‘You are late,’ he mumbled to Stoate. His eyes narrowed when he saw Bartholomew and Cynric. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘I brought them,’ whispered Stoate. ‘It would be good to have Doctor Bartholomew’s opinion.’
‘Are you mad?’ hissed Siric furiously. ‘Sir Thomas will never allow it!’
‘He would be a fool to refuse,’ Stoate snapped back.
He elbowed his way past Siric, and beckoned for Bartholomew to follow, while Cynric waited by the embers of the fire in the hall. Stoate made his way stealthily up the spiral stairs and headed for the upper chambers. He listened carefully, before opening a door and slipping inside, pulling Bartholomew after him. Siric remained outside, evidently keeping watch. Their movements were so practised that Bartholomew could only suppose that they had been going through the same routine for weeks, if not longer.
‘What is he doing here?’ demanded Tuddenham hoarsely from the large bed that almost filled the room. ‘For God’s sake, Stoate! What are you thinking of?’
Stoate raised an imperious hand. ‘I met Bartholomew on my way here, and it occurred to me that it might be wise for you to draw on his expertise as well as my own.’
‘But if news of this seeps out…’
‘Physicians are known for their discretion,’ interrupted Stoate smoothly. ‘You can trust Bartholomew, as you can trust me.’
‘But I cannot trust you, it seems! You promised me you would never tell a living soul about this, and now you bring one of the Michaelhouse scholars to see me. It could ruin everything!’
Bartholomew looked from one to the other in confusion. ‘Master Stoate has told me nothing,’ he said. ‘And if you do not want me to be here, I will leave.’
‘Stay,’ said Tuddenham, leaning back against the pillows wearily. ‘Speculation about what you have seen will do far more damage than hearing the truth. Well, come on then, man, examine me. I imagine that Stoate brought you here so that you can tell me what he dares not utter himself. You are a damned coward, Stoate, with your false cheer.’
Thus admonished, Stoate busied himself by inspecting the flask of urine that Tuddenham had provided, studiously avoiding the knight’s eyes. Bewildered, Bartholomew went to sit on the bed, taking Tuddenham’s hands in his to feel their temperature. He was surprised he had not noticed before, but there seemed to be a tautness about the skin of the face and a dullness about the hair that did not signify good health. Hoping his own hands were not too cold, he began his examination. There was a hard lump the size of an apple under the skin of Tuddenham’s stomach.
‘How long have you had this?’ he asked, pulling the night-shirt down and sitting back.
‘I noticed it at Christmas. It has been growing steadily larger and more painful ever since. Stoate tells me I will live to be an old man yet. What do you say, Bartholomew?’
Bartholomew glanced at Stoate, who was still holding the urine up to the light and refusing to look at anyone. Tuddenham gave a sharp laugh.
‘Are you afraid to contradict the opinion of a colleague? Or are you afraid to tell the truth?’
‘Neither,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Despite Master Stoate’s attempts to cheer you, you seem to know the truth anyway.’
‘I did not want him to give up,’ said Stoate, lowering the flask and looking at Bartholomew defiantly. ‘In my experience, telling a patient he will die simply hastens his end – he loses the will to live and gives up on life.’
There was more than a grain of truth in Stoate’s reasoning. Bartholomew had seen many patients give up the ghost when they might have lived longer: it was certainly true of Cynric, sitting shrouded in gloom in the hall downstairs. But it made no sense to use such tactics on Tuddenham, who had already guessed the seriousness of his condition. He looked back to the knight, who was still waiting for his answer.
‘A few months,’ he said. ‘No longer.’
‘Will I live to be a father? The child should be born in November.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew.
Tuddenham stared at him for a moment, and then took a deep breath. After a moment he smiled sadly. ‘What a pair you two make! One too frightened to tell me I am ill; the other so brutal in his honesty. Somewhere in between might have been more pleasant.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But you are lucky to be expecting a child, Sir Thomas. This disease often brings infertility.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Tuddenham bitterly. ‘I am lucky indeed! I would have been luckier still if I could have had my first sons with me now, but the Death took them. I survived that, only to die of this insidious disease that is rotting my flesh, even as I live and breathe.’
Bartholomew turned to Stoate. ‘What are you doing for him?’
‘A potion of three grains of foxglove, mixed with wine and honey. I bring it each morning, so that Sir Thomas can pass the day without too much pain, and without anyone knowing of his condition.’ He shrugged. ‘I was considering sending him to Ipswich for surgery.’
‘It is too late for surgery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is very little you can do now. I would recommend you use poppy seeds, rather than foxglove, but you will need to increase the dose as time passes.’ He looked at Tuddenham. ‘And your family do not know?’
‘No one knows,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Just Stoate, Siric and now you. Even Wauncy does not know.’ He gave a soft laugh, a rustle at the back of his throat. ‘It is ironic – Wauncy looks like a walking corpse, yet it is I who am mortally sick.’
‘They will find out,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You will not be able to hide it from them for much longer.’
‘I will keep it from them as long as I can,’ said Tuddenham. ‘I do not want to worry Isilia yet, and it will only give Hamon and Dame Eva something else to argue about. You will not tell them, will you?’ He gripped Bartholomew’s hand hard.
‘Of course not.’
Tuddenham relaxed. ‘Good. You see, Bartholomew, one of the things I am bargaining for with that crafty Alcote is the provision of a mass priest to pray for my soul when I am dead. His stipend will be paid for out of the money Michaelhouse will make from the living of the church. Alcote may not agree to that condition if he thinks Michaelhouse will have to start paying at the end of the summer, and not in twenty years’ time.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘He will not discover any of this from me. And anyway, our rates for masses are not quite so high as those of Master Wauncy.’
Tuddenham smiled faintly. ‘Thank you. Now, give me my medicine, Stoate. And tomorrow I will have poppy, not foxglove.’
Bartholomew collected Cynric from the hall, and headed for the Half Moon, relieved to be away from a consultation for once. There were aspects of his trade that he did not enjoy, and breaking that kind of news to a patient was one of them. With Cynric trailing listlessly behind him, he walked down the path to the village.
‘Matt!’ cried Michael, running down The Street as fast as his plump legs would carry him. ‘Where have you been? You are covered in mud! And what is wrong with Cynric? He looks as though he has seen a ghost.’
Cynric groaned and put his hands over his face, while Bartholomew told the monk what had happened. Michael took a deep, unsteady breath.
‘I am sorry, Matt. This is all my fault! I urged you to go with Grosnold when I should have seen it was not safe, even with Cynric. And things are not much better here. Tuddenham has arrested Eltisley for the killing of Unwin, and has him locked in the cellar at Wergen Hall. And I went to see Mistress Freeman yesterday, as I told you I would, only someone had been to see her first, and she lies dead in the church with her throat cut, just like her husband!’