‘Bishop Bateman of Norwich habitually wiped his teeth on the tablecloth,’ whispered Michael to Bingham. ‘And look what happened to him.’
‘You think Bateman’s tablecloth was soaked in poison?’ asked Bingham in horror, crossing himself vigorously. ‘I shall never clean my teeth on communal materials again!’
‘That is my patient,’ came a loud voice from the far end of the hall. Bartholomew’s heart sank when he saw Rougham striding towards them. The Gonville physician had changed his wet clothes, although he still wore Bartholomew’s cloak. ‘Stand back, if you please.’
Bartholomew could not argue. Warde was Rougham’s client, and he did not want another fracas with the man. Many physicians guarded their wealthier patients jealously, and Rougham was one of them. He stood and backed away, but Warde snatched at his hand.
‘No,’ he croaked. ‘Not Rougham. You.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Rougham, drawing up a chair and leaning over him. He was obviously not going to kneel, as Bartholomew had done. He smiled at the bewildered scholars who stood with Michael. ‘Thank you for summoning me, Bingham. You may well have saved your colleague’s life by ignoring his fevered demands for another medicus.’
Bingham looked sheepish when Thorpe raised questioning eyebrows. ‘I sent word to both physicians, lest one should tarry or be unavailable,’ he confessed. ‘I am sorry, but I wanted to do all I could to help Warde.’
‘What is the matter?’ asked Rougham in a loud voice, as though his patient’s choking had also rendered him deaf and stupid. ‘Did you take the Water of Snails I prescribed? If you followed my recommendations I cannot imagine why you are in this state.’
‘Angelica,’ whispered Warde, clearly finding it difficult to talk. ‘Please, I have a …’
‘I did not hear you,’ bawled Rougham. ‘What about angelica?’
‘Do not speak, Warde,’ said Bartholomew. It was hard to stand by and see the man struggle to converse when it was obviously making his condition worse. ‘Lie still and take deep breaths.’
‘Angelica,’ pronounced Rougham, eyeing Bartholomew coldly. ‘That is something I would never prescribe, so it is doubtless one of your remedies. It is your fault Warde is in this state. If he had followed my advice, then he would not be lying here, on his deathbed.’
Warde’s gagging grew more frenzied, and Bartholomew saw he had gripped the crucifix so tightly that it had cut his hand.
‘Tell me,’ demanded Rougham, taking Warde’s arm and giving it a shake. ‘Did you take angelica instead of the Water of Snails? Did you go against the express orders of your own physician in favour of a man whose methods are so dangerously irregular?’
Warde drew breath with difficulty, and Bartholomew felt anger rise inside him. ‘Do not speak, Warde,’ he said tightly, longing to push Rougham away from the ailing man. ‘Just concentrate on breathing. We can talk later, when you are recovered.’
Rougham sneered. ‘You are trying to silence him, so he will go to his grave without incriminating you. You have killed him with your angelica, and you are trying to cover your tracks.’
The Valence Marie scholars listened with open-mouthed astonishment. Warde’s breathing grew more laboured, as a result, Bartholomew thought, of Rougham agitating him by mentioning deathbeds and graves. He moved away, thinking that if he was out of Rougham’s presence, the Gonville physician might not rant so. He would take him to task about his appalling bedside manners later, when there was no one to hear him tell the man he was a pompous fool.
‘And now you are running away,’ jeered Rougham. ‘You are unable to watch a man die, knowing you are responsible.’
‘Ignore him, Matt,’ warned Michael, sensing his friend’s growing anger. ‘Angelica never did anyone any harm. My grandmother chews it all the time.’
‘Warde was better after he took the angelica,’ said Thorpe, joining the debate in a wary voice. ‘His coughing eased, and he had a better night of sleep than he has enjoyed in a long time – we all did. We thought he was on the mend. Until now.’
‘It is a delayed reaction,’ pronounced Rougham authoritatively. ‘With angelica you think you are well, but find you are suddenly worse.’ He turned back to Warde again. ‘I ordered you to pray to the Hand of Justice for a cure, too. Did you do it? I thought I saw you with the other petitioners.’
‘Water of Snails!’ rasped Warde, and everyone craned forward to hear him. ‘I took it. Before the meal. Look on the table.’ He coughed again, and Bartholomew itched to go to him, to ease him into a position where he could breathe easier. ‘Not Bingham’s fault.’
All eyes went to Warde’s place at the high table, and Bartholomew recognised the little phial containing the Water of Snails that Lavenham had prepared two days before. He wondered how Warde had come to have it, since Master Thorpe had said he would never persuade his colleague to drink such a potion, and had declined to purchase it for him.
‘Oh,’ said Rougham, knocked off his stride. He recovered quickly. ‘But the harm was already done with the angelica, and my Water of Snails was taken too late to help.’
‘It came from you,’ wheezed Warde accusingly. ‘You sent it. With a note. I took it. Because I was feeling better. But I wanted a quicker cure. The sermon.’
‘He is due to give the public address at St Mary the Great tomorrow,’ explained Thorpe. ‘He has been worried that he will be unable to do it, because of the cough. I suppose he took the Water of Snails as a precaution. I can think of no other reason that would induce him to swallow the stuff.’
Warde’s vigorous nodding showed his Master’s assumptions were right. Bartholomew noticed there was a bluish tinge around his nose and mouth that had not been there before, and grew even more concerned. He saw students standing in a silent semicircle nearby, exchanging distraught glances. A kind, patient scholar like Warde would be sorely missed if anything were to happen to him.
‘But I did not send you Water of Snails with any note,’ said Rougham, puzzled. ‘I gave a recipe for the concoction to Master Thorpe, who took it to Lavenham to be made up.’
‘You sent it,’ asserted Warde in a feeble voice. ‘Today.’ This time his coughing was so vigorous that he began to make gasping, retching sounds that were painful to hear.
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Rougham. ‘Why would I send you such a thing, when I had already issued your Master with instructions and a list of ingredients?’
‘Enough!’ snapped Bartholomew, finally angered sufficiently to step forward and assert himself. Warde’s breathing was becoming increasingly laboured, and he saw that unless Warde stopped trying to talk he would indeed die. ‘Close your eyes and take deep, even breaths. Do not speak.’
Rougham drew breath to argue, but Bartholomew shot him a look so full of barely controlled rage that he closed his mouth with a snap audible at the other end of the hall.
‘I saw the package and the letter,’ said Bingham to Rougham. ‘You sent Warde the phial, along with a message carrying instructions for him to swallow every drop.’
‘But I did not send him anything!’ insisted Rougham, becoming alarmed. ‘I did not even know he had ignored my advice and taken angelica.’ He almost spat the last word as he treated Bartholomew to a glare of his own.
Bingham crouched down and rummaged in Warde’s scrip, producing a note scrawled on parchment: it was unquestionably Rougham’s spidery hand. He handed it to Thorpe.