“No,” countered Scharley, clearly amused by Reynevan’s furious expression. “It’s not her we’re pinning our hopes on. Our dear Reinmar is, indeed, popular with the fair sex, but there aren’t any benefits from that, of course, beyond very fleeting carnal pleasures.”

“Yes, yes.” Horn appeared to have fallen into a reverie. “It’s not enough to be popular with the ladies, you have to be lucky with them, too. Have a way with them, if you’ll excuse the euphemism. Then one has the chance to have not only worries and love’s labour’s lost, but also some benefits. In a situation like ours, for example… Dammit, Reinmar, you really do look terrible.”

“… Ecce enim veritatem dilexisti incerta et occulta sapientiae tuae manifestasti mihi. Asperges me hyssopo, et mundabor… Hey! I don’t want to come and thump one of you! Lavabis me… Oi! Don’t yawn there! Yes, yes, Koppirnig, I’m talking to you! And you, Bonaventure, why are you rubbing yourself against the wall like a pig? During prayers? A little dignity, please! And I’d like to know whose feet stink. Lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor. Auditui meo dabis gaudium… Saint Dymphna… What’s up with him again?”

“He’s sick.”

Reynevan’s back, which he was lying on, was painful. It surprised him to be recumbent, since he had only just been kneeling to pray. The floor was cold, the chill was radiating through the straw and he felt as though he were lying on ice. He was shaking with cold, trembling all over, and his teeth were chattering so much his jaw muscles hurt.

“Fellows! Why, his body’s burning like Moloch’s furnace!”

He wanted to protest. Couldn’t they see he was frozen, trembling from the cold? He wanted to ask them to cover him with something, but he couldn’t utter a single clearly articulated word through his chattering teeth.

“Lie still. Don’t move.”

Somebody next to him was wheezing, coughing violently. Circulos, it’s probably Circulos coughing like that, he thought, realising in sudden terror that even though the person coughing was only two steps away, all he could see of them was a vague blur. He blinked. It didn’t help. He felt somebody wiping his forehead and face.

“Lie still,” said some mould on the wall in Scharley’s voice. “Lie still.”

He was covered, but didn’t remember anybody covering him. But he had stopped shaking, and his teeth weren’t chattering.

“You’re sick.”

He wanted to say that he knew better—after all, he was a doctor, he’d studied medicine in Prague and could distinguish an illness from a passing chill and weakness. To his amazement, rather than intelligent speech, all that left his open mouth was a ghastly croaking. He was coughing violently, his throat sore and stinging. He strained and coughed again. And fainted from the effort.