He walked towards the altar of saints Cosmos and Damian. It had been badly damaged by fire, and a small child carved out of lead was lying upon the blackened tiles. He knelt down to retrieve it, when he glimpsed a strange white marking standing out upon the floor; he brushed away ash and debris, and there in calcined form was the circle which Exmewe had carved with his knife.
“God be merciful.” In his surprise the physician had spoken out loud. He picked up the lead image of the child, and placed it gently upon the altar. He had no doubt now about the summoner’s suspicions; there was some deep plot concerning this device of the circles, but how could he proceed? In the mayor’s court or the bishop’s court he might be derided as a jangler; he might have carved the circle with his own hand. Yet Bogo himself had suggested one way through the maze. In five days’ time Gunter would be eating supper with Miles Vavasour, on the anniversary of his fistula in ano, and he might break his mind to him on that occasion. Vavasour was of high degree and pleaded before the king’s bench; he was familiar with the great ones of the city, and would know how to fare forward with this matter.
On the following morning the body of Hamo Fulberd was carried in triumph up Snow Hill and across Holborn Bridge. Having been judged corrupt and abominable to the human race, it was taken to the area beyond the walls known as “Nomanneslond” where it was buried in a pit of lime.
Five days later Thomas Gunter rode out towards Scropes Inn, where Miles Vavasour had his chambers.
“Welcome, master leech.” Vavasour spoke as one who enjoyed speaking. “For three years now I have sat without flinching.”
“I have brought you some fresh ointment, to curb any effusions of blood.”
“No blood, God willing.”
They were standing in a small parlour overlooking Trivet Lane, as one of the servants brought them Rhenish wine in cups.
“What is new?” Thomas Gunter asked the sergeant.
“You mean, what is new concerning the king? These are days of bale and bitterness, Master Gunter.”
Henry Bolingbroke was moving from Chester, with King Richard in his keeping; Henry’s forces had already made their way from Nantwich to Stafford, and were soon expected in Coventry. Henry had issued a summons, in the king’s name, for a parliament at the end of September. Miles Vavasour was a burgess of London and would have to travel to Westminster Hall for that assembly. “I would rather be a world away from the parliament house,” he confided to Gunter. “It is no easy thing to rid the realm of its lawful king. Yet I am Henry’s servant. I have worked for him in the courts –” He broke off. “Well, I stand in doubt whether I may say yeah or nay.” In this, of course, the sergeant spoke less than the truth; he had long been set against the king. “Can we wash away the name of Richard?”
“Surely it may not come to that?”
“It will come as certainly as tomorrow.”
“But will Henry not maintain the king, and rule beneath the cloth?”
“One swan is enough to fill a charger. Only one man can govern.”
“But the duke is a subtle man.”
“Subtle, yes. Sub telaris. Under the heel. Henry will have Richard under his heel.”
“And the nun has been ringing like a bell.”
“Oh? How so?”
“She says that the crop dwells beneath the root. That the world is changed overall.”
“That woman is a flyter,” Vavasour said. “A baratour. She will provoke the people into madness. Set her on the ducking stool and plunge her.”
“Oh no. Sister Clarice has become Christ’s darling. The common people follow her with open mouths.”
“The stink!” Suddenly the sergeant changed the subject; it was a habit he practised in the courtroom. “Now that I have you, leech, I find that I need you. I have the bone-shave.”
“The sciatica?”
“It is the pain of lightning. It travels down my leg.”
Gunter believed this condition to be the token of a melancholy or nervous complexion, to be cured by rest and easefulness rather than powders or mixtures; but he knew, also, that those in his charge required the consolation of herbs. “It is a full heavy and sharp pain, Sir Miles –”
“I know that well enough.”
“In a first case I would give you the herb water-pepper or skin-smart.”
“It is not the first. It is an old malady.”
“Then a sovereign remedy may be the juice of the feverfew mingled with honey. I will send it by messenger. Are you wakeful by night?”
“Very wakeful.”
“Great nightshade will make you sleep.”
“You mean banewort?”
“It can be known as that.”
“It is a plant full of malice to humankind, is it not?” One of the sergeant’s techniques, when engaged in cross-examination, was to pretend to more knowledge than he actually possessed.
“Just a little. A very little. You will not be disparkled.”
“So I need fear nothing from your hands, leech. Is that right?” He drank off the rest of the wine with a flourish. “Do you see this ring, Master Gunter?” He held out the fingers of his right hand.
“Indeed.”
“Its jewel has been taken from the head of a toad.”
“I know it well. It is known as the borax or chelonitis.”
“It is a preservative against poison. Its power leaps to my heart from
