Dissolution

'We have a dispensation, like many houses, to employ women assistants in the infirmary. The gentle hand of a woman skilled in medicine – though I don't think ye'd get much gentleness from the hands of that malapert. She has manners above her station, the infirmarian's too soft with her.'

'Brother Guy?'

'Brother Guy of Malton – of Malton but not from Malton, as ye'll see.'

The girl returned. 'I will take you to the dispensary, sirs.' She spoke with the local accent; her voice was soft and husky.

'I'll leave ye, then.' The prior bowed and left.

The girl was appraising Mark's costume; he had decked himself out in his finest for the journey and under his fur-trimmed coat he wore a blue jacket over a yellow tunic from which, at the bottom, his codpiece poked out. Her eyes moved to his face; many women looked at Mark, but this one's expression was different: I caught an unexpected sadness in her eyes. Mark gave her a winning smile, and she reddened.

I waved my hand. 'Please lead the way.'

We followed her into a dark, narrow passage with doors leading off. One stood open and glancing in I saw another old monk, sitting up in bed.

'Alice, is that you?' he asked querulously as we passed.

'Yes, Brother Paul,' she said gently. 'I will be with you in a moment.'

'The shaking came again.'

'I will bring you some warm wine.'

He smiled, reassured, and the girl led us on, halting before another door. 'This is Brother Guy's dispensary, sirs.'

My hose brushed against a stone pitcher outside the door. To my surprise it felt warm, and I bent for a closer look. The pitchers were filled with a thick, dark liquid. I sniffed, then jumped up quickly and gave the girl a shocked stare.

'What is that?'

'Blood, sir. Only blood. The infirmarian is giving the monks their winter bleeding. We keep the blood, it helps the herbs grow.'

'I never heard of such a thing. I thought monks were forbidden from shedding blood in any way, even infirmarians. Does not a barber-surgeon come to bleed people?'

'Brother Guy is exempt as a qualified physician, sir. He says keeping the blood is a common enough practice where he comes from. He asks would you wait a few minutes, he has just begun to bleed Brother Timothy and must supervise the process.'

'Very well. Thank you. Your name is Alice?'

'Alice Fewterer, sir.'

'Then tell your master we will wait, Alice. We would not have his patient bleed to death.'

She bowed and went off, wooden heels clacking on the stone flags.

'A well-made girl,' Mark observed.

'So she is. A strange job for a woman, this. I think your codpiece amused her, as well it might.'

'I don't like bleeding,' he said, changing the subject. 'The only time I had it done it left me weak as a kitten for days. But they say it balances the humours.'

'Well, God made me of a melancholy humour and I don't believe bleeding will change that. Now, let's see what we have here.' I unclipped the great bunch of keys from my belt, peering at them in the dim light of a wall lantern until I came to one marked 'Inf.' I tried it and the door swung open.

'Shouldn't we wait, sir?' Mark asked.

'We have no time for niceties.' I took the lantern from the wall. 'It's a chance to learn something about the man who found the body.'

The room was small, whitewashed and very neat, full of a rich spicy odour. A lying couch for the patients was covered with a clean white cloth. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks alongside surgeons' knives. There was a complex astrological chart on one wall, while opposite was a large cross in the Spanish style, dark wood with blood dripping from the five wounds of an alabaster-white Christ. Under a high window, on the infirmarian's desk, papers were neatly ordered in little piles and weighted down with pretty stones. I glanced at notes of prescriptions and diagnoses written in English and Latin.

I made my way along the shelves looking at the jars and bottles, all carefully labelled in Latin script. I lifted the lid from a large bowl to find his leeches, the black slimy creatures wriggling in the unexpected light. It was all as one would expect to find: dried marigolds for fever, vinegar for deep cuts, powdered mice for earache.

At the end of the top shelf were three books. One was a printed volume of Galen, another Paracelsus, both in French. The third, with a beautifully decorated leather cover, was handwritten in a strange language of spiky curls.

'Look at this, Mark.'

He peered over my shoulder at the book. 'Some medical code?'

'I don't know.'

I had had an ear open for footsteps, but had heard nothing and jumped at the sound of a polite cough behind us.

'Please do not drop that book, sir,' a strangely accented voice said. 'It is of great value to me if no-one else. It is an Arabic medical book, it is not on the king's forbidden list.'