‘I have been so worried about Paul,’ Jodoca went on. ‘I am at my wits’ end.’
‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘The flux?’
She nodded miserably, then turned to Cynric. ‘There is new ale in the pantry, and it must have been an unpleasantly hot walk for you. My maid will show you where it is kept.’
Cynric beamed in surprise, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the book-bearer might be prepared to overlook her disgusting wealth if polite consideration was shown to servants.
‘I have been watching for you from the upstairs window,’ said Jodoca, looking back at Bartholomew. ‘For one awful moment, I thought you were going to see the canons at Barnwell first. I saw one of you go in, and was afraid I might have to run over and drag you out again.’
‘That was Carton,’ provided Cynric, willing to be helpful in return for his ale. ‘Michaelhouse is selling a cottage, and he has gone to discuss terms with the Prior. But we came straight here, because your summons sounded so urgent.’
‘It is urgent,’ said Jodoca, fighting back tears. ‘I am frightened for Paul. We are used to dung, being in the business and all, but this flux is too horrible, even for us.’
‘I will be in the pantry, then,’ said Cynric, evidently thinking this was more detail than he needed. He had disappeared before Jodoca could add anything else.
Bartholomew allowed Jodoca to haul him along a corridor to a pleasant chamber at the back of the house. Here, the odour was rather less pleasant. The patient was sitting in bed, surrounded by buckets. He was pale and feverish, but not so ill that he could not do some writing. A ledger was on his knees, and he was recording figures in it. He smiled when Bartholomew was shown in.
‘At last! I was beginning to think you might not come. It is a long way from town, and I understand you do not own a horse. It is a pity. Nags are good sources of dung.’
Arblaster was a large, powerful man with thick yellow hair that sprouted from his head in unruly clumps. He was a burgess, and Bartholomew had seen him taking part in various civic ceremonies, when the hair had been carefully wetted down in an attempt to make it lie flat. It usually popped up again as soon as it was dry, showing that attempts to tame it were a waste of time. Bartholomew knew little about him, other than the fact that he purchased large quantities of aromatic herbs to prevent the odour of his wares from entering his home: the apothecary claimed Arblaster was a bigger customer than all three of the town’s physicians put together.
‘I thought he was going to Barnwell Priory first,’ said Jodoca, plumping up his pillows. ‘But that was Carton, going to discuss house business with Prior Norton.’
‘I suppose Barnwell is interested in Sewale Cottage,’ said Arblaster. ‘Greedy devils! They will own the entire town soon.’
Bartholomew went to feel the speed of the dung-merchant’s pulse, already sure Arblaster was not as ill as his wife seemed to think. ‘When did you first start to feel unwell?’
‘Last night. It was probably the goat we had for dinner. I told Jodoca it was off.’
‘And I told you to leave it, if you thought it was tainted,’ Jodoca replied, sitting on the bed and stroking her husband’s hair affectionately. ‘I have a summer cold, and could not taste it.’
‘Goat manure is not as good as horse,’ said Arblaster, smiling genially at the physician. ‘Does your College own cows? If so, I will give you a good price for their muck.’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. He was not used to patients touting for dung in the middle of consultations. ‘I think we send it to our manor in Ickleton,’ he said, to bring the discussion to an end. ‘What else did you eat yesterday?’
‘Nothing. People despise dung, but it is the stuff on which our country is built. Without it, there would be no crops, which means no food and no people. We owe a lot to muck.’
Bartholomew did not find it easy to acquire the information he needed to make an accurate diagnosis, and by the time he had finished, he had learned more about manure and its various properties than was pleasant. The stream of information came to a merciful end when Arblaster was seized with a sudden need to make use of one of the buckets. The exercise left him exhausted.
‘Two inmates from Barnwell hospital died of this flux last week,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I do not want Jodoca to join them in their graves – I have heard how fast it can pass from person to person.’
‘There is no reason she should become sick,’ said Bartholomew. He was tempted to explain his theory that rotten meat was responsible for the illness, but the brisk walk in the searing sun and the taxing discussions with Cynric and Carton had sapped his energy; he did not feel like embarking on a lengthy medical debate. ‘And besides, the hospital inmates are old men. Jodoca is a young woman, and so is less likely to succumb.’
‘You mean I will die, then?’ asked Arblaster in an appalled whisper. ‘Because I am a man who is approaching forty years of age?’
Bartholomew was aware that tiredness was robbing him of his wits; he should have known better than to make remarks that might be misinterpreted. ‘Of course not. I can give you medicine that will make you feel better by morning. It contains–’
‘My sickness is the Devil’s work,’ interrupted Arblaster, fear in his eyes now. ‘I had an argument with Mother Valeria a week ago – she tried to overcharge me for a spell and I refused to pay. She must have cursed me. That is why I lie dying.’
‘You are not dying,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘And Valeria does not put curses on people.’
‘She does, boy,’ countered Cynric, who was watching from the doorway, a jug of ale in his hand. ‘She is very good at it, which is why you should never annoy her. She likes you now, but that could change in an instant. It would be safer if you had nothing to do with her, as I have told you before.’
‘God’s teeth!’ muttered Bartholomew, wondering how Cynric came by his information. He did not have the energy for it, regardless. He turned back to the business in hand, removing angelica and barley from his bag, and dropping them into a pot of water that was bubbling on the hearth. ‘Mistress Jodoca, your husband needs to drink as much of this as–’
‘She is not staying,’ said Arblaster. His expression was grimly determined. ‘When I die, Mother Valeria will come for my soul, and I do not want Jodoca here when that happens.’
‘I cannot leave you,’ protested Jodoca, aghast at the notion. ‘I am your wife!’
‘You are not going to die,’ repeated Bartholomew. ‘You are strong, and this is not a serious–’
‘Please do as I ask, Jodoca,’ interrupted Arblaster. ‘Leave now, and go to stay with your brother. No woman should see her man’s spirit ripped bloodily from his corpse.’
‘That will not happen,’ insisted Bartholomew although he could see Arblaster did not believe him. ‘And someone needs to be here, to administer this cure. There is no need to send her–’
‘Jodoca, go,’ ordered Arblaster. ‘If you love me, you will not argue.’
Tears flowing, Jodoca backed out of the room. Her footsteps tapped along the corridor and across the yard, then all was silent again. Bartholomew asked Cynric to fetch the maid, so she could be shown how to do the honours with the remedy, but she had apparently overheard the discussion and fled, for she was nowhere to be found. The house was deserted.
‘We cannot leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew to his book-bearer. ‘He is not as ill as he believes, but he still needs nursing. Will you wait here, while I walk to Barnwell and ask one of the canons to sit with him? It will not take long.’