‘You could not be more wrong,’ said Bartholomew, fetching water from the pot over the fire and beginning to bathe the wound. ‘I can smell henbane in this salve, and that is poisonous.’
‘Poisonous?’ echoed Miller in shock, while Chapman lay back and groaned.
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Will you send for more hot water and a clean cloth? This cut needs to be irrigated thoroughly and its edges resewn.’
‘You will stitch me again?’ asked Chapman, appalled. ‘But it was agony the first time.’
Bartholomew was not surprised: Bunoun’s handiwork was crude to say the least. ‘What did the “crone” look like?’ he asked, when Miller had finished issuing orders to a maid.
‘Old,’ replied Miller, after a moment of serious thought. ‘She was crouch-backed and her face was covered by her cloak. She was just a crone.’
Bartholomew regarded him uncertainly, sure a man in the devious-sounding ‘export-import business’ would know about disguises. ‘Tell me what happened in the Swan,’ he said to Chapman, when Miller did not seem able to provide a better description. ‘Who attacked you?’
‘A man,’ replied Chapman indignantly. ‘I went outside to relieve myself, and he was waiting for me. He wore a hooded cloak, but there was something about him that made me think it was Dalderby.’
‘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.
