Death of a Scholar by Susanna Gregory Page B

reached. He felt ridiculous, like a statue of Neptune wrestling a sea-serpent he had once seen in Rome, and he laughed out loud. Dickon regarded him with small, malevolent eyes, then sat down suddenly and presented his damaged hand. Bartholomew examined it cautiously, keeping a firm grip on the weapon, knowing the boy intended to retrieve it at the first opportunity. If Dickon succeeded, blood would be spilled – and it would not be his own.
    As usual, the injury was superficial, and would have been disregarded by most children. Still on his guard, Bartholomew smeared it with a soothing paste.
    ‘What happened?’ he asked.
    ‘The horse bit me,’ pouted Dickon, submitting more readily to Bartholomew’s ministrations once he realised it was not going to hurt. ‘And I am going to shoot it in revenge.’
    ‘No, you are not,’ said Mistress Tulyet sharply. ‘You bit it first.’
    ‘He bit a horse?’ blurted Bartholomew.
    ‘It was looking at me,’ said Dickon. ‘Can I have my sword back now?’
    ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, and because Mistress Tulyet looked pale and tired, he mixed a mild soporific that would send Dickon to sleep and give her a few hours’ respite. He was not in the habit of drugging children, but Mistress Tulyet was also his patient, and her health was just as important as her hellion son’s. ‘Drink this and go to bed.’
    ‘I shall not,’ said Dickon, folding his arms sulkily. ‘I am not thirsty.’
    Bartholomew was good with children, and rarely had trouble persuading them to take what he prescribed. Dickon was the exception, and the physician was ashamed of the dislike the boy always engendered in him. He was just trying to decide whether to let Dickon go without a battle, or stick to his guns and pour the medicine down the brat’s throat, when Edith walked in.
    ‘I heard there had been a mishap,’ she said. ‘So I came to help.’
    ‘You are not wanted here,’ snarled Dickon rudely. ‘Go away.’
    Bartholomew gripped the sword rather tightly. While he did not care what Dickon said to him, his beloved sister was another matter altogther, and he was about to say so when she stepped forward.
    ‘Is this Dickon’s medicine?’ she asked, picking up the cup from the table.
    ‘To make him better,’ replied Mistress Tulyet, and Bartholomew was not sure whether he heard or imagined the murmured ‘if only that were possible’ that followed.
    ‘Then drink it,’ said Edith, holding it out. When Dickon hesitated, her expression became forbidding, and Bartholomew had a sudden flash of memory back to his own childhood, when some youthful prank had displeased her. ‘Or there will be trouble.’
    Intimidated by the steel in her voice, Dickon accepted the cup and sipped the mixture. He pulled a face and opened his mouth to complain, but Edith raised an authoritative forefinger, which was enough to see the potion swallowed and the cup set meekly back on the table.
    ‘Now go to bed,’ she ordered. ‘And not a sound until morning, or you will answer to me.’
    Dickon went without a word, and Mistress Tulyet followed, her face full of startled wonder. Edith grinned wanly once she and Bartholomew were alone.
    ‘I learned how to deal with naughty children when I raised you.’
    ‘I hardly think I was anything like Dickon,’ objected Bartholomew.
    ‘No, but you were worse than Richard by a considerable margin. He was an angel, and it is difficult to understand what has happened to him.’
    ‘There is still time for him to settle down,’ said Bartholomew, although he did not believe it, and neither did she. Richard was well into his twenties, so youthful exuberance could no longer be blamed for the deficiencies in his character.
    ‘I owe you an apology, Matt,’ Edith began. ‘Last night, I said it was your fault that Oswald died, because you were away when he was ill. It was unkind – I know he would have passed away regardless. Yet I cannot escape the sense that something was