“Are there more sick people?” Simon asked apprehensively.
The alderman nodded. “Indeed, but this time it’s no less than the count’s son. Hurry, Fronwieser. The count isn’t especially patient. And God forbid that the boy dies in your hands,” he said, lowering his voice. “Many other doctors have been hanged for incompetence.”
Simon followed Schreevogl down the shortest path to the living quarters in the monastery. Magdalena, her father, and the children were soon far behind, so Simon called back to them to meet him later at the knacker’s house. For better or worse, this was one house call he’d have to make alone.
The count awaited them in the Prince’s Quarters on the third floor of the east wing-an area set aside for the exclusive use of the Wittelsbachs. Flanked by two guards, a high doorway opened onto a corridor decorated in stucco with doors leading to several rooms. Schreevogl led Simon into the rear room on the right, which had a full six-foot mirror, a bed with a baldachin, and soft down pillows. The air was redolent of thyme and mint. After the days Simon had spent in the provisional hospital converted from a horse stable, this room was a palace.
The poor die on flea-infested straw, and the rich on down pillows, Simon thought. But no matter where they are, people die. Death makes no exceptions.
In the middle of the bed lay Count Wartenberg’s younger son under a mountain of blankets and pillows. About four years old, he was so pale it looked as if the Grim Reaper might carry him off at any moment. His chubby pink cheeks were sunken, his long lashes closed over his eyes, and he trembled all over as he let out little periodic cries for help. The grief-stricken count knelt before him, holding the boy’s hand, and when he caught sight of the medicus, he rose to his feet angrily.
“Here you are finally,” he snapped, his anger directed more at Schreevogl than Simon while his eyes flashed coldly beneath his bushy eyebrows. “I can only hope the wait has been worth it. In the meanwhile, I could just as easily have taken Martin to Munich for examination by a real doctor.”
“In his condition, I don’t think that’s advisable, Your Excellency,” Schreevogl replied in a firm voice. “Besides, Master Fronwieser is one of most competent doctors in the entire Priests’ Corner.”
“Perhaps in the Priests’ Corner,” the count replied condescendingly as a strong scent of soap and expensive perfume wafted toward Simon. “In this wilderness of stupid peasants, a traveling bathhouse doctor might easily be thought of as a miracle worker, but in Munich he’d be considered nothing more than a quack.”
Simon cleared his throat. The count’s arrogance made him flush with anger, but he tried to remain calm. “Your Excellency should feel free to take his boys to Munich if he doesn’t trust my capabilities,” he replied. “There are certainly trained doctors there who will give the boy a purgative or bleed him for a hefty fee.”
Not until that moment did the count notice Simon. Wheeling around, he eyed the medicus suspiciously. Still, for a long while, no one said a thing.
“Would you bleed my son?” the count finally asked.
Simon leaned over the boy, then looked questioningly at the count. “May I have a look?”
When Wartenberg nodded, Simon opened the boy’s sweaty shirt and felt for the heartbeat. He looked into the boy’s bloodshot eyes and had him show him his tongue, which was just as gray and yellow as that of the other sick people. The reddish dots on his chest were the same, too. Finally Simon shook his head determinedly.
“No, I wouldn’t bleed him,” he answered confidently. “The boy seems extremely weakened by the fever and needs every drop of his blood to regain his health.”
“Interesting.” Count Wartenberg rubbed his narrow lips thoughtfully as he continued staring intently at Simon. “But the most famous, reputed doctors bleed their patients all the time to drain the bad fluids. Are they perhaps all wrong?”
“Galen’s teachings about the four bodily fluids may be useful in treating some illnesses,” Simon replied cautiously, “but with a fever it’s better to draw off the heat with cold compresses. At least that’s what I do with my patients.” He reached down again to feel the boy’s pulse, which was as weak as a little bird’s. “Heat, by the way, is not harmful. The body is fighting an illness, and that makes his temperature rise. I would give Martin lots of liquids and perhaps a potion of angelica, buckbeans, and elderberries or yarrow and fennel. I’d experiment to see what he responds to.”
Count Wartenberg raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “You really seem to know a lot about medicine. Master Schreevogl evidently didn’t overstate his case when he recommended you to me today in the tavern.”
And got me into this mess, Simon thought. Thanks so much, Master Schreevogl. If the boy dies in my care, I’ll be sent to the scaffold along with Nepomuk.
But then he remembered he wanted to learn more about the count and his intentions; perhaps divine providence had sent this boy to him as a patient. In the course of the treatment he would surely learn something. In any case, the count’s son wasn’t much older than Peter, and hadn’t he and Magdalena come to Andechs to thank the Savior for saving their own two sons?
“I would gladly treat the sick child,” he finally said to the count. “Will you allow me?”
The boy cried out in his sleep as Wartenberg looked on anxiously; he then squeezed the boy’s hand and stroked his feverish cheek. “Do I have any choice?” he murmured. “You’re right, Fronwieser. In Munich I’m surrounded by greedy bloodsuckers and pompous asses who confuse theory with healing. And I don’t think the boy would survive the trip back there, so I’ll have to entrust him to your care.” He stood up abruptly. “Everything is up to you, and money is no object. If you need money for medicine or any other expenses, let me know. You also have free access to this room day and night.” Suddenly the count came so close the medicus could once again smell his strong perfume. “But if the boy dies, I’ll have you hanged as a fraud from atop the monastery’s battlements as a warning for future cases,” he said softly. “And I’ll see to it that you’ll wriggle and thrash around for a long time. Do you understand?”
Simon blanched and nodded. “You… you can depend on me, Your Excellency,” he replied. “I’ll do everything I can to save the life of your child, but allow me first to make a quick visit to the hospital to fetch the necessary medication.”
Count Wartenberg dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and bowing repeatedly, Simon left the building with Schreevogl.
“What have you gotten me into?” Simon hissed at the alderman when they were finally out of earshot. “As if I don’t have enough worries already.”
Schreevogl squeezed the medicus’s hand. “Master Fronwieser,” he said, “did you see how red the count’s eyes were? This man is just a father anxious about his child, just as I was back then with my Clara. Do you remember?”
Simon nodded hesitantly. Some years ago he had in fact cured Schreevogl’s beloved step-daughter of a similar severe flu with the help of an unusual remedy he happened to have on hand. This time he would have to make do with the usual medications.
“When the count asked me this morning in the monastery tavern whether I knew of a good doctor, I mentioned your name at once,” Schreevogl continued. “I had to; I’m sure you’ll heal the child.”
“Ah, but how about the other patients, who aren’t so fortunate as to have a count as a father?” Simon replied angrily. “Who’s going to care for the poor while I spoon-feed the spoiled kid with tea and honey?”
“I thought your wife-” Schreevogl started.
“Forget about my wife. She has to watch our two children.”
The patrician smiled. “Then your humble servant will have to help out.”