‘All I know is that I would like this wretched deed signed and sealed as soon as possible, so that we can leave this treasure-hunting and intrigue for those that enjoy it. I will come back tomorrow to see your wife, if you like, although I am certain she will recover, if you let her rest.’
‘You can come back to see me, too,’ said Bardolf comfortably. ‘That laudanum is powerful stuff. I can feel my aches draining away.’
‘Good,’ said Deblunville. ‘Perhaps it will improve your temper.’
‘Cheeky whelp!’ muttered Bardolf, shooting his son-in-law a genuinely venomous glower. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘I am only here to ensure he does not do away with Janelle in the first two weeks of his marriage, as he did the poor old widow, Pernel.’
Deblunville laughed carelessly, although Bartholomew was not entirely certain that Bardolf had been jesting. The physician went to help Cynric to his feet, alarmed by the lack-lustre look in his book-bearer’s eyes, and took his leave of Deblunville and Bardolf. As they walked the short distance to Grundisburgh in the pale light that lit the land before dawn, Bartholomew did all he could to convince Cynric that the dog was as mortal as any other animal, but Cynric refused to accept that Padfoot was anything other than a hound from hell, sent to snatch him away in the prime of his life.
‘I should have married before I left Cambridge,’ he mumbled. ‘Then I would have died happy.’
‘So, you have decided then?’ asked Bartholomew encouragingly, to try to take Cynric’s mind off his impending doom. ‘You sounded uncertain whether the married life was for you when we last spoke about this, and now you say it will make you happy?’
Cynric did not answer but pointed down the road. ‘Someone is there,’ he said flatly. ‘Waiting for us in the bushes.’
‘You mean lying in ambush?’ asked Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘Again?’
‘We do not seem to be particularly welcome around here,’ said Cynric morosely.
‘Is your bow ready?’ asked Bartholomew, peering down the still-dark lane to where Cynric had pointed. He could see nothing, but his book-bearer’s intuition in such matters was infallible. ‘We might frighten him off.’
Lethargically, Cynric took his bow from his shoulder and stood with it held loosely in his hands.
‘An arrow might help,’ suggested Bartholomew nervously. ‘Waving an empty bow is not very menacing. Come on, Cynric! You do not need me to be telling you all this. Do you want us attacked and killed?’
‘You will survive it well enough,’ said Cynric gloomily. ‘You did not see the white dog.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘Stay here, then, and keep watch. I will cut round behind him and see if I can flush him out.’
Cynric nodded careless acquiescence, and Bartholomew ducked off the path and began to make his way to the back of a thicket, where he assumed the ambusher was hiding. He was concerned, aware that the Welshman would never have allowed him to undertake such a task had he been himself. Wincing as he trod on sticks that cracked loudly, and rustling through leaves like a rampaging boar, he crept steadily forward, wishing he had paid more attention to Cynric’s past advice on stealth.
The would-be attacker knelt behind a bush, peering up the path. In the half-light of early dawn, Bartholomew could see nothing more than a shadow muffled in a cloak. As far as he could tell, the man was alone; no accomplices lurked in the undergrowth. With a yell that made the figure leap to his feet in shock, Bartholomew dashed toward the bush and hurled himself at him. There was a brief struggle, during which Bartholomew shouted to Cynric not to fire, and fists and feet flew wildly on both sides, but neither with any precision. It was not long before Bartholomew, taller and stronger, had the man pinned down on the ground by both wrists.
‘Stoate!’
Bartholomew gazed at Grundisburgh’s physician in confusion, while Warin de Stoate stared back, his eyes huge in the gloom.
‘Bartholomew! What in God’s name are you doing? Let me up!’
Bartholomew hesitated, but then released him, watching as Stoate stood and brushed himself down. Cynric remained where Bartholomew had left him, his bow dangling from his hands. He showed no reaction at all when he saw it had been Stoate waiting in the bushes, and trailed miserably toward them with his feet scuffing the litter on the woodland path.
‘What were you doing?’ Bartholomew demanded of Stoate. ‘Men with nothing to hide do not skulk around in the bushes first thing in the morning.’
‘I did not want to be seen,’ said Stoate enigmatically, still picking leaves and grass from his cloak. ‘I was going to wait until you passed, and then be on my way.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Cynric thought you were going to ambush us.’
‘Why should I do that?’ asked Stoate, genuinely puzzled. ‘You have nothing I want – no offence intended. And I am not the kind of man to commit robbery on the roads – I am a respected member of the community, and people look up to me.’
‘I wanted a word with you, anyway,’ said Bartholomew, still not certain that he believed him. ‘I have just come from Janelle Deblunville. She became ill after drinking a potion you prescribed her, containing betony and pennyroyal.’
Stoate’s jaw dropped. ‘She drank it? She drank my potion?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew coldly. ‘That is what you instructed her to do, is it not?’
Stoate drew himself up to his full height. ‘I can assure you it was not! She is with child – betony and pennyroyal are abortive agents. The potion I gave her was to be added to vinegar and inhaled as a cure for dizziness – as the great Pliny suggests. She was most certainly not supposed to drink it. Is she all right?’
Bartholomew nodded slowly. Pliny’s Historia Naturalis did indeed recommend the inhalation of pennyroyal and mint infused in vinegar as a remedy for fainting. His anger towards Stoate dissipated to a certain extent; he had prescribed ointments and salves himself, and patients had later complained that they tasted unpleasant or had made them sick. However, he had learned from his experiences, and never left people with potentially dangerous medicines until he was certain they understood what they were to do with them. And Stoate, Bartholomew thought, should have done the same with Janelle. But Stoate’s casual attitude towards dangerous herbs did not explain why he was skulking in the woods so early in the morning.
‘What were you doing here anyway?’ he asked. ‘A man of your station should not be grubbing around in trees in the dark.’
‘Unlike you, you mean?’ retorted Stoate. He relented suddenly, and smiled. ‘I suppose it does look odd, but I can assure you I was doing nothing untoward. I am just going to visit Tuddenham.’
‘At this time of day? And why the secrecy?’
‘He does not want anyone to know,’ said Stoate mysteriously.
‘Know what?’ Bartholomew was tired from his eventful night, and his patience was beginning to wear thin.
‘Come with me, and I will show you.’
Bartholomew hesitated, not wanting to be party to any more secrets – particularly ones that necessitated hiding in bushes before sunrise – but Stoate was insistent, piquing Bartholomew’s interest by hinting it was a medical matter. With Cynric trailing behind like a mourner at a funeral, Stoate led the way along a little-used path that ran behind the village, and up the hill to Wergen Hall. It was in darkness, but Stoate tapped three times, very softly, on one of the window shutters, and within moments the door was opened. Siric, Tuddenham’s faithful steward, stood there.