Nicholas came in, wiping his hands and shaking his head. 'The snow was long in coming this year, but how it falls now!' His thin face glowed with the cold, and his pale eyes shone. The apothecary's garden was his passion.
'Have you finished with the roses?' Wulfstan asked. Gardening was the bond between them. And the lore of healing plants.
'Almost.' Nicholas sat down with the sigh of a pleasantly tired man. 'Lucie tells me you have a pilgrim with camp fever.'
'That is so. He's bad, Nicholas. Weak and shivering.'
'How long since his last bout with it?'
'Five months.'
More questions followed, the apothecary frowning and nodding. 'Was he clear-headed when he arrived?'
'Most lucid. While I tended his wounds he some shy;times asked about the folk in York. He once fought beside Sir Robert in a French campaign.'
Lucie looked up at that with a steely expression. She had little affection for her father.
'Now there was an odd thing’ Wulfstan said. 'He was upset with me when I said you had become Master in your father's place, Nicholas. He insisted that you had died.'
'Died?' Nicholas whispered.
Lucie crossed herself.
Later, Wulfstan was to remember that it was then that Nicholas's manner changed. He began to ask questions that, to Wulfstan's mind, had little to do with a diagnosis — the soldier's name, his appearance, his age, his purpose in coming to St. Mary's, if he'd had visitors.
Wulfstan had few answers. The pilgrim had wished to remain nameless; he'd made no mention of home or family; he was grey-haired, tall, with a soldier's bearing even in his illness. No visitors, though he knew the folk at Freythorpe Hadden. And, apparently, knew of Nicholas. 'But surely this is unimportant?' The apoth shy;ecary wasted precious time.
Lucie Wilton touched her husband's arm. He jumped as if her touch had burned him. 'Brother Wulfstan must hurry back to his patient’ she said, regarding her hus shy;band with a worried look.
Nicholas got up and began to pace. After an uncomfortable silence in which Wulfstan began to fear Nicholas was at a loss for a proper physick, the apoth shy;ecary turned with an odd sigh. 'My usual mixture will not suffice. Go back to your patient, Brother Wulfstan. I will follow with the physick before the day is out.' He looked distracted, not meeting Wulfstan's eyes.
Wulfstan was disappointed. More delay. 'It is not a simple case, then? Is it the wound that complicates it?'
'It is never simple with camp fever.'
Wulfstan crossed himself.
Lucie put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 'Is it very serious, Nicholas?'
'I cannot say,' he snapped. Then, thinking better of it, he bent and kissed her gently on the forehead. 'There's no need for you to stay, Lucie.' His voice caressed her. 'And no need to worry. You might finish up the last rose bed if you hurry.'
'I thought I might learn something by watching
you prepare the mixture.'
Nicholas took her hand. 'I will review it with you later, my love. But the snow will not wait.' His eyes were affectionate, gentle, almost melancholy.
Without further argument, Lucie donned her mantle and went out the garden door.
Wulfstan sighed.
'She is a treasure’ Nicholas said.
Wulfstan agreed. 'You are both blessed in your contentment.'
Nicholas looked down at the floor and said noth shy;ing. It seemed to Wulfstan that his friend avoided meeting his eyes. Perhaps things were not so well between them. 'So you will prepare a special mix shy;ture?'
Nicholas clapped his hands, back to business. 'And you must hasten back to your patient and ply him with mint to bring on a good sweat.'
'I left Henry with sufficient instructions’ Wulfstan protested, but seeing Nicholas's odd temper, he took his leave.
A bitter cold return journey it was. Nicholas was right. The first snow made up for its tardiness.
At dusk, as Wulfstan nodded by the pilgrim's sickbed, he was wakened by a tap on his shoulder. Nicholas Wilton at last. But something was amiss with the apothecary. Wulfstan rubbed his eyes and squinted at the man. Nicholas's eyes were too large in his pale face, as if he'd had a shock.
'You do not look well, Nicholas. You should have sent someone else with the medicine’
The patient moaned. His eyes flickered.
Nicholas drew Wulfstan aside. 'He looks worse than I expected’ he whispered. Ah, Wulfstan thought, that explained the expression on the apothecary's face.
'You must dose him at once!’ Nicholas said. 'Hurry. A dram in boiling water. I'll sit with him.'
Wulfstan hastened to the fire.
Apparently the pilgrim woke, for Wulfstan heard him cry out, then Nicholas's voice murmuring some comfort. The sick man cried out again. Wulfstan was not surprised. The gentle knight burned with fever. Delirium was to be expected.
He tested the water, impatient for it to boil. The pilgrim sobbed, At last the water boiled. Wulfstan measured with care, said a prayer over it, stirred well, and hurried with it to the sickbed.
To his surprise, Nicholas was gone. He had left the pilgrim alone. 'How odd to leave without a word’ Wulfstan muttered.
'Murderer’ the pilgrim hissed. 'Poisoner.' His face was red and slick with sweat.
'Calm yourself, my friend’ Wulfstan said. 'This emotion does you no good.'
The pilgrim's breathing was tortured. He thrashed from side to side, his eyes wild.
Wulfstan had all he could do to calm him, whispering reassurances. 'Fever visions, my friend. Visitations of Lucifer to break your will. Pay them no heed.'
At last the man's eyes cleared, 'He was a nightmare?'
'Yes, yes. There are no murderers here.' That was true enough. Wulfstan held the cup up to the man's pale lips. 'Now drink this down. Rest is what you need. A healing slumber.'
The watery, frightened eyes moved to the cup, then back to Wulfstan. 'You prepared it?'
'With my own hands, my friend. Now drink.'
He did so. 'Then he is dead. I did kill him’ he whispered. The dreadful thought seemed to calm him. Soon, warm and drowsy, the pilgrim drifted into sleep.
But shortly after Compline he began to moan, then woke in a sweat, complaining of pains in his arms and legs. Perhaps Wulfstan had been wrong to call it camp fever. But his friend had not exhibited these symptoms before. Wulfstan tried to soothe his limbs with cloths soaked in witch hazel, but the pain persisted.
He summoned Henry. Together they prepared poul shy;tices and wrapped the pilgrim's limbs. Nothing helped. Wulfstan was at his wits' end. He had done his best. No one could fault his efforts. The Lord knew how deeply he felt the pilgrim's suffering. He considered sending for Master Saurian, the physician who tended the monks when they were ill, but he had been little help when the pilgrim fell ill, and it was late, and Wulfstan feared Saurian would simply say God's will be done. Of course God's will be done. Wulfstan did not have to drag Saurian out in the middle of the night to be told that. But God's will was not always clear to man.
The pilgrim's breathing became laboured. He gasped for air. Henry brought pillows to prop up the sick man's head and help him breathe.
It was a long night. The wind found every chink in the infirmary, and moaned at the door. The hearth smoked and made the Infirmarian's already teary eyes bum. Once, when Wulfstan bent over the pilgrim to blot his brow, the man grabbed his habit and pulled him close, whispering, 'He has poisoned me. I did not kill him. I did not avenge her.' Then he sank back on the pallet in a swoon.
'It is the fever that burns within you, my friend,' Wulfstan said aloud, in case the pilgrim could hear and be comforted. 'You would be worse without the medicine.' The man did not stir.