Bartholomew tried not to show his alarm. Betony and pennyroyal were herbs often used to end unwanted pregnancies, and if Janelle had been taking Stoate’s concoction three times a day, she was lucky not to have lost the child already.
‘I would recommend you do not take any more of that,’ he said carefully. ‘Try cumin in milk, if you like, but the feeling will pass soon anyway.’ Although whether Jupiter or Mars was ascendant had nothing to do with it, he thought to himself. All midwives knew that queasiness in the mornings eased off by the end of the third month of pregnancy, and whatever planet happened to be dominant in the sky made not the slightest bit of difference.
‘I should really examine you,’ he said. ‘To make certain there is nothing other than the child that is making you ill.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Deblunville uneasily. ‘Examine her with what?’
‘I will check the rate of her pulse, test for areas of tenderness around her chest and stomach, and perhaps inspect her urine,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing to be alarmed about.’
‘Is that what they do in Cambridge, then?’ asked Deblunville doubtfully. ‘I was told that was an odd part of the country. All right, very well, then. Carry on. Do what you will.’
‘Here?’ asked Bartholomew, glancing at Deblunville’s archers, who had Tuddenham fixed in their sights, and at Michael, who was leaning against the revetment, humming softly to himself.
‘Why? What is wrong with here?’ demanded Deblunville.
‘I usually conduct these examinations somewhere a little more private,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And not usually with half the male members of the household watching.’
‘You mean you want my wife to go into some chamber alone with you?’ asked Deblunville, aghast. ‘What kind of physician are you?’
‘Just let me measure her pulse rate, then,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s barely concealed amusement. He reached out and grabbed Janelle’s wrist, trying to block out Deblunville’s nervous exhortations to be careful, so that he could count the steady beat in her hand. It was the contention of the Greek physician Galen that subtle variations in pulse rates revealed a great deal about a person’s health. Janelle’s was rather fast for a person of her size, so he made her sit on the ground while he felt it again.
After a while, during which Deblunville sighed and paced impatiently, and Bartholomew’s knees grew cramped from crouching, the physician stood. He was not entirely satisfied that all was as it should be, but Janelle claimed there was nothing wrong except the sickness and she was becoming restless with his ministrations.
‘Grind cumin leaves, and mix them in milk sweetened with honey. It sounds unpleasant, but it will not taste as bad as the concoctions Stoate prescribed. Perhaps someone could read to you while you drink it.’
‘Read?’ asked Janelle, exchanging a dubious look with her husband. ‘Read what, exactly?’
‘Anything you like,’ said Bartholomew. ‘A book of hours or some poetry. Anything.’
‘We have a list of recipes somewhere,’ said Deblunville, thinking hard. ‘Will that do?’
‘Well, no, not really,’ said Bartholomew, bemused. ‘The object is to take her mind off her sickness, not to make her feel worse by reciting lists of food.’
‘I have the legal documents pertaining to my ownership of the manor,’ said Deblunville, scratching his head. ‘How about them?’
‘Well, perhaps reading was not a good idea,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But maybe someone could tell her some stories.’
‘What kind of stories?’ asked Deblunville suspiciously. ‘Religious tales from the Bible? Or the kind that I hear in taverns?’
‘Something in between, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As I said, the point is to take her mind off feeling ill. Can you not make something up?’
‘I expect I could,’ said Deblunville, casting a perplexed look at his wife. ‘This is a peculiar sort of consultation. Are you sure you are a physician?’
‘He is the most senior physician at the University of Cambridge,’ said Michael grandly, from where he had been listening. ‘And he has something of a reputation for his unorthodox but sometimes effective cures.’
‘I see,’ said Deblunville. His elfin face broke into a sunny smile. ‘I suppose we are just used to Master Stoate’s ways, and not these modern methods. We will try your potion, Doctor.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you should come to see me if it does not work. There are other remedies we can try.’
‘I have no money with me to pay you,’ said Deblunville apologetically. ‘But perhaps you would take this instead.’
He rooted around in his pocket, and handed Bartholomew an irregularly shaped ring made of some cheap metal. It was far too large to be worn comfortably, and far too ugly to warrant the trouble. Bartholomew was often offered peculiar things when patients found themselves unable to pay for his services, but the items usually had some value or use – food, candle stumps, scraps of parchment, needles, pots, even nails. But he did not wear jewellery, and he did not want Deblunville’s cheap-looking trinket.
‘Please,’ he said, returning it. ‘Consider the advice a wedding gift.’
‘I insist,’ said Deblunville, pressing it into his palm. ‘It might not look much, but there are men in Ipswich who would pay handsomely for one of these.’
‘In that case,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pass it back to him, ‘it is far too valuable, and you should keep it for your unborn child.’
‘I have another for him,’ said Deblunville. ‘This is a spare.’ He gave a sudden grin. ‘I see you do not understand, Doctor. You think I am passing you a worthless bauble. This is a cramp ring.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, trying to sound appropriately grateful. ‘But I would not wish to deprive you of it.’
Janelle shook her head in disgust at his response. ‘He has no idea what you are giving him,’ she informed her husband. ‘He does not even know what a cramp ring is.’
Deblunville looked surprised. ‘I thought everyone knew that. They are rings made from the metal handles of coffins. It is common knowledge that such rings prevent cramps.’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who had not been party to this generally accepted fact, and was now rather repelled by the heavy object that lay in his hand. ‘But you might need it yourselves.’
‘There were four handles on my last wife’s coffin,’ said Deblunville cheerfully, ‘so I had four rings made. One for me, one for Janelle, one for the boy and one for you.’
Bartholomew thought quickly. ‘But you may have other children after this one. You should keep this for them.’
‘There will be other coffins before they come along,’ said Deblunville generously. Janelle shot him an uncomfortable glance. ‘Do not worry about us, Doctor.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartholomew, seeing he was stuck with it, whether he wanted it or not. He put it in his medicine bag, and turned to Michael. ‘We should go before Tuddenham thinks we are bartering for the living of Burgh church, as well as Grundisburgh’s.’
They took their leave to rejoin Tuddenham, who turned to Grosnold with relief when he saw his guests emerge unharmed. Meanwhile, Hamon was sullen, sitting astride his horse, and casting resentful glances to the rampart where Janelle had stood.
‘So,’ said Tuddenham as the scholars approached. ‘You have seen Deblunville alive and well, and shamelessly ignoring the wishes of his neighbours regarding his marriage with Janelle. Whoever you saw hanged was not him, and so we will say no more about this unpleasant business.’