the master of the hospital about it, Bess took herself off to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary. She wished to consult with Owen. He had dealt with suspicious deaths before. Cuthbert had asked that she remain silent about the wounds and her uncle’s story, but he would never know she had spoken to Owen.
The streets were quiet for mid-morning. A house in Lop Lane was marked with a cross: a poor soul dead or dying of pestilence within. Bess crossed herself and hurried past.
The shop was empty but for Lucie, who sat on a stool behind the counter mixing dried herbs in a large bowl.
‘What is this?’ Bess said by way of greeting. ‘Only yesterday I could not see the floor for the customers.’
Lucie pushed the bowl aside, wiped her hands in her apron. ‘While the river mist lingers in the alleyways it is often quiet. A friar who passed through the city a few days ago said that it was the vapours that seep beneath the skin and raise the buboes.’
Bess sniffed. ‘Nonsense. ’Tis the bodily fluids in the boils. Why else would the dying thirst so?’
Lucie shook her head. ‘I envy you, Bess. I wish I could be so certain of the cause.’
Bess noted a sadness in her friend’s voice. She knew Lucie was beset with doubts now that she had sent the children to the country. And there was no consoling her, for there was no remedy. ‘Is Owen about?’
‘He and Jasper went to St George’s Field to practise at the butts. Why? What is amiss?’
There was no need to add to Lucie’s worries. ‘’Twas but a passing thought.’ Bess went on to her other business in the shop. ‘Would you mix me a soothing poultice for my uncle’s burned hands?’
‘Gladly.’ Lucie turned towards the jars that lined the wall behind her, then turned back with a quizzical look. ‘But do the sisters not attend him at St Leonard’s?’
‘I would rather they used your medicines on him.’
‘I should not interfere.’
‘Not you. Me. His niece.’
‘You do not trust them?’
‘I do not wish to test them is all. Particularly Honoria de Staines. What could that idle creature know of healing such wounds?’
With a nod, Lucie turned back to the jars. ‘Is there aught else you need for him?’
‘Something for a painful knob on the back of his head.’
Lucie frowned at the detail as she eased a large jar on to the counter. ‘How did that happen?’
Bess had walked right into that one. She thought fast. ‘I imagine a falling beam. The roof collapsed, you know.’
Lucie bent to the
Bess did not like it. There was something between the two men, some animosity that might work against her uncle. ‘I wish you both to witness it. I want there to be no suspicion that I am protecting my uncle, or accepting the words of a confused man, as you called him. You must feel the back of the head.’
The cellarer looked to Erkenwald.
‘You are the master in Sir Richard’s absence. I think he would expect you to have examined Master Warrene,’ Erkenwald said.
Cuthbert crossed himself and, muttering a prayer, stepped forward and allowed his hand to be guided to the wound, though he tried to jerk it away at once. ‘It bleeds!’
Erkenwald held him still a moment. ‘The man is dead. He no longer bleeds. You feel that there is a wound there?’
‘Yes, I feel it.’
Erkenwald released Cuthbert.
The cellarer took out a cloth and wiped his hand. ‘And yet what does it prove save he was hit? Perhaps by Master Taverner.’
‘Then come with me and feel another knobbly wound,’ Bess said.
Cuthbert sighed. ‘It is my duty.’
When Bess turned to ask Honoria to summon someone to replace the shroud, she discovered that the lay sister had disappeared.
*
Satisfied that both Cuthbert and Erkenwald had now heard Julian’s story, noted the serious and similar wounds, and that Cuthbert had promised to write to the master of the hospital about it, Bess took herself off to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary. She wished to consult with Owen. He had dealt with suspicious deaths before. Cuthbert had asked that she remain silent about the wounds and her uncle’s story, but he would never know she had spoken to Owen.
The streets were quiet for mid-morning. A house in Lop Lane was marked with a cross: a poor soul dead or dying of pestilence within. Bess crossed herself and hurried past.
The shop was empty but for Lucie, who sat on a stool behind the counter mixing dried herbs in a large bowl.
‘What is this?’ Bess said by way of greeting. ‘Only yesterday I could not see the floor for the customers.’
Lucie pushed the bowl aside, wiped her hands in her apron. ‘While the river mist lingers in the alleyways it is often quiet. A friar who passed through the city a few days ago said that it was the vapours that seep beneath the skin and raise the buboes.’
Bess sniffed. ‘Nonsense. ’Tis the bodily fluids in the boils. Why else would the dying thirst so?’
Lucie shook her head. ‘I envy you, Bess. I wish I could be so certain of the cause.’
Bess noted a sadness in her friend’s voice. She knew Lucie was beset with doubts now that she had sent the children to the country. And there was no consoling her, for there was no remedy. ‘Is Owen about?’
‘He and Jasper went to St George’s Field to practise at the butts. Why? What is amiss?’
There was no need to add to Lucie’s worries. ‘’Twas but a passing thought.’ Bess went on to her other business in the shop. ‘Would you mix me a soothing poultice for my uncle’s burned hands?’
‘Gladly.’ Lucie turned towards the jars that lined the wall behind her, then turned back with a quizzical look. ‘But do the sisters not attend him at St Leonard’s?’
‘I would rather they used your medicines on him.’
‘I should not interfere.’
‘Not you. Me. His niece.’
‘You do not trust them?’
‘I do not wish to test them is all. Particularly Honoria de Staines. What could that idle creature know of healing such wounds?’
With a nod, Lucie turned back to the jars. ‘Is there aught else you need for him?’
‘Something for a painful knob on the back of his head.’
Lucie frowned at the detail as she eased a large jar on to the counter. ‘How did that happen?’
Bess had walked right into that one. She thought fast. ‘I imagine a falling beam. The roof collapsed, you know.’
Lucie bent to the
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