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to me; a lock of my mother's hair; a ring Benjamin had given me: a love letter which I never had the courage to despatch. Above all, a small phial, the real diamond amongst all my cures; a powerful potion I won at hazard from a Turkish physician in a tavern off the Ropery. God knows what was in it. The Turk had told me it was the scrapings of dried milk fermented in a soup of moss, a veritable elixir for any fever. I opened the phial, shook the white, chalky substance into my hand. I then locked the coffer, recited an Ave Maria, and fortified myself with two cups of malmsey.
    Once dusk fell I returned to the White Harte. Now the whole village had turned out. Poppleton and his younger brother were waiting for me in the taproom. They looked the same, two cheeks of the same hairy arse. Tom the taverner took me upstairs. Lucy still lay tossing and turning, angry spots of fever high in her cheeks. However, the chamber had been swept and cleaned and the poor girl now lay between crisp, clean linen sheets. Vicar Doggerel the village parson, (to whom I'd sold cow dung as a cure for his baldness) was also present. He had a stole around his neck and an Asperges bucket and rod in his hands.
    'I've blessed the room,' he announced. 'But, Roger,' he whispered, 'what knavery is this?' 'God works in wondrous ways, Father.'
    'If he's working through you then he certainly does!' Doggerel replied. 'Well come on!' Tom shouted.
    'God does not act because we click our fingers,' I snarled back. 'Does he, Father?'
    The vicar nodded. I took the spear from my sack and laid it on the bed. 'It may take all night,' I replied.
    A murmur of disapproval came from the group, led by the Poppletons, who thronged in the doorway.
    'Come, come,' I replied. 'Surely you are not going to add the sin of heresy to that of doubt?' (I would have made a fine preacher!)
    I laid the spear next to Lucy. 'I wish to be alone,' I declared, 'for an hour. I will then leave and the chamber will be locked, but I shall sleep here tonight. Now, all of you, go!'
    Vicar Doggerel supported me so the crowd, led by the Poppletons, scowling and muttering under their breath, went back downstairs. Tom, who could now see a great profit in the evening's procedures, fairly leapt from foot to foot.
    'Master taverner,' I said. 'A small jug of ale.' I smacked my lips. 'Nothing more.'
    The taverner agreed. He withdrew and I could hear the gossip and the shouts of laughter from the taproom below. A slattern came up to find me kneeling by the bed, eyes closed, hands joined, with that oh-so-sanctimonious look on my face which the pious believe they must wear whenever they address the Almighty. She put the tankard down and tiptoed out. Up I leapt like a jack rabbit. I drank most of the ale but left enough in the bottom. Lucy was stirring on the bed, her eyes still closed. God knows how much I should have poured in but I mixed some of the powder with what was left of the ale, and made her drink. 1 waited an hour and gave her some more. Then I left the spear beside her and went down to rejoin the other revellers in the taproom.
    I didn't drink that night. I stayed in the taproom for a time and then slept in a chamber just beneath Lucy's.
    The next morning I was woken by a pounding on the door and, before I could answer, it was flung open and Tom, followed by a heavy-eyed Lucy, walked into the room. I must admit the girl looked rather pale, with black shadows under her eyes, and her hair still unkempt.
    'Roger!' She flung her arms round my neck and kissed me. 'My cup,' she smiled, 'truly overflows.'
    I gently pushed her away. 'Where is the spear?' I asked. 'Some bastard hasn't stolen it?' 'Roger, a miracle.' Lucy's eyes were bright.
    If Tom hadn't been there, we'd have ended up romping on the bed. However, old Shallot is not ruled by his codpiece. 'Has anyone else seen her?' I asked.
    'No, no, the Poppletons left. They said they would be back at ten.' Tom rubbed his hands together. 'The rest are all