Dickon already knew he could achieve almost anything with a tantrum, and had recently realised this could be taken to new heights if his doting parents thought he was hurt, too. As a consequence, Bartholomew was frequently summoned to treat minor bruises and scratches that most children would not have noticed, and an increasingly imaginative array of ‘accidents’ that included invisible splinters, an alleged surfeit of carrots, and an array of bizarre objects inserted into various orifices – although none embedded deeply enough to cause genuine pain. Dickon was not stupid.
‘You say there is a pea in his ear,’ shouted Bartholomew over the howls, kneeling next to Mistress Tulyet and taking the lad’s head to tilt it gently towards the light. Dickon’s reaction was instant and predictable. He twisted quickly, and his sharp little teeth clicked in empty air, just as the physician jerked his hands away.
‘Dickon!’ exclaimed Tulyet in horror. ‘You know you must not bite!’
Dickon began to scream again, this time because his attack had been thwarted and he was angry. Meanwhile, his mother petted and fussed over him, believing the shrieks were a result of the mishap with the pea. Bartholomew was baffled. Tulyet was astute when it came to dealing with the felons who came his way, and was seldom taken in by their lies and deceits. The physician had no idea why he did not apply the same rules to his son. As a baby, Dickon had been snatched by blackmailers, and his parents had coddled him ever since. They were now reaping the rewards of spoiling a boy who had needed a firmer hand.
Tulyet spread apologetic hands. ‘I am sorry, Matt. He is beside himself with agony and does not know what he is doing.’
Bartholomew thought Dickon knew exactly what he was doing. He took the child’s head in a firmer grip. There was an immediate struggle, with Dickon screeching his outrage when he saw he could not escape. His face turned from red to purple.
‘You are hurting him!’ cried Mistress Tulyet, trying to prise Bartholomew’s hands from her son.
‘I am not,’ replied Bartholomew, releasing his patient and wondering whether he would be obliged to wait until the brat fell asleep before removing the pea. It would not be a difficult operation, and would have taken only a moment with any other child. He sat back on his heels and considered his options, most of which involved sending the parents from the room, and a gag. Rescue – for patient and physician – came from an unexpected quarter.
‘Dickon,’ said Quenhyth brightly, kneeling next to the boy. ‘Would you like a rat?’
Dickon’s wails stopped abruptly. ‘Rats bite,’ he said. But he was clearly interested. His screeches did not resume, and he waited for Quenhyth to elaborate.
‘This one will not,’ said Quenhyth, gesturing to the horrified parents that he did not have a real rodent in mind. ‘And it will have a tail as long as a dog’s. Would you like to see?’
‘Give,’ said Dickon, thrusting out a hand that was sticky from the treats his mother had been feeding him ever since he had first looked her in the eye and pressed the pea into his ear.
‘Here,’ said Quenhyth, reaching into his bag – modelled rather obviously on the one Bartholomew carried – and withdrawing an object that was all stick legs and clumsily sewn fur. ‘I was making this for my little brother, but you look like a lad who will appreciate a rat.’
‘Give,’ ordered Dickon again, chubby fingers stretching for the prize.
‘It has proper eyes,’ said Quenhyth, flaunting the object just out of Dickon’s grasp. He reached into his bag a second time and pulled out a length of twine that had been woven to look uncannily like the tail of a rodent. ‘All I need to do is attach this, and it will be finished. What do you say?’
Dickon squirmed out of his mother’s arms, aiming to snatch the toy, but the student had anticipated such a move. He stood up quickly, and Dickon found himself unable to reach. He opened his mouth for another of his monstrous shrieks.
‘No,’ said Bartholomew sharply, before he could start. ‘You cannot have it if you screech.’
Dickon’s mouth snapped shut, eyes fixed on the toy that dangled so tantalisingly close. It was not an attractive thing, and Bartholomew thought normal children might have found it a little frightening. But Dickon was not a normal child. He was fascinated by the ugly wooden frame, inexpertly covered with fur salvaged from an old winter cloak. The four legs were of different lengths, the snout was long, thin and mean, and the eyes – made from polished stones – glittered in a way that was sinister. There was also a set of improbably large teeth, which had been fashioned from scraps of metal scavenged from the blacksmith’s forge and then hammered into its jaws.
‘You should not let him have that,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that Quenhyth had probably gone to some trouble to make it. It would not last long with Dickon, who tested new toys by hurling them against walls or dropping them from upstairs windows. ‘You are unlikely to get it back in one piece.’
‘I do not think my brother will like it, actually,’ admitted Quenhyth ruefully. ‘It did not turn out the way I expected. It ended up looking a trifle … demonic.’
‘It certainly has,’ said Tulyet, regarding it uneasily.
‘I have been carrying it about for weeks now,’ Quenhyth went on. ‘It seems a shame to throw it away, since it took me the best part of four Sundays to make. I am happy for Dickon to have it.’
‘It is very kind,’ said Mistress Tulyet gratefully. ‘It has already distracted him from his pain, and he has stopped that terrible crying.’
‘Thank God,’ muttered Bartholomew. He edged closer to the boy again, ready to retreat if the brat tried to bite, kick, scratch, thump or pinch. He had suffered enough bruises from Dickon in the past to be cautious, even when it appeared his attention was captured by something else. ‘If you want the toy, Dickon, you must sit on your mother’s lap and tilt your head to one side. Quietly.’
Dickon regarded Bartholomew venomously, knowing that the pea was about to be removed, and that it might result in a little discomfort.
‘Let him have the toy first,’ suggested Mistress Tulyet. ‘He will sit still while he inspects it.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. Once Dickon had the rat in his possession he would never do as he was told. ‘Pea first, rat second.’
Dickon’s expression was murderous, but he crawled on to his mother’s knee and put his head to one side. Bartholomew selected a tiny pair of forceps and had secured the pea before the lad had even taken a breath to bray his displeasure. Dickon eyed the pulse in astonishment, and Bartholomew saw the realisation register that he would have to find another excuse if he wanted to indulge in more bad behaviour that evening. The lad wriggled away from his mother and dashed to Quenhyth.
‘Give,’ he said firmly.
‘Do you want it to have a tail?’ asked Quenhyth. Dickon nodded slowly. ‘Then you will have to wait while I sew it on. Sit with me by the hearth, and watch.’
To Bartholomew’s surprise, Dickon squatted by Quenhyth as meekly as a lamb, and there was blessed silence while he watched the tail being appended. Tulyet heaved a sigh of relief.
‘I was beginning to think we might be up all night with the poor child. I shall pay your student as much as I give you for this consultation, Matt. I shall always be in his debt.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘It means Dickon will be his first official patient, and not one he will easily forget.’ He did not mean it as a compliment.
Grateful that another domestic crisis was over, Tulyet turned the discussion to town affairs, while Quenhyth and Dickon sat by the fire and Mistress Tulyet watched with a doting smile. Bartholomew noticed the servants were not nearly so soft-hearted. They exchanged glances indicating that they knew exactly how to deal with small, calculating fiends who frightened their parents and threw the whole household into disarray.