‘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.’
‘Perhaps it is set to return,’ said Suttone, rubbing his hands rather gleefully. ‘Like the plague.’
‘Flaxfleete did not have Summer Madness when he set Spayne’s property alight,’ said Miller. ‘So, Ursula was right to poison him in revenge. Do you think she killed Dalderby, too?’
‘Ursula has not killed anyone,’ said Langar warningly.
‘So you say,’ retorted Miller. ‘Remember, though, that Dalderby was going around telling folk it was Thoresby who shot him, when he promised on his deathbed at the butts to forget their quarrel. She did not like that.’
‘Dalderby is not dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The arrow wound in his arm was not fatal.’
‘He died this morning,’ explained Langar. ‘Although I heard it was not his wound that killed him.’
