‘How can that be possible?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was injured by an arrow, and is in no state to fight anyone.’
‘He has recovered,’ said Miller, in a voice that made it clear he wished he had not. ‘Langar should not have encouraged Bunoun to save him.’
‘Langar is losing his touch,’ agreed Chapman. ‘He is full of bad advice these days. We were right to keep from him the business of … but we should not discuss this in front of strangers.’
‘I was attacked last night, too,’ said Bartholomew, speaking to fill an uncomfortable silence.
‘Then you are lucky you did not end up like poor Chapman,’ said Miller. His expression was impossible to read. ‘Lincoln can be a dangerous city.’
Bartholomew turned his full attention to his patient, and asked Miller to see what had happened to the hot water. When Miller opened the door to bellow down to the kitchen, Bartholomew glimpsed a shadow in the corridor, and knew it was Cynric. His uneasiness intensified: they were playing a reckless game. He could hear de Wetherset and Langar arguing furiously, and hoped the row would not erupt into violence. Uncomfortable and unhappy, he pushed up Chapman’s sleeve to inspect the wound more closely and gaped when he saw a blue mark on the man’s shoulder. It was a chalice.
‘What is that?’ he blurted, before it occurred to him that he should have pretended not to notice.
‘Something personal,’ replied Chapman suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘No reason,’ hedged Bartholomew, trying to smile and failing miserably.
Miller stepped forward, and Bartholomew tensed, expecting to feel powerful hands lock around his throat or hear the sound of a dagger being drawn. His hand dropped to his own knife.
‘Oh, that,’ said Miller, when he saw what they were talking about. ‘I have often wondered how you came by that. Aylmer and Nicholas Herl had similar marks. I always thought they looked like cups.’
‘Yes, symbols of good living,’ said Chapman with a weak grin. ‘Claret, you know.’
‘Flaxfleete had one, too,’ said Bartholomew, taking the bull by the horns. ‘Is it a sign of alliance?’
Miller made a guttural hissing sound that Bartholomew assumed was a laugh. ‘Flaxfleete hated the Commonalty – Chapman, Aylmer and Herl included. He would never have made an alliance with them, nor they with him. Eh, Chapman?’
‘Of course not,’ said Chapman shiftily. ‘As I said, it is just something to express my fondness for wine. But I do not want to think about wine now, not when I feel so ill. Please stay with me, Miller.’
‘If you insist,’ said Miller reluctantly. He plumped himself down on the bed, and took the relic-seller’s fluttering hand. ‘Although I do not like surgeons and the grisly things they do to living flesh.’
‘I am not a surgeon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am a physician.’
‘University trained,’ explained Chapman, when Miller seemed unaware of the difference. ‘Surgeons just cut things off. Bunoun wanted to remove my arm last night, remember? You objected.’
‘I was afraid he would make a mess on the rugs – the new ones, from Greece. But get on with whatever you plan to do, physician, or my resolve will fail.’ Miller hawked and spat, making Bartholomew itch to point out that phlegm on his prize carpets was just as unappealing as gore.
Bartholomew unpicked the crude stitches, cleaned the wound, and sewed it shut in a way that left the lower part open for natural suppuration, following the accepted procedure adopted by all good medics. Each stage was accompanied by agonised shrieks from his patient, but it was Miller who grew steadily more pale, so much so that Bartholomew was afraid he might faint.
‘Thank you,’ said Chapman when all was finished, remarkably pert after the racket he had made. ‘You did not hurt me nearly as much Bunoun did. We should reward him handsomely for that, Miller.’
‘It sounded as though he was killing you,’ said Miller, putting a hand over his mouth as though he might be sick. Bartholomew passed him a bowl. ‘What do you want me to give him?’
‘A relic,’ replied Chapman. ‘A bone, perhaps.’
‘That is not necessary,’ said Bartholomew quickly. Given Chapman’s reputation, the gift would almost certainly be a fake, but Bartholomew did not want the responsibility regardless.
‘A man not desperate for a fee,’ mused Miller suspiciously. ‘You are an odd sort.’
‘Give him one … no two of those white pearls,’ said Chapman, determined Bartholomew should not leave empty-handed. ‘The ones that belonged to the Virgin Mary.’
‘The Virgin wore pearls?’ asked Bartholomew dubiously.
‘Just on Sundays,’ said Chapman. He settled down in his bed. ‘If I live, I will give you two more.’
‘And if he dies, I will bury them with you,’ growled Miller, eyeing Bartholomew malevolently.
In Miller’s solar downstairs, a vicious argument was in full swing. Suttone thought a reliquary containing Joseph’s teeth was a suitable gift, while de Wetherset believed the cathedral would prefer a paten. Langar had taken Suttone’s side, and de Wetherset archly demanded what a lawyer could know about the needs of a holy minster. When Bartholomew looked at the dean, to see where he stood on the debate, he could not help but notice that there were no longer four gold goblets on the tray with the jug: there were three.
‘That consultation sounded painful,’ said de Wetherset, interrupting Suttone to address the physician. Having his own say then changing the subject before anyone could take issue was an annoying habit that Bartholomew remembered from Cambridge. ‘Have you killed the poor fellow?’
‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Master Miller will be vexed if so.’
‘I will be more than vexed,’ grunted Miller. ‘I will ki–’
‘He will pray to Little Hugh,’ interrupted Langar. ‘And if Chapman dies, and the physician follows him to his grave, do not come here looking for explanations. It will be what the saint has ordained.’
‘If Chapman does die, it will not be Bartholomew’s fault,’ declared de Wetherset. ‘He is a talented physician, but there is only so much he can do once a patient’s humours are in disarray.’
Bartholomew was pleasantly surprised by the vote of confidence, especially since de Wetherset had never been one of his patients. He turned to Miller and Langar. ‘Do not give Chapman anything brought by well-wishers. I will return tomorrow and change the dressing. Keep him warm and quiet, and let him drink as much as he wants – ale, though, not wine. Wine would not be good for him.’
Langar nodded. ‘We can do that. What are his chances of life?’
‘Fairly good, if you follow my instructions,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously. He saw a flicker of movement in the passage outside the hall, and supposed it was Cynric again. He wished the book-bearer would hurry up and leave, and found his stomach churning in nervous apprehension.
‘Here are your white pearls,’ said Miller, going to a box on the table and picking out the two smallest. Bartholomew recalled that Sheriff Lungspee had received white pearls from Miller, too, as a bribe to see some member of the Commonalty acquitted of a crime he had almost certainly committed.
‘Has Brother Michael found Aylmer’s killer yet?’ asked Langar.
Bartholomew dropped one of the pearls on the floor, to give Cynric more time to escape while he recovered it. ‘I am afraid you will have to ask him. How about you? Have you discovered what happened to Herl?’
Langar smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression, and reminded Bartholomew of the lizards he had seen in southern France. ‘You helped, when you inspected his body for that woman–’
‘Sabina,’ supplied Miller helpfully, bending to retrieve the gem from a gap in the floorboards and hand it back. ‘His wife.’
Langar glowered at the hated name. ‘–and ascertained that he had been poisoned. It is odd that Flaxfleete died of the same thing. That woman said it is all to do with Summer Madness.’