The Eye of God Page 8

  ‘We have done everything you said,’ Maude said. ‘We have seen no rats. We kill the flies, not that there’s many left now. We pour our refuse away and drink only fresh water from the well, though the butt needs refilling.’

  ‘Thomasina will see to that,’ Kathryn assured her. ‘We’ll come back later today. More importantly, you are only eating soft, fresh bread?’

  The two old ladies nodded solemnly.

  Kathryn sent Thomasina to check the scullery, kitchen and garderobes whilst she sat the two women down. Wuf stood beside her, owl-eyed, sucking his thumb, staring curiously at these aged ones. Kathryn had explained to him and Thomasina again and again how this house posed no danger; Kathryn now repeated this for the benefit of the two old ladies.

  ‘You see,’ she began, ‘your servant, Miriam, may not have died of the plague. In many ways the plague has the same symptoms as what my father taught me was pellagra.’

  ‘You mean Saint Anthony’s disease?’ Maude stammered.

  ‘That’s right,’ Kathryn said. ‘As in the plague, the skin reddens, dries and cracks. Sometimes there are pustules, boils and tumours, a high fever, blood in the urine, and the stools are mouth was covered diarrhoea.’

  ‘Miriam had all of those,’ Maude confirmed.

  ‘And we had something similar,’ Eleanor added. ‘But now it’s gone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kathryn replied soothingly. ‘You must be very careful about what bread you eat or anything made from corn or maize. Rye bread in particular. If you eat any food where the maize or rye is infected, these symptoms will re-occur. It is important, therefore, that you eat good bread and flush these evil humours from the body with fresh spring water. You will recover. You must keep your hands and nails clean and the same for this room. Change the rushes every two days.’

  The two old women nodded.

  ‘Burn the old.’

  ‘Oh, we do that,’ Eleanor spoke up. ‘We have fresh sheaves of rushes in the garden.’

  ‘And the medicine, Mistress?’ Maude asked.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Kathryn lifted the basket Thomasina had carried and brought out four fresh loaves, a linen cloth with strips of dried meat, a small flask of wine and a small jar of herbal drink she had prepared. Kathryn pointed to the latter. ‘Take one spoonful, each of you, every evening before you retire.’

  ‘Why? Will it make us strong?’

  ‘Of course,’ Kathryn said, not adding that the potion also contained a slight opiate to calm their nervous agitation.

  Thomasina returned, declaring the water butt was now fine and all was well in the kitchen and scullery. Kathryn reassured the old ladies once more, took the few coins they offered and walked back into Jewry Lane. Only at the corner did she stop and stamp her foot.

  ‘In God’s name!’ she muttered to Thomasina. ‘If anyone has a fever, pustules, or the bloody flux, everyone shouts plague! I often think that as many people die of fright of the pestilence as by its infection.’

  ‘Why the water?’ Wuf asked, jumping from foot to foot. ‘What’s so special about that, Mistress Kathryn?’

  Kathryn tapped him on the cheek with one finger.

  ‘God be my witness, lad, I don’t really know, but a very famous doctor from Salerno . . .’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘In Italy. And, before you ask, Wuf, Italy is near the Middle Sea, half-way to Jerusalem.’

  The boy’s mouth opened again. Kathryn pressed her finger gently against his lips.

  ‘This doctor,’ she continued, ‘discovered how stale or brackish water spread infection. He wrote a famous treatise and my father studied it. Now, when we came to Canterbury, my father, God rest him, noticed how the monks of Christchurch Priory suffered from very little illness. He put it down to two things.’

  ‘Diet and water,’ Thomasina interrupted triumphantly.

  ‘Yes,’ Kathryn continued. ‘The monks eat fresh meat, fresh fruit, and their water is brought in by elm-wood pipes from untainted springs and wells.’

  ‘Priests always live longer,’ Wuf said. ‘When I followed the camp, the soldiers were always saying that if they had their lives to live again, they would be priests and so live longer.’

  Kathryn grinned. ‘Perhaps they are right but I have noticed the same in some of my patients. Do you remember Mollyns the baker?’

  ‘Yes, he smells.’

  ‘But he rarely suffers from infection. I asked him about his diet. He eats plenty of apples and only drinks water from a spring near his mill.’ Kathryn looked over her shoulder down Jewry Lane. ‘I just hope those two old ladies will be fine. Those corpse-collectors, they—’

  ‘They are bloody evil!’ Thomasina broke in.

  ‘Ah well.’

  Kathryn walked out of Jewry Lane past Saint Mary’s Hospital for Poor Priests and down towards Ottemelle Lane. On either side of her were narrow winding streets leading up to Burgate or down to the castle. Kathryn walked gingerly, for the ditch or gutter down the centre was now filled with decaying rubbish, which the early-morning rains had flushed out across the cobbles. At the same time she kept a wary eye, for most of the houses on Stour Street were two or three storeys high, and it was still early enough for maids and scullions to throw slops out of the window in the malicious hope of hitting someone. Farther down, the small market was now busy: farmers selling butter, eggs, corn, wool, vegetables or plucked fowls heaped high on their small handcarts. Pedlars moved about with silk ribbons, laces, buttons and buckles on their trays.

  Beyond the market were the proper shops: chandlers, tanners, mercers, tailors, glaziers and others. Kathryn stopped to study the beautiful leather gloves displayed on one stall. Wuf wandered off smacking his lips, to watch the apprentices, dressed in canvas and leather jerkins, kneading the dough in the bakers’ shops Kathryn caught him up and bought him a gingerbread man. The boy bit into the sweet pastry and Kathryn was about to walk on when suddenly a group of beggars forced their way through the throng. Their ragged leader, boldly swinging a staff, paced across to the old stone cross and stood on the high step whilst his disciples thronged about him. He then launched into a passionate appeal about how they had fought for good King Edward but now they were cast out with only the clothes on their backs.

  ‘Oh, the poor man,’ Wuf murmured between mouthfuls of gingerbread.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Thomasina hissed. ‘He’s a counterfeit crank.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘He’s a cunning man. A trickster. I wager he’s never held a sword in his life.’

  Suddenly, one of the counterfeit man’s followers, a ragged beggar, sprung to his feet groaning and yelling, before falling to the ground in a writhing fit. A crowd immediately gathered round him. Kathryn saw the counterfeit crank swiftly cut one spectator’s purse whilst the rest of his group fanned out to nip a wallet or foist a pocket.

  ‘Stop that!’ Kathryn strode towards them.

  The counterfeit crank and the others melted away. Kathryn forced her way through the crowd and knelt by the writhing beggar. His arms and legs twitched in a peculiar manner, his eyes rolled in his head and his mouth was covered in a thick white foam.

  ‘He’s having a fit!’ a bystander shouted.

  ‘He’s as healthy as you or I!’ Kathryn replied.

  She suddenly slapped the beggar on the face. The twitching and moaning stopped, the man’s jaw fell open in surprise. Kathryn dug into his mouth. The beggar tried to resist but Kathryn pinched his nostrils as she dragged out a small white object. She held it up for the crowd to see.

  ‘A piece of soap!’ she declared. ‘The man’s a counterfeit and his companions are pickpockets.’

  Kathryn threw the soap to the ground. Market bailiffs seized the still surprised beggar whilst the crowd took count of their losses. Kathryn walked on, turning the corner into Ottemelle Lane. She almost bumped into Widow Gumple, the portly arrogant matron who dominated the parish council of Saint Mildred’s. During the last few weeks, Gumple had become very deferential towa
rds Kathryn; the widow’s white, doughy face quickly creased into a submissive smile.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I am sorry, Mistress.’

  ‘Good morrow, Widow. Are you well?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the woman whispered; her face became red and flustered, she hitched up the hem of her dress and scurried on by.

  Kathryn watched her go.

  ‘In God’s name!’ she breathed. ‘What is wrong with the woman?’

  Thomasina hid her smile. She would keep her secret and Widow Gumple would keep her place and not send malicious, anonymous letters about the whereabouts of Alexander Wyville. Kathryn raised her eyebrows, then jumped in surprise as a young man, his blond hair crimped, his fat face sweaty, darted out of a doorway.

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, good morning.’

  Kathryn glared despairingly at Goldere the clerk. Her would-be suitor looked even more ridiculous in his tight-fitting brown jerkin, stretched yellow hose with stuffed codpiece and long-toed shoes.

  ‘Goldere, are you well?’

  The man’s watery eyes blinked and his hand went towards his codpiece. ‘I have a slight ailment, Mistress. A scratching . . .’

  Kathryn sighed in desperation, the same Goldere with the same complaint. She stepped inside and passed on.

  ‘See your physician!’ she murmured.

  Goldere would have harassed her further, but as he turned to run alongside Kathryn, Thomasina gave him a shove which sent him flying across the lane. Before he could recover his wits, Kathryn, Thomasina and Wuf had disappeared through the door of their house.

  The clerk just scratched his head. Suddenly Wuf’s face peered round the door and, with one hand extended, made an obscene gesture. He would have repeated it if Kathryn had not seized him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him indoors.

  ‘Stop that!’ Kathryn hissed. ‘Goldere’s more to be pitied than to be reviled.’

  Wuf struggled free and fled, crowing with laughter, out into the garden, knocking aside the housemaid Agnes as she came in all a-fluster to say visitors had arrived. Kathryn handed Agnes her cloak and went to stand in the quiet, deserted front room with its huge boarded-up windows. Kathryn looked at the empty counters, the shelves and cupboards raised against the wall. Empty and dusty, she thought, just like her dreams from her early days when she had been courted by Alexander Wyville, a personable apothecary. They had planned to open this as a shop and sell herbs, not only home-grown, but also rare and exotic ones imported from abroad. Kathryn flailed her hands gently against her skirts; within a year it had all turned into a nightmare. Alexander proved to be two men; the sober apothecary and the drunken, violent husband. The rift between them became a chasm which could not be crossed.

  ‘If only . . .’ she murmured.

  ‘Mistress.’

  Kathryn started. Thomasina stood in the doorway.

  ‘Kathryn,’ she repeated. ‘Your patients, I’ve put them in the garden. You have someone special who wishes to see you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The physician Roger Chaddedon.’

  Kathryn did not know whether to be pleased or dismayed. She followed Thomasina back to the large, spacious kitchen. Chaddedon rose as she entered, pushing back the chair at the head of the table, his smooth, saturnine face bright with pleasure at seeing Kathryn. She noticed how his black hair was neatly combed and he was wearing a costly blue gown lined with ermine whilst the belt round his waist was of expensive shiny leather.

  ‘Kathryn.’ He gripped her by the hands. ‘You received my letter?’

  ‘I did,’ Kathryn stammered.

  Chaddedon shrugged. ‘You are embarrassed?’

  ‘I find it strange,’ Kathryn declared, half-listening to the conversation from the garden where Wuf was entertaining her patients.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Kathryn continued, annoyed by Chaddedon’s look of puzzlement. ‘Look at our situation, Roger! You are a member of a collegium, a group of powerful physicians in Queningate. How can I respond to your invitation when I am responsible for sending the father-in-law of one of those physicians to the scaffold as a poisoner?’

  ‘That does not concern me,’ Chaddedon stated flatly.

  ‘But it concerns me, Roger. I have my patients, my work. My husband’s gone . . .’

  ‘And the Irishman,’ Chaddedon added.

  ‘Yes, Roger, there’s the Irishman.’

  ‘He lives here?’

  ‘No, he lodges here because the manor at Kingsmead is not fit for human habitation. Roger,’ she insisted quietly, ‘that is my business.’

  The physician’s glance fell away. ‘You should be careful,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Thomasina declared, returning to the kitchen from the garden. ‘Whilst I am around, Mistress Swinbrooke is safe from the King himself!’

  Chaddedon, realising the meeting threatened to turn sour, smiled and picked up a small package resting against the leg of the table. He handed this to Kathryn.

  ‘You said you were interested in this. John Ardene’s Herbarium!’

  Kathryn rested her fingers lightly on it. She knew Chaddedon would be waiting for her to return it.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied lightly. ‘I’ll study it carefully and make sure it’s safely returned.’

  Chaddedon picked up his cloak. ‘Don’t say I have to wait until then to see you again.’

  Kathryn just smiled. She accompanied Chaddedon down the passageway to the door, then closed it behind her, embarrassed at their awkward leave-taking.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Thomasina called from the kitchen. ‘He’s a widower, a fine physician.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Thomasina!’ Kathryn muttered and rubbed the side of her face. She liked Chaddedon, but . . .

  ‘But what?’ she whispered to the empty passageway.

  She thought of the Irishman and realised what was amiss: Chaddedon was safe, secure and established, a member of a powerful fraternity. Colum, however, was different; he frightened her a little but his presence would ensure her life would never be the same again.

  ‘You shouldn’t be so ungrateful.’ Thomasina appeared at the head of the passageway.

  ‘Thomasina!’ Kathryn warned.

  ‘Nothing,’ Thomasina replied in a mock sweet-girlish voice. ‘I suppose Chaddedon’s right, there’s always the Irishman.’

  Kathryn just swept by her into the kitchen, trying to ignore Wuf’s wild screeches from the garden.

  ‘Who’s out there?’

  ‘Rawnose with Henry the sack-maker.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He put a dirty needle straight through his finger.’

  ‘And who else?’

  ‘Edith, Fulke the tanner’s daughter,’ Thomasina replied. ‘Nothing serious. Aches and pains.’

  ‘Then let us prepare bandages, a bowl of hot water, a lighted candle, baskets of salves and herbs.’ Kathryn took out the book Chaddedon had brought. ‘Who knows, Thomasina, we may even discover something here to silence Rawnose’s chatter!’

  Chapter 5

  Kathryn dealt quickly with her stream of patients; Henry the sack-maker had a slight gash which she cauterised, then cleaned the wound with wine and smeared a salve made from dried primrose onto it. Fulke the tanner’s daughter, Edith, came in clutching her dress, her face white as snow. In alarm she proclaimed her belly was draining blood. Kathryn, fearing some internal injury, examined her carefully. She then fought to keep her face straight – the only problem was that Edith had begun to menstruate. She sat the girl on a stool and carefully told her what this meant: how important it was to wash regularly and, during the menstruation, use linen cloths which Kathryn would provide.

  Edith, however, remained dissatisfied.

  ‘I feel pain,’ she murmured, her dark eyes full of concern. ‘I feel pain in my stomach and back!’

  Kathryn gave her a small potion, a flask of rose-water containing crushed angelica.

  ‘This will relieve th
e pain,’ she assured her.

  The girl seemed happy and trotted away.

  Clem the cobbler came next, complaining of a cough.

  ‘It’s worse in the evening,’ he moaned.

  Kathryn listened to him carefully. She remembered when her father had taken her to the man’s dusty workshop.

  ‘What you must do, Clem,’ she declared, ‘is clean your shop more regularly, allow the air to circulate.’

  ‘Is that all?’ he exclaimed.

  Kathryn pushed a small pot which Thomasina had prepared towards him.

  Immediately the cobbler’s face grew longer. ‘What’s that? How much does it cost?’

  ‘Clem! Clem!’ Kathryn shook her finger at him. ‘Now, you are a trader and so am I. You are one of the best cobblers in Canterbury. I know, I am wearing a pair of your shoes. All I am going to charge you is two shillings.’

  The cobbler’s face lightened.

  ‘Skinflint!’ Thomasina muttered.

  This stung the cobbler. ‘Forget the money!’ he said airily. ‘I will make you a pair of boots, Mistress, a set of buskins and a fine pair of leather sandals for the boy.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Kathryn smiled and shook the cobbler’s hand.

  ‘What about me?’ Thomasina said.

  ‘I haven’t got enough leather to go round your ankles,’ Clem retorted. He moved quickly to avoid Thomasina’s jab, grabbing the jar off the table. ‘What is this?’

  ‘A mixture of wood-sage, rue, cumin and pepper. You must boil them together,’ Kathryn replied, ‘with honey. Every morning and evening fill your horn spoon to the full and take the mixture. In a week you should be better. If not, come back.’

  Others followed and finally Rawnose, the most garrulous man in Canterbury; his poor, twisted face, with his cut nose and scar where his ear had been, all agog with news. Kathryn breathed a prayer for patience.

  ‘Well, Rawnose, what’s wrong?’