Wigferth went on: “One of the symptoms is mental confusion: forgetting people’s names and mixing up words. Sayingpodiumforpallium, for example. The sufferer’s mental state gets worse and eventually he goes mad.”
Wynstan found his voice. “Am I to be condemned for nothing more than a sip of the tongue?”
The monks burst out laughing, and Wynstan realized he had made another mistake: he had intended to saya slip of the tongue.He was humiliated and enraged. “I’m not going mad!” he roared.
Wigferth had not finished. “The infallible sign of the disease is a large red lump on the face or neck.”
Wynstan’s hand flew to his throat, covering the carbuncle; and a second later he realized he had given himself away.
Wigferth said: “Don’t try to hide it, bishop.”
“It’s just a boil,” Wynstan said. Reluctantly he moved his hand away.
Forthred said: “Let me see.” He approached Wynstan. Wynstan was obliged to let him: anything else would have been an admission. He sat still while Forthred examined the lump.
Finally Forthred straightened up. “I have seen sores like this before,” he said. “On the faces of some of the most wretched and unfortunate sinners in this city. I’m sorry, my lord bishop, but what Wigferth says is true. You have Whore’s Leprosy.”
Wynstan stood up. “I’m going to find out who started this filthy lie!” he yelled, and he had the small consolation of seeing fear on the faces of the monks. He walked to the door. “And when I find him—I will kill him! I will kill him!”
Wynstan fumed throughout the long journey back to Shiring. He abused Degbert, yelled at tavern keepers, slapped maids, and whipped his horse mercilessly. The fact that he kept forgetting the simplest things made him even more angry.
When he got home he grabbed Ithamar by the front of his tunic, slammed him up against the wall, and yelled: “Someone has been going around saying I’ve got Whore’s Leprosy—who is it?”
Ithamar’s childish face was white with terror. He managed to stutter: “No one, I swear it.”
“Someone told Wigferth of Canterbury.”
“He probably made it up.”
“What did that woman die of? The reeve’s wife—what was her name?”
“Agnes? The palsy.”
“What kind of palsy, fool?”
“I don’t know! She fell ill, then she got a huge pustule on her face, then she went mad and died! How should I know what kind?”
“Who attended her?”
“Hildi.”
“Who’s she?”
“The midwife.”
Wynstan let go of Ithamar. “Bring the midwife to me, now.”
Ithamar hurried off, and Wynstan took off his traveling clothes and washed his hands and face. This was the greatest crisis of his life. If everyone came to believe that he had a debilitating disease then power and wealth would slip away from him. He had to kill the rumors, and the first step was to punish whoever had started them.
Ithamar returned in a few minutes with a small, gray-haired woman. Wynstan could not figure out who she was or why Ithamar had brought her.
Ithamar said: “Hildi, the midwife who attended Agnes when she was dying.”
“Of course, of course,” Wynstan said. “I know who she is.” Now he recalled that he had got to know her when he took her to the hunting lodge to check on Ragna’s pregnancy. She was prim but she possessed a calm confidence. She looked nervous, but not as frightened as most people were on being summoned by Wynstan. Bluster and bullying would not work with this woman, he guessed.
He put on a sad face and said: “I am in mourning for beloved Agnes.”
“Nothing could be done to save her,” said Hildi. “We prayed for her, but our prayers were not answered.”
