Bartholomew nodded. ‘Wake-robin can also expel the afterbirth in cases where it sticks. Midwives use a little at a time, over a period of hours. However, I am seldom required to prescribe it.’
And he was even less likely to be asked now Matilde had gone, he realised with a pang. She had often summoned him to help ailing prostitutes with labour problems, but they were unlikely to come of their own volition. Such matters were the domain of midwives, who were jealous of their territory.
Eleanor shuddered. ‘What a dreadful responsibility these women bear. Some must kill by accident, despite their very best intentions.’
‘Not with wake-robin. Good midwives know how much to use and when to stop. Motherwort is another example. A little settles the womb, but too much brings on a lethargy that-’
Eleanor stopped him hastily. ‘Enough, Doctor, please! I have no stomach for your trade, which is why I prefer to
‘I have to return a scroll to the library anyway. And Cynric is always eager for an opportunity that might end in an encounter with Bishop Gynewell.’
Cynric’s sense of humour did not stretch to irony, and he was bemused by Bartholomew’s comment. He spent most of the journey up the hill regaling the physician with reasons why it was wise to avoid Gynewell, a feeling that seemed to have intensified as he had learned more about him. Hugh’s mention of devil’s cakes had been carefully analysed, and Cynric had convinced himself that the baker had summoned culinary assistance from Hell, to create fare suitable for a demonic palate. Bartholomew listened with half an ear, recalling how Matilde had smiled at Cynric’s fixations and prejudices. She would certainly have derived plenty of amusement from his theories regarding the hapless prelate.
They reached the cathedral, where they walked through its echoing expanse, looking for the duty librarians. However, Ravenser and John were nowhere to be found, and the Vicars Choral supervising the pilgrims at the Head Shrine and Queen Eleanor’s Visceral Tomb said they had not seen them all day. Cynric crossed himself, as he gazed up at the carved imp.
‘Do you think it chose that spot, so it has a good view of these regal entrails?’ he asked. ‘Everyone knows demons are interested in guts, and that imp is perfectly positioned to devour Queen Eleanor’s when they rise up on Judgement Day. She will not be able to stop him, not while the rest of her is in London. By the time she gets here, it will be too late.’
Bartholomew fought the urge to laugh, and led the way down the South Choir Aisle, past Little Hugh. Unusually, the child’s tomb was devoid of petitioners, so he stopped to look at it. Through the delicate tracery in its side, he could see the gifts that had been inserted – coins, prayers on pieces of parchment, jewellery, and flowers that had withered. Few were near the edges, and he supposed that either pilgrims made sure their offerings were shoved well into the middle, or people – hopefully cathedral officials – had removed the more readily accessible items for safekeeping.
He saw a new piece of white parchment, and supposed it was the one Hugh had put there. Cynric noticed it, too, and before Bartholomew could stop him, he had drawn his dagger and speared it out.
‘I doubt that cheeky lad will bother. Make sure it is the right one, and I will put it in its proper place. Both saints will be pleased, and we need their good graces with that bishop on the loose.’
‘I cannot read a man’s private petitions,’ said Bartholomew, shocked. ‘Only a priest can do that.’
Cynric sighed. ‘I shall do it, then, although it will take me a while. Despite your teaching, I am still slow at Latin.’ He jumped out of the way when Bartholomew made a grab for it. ‘Fortunately, Simon has big writing. It is just a list of names, though. Look.’
‘No!’ Bartholomew lunged a second time, but was no match for the agile Welshman.
Cynric frowned in concentration. ‘Simon asks the saint to remember him at his canonisation. Then he asks for a blessing on someone called
‘His parents,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Dead parents. Stop it, Cynric. This is highly unethical.’
‘Then there is a bit I damaged with the tip of my dagger. It says
Hah! It must say Christiana amantes, mortuum. That means his dead lover, Christiana. So, now we know the real father of the older Christiana’s child.’
Bartholomew’s jaw dropped at the liberal translation. ‘Rubbish, Cynric! It could mean all manner of things, including amicus Christi – Christ is dear to me. And the declension of amator-’
Cynric was not interested in grammatical niceties. ‘Next, his sorora – sisters! – again with a mortuum, and a frater called Adam Molendinarius, with no mortuum. That must be his brother …
