Free A Wicked Deed by Susanna Gregory

green eyes dark against her white skin, and Bartholomew’s hand shook, spilling wine on his tabard.
    ‘Unwin is a deeply religious, compassionate man and a fine scholar,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. Although Michaelhouse was delighted to possess the living, none of the Fellows much relished the notion of being banished to deepest Suffolk to act as parish priest. That was something to be foisted on students, who were not in a position to argue about it.
    She regarded him quizzically. ‘I would expect most friars to be deeply religious, compassionate men.’
    Bartholomew wondered how she had arrived at such a conclusion. It was certainly not one that applied universally to friars from somewhere like Cambridge, where membership of a strong Order like the Franciscans or the Dominicans was often seen as the best path to earthly, rather than heavenly, power.
    Isilia continued. ‘But you make Unwin sound dull. A “deeply religious, compassionate man and a fine scholar”. Is there nothing more interesting to say of him?’
Bartholomew suspected there was not, and personally considered the Franciscan something of a nonentity – unlike his friend John de Horsey. Horsey was tall and striking, with amber eyes and smooth nut-coloured hair. He was also quick-witted, amusing and popular, and would have made a far better priest for Grundisburgh than the timid Unwin.
    ‘So, you are a physician?’ she asked conversationally, when Bartholomew did not reply. ‘That must be an unpleasant occupation.’
    ‘At times,’ Bartholomew admitted. ‘But it can also be very rewarding. For example, physicians are not usually called to childbirths, but a number of women have asked me to attend them since the plague took so many of the skilled midwives. Delivering a healthy baby is very satisfying.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Isilia, clearly scraping the recesses of her mind for something intelligent to say. ‘These are merchants’ and landowners’ wives, I imagine? You must meet some interesting people.’
    ‘Actually, they are usually the town’s poor. The landowners’ and merchants’ wives can afford to pay the high fees of the two surviving midwives.’
    ‘I see,’ said Isilia, trying hard to mask her distaste. ‘But do these women not object to having a man present at such a time? I would.’
    ‘Most of them are so desperate, they would not care if I were a dancing bear, as long as I helped them. Unfortunately, the shortage of experienced midwives has led to a number of unscrupulous women pretending to be qualified when they are not. They concoct dreadful potions that they say will hasten labour or deliver a boy-child rather than a girl, and they often make the mother ill.’
    ‘How dreadful,’ said Isilia. Bartholomew did not see the desperate glance she cast at Dame Eva in the hope that she might be extricated from the disagreeable discussion.
‘I caught one feeding a paste of crushed snails, sparrows’ brains, red arsenic and wormwood to her patient, telling her it would prevent fevers,’ he continued, warming to his theme. ‘It killed the unborn child and gave the mother a terrible bleeding …’
    ‘I hardly think descriptions of your dealings with pregnant peasants is a suitable topic of conversation for Lady Isilia, Matt,’ said Michael, gallantly coming to her rescue. ‘You should tell her about your expertise with horoscopes instead.’
    ‘Really?’ said Isilia, suddenly interested as Bartholomew shot the monk a withering look. ‘Then you must cast mine and that of my unborn child. And I will introduce you to Master Stoate, the village physician. He, too, loves astrology.’ She hesitated. ‘Although I am certain he will not want to talk about pastes made of snail brains and crushed sparrow.’
    ‘I am not very good at horoscopes,’ said Bartholomew firmly, wanting to nip that notion in the bud before he became inundated with requests for astrological consultations. Predicting courses of treatment for