The House of the Red Slayer

preferred to emphasise cleanliness, the importance of a sensible diet, the efficacy of boiled water, and the need to keep wounds clean. Cecily the courtesan had even intimated that he used an ointment which was most effective in curing certain sores on the most delicate parts of the body. Athelstan studied the extraordinarily handsome face and the beaming smile on Benedicta’s. The friar felt a twinge of jealousy.
    ‘I have heard of you, Father,’ the doctor smiled.
    Athelstan shrugged. ‘I am a priest, a friar, one among thousands.’
    The doctor spread his hands and the rings on his fingers sparkled. ‘But there again, it is written on many tombstones... “I was a healthy man until I met a physician”.’
    Athelstan laughed, immediately liking the man. ‘I don’t see you in church,’ he teased.
    ‘Perhaps one day, Father.’
    ‘Doctor Vincentius so wanted to meet you.’ Benedicta spoke as coyly as a young girl. ‘I wonder, Father, if you could join us for supper?’
    Athelstan felt like refusing, but that would have been churlish. He clapped his hands briskly. ‘I would love to.’ He doused the lights in the church and locked the door, leaving Bonaventure to hunt in the darkness. He went across to the house whilst Benedicta and her strange visitor waited on the church steps. Philomel was still munching noisily on his oats. Athelstan patted him gently, took his cloak from the house and rejoined Benedicta and Vincentius.
    They walked through the silent, icy streets into Flete Lane, near Holyrood Walk, where the widow lived. This was the first time Athelstan had been to Benedicta’s house, a two-storied building which stood alone, an alleyway on either side and a garden beyond. On the ground floor was a huge kitchen, parlour and store room. The kitchen had no rushes on the floor but the flagstones were scrubbed and wiped clean. Two box-chairs were pushed near the roaring log fire. Above the hearth ran a broad oaken shelf containing silver and pewter cups which shimmered by the light of two multi-branched candelabra; woollen rugs of dark murrey hung against the white-washed walls. A warm, homely place, Athelstan thought. Indeed, very much as he had imagined it. They both helped Benedicta prepare and serve the meal. First jussell, composed of eggs and spiced bread. Then succulent hare cooked in wine, a jelly moulded in the form of a castle, and a jug of chilled white wine and claret which Cranston would have downed in a trice.
    Vincentius quietly dominated the conversation. Athelstan found his courtly manners and soft, well-modulated voice fascinating. Perhaps Vincentius realised he talked too much and, changing the conversation, asked about the friar’s day. Athelstan described his journey to the Tower and Sir Ralph Whitton’s death.
    ‘He will not be missed,’ Vincentius observed. ‘A dour, war-like man.’
    ‘You met him?’
    The physician smiled. ‘I know of him, though it’s the Tower I find more interesting. I went there yesterday. A wonderful testimony to the subtlety of the human mind, especially when it comes to engines and places of war.’ Vincentius sipped from his goblet. ‘You say Sir Ralph’s throat was slashed?’
    ‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Why?’
    ‘How was the body when it was found?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Was it cold? Was the blood congealed?’
    ‘Yes, it was,’ Athelstan replied, though he remembered he had not asked that question himself at the time. ‘Where are you from, Doctor?’ he deftly turned the conversation. The physician carefully put his wine cup back on the table.
    ‘I was born in Greece, of Frankish parents. They later returned to England. I studied at Cambridge, then Santiago and Salerno.’ He grinned. ‘At Salerno,’ he continued, ‘I spent most of my time trying to forget what I had learnt at Cambridge. The Arabs have a more thorough grasp of medicine than we. They know more about the human body and have proper Greek translations of Galen’s Art of Medicine and Hippocrates’ Book of Symptoms.’
    ‘What brought you back to Southwark?’ Benedicta asked. The physician smiled as if relishing some private jest. ‘Why not?’ he joked. ‘Wealth? I have enough. And as you know, Brother, the poor need any help they can get.‘ He leaned across the table and studied Athelstan’s face carefully.
    ‘What are you going to recommend, Physician?’ Athelstan teased. ‘The eagle’s remedy for bad eyesight?’
    ‘What’s that?’