‘He would not say. However, I cannot help but wonder whether what terrified Willelmus was seeing a prominent scholar – namely Ayera – among the villains who attacked our town.’
Bartholomew said nothing, but suddenly the day did not seem quite so bright and pretty.
He was about to leave the castle when the rest of his medical colleagues arrived – not to visit the wounded, but to debate the lucrative business of being on-call for the Corpus Christi pageant. As they approached, he heard Meryfeld confiding to Holm and Rougham, with a mind-boggling lack of remorse, how he often misled patients about the contents of the cures he sold.
‘Poppy juice is expensive,’ he was saying. ‘So why use it, when most folk are incapable of telling the difference? The tincture I call Poppy Water contains nothing but nettles and mint.’
‘And your clients never suspect?’ asked Holm, keenly interested.
‘Of course not,’ replied Meryfeld scornfully. ‘They trust me, and believe anything I say.’
‘I would never dare do anything like that,’ said Rougham. Bartholomew was not sure whether Rougham was favourably impressed by Meryfeld’s dishonesty and itched to emulate it, or whether he was disapproving. ‘Most of my customers are scholars, and they tend not to be stupid.’
‘Some of them are,’ averred Meryfeld with a grin. ‘Especially the rich ones at King’s Hall.’
The conversation came to an abrupt end when they became aware that Bartholomew and Gyseburne were listening, and they hastened to present their plan for the pageant instead. They had decided that the town was to be divided into sectors, and each medicus was to have one, except Bartholomew who, it was anticipated, would still be too busy with his battle-wounded.
‘You have your hands full already,’ Rougham explained unctuously. ‘And we do not want to load you with even more work. How are they today, by the way?’
‘They are doing extremely well, thanks to me,’ said Holm, before Bartholomew could respond. ‘Of course, I shall not be paid for my hard work, but money is not everything.’
‘Is it not?’ asked Meryfeld, bemused.
Holm looked smug. ‘I earned far more than riches with my surgical skills yesterday – I earned the respect and adulation of the entire town. And that may be useful in the future.’
Bartholomew could not bear to listen to him, and changed the subject rather abruptly. ‘I have been meaning to warn you all of some danger. Hooded men waylaid me the other night, and demanded the formula for that burning substance we created. The wildfire.’
‘Why would anyone want to know that?’ asked Rougham uncomfortably.
‘I am not sure, but they threatened violence when I told them I could not recall it, so I recommend that you be on your guard.’
‘But we do not remember it, either,’ objected Meryfeld, alarmed. ‘Indeed, I can barely recall that night at all, let alone provide anyone with a detailed list of the ingredients we used.’
‘I recollect adding a lot of rubbish,’ mused Gyseburne. ‘Indeed, I think I tossed in a dash of slug juice at one point. But as to the specific formula, I have no clear memory …’
‘Well, I was not there,’ said Holm smugly. ‘So I need not be concerned.’
‘You should be – these villains might think we shared the secret with you,’ said Rougham.
‘But you never did!’ cried Holm, horrified by the notion. ‘I have asked for it on numerous occasions, but none of you are ever willing to discuss the matter.’
‘I wish we had not done it,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘We devised a terrible thing.’
‘We did,’ agreed Gyseburne soberly. ‘Indeed, I wish I could remember the recipe, so we would know never to bring those particular ingredients together again.’
‘Well, I wish I could remember so we could sell it,’ stated Meryfeld baldly. ‘Someone will recreate the stuff at some point, so why should we not be the ones to reap the reward? Do not look so shocked, Bartholomew. Just think of all the good you could do with a large sum of money.’
‘The men who ambushed me were not interested in paying,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘Indeed, I was under the impression that they were going to kill me once they had what they wanted.’
‘Oh,’ said Meryfeld uncomfortably. ‘Well, that puts an entirely different complexion on it.’
‘Your antics had better not result in my murder,’ said Holm warningly, glaring at each of them in turn. ‘I am about to marry a woman who will make me very rich, and I have no intention of being dispatched before I have had the chance to enjoy my good fortune.’
‘It is true love, then, is it?’ asked Rougham acidly.
‘True love for her father’s money,’ confided Holm, treating his colleagues to a man-of-the-world wink. Bartholomew looked away.
‘Our best chance of earning a fortune lies in perfecting the recipe for lamp fuel,’ said Rougham, ignoring the surgeon and addressing the others. ‘I pondered the matter at length yesterday, and I believe our last brew would have worked better with a teaspoon of honey.’
‘Why would you think that?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. While he enjoyed the sessions with his colleagues, he sometimes found their capacity for peculiarly random statements wearisome.
‘Because it is sticky,’ explained Rougham. ‘So it will bind the ingredients together in a more productive manner.’
‘It is worth a try,’ said Meryfeld, although Bartholomew rolled his eyes. ‘And if that does not work, then I have been thinking, too. The addition of red lead will be beneficial.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘Red lead has no known property that will–’
‘Open your mind,’ interrupted Rougham, gesturing expansively. ‘I do not understand why you are so unwilling to experiment, especially as you do it on your patients all the time.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Bartholomew was not in the mood for Rougham’s insults.
Rougham took a step away, unused to the physician taking issue with him. ‘I mean that you try new and unorthodox treatments on your clients, so why not do the same with the lamp fuel?’
‘I do nothing of the kind,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘All my treatments have either been effective in the past, or there are sound, logical reasons why they will work now. I would never–’
‘Urine,’ announced Gyseburne grandly. Thrown off his stride by the unexpected declaration, Bartholomew faltered into silence.
‘What about urine?’ asked Rougham warily.
‘It contains flammable properties,’ replied Gyseburne. ‘My mother told me so, and she is right, I am sure. She usually is.’
‘It can be combustible, under certain conditions,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, wondering how Gyseburne’s dam should have come by such information. Was she a witch? ‘But–’
‘Well, I like to live on the edge,’ said Holm drolly. ‘So red lead, honey and urine it is for next time, then. We shall reconvene tomorrow.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, as Meryfeld, Holm and Rougham marched away together, haughty and confident. ‘I am beginning to think we are wasting our time with them.’
‘All manner of great inventions have been discovered by chance,’ countered Gyseburne. ‘We may well stumble on something important by random testing.’
‘Not with the compounds they have recommended.’ Bartholomew was disgusted.
Gyseburne raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know how urine will react when heated with pitch? No? Then do you know that red lead will remain inert when mixed with brimstone? No again! Do not dismiss us out of hand, Matthew. It is unbecoming in a man who expects tolerance for his own eccentricities.’
A clatter of hoofs in the bailey heralded the arrival of Tulyet and his men, back from the Fens. There was mud on their armour, and the Sheriff looked tired and out of sorts. He stamped over to Bartholomew and Gyseburne.