She broke off when a high-pitched shriek issued from Kelby’s house, and there came the sound of footsteps hammering on a wooden floor. Lights flickered under the window shutters, and then there was shouting. When Bartholomew looked back at Ursula, she had closed the door, evidently unsettled by the sudden uproar in the enemy camp.
‘Murder!’ came a braying cry. ‘Help us!’
‘No,’ said Michael, grabbing Bartholomew’s shoulder as he prepared to respond. ‘We are strangers here. It would be foolish to interfere in something that is none of our business.’
He began to lead the way down the hill. As they passed Kelby’s house, the door was thrown open, revealing the lighted hallway within. Flaxfleete lay on the ground, heels drumming, while his friends hovered helplessly above him. He was in the throes of a fit, and Bartholomew knew from the way he was lying that he would suffocate unless he was moved. He pulled away from Michael.
‘I am a physician, Brother. I cannot stand by while a man chokes to death.’
‘This is not a good idea,’ warned Michael, following with considerable reluctance. ‘They are sure to remember who visited before this murder – and who was first to arrive when the alarm was raised.’
‘It is not murder,’ Bartholomew pointed out reasonably. ‘He is still alive.’
But when he knelt beside the stricken cleric, he could see it was no fit that afflicted him. Flaxfleete was blue around the nose and lips, he was gasping for breath, and his eyes were wide and frightened in his waxy face. His body twitched convulsively, and he had vomited violently enough to cause bleeding in his stomach. Even as Bartholomew knelt beside him, he knew that all the skill in the world would not save the man. He started to loosen clothing, in an attempt to ease his breathing, but Flaxfleete resisted.
‘No,’ he whispered, grabbing Bartholomew’s tunic and hauling him down so he could speak without being overheard. ‘Keep me covered. I am cold.’
It was an odd request under the circumstances, but as Flaxfleete’s struggle for air became increasingly frantic, Bartholomew had no choice but to pull the habit away from his neck. As he did so, he saw a strange blue mark on the cleric’s skin, on the point of the shoulder. It was not large – perhaps half the length of a little finger – and was the kind of blemish he had seen soldiers make with ink and needles, as a sign of brotherhood. It was a strange thing to see on a merchant-cleric who had probably never seen a battle. Suddenly, Flaxfleete’s convulsions reached a critical point, and all Bartholomew’s attention was focussed on trying to hold the man’s head in a way that might enable him to draw air into his lungs. But it was to no avail, and it was not long before he stood and raised his hands apologetically.
‘I am sorry. You should summon a priest.’
‘You wear the garb of a physician,’ said Kelby, regarding Bartholomew with appalled eyes as he stood in the bright light of his hall. ‘I will pay whatever you ask if you save him. Gold, jewels, anything.’
‘I wish I could help,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘But your friend is beyond my skills.’
‘He has stopped twitching,’ argued Kelby desperately. ‘The fit is over, so he will recover now.’
‘He is not moving because he is dead,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘I am sorry.’
‘I shall anoint him,’ said Michael. He knelt reluctantly, giving the impression that he wished Bartholomew had heeded his advice and walked away from the whole business.
‘He cannot be dead!’ cried Kelby. ‘He was perfectly healthy a few moments ago, clamouring for wine. You saw him. He was waiting for the new keg to arrive, because we drank more than usual tonight, and we ran out. We have a lot to celebrate, what with the acquittal. How could this happen?’
On the dying man’s breath, Bartholomew had detected the rank, fishy odour of a substance familiar to most physicians – one that occurred on some rye grain and that was sometimes used by midwives to control post-partum bleeding. It was highly toxic, and Bartholomew had been told by a witch in southern France that it was also the cause of the disease called Holy Fire. His medical colleagues had rejected her explanation out of hand, although he found it more convincing than the commonly accepted perception that the sickness was the Devil’s doing.
‘Did he suffer from Summer Madness?’ he asked. Flaxfleete’s symptoms had certainly been similar to those exhibited by folk afflicted with Holy Fire, and people who had been stricken once were liable to suffer future attacks.
Kelby gazed at him. ‘You know he did, because we told you about it – it was when he burned Spayne’s storerooms. Why do you ask?’
‘Do not answer,’ murmured Cynric, who had come to stand behind Bartholomew. His hand rested on his dagger, and his eyes were watchful, as though he anticipated violence. ‘It is safer to say nothing.’
