Bartholomew knelt, trying to assess Simon’s wound without touching it and making it worse. He asked for the lamp to be brought closer, and wondered if he should try to extricate the missile. It would tear the organs it had penetrated, but he could repair them. The more serious problem would be the infection that always set in later, something he had no idea how to prevent.
‘Give me something,’ whispered Simon. ‘For the pain.’
Bartholomew produced a phial of poppy and mandrake juice from his bag, dribbling it between Simon’s lips, but pulling away when the priest grabbed his wrist and tried to swallow the whole pot.
‘Can you save my life?’ breathed Simon.
‘I do not think so,’ replied Bartholomew honestly.
‘Then I will wait for the surgeon. Bunoun cured Dalderby of a near-fatal wound recently, and might be able to do the same for me.’
‘Dalderby’s was not a serious-’ Bartholomew began, before biting off the words. Simon would be more likely to recover if he thought he was in the hands of a genius, and perhaps the surgeon would work a miracle where Bartholomew could not.
The door opened, and Bunoun bustled in. Without a word, he opened his bag and laid his implements on the floor. They were rusty and stained black with old blood. He took the arrow with one hand and waggled it about, holding Simon still with the other. Bartholomew winced at the screams that echoed around the church, and Michael put his hands over his ears.
‘Gently,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself. ‘And do not pull obliquely. You need to trace the path the missile took when it entered, or you will cause more damage.’
Bunoun did not appreciate the advice, and gave an experimental tug on the quarrel that made Simon shriek. ‘I know what I am doing.’ A gout of blood spurted over his hands. ‘Let me do my work, physician. You can write his horoscope when I have finished.’
‘When you have finished, he will not need one,’ muttered Bartholomew, gritting his teeth when Bunoun pulled hard enough on the quarrel to make Simon’s body rise off the floor. The missile was obviously barbed, and tugging it out was not a good idea.
‘Enough,’ gasped Simon, trying to fend off the surgeon with scarlet hands. ‘No more.’
‘I shall prepare a poultice,’ announced Bunoun loftily. ‘It will draw out the poisons, and tomorrow morning, the quarrel will be extracted without pain or loss of blood.’
He moved away, using a nearby bench as a table for his preparations. The only sound in the church was Simon’s laboured breathing and the clink of pots and phials as Bunoun worked.
‘Where have you been these last two days, Father?’ asked Bartholomew gently, hoping to distract the priest from his agonies by talking. ‘We have been worried about you.’
‘Praying,’ replied Simon, relaxing slightly when he saw Bunoun had gone. ‘I had second thoughts about your invitation to the tavern, and realised I should not alienate new colleagues by being aloof. I slipped in at the back, where a lady called Agnes came to greet me. She said it was customary for new patrons to please her with gifts, and showed me the kind of thing she accepted.’
‘A cup,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘A Hugh Chalice?’
Simon nodded weakly. ‘And she said her friends had similar ones. I grew alarmed for my own, so I hurried back to the priory and took it from the chapel. I did not want the Gilbertines to know I was in an agony of doubt over its authenticity, so I slipped in and out without being seen. Then I went to the minster, hoping St Hugh would send a sign to let me know I had the real one. I do not want to present the cathedral with a fake, not after all these years of waiting.’
‘No one saw you,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘And people have been looking everywhere.’
‘The cathedral was too noisy, too distracting, so I went to St Margaret’s in the Close instead.’
‘Claypole searched for you there,’ said Michael. ‘He said it was empty.’
‘No one came, not even St Hugh, who chose not to answer my prayers. So I wrote to Chapman, and asked him to meet me here. I was going to demand the truth about how he came by the cup.’
‘All these years of waiting,’ echoed Bartholomew suddenly, leaning forward to push Simon’s habit from his shoulder. The mark was fainter than it had been on Aylmer, as though it had been etched tentatively, but was clear, nonetheless. ‘You are a member of this fraternity. You said you were not.’
Simon grimaced. ‘I knew if I offered to remove my clothes to “prove” I was free of symbols Michael would stop me. He knows the dangers of cold air on a singer’s throat. We took a vow, you see, to keep our group a secret.’
Michael did not say he had demurred because he had not liked the look of the priest’s scaly legs. ‘Is it still a secret, or can you tell me now?’
