‘The poor fellow,’ said Baldwin, shaking his head. ‘As you say, it’s astonishing bad luck.’
‘I personally feel that a man makes his own good fortune,’ Vincent said with a trace of smugness as he contemplated his mazer. ‘Nicholas, poor bastard, has the smell of failure about him, God Bless! What can you do with someone who invariably fails, eh? Nothing. That’s why he didn’t win the position of Steward as he was expecting.’
‘He was up for a Stewardship?’ Baldwin said.
Vincent gulped down the remains of his mazer. ‘He was in the race against me but when his fortune seemed to slide his friends wouldn’t give up. They asked for him to be granted the Wardenship of the Bridge, which would have put him in charge of the rents on the houses and shops on the bridge apart from everything else – but the Freemen wouldn’t allow it. The city can’t afford to have someone that unlucky as Warden. No, they all voted for another man in the end. Someone more reliable.’
Jeanne had moved to their side. She wasn’t sure that she liked Vincent; he seemed too bullish and proud, almost amused at the disasters which had struck this man Nicholas Karvinel. Now she interrupted, saying, ‘Who would that be?’
He smiled, but then allowed a frown to pass over his brow as if realising that his levity was out of place. ‘It was Ralph – the glover who died.’
Peter Golloc, Secondary cleric and sometime clerk to Nicholas Karvinel, returned to his room with leaden steps. He felt like an old man, as if he had aged years in the last week. His face was puffy from weeping at night and exhaustion threatened to force him to doze even during the services. He felt awful. His bowels were loose, and when he went to the privy, he had severe diarrhoea. His belly was on fire after every meal or drink, to the extent that he hadn’t been able to eat yet today. Every time he swallowed water he nearly retched – and wine was unthinkable. He had drunk some with Jolinde at the tavern earlier, but it had turned his stomach even before he saw Karvinel.
It wasn’t unknown for a malaise to strike a man like this, of course. People put it down to meat which had been off, or inhaling foul air, a miasma, on his way to the Cathedral but from all he had heard, such evil vapours only struck during hot, humid summers, and in any case, if the air had been that revolting, why hadn’t anyone else been struck down by it? Come to that, why hadn’t he smelled it himself? With a shuddering sigh he accepted his fate. He knew the cause of his illness and it filled him with self-loathing – and despair.
Only with an effort could he acknowledge other people in the precinct: the Secondary Adam chatting to a Canon; behind them a couple of idle choirboys scuffing their feet in the dirt; a cripple who waited hopefully at the bakery door. Peter smiled sadly at this last and reminded himself that others suffered more than him.
At his house he pushed open the door and, dragging his feet, crossed to a stool where he could sit. As he sank onto it with relief, he grabbed at his belly again, but forced himself to relax. It wasn’t now that his ailment would attack but later, when he was ready for church. He knew the symptoms only too well.
It was an end – he knew that. He had hoped to earn some money to go away, to find a place at university so that he could learn his clerking properly, so that he could devote himself to useful studies and teaching. Maybe the Bishop, who had been enormously generous to others, might give him the money: Bishop Walter II had done as much for clerks all over his See. But now Peter’s guilt and the resulting disease of his soul made all that impossible. He could not go to a university with a clear conscience; he dare not confess to his malady and gain a cure.
The door slammed and another cleric came in, whistling.
‘Hello, Jolly,’ Peter said, smiling weakly.
‘Peter. Here, catch!’ He threw a small joint of beef at his friend, then a great round loaf of bread.
Peter caught the joint, but the bread slipped from his grasp. His fingers were too feeble even to grip a loaf of bread. He felt the breath catch in his throat, making him sob with despair.
Jolinde’s mouth fell open and he paused, pulling his cloak from his back. ‘What in God’s name…? You look terrible!’
‘I feel it,’ Peter said with a feeble gesture. He looked at the food.
‘Take it, Peter. You need it.’
‘Where did it come from?’
Jolinde Bolle sighed, but faced his friend. ‘Look, I didn’t steal it, all right? The meat I bought with some money from my father. The bread came from him too.’
Peter gave a wan smile. ‘Well… thanks, then.’
‘Least I can do. You can’t afford it,’ Jolinde said, taking the bread and meat and setting them on the table.
Jolinde and Peter had been sharing their rooms since the year when their voices had broken. Like Adam they had failed to proceed to the lower orders, but both were allowed to remain with the Dean and Chapter, helping with the essential work of the Cathedral in the hope that they might be able to advance themselves.
Peter closed his eyes. They hurt, even with the poor light here in their chamber, and he heard Jolinde fetch a cloak. ‘Here, put this on. It’ll keep you warm,’ he said, passing it over Peter’s shoulders.
‘Thank you. Yes, that feels a little better,’ Peter murmured.
‘You must see the infirmarer.’
Peter shook his head. ‘No, I won’t see him. There’s no point.’
‘What do you mean, “no point”? He might be able to cure you. A barber to let out a little of your blood…’
‘I won’t,’ Peter declared stubbornly. Jolinde had brought him a small pot of wine, and he sipped at it now, wincing as he felt the queasiness return to his belly. ‘Ugh, no, I can’t.’
‘Peter, you have to see someone. I know an apothecary in the city, won’t you consult him? Or someone else who’s trained in medicine?’
‘Look, for God’s sake, just leave the subject, will you!’
‘No, I won’t,’ Jolinde approached him and, kneeling before him, he peered up into Peter’s eyes with an anxious expression on his face. ‘Look, you have to see a physician. I’ve never seen you look so unwell. Your skin is pasty, your hair is lank… and you look so skinny. Have you not been eating?’
Peter looked away, and Jolinde stood up with a swift intake of breath. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve not been able to eat for days, and now you won’t see a doctor because you’re convinced you’re going to die. Oh, Peter. God’s body! This is stupid. Let me go and fetch the infirmarer now.’
‘No, not now. Let me wait until the morning. See how I feel then,’ Peter begged. ‘If it’s so serious I die in the night, there’s nothing he could do now to save me, is there? If I’m going to die, I’d rather do so quietly, making my peace with God, than in the infirmary with a load of old men coughing and hacking through the night. Is that so strange?’
‘You’re scared that he might tell you you are about to die,’ Jolinde said softly. ‘It is not a sin to fear the pain of death, Peter. Why don’t we both go now, and ask the infirmarer to examine you? Come! I shall stay by your side.’
Peter wearily turned his face to the fire. ‘Oh, why don’t you listen? I don’t want to go.’ The roiling began in his belly once more and he clenched his teeth. Behind his eyes he felt the prickling of tears at the horror of it all. He could have wept under the burden of his appalling secret. ‘I prefer to wait. One night can’t hurt. And if it is food poisoning, I shall be fine by morning, I am certain.’ It was his own secret. He couldn’t tell anyone. Even Jolly would hate him if he knew the truth.