Angel of Death

equalled.
    Father Thomas ushered them into the long hall. It was clean and well swept; thick woollen coverings decorated the walls; the windows were boarded up with shutters and over these, to soften the austere look of the place, large multi-coloured drapes had been hung. On either side of the hall was a row of beds; beside each a stool, and at the foot a small leather trunk. Lay brothers and other priests moved quietly from bed to bed administering what remedies they could. Corbett believed most doctors did not relieve sickness, but at least, here, the brothers of St Bartholomew's made death comfortable and afforded it some dignity. Father Thomas led them through the hall to a small, white-washed chamber beyond, sparsely furnished with two tables, a bench, a few stools and a chafing-dish to warm the room. Along the walls were shelves filled with pots of crushed herbs, their fragrant smells even more delightful on such a cold wintry morning. Father Thomas made them sit, serving them mulled wine in wooden beakers. Ranulf found the wine hard to keep down although he was grateful for the hot spicy liquid. Once they were comfortable, Father Thomas went behind the table and, sitting down, leaned over, his face creased with concern.
    'So, Hugh? Why do you wish to see me? Are you well?'
    'I want to talk about poisons, Father Thomas,' Corbett replied, enjoying the shocked look in the priest's eyes.
    He leaned over and tapped the priest's long bony fingers. 'Come now, Father,' he said, 'I am not here to make any confession. Nor do I normally discuss poisons, but tell me about the various types.'
    Father Thomas grimaced and haltingly gave a list of poisons, the drugs from plants such as belladonna and foxglove. As he warmed to his subject, he provided detailed descriptions of each poison: how they were made; how they were to be administered; their side effects and possible antidotes. As he spoke, Ranulf, who found most of the terms difficult to understand, realized one thing: his secretive master believed the priest who had collapsed in St Paul's the previous day had been poisoned; he also understood that whoever had administered the poison had done so during the sacrifice of the mass, for all the deadly poisons Father Thomas described acted within minutes.
    At last Father Thomas finished and Hugh nodded.
    'You probably know why I have come?' Father Thomas shook his head and spread his hands.
    'Here we have our own tasks, Hugh. I hear very little of what is going on,' he grinned, 'except your promotions. It's a long time, Hugh, since we were at college together. Oxford seems so far away. Strange,' he looked through the narrow-slitted window at the icy fields beyond, 'when you look back, how everything seems to have taken place at the height of summer? Do you know, I can never remember studying during the winter or when it was cold? The sun always seemed to shine.'
    Hugh smiled, he quietly agreed. Whenever he thought back to his days at Oxford, or to his marriage to Mary, each day, each memory was always against a background of summer, of warm suns, lush green grass, trees moving gently in a soft breeze; the chatter of his little girl, the serene influence of his wife. Perhaps that was what the memories were for: to warm, bolster and strengthen you for the future.
    Corbett shrugged, rose and, extending both hands towards Father Thomas, cupped the man's head in his hands, kissing him gently on the brow.
    'Father Thomas,' he said, 'believe me. The paths I walk now, even though bounded by a wickedness you could not even comprehend, are made easier because of my friendship with you and the memories we share.'
    Father Thomas rose, clasped Hugh's hand and, mildly protesting that the clerk did not come to see him often enough, led them back to the main gateway of the hospital.
    Corbett, followed by a now grumbling Ranulf, began the long walk across Smithfield, back through Newgate. By now the city had come to life; booths were open and shop fronts, overhung with canvas to protect them against the inclement weather, were let down. A line of prisoners being taken from Newgate down to the King's Bench at Westminster passed them; they were shackled together with iron gyves around their ankles, wrists and necks, and made to trot through the snow. Some of them, young boys and girls, had no shoes or leg coverings and their cries were piteous as they scarred their feet on the hard ice and the rocky filth hidden beneath. A group of bawds,