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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 notfeel 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 willcome 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