His heart pounding, Simon entered the Prince’s Quarters in the monastery’s upper story.
Jakob Schreevogl had reappeared in the clinic half an hour before to tell Simon the condition of the count’s son had become critical. The medicus had checked some of his other patients before hurrying off, not without first reminding Schreevogl not to let the still-unconscious novitiate master out of his sight. Surprised, the councilor had nodded, then bent down to wash Laurentius’s burns with a damp towel.
As Simon entered the room of the sick boy in the Wittelsbach family tract, he saw right away how urgently the boy needed attention. He was deathly pale, groaning and rolling in his sleep from one side of the bed to the other, and his heart was racing like a tightly wound spring recently released. Simon put his hand on the four-year-old’s red-hot forehead. The count and his young wife sat on the edge of the four-poster canopy bed. She’d obviously been crying-her eyes were red and her makeup was running. She was wearing a tight-fitting, fur-trimmed silk dress, which Simon considered inappropriate for this visit to the bedside of her deathly sick son. Like her husband, she seemed to have a liking for too much perfume.
“Good Lord, can’t you do something?” the countess cried out as Simon felt for the pulse of his young patient. “Give him medicine; bleed him if necessary. I don’t need a doctor to hold my child’s hand.”
“Your Excellency, I’m only listening for a heartbeat,” replied Simon, trying to calm the overwrought woman.
“By holding his hand? How do you do that?”
“Josephine, let the man do his job,” the count urged her. “He was recommended to me by one of the Schongau aldermen.”
“That fat fellow you’re doing business with?”
“No, someone else. At least I have a good impression of him. I think the bathhouse surgeon knows what he’s doing, perhaps more than our sinfully expensive doctors in Munich.” The count glared menacingly at Simon. “And he knows what will happen to him if he fails.”
The countess rubbed her tear-stained eyes. “You’re… you’re right, Leopold,” she sighed. “It’s just this… sitting around not being able to do anything that’s driving me out of my mind.” Simon looked at her out of the corner of his eye and wondered whether she’d ever had much on her mind.
“Well?” Wartenberg asked harshly. “Is there hope, bathhouse surgeon? Be honest, please.”
The chances of your son surviving are so slight that a single pilgrimage probably won’t suffice, Simon thought darkly. But I can scarcely tell you that, because then you’ll be measuring me for the right-size noose.
“The most important thing for us to do now is to lower the fever,” he said. “I found a little Jesuit’s powder a few days ago in the apothecary here. It’s very rare and expensive, but I’ll give it to your son.”
“Jesuit’s powder?” the countess inquired, horrified. “What sort of witch’s brew is that?”
“It’s the bark of a tree that grows in the West Indies, Your Excellency. It cured a countess suffering from fever there, and it ought to help your son, as well.”
“A countess?” Wartenberg’s wife chewed on her painted lips. “Very well, then you may proceed with this… uh, whatever it is.”
Simon took the jar with the inauspicious-looking yellow dust out of his medicine bag, carefully poured the powder into a little phial, mixed it with wine, then finally dripped it into the boy’s mouth. Secretly, he was happy he’d almost forgotten the powder the last few days and hadn’t used it already. Now the appropriate moment seemed at hand-the tiny dose might just be enough for a child.
“With God’s grace the fever should subside,” Simon said after emptying the phial. Then he packed up his medicine bag. “Now we must wait and pray your son is strong enough to overcome the sickness himself.”
“Pray! You always just say pray.” The countess raised her hands. “This whole place does nothing but pray, and still my little Martin is dying.”
“Be still, Josephine,” the count whispered. “You are blaspheming God.”
“And so what if I am? I always told you we shouldn’t come to this filthy hole of a monastery. Someone else could have brought the key. Why in God’s name did the elector assign you to bring…”
“Good God, I told you to hold your tongue.”
Clearly the count hadn’t intended to speak so loudly, and Simon could sense they were hiding something from him.
Leopold von Wartenberg eyed him suspiciously. “Did you want something else?” he asked harshly.
“Ah, yes, I do have one more question,” Simon said to change the subject. “Has your son done anything out of the ordinary? Did he eat or drink anything he wouldn’t otherwise? Something that could be the cause of this sickness?”
The count seemed to forget his distrust for a moment, struggling to remember. “Actually no,” he finally answered. “We brought our own cook with us who prepares our food in the monastery kitchen.” Suddenly he paused. “But three days ago, we had supper in the tavern in Andechs because our cook had gone to Herrsching to buy fish. The food in the tavern was simple but not bad. We had marinated leg of venison with dumplings and braised turnips. Very tasty, though a bit tough.”
“Leg of venison, I understand.” Simon nodded. Something about the answer made him prick up his ears, though he couldn’t say exactly what.
Finally he reached down one last time to feel the little boy’s pulse. It was still fast, but at least the child seemed to be sleeping calmly now. Simon rose, exhausted.
“I’d be very grateful, Your Excellency, if you would let me know of any change in his condition,” he said, bowing deeply. “For better or worse. And now, farewell. Unfortunately, other patients are waiting.”
Count Wartenberg dismissed him with a brusque wave of his hand, and Simon bowed repeatedly as he backed out of the room. Outside in the hall, he could hear the countess sobbing again.
Exhausted, the medicus rubbed his temples, trying not to think of the long night still awaiting him at the bedside of the novitiate master. Perhaps he could ask Schreevogl to take over at least the second part of his watch. He would tell him simply that the condition of the young monk was so grave he needed constant care.
As he slowly made his way toward the exit down a hall hung with Gobelin tapestries, he thought again of the strange exchange of words between the count and his wife. Evidently Wartenberg was sent on a mission by the elector. But why? And what was so secret about it that it couldn’t be discussed in front of a stranger?
Simon remembered that the count had arrived more than a week early to deliver the key to the relics room. There was really no need for him to arrive until the next day for the Festival of the Three Hosts. Why had he come so early? And what sort of business was he involved in with the Schongau burgomaster?
When the medicus arrived at the high portal leading from the prince’s quarters to the ordinary rooms, he stopped. The guards stood on the other side of the portal while the count and his wife still sat at the bedside of their sick son. Simon looked at the individual doors leading off from the hall with curiosity. Should he dare have a look around here?
Heart pounding, he tiptoed over to the first door and pressed the latch. The room was unlocked. Casting a hesitant glance inside, he spied an open wardrobe and dresses, colorful scarves, and fur caps scattered around the floor, a sign that this must be the countess’s room. Quickly he closed the door and turned to the second room.
This was what he was looking for.
A huge table of polished cherry took up almost the entire far end of the room. On top, inkpots and quills stood beside a pile of documents and rolls of paper. To the right of the table was a bookshelf reaching to the ceiling, and an armchair. The light of the afternoon sun filtered through a high window across the table and the documents scattered across it.
The medicus could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. This was clearly the count’s office.