Flight From Blithmore (15 page)

He
scanned the inn for the first time and found it to be fairly clean. However, as
it was still early in the evening, he suspended judgment on the inn’s true
quality until later.

“I
am traveling eastward and my squire requires a physician. Is there one in
town?”

“What
ails him?” the owner asked with mild interest.

“He
has a terrible cough.” Ruther patted Brandol so hard on the back that the
journeyman lost his wind. “It sometimes prevents him breathing at all. I
thought about putting him away, but he cooks such a savory lamb.”

The
innkeeper watched Brandol struggle for air with a concerned expression. “Yes,
we have a physician. His name is Winmore, and he lives not very far from here.”

Ruther
listened to every instruction with care as the innkeeper informed them how to
find the physician.

“Is
he quite skilled?” Ruther asked.

“You
will not find a better one for many miles.”

Ruther
turned sharply to Brandol, and asked, “Did you understand the man’s
instructions?”

Brandol
nodded.

“Well
then, be gone and fetch me here when you are well again.”

He
placed a hand on Brandol’s collar and forced him rather than guided him out the
door. Within a minute, he saw Brandol galloping away at a hearty pace, not in
the direction of the physician, but in the direction where he would find James
and later Henry waiting with Isabelle. Then, with a very smug expression, he
looked back to the innkeeper. “Now I will sit . . . if you will bring me a mug
of your finest ale.”

Twenty
-

Winmore’s Roof

Brandol
rode
as though the devil chased him until he came to the small market where he
expected to find James buying food and supplies. During his ride, he tried not
to think too much about any one thing. His life had become nothing but gray and
black, like some of the nightmares he had as a child. In those dreams, he was a
terrified runty dog, and his older brothers threw rocks, kicked at him, and
poked him with firebrands when they got bored.

His
father had been right all those years ago. He was too weak to survive in this
world. Why had he been so foolish to go back to Henry’s house that night after
being warned to stay away? He could have fetched his tools any other hour of
the day or night, but instead he had chosen the worst possible moment. Tears
blinded his eyes and the rolling hills of Fletchersville became dark,
reddish-black blurs.

Fortunately,
Ruther’s horse, Ghost, had a sharp mind and strong muscles; he barely needed
any direction from his rider. To Brandol’s great relief, he found James exactly
where they had agreed to meet. Doing his best not to stutter, Brandol told
James how to find the physician, took the supplies that James had purchased,
and then continued onward until he found Master Henry waiting with Maggie and
Isabelle. Isabelle’s paroxysms seemed to have ended. Still, her face was paler
than before and a slick sheet of sweat covered her brow.

“Were
you successful?” Master Henry asked.

Brandol
nodded. A feeling of breathless elation overcame him at having done something
right in such a tense situation. All of a sudden, the world looked less dark
and a little bit of warmth spread through him. He couldn’t recall ever
accomplishing something so important.

Master
Henry helped him give the supplies to Maggie.

“I
can take Isabelle from here,” Master Henry told his sister. “Wait for us back
at camp.” Then to Brandol he ordered, “Lead the way.”

Brandol
continued at the same pace, forcing his brain to remember the instructions over
and over again until they ran circles around his mind as a sort of song. Their
route took them off the main roads and onto a cart-broken trail that wound over
several hills with orchards of walnut and peach trees nearly ready for
harvesting and a small lake reflecting the sinking sun. Supposedly, only one
home occupied the north side of this lake, and that was where the innkeeper had
said they would find the physician.

He
squinted his eyes into the blinding horizon as half of the sun abandoned them.
Relief swept over him when he saw flickering lights in the windows of a cottage
on the lake’s northern shore. A cold breeze from the wind on the water teased
his face with fresh air, and his heart took courage. Master Henry called out to
him from behind.

“Is
that the place?”

“Yes,”
Brandol answered. “Name’s Winmore.”

“I
will go from here,” his master said, pushing on even faster. “Go back to
Ruther.”

“I’d
rather go on with you, Master Henry.”

“Thank
you, but the fewer of us he sees, the better.”

“Please.
I’d rather go on.”

Master
Henry relented. By the time they had covered the distance to the cottage, the
sun had nearly set. The moon was low and bright on the lake. Two owls hooted to
each other as the horses passed. The lake winds carried the rich scents of
earth mixed with end-of-summer leaves on damp soil.

As
Quicken’s hooves stamped the ground near the home, Brandol heard the creaking
of wood and at least two voices conversing inside in muffled tones.

“Who
is there?” shouted someone from inside.

“A
man in desperate need!” Master Henry answered.

“Roger,
if that’s you,” the man inside continued, “you’d better have ten crowns.”

Master
Henry dismounted and caught Isabelle securely in his arms as she slid off the
horse. Brandol took Quicken’s reins and tied up both horses.

“I
am no one named Roger.”

“Well,
in that case, you’re still not welcome. No sun, no service. I am busy.”

“Sir,
I entreat you to let me come inside. I—I’m a humble traveler who can pay you
handsomely for whatever service you can render me.”

Brandol
heard footsteps coming to the window, and a middle-aged man’s head poked out. Like
Henry and Brandol, this man was clean-shaven but his black hair had more gray
than a man his age should have. His expression was one of intense
concentration. It almost made Brandol laugh.

“Humble
people can rarely pay handsomely,” the strange man remarked. “Who are you to
defy such a paradox?”

“Is
your name Winmore?” Master Henry asked.

The
man’s face relaxed, and he answered jovially, “More than anyone!”

“You’re
not funny!” came a second voice. It was also a man’s and very similar to the
first.

“You
wish you were!” replied the man, Winmore, whose head was still out the window.

“Sirs,
please!” Master Henry shouted.

Brandol
watched his master raise Isabelle in his arms, in case the strange man hadn’t
noticed her already.

“This
woman is my betrothed, and we are traveling south for the winter. She has been
poisoned, I think.”

Winmore
withdrew his head and spoke to the other. “Double, do you think?”

A
response came back Brandol couldn’t hear. Winmore reemerged and asked, “Are you
willing to pay double our fees?”

“Yes,”
came the answer at once.

Winmore
gestured for them to come to the door. As Master Henry carried Isabelle inside,
Brandol heard the sound of furniture being dragged across wooden floors. The
door opened and the same man pointed to a long table covered in sheep skins.
“Put her right there.”

“Thank
you. Both of you.”

“Certainly,
Mister . . .?”

 “Jack,
and this is my Susan. Also, my servant Brand—Brandon.”

In
an instant, the two men began a thorough investigation of Isabelle. One felt
her neck, the other examining her eyes as Ruther had done days ago. One pinched
the skin on her arms while the other put his ear up to her nose.

“Her
heart is still beating,” one of them said, nudging Henry out of his way.

“But
her eyes aren’t responding,” replied the other.

 “Comatose?”

“Possible,
but not likely if it’s poisoning.”

While
they spoke, Brandol took the opportunity to glance around the moderately-sized
room these men used to heal people. The table that held Isabelle was in the
center of a large room filled with chemicals, plants, colorful vials, burners,
fumes, and a smell that reminded him of fresh horse droppings.

He
then noticed how the two men were nearly identical: both of average height and
slender frame, both weak-chinned and short-fingered. Even the hairs on their
heads were cut alike and their manner of dress was the same. In fact, Brandol
couldn’t tell which had been at the window when he and Henry arrived.

“How
long has she been this way?” asked the one who’d been examining her neck, now
uncorking a vial of purple liquid.

“Are
you the physician?” Master Henry asked him.

“Yes,”
Winmore responded, waving the vial under her nose.

The
other pulled his hands away from Isabelle’s eyes and scowled at Master Henry.
“Not true. We both—”

“Not
technically,” the first Winmore cut in. Then to his brother he said, “Don’t
forget who sat through the lectures day in and day out.”

In
the midst of their bantering, Master Henry frowned at Brandol. “Maybe this was
a mistake.”

One
of them, Brandol had again forgotten which was which, hurried to address them.
“The Germaine College of Physicians is expensive, so he enrolled and went to
classes and taught me everything he learned. Only one of us had to pay the
cost.”

“And
only one of us received a certificate of medicine. Me!”

“I’m
still the better physician,” the second Winmore whispered to Master Henry.

“I
heard that!” the other remarked as he inspected Isabelle’s mouth. “You never
answered my question, young man.”

“I’m
sorry,” Master Henry said. “Uh . . . let me think. It’s been nearly four days
now.”

“Give
us a description of what happened.”

Master
Henry told them everything that had occurred at The Glimmering Fountain, only
changing the name of the inn and the position from which he’d observed the
scene, describing it as though he had been seated with Isabelle. As he spoke,
the Winmore brothers sometimes interrupted him to discuss things under their
breath.

“You
say these recent convulsions lasted how long?” one of them prodded.

“Two
minutes is my best estimate.”

The
physicians spoke together again. They were less careful now about keeping their
conversation so private, and Brandol heard snippets of their words, though he
understood little.

“
. . . symptoms would cause—”

“Yes,
it does!”

Both
brothers grew angry and calm faster than the waves of the tide. Sometimes one
would stamp his feet and the other would poke him in the chest or stomach.

“
. . . strong pulse . . . ”

“—but
an epileptic reaction?”

“Jack,”
one of the brothers said, “it is our conclusion—”

“Non-mutual
conclusion,” interrupted the other Winmore.

“It
is the educated conclusion of
the physician
that she had a belated
allergic reaction to Devil’s Delight.”

“Is
that the name of a poison?” Master Henry asked.

“Yes.
Her initial response to the meal matches its effects on the body, but the
convulsions do not. This is where my brother and I arrive at a divergence. His
uninformed opinion is that the two are disconnected, but I know better.”

The
other Winmore brother snorted.

“However,
we both agree to give you Essence of Angel Herbs. It should speed up her body’s
attempts to rid itself of all traces of the poison, and it should soothe her of
the disagreeable reaction.” A cough from the second Winmore reminded the
physician to add, “And if that does not work, wait a week and find another
physician. Have him let her blood.”

“Thank
you!” the brother cried, as though he’d been waiting to give this prescription.

“Only
as a last resort,” the first Winmore continued. Then to his brother, he added,
“There, Mr. Barbarian. Happy?”

“You
will make this . . . herb—essence of angels for Isa—for Susan?”

“Yes,
immediately.”

Brandol
tried to watch as they concocted and stirred and added and argued, but the
physicians spoke what sounded like an entirely different language. To add to his
confusion, he could not understand what herbs they were putting into the
essence
.
Sometimes they called the same plant by different names, and when he caught a
glimpse of the parchment they used for a recipe, it was unintelligible.
Eventually he gave up and returned to the window, looking for any sign of help.
Master Henry stood by Isabelle, holding her hand while he waited.

“Would
you like a demonstration of how to administer this?” one of the brothers asked,
handing Master Henry a misty glass vial with a wooden stopper.

“Yes,
please.”

“Grab
some of that excess,” the twin told his brother. “Now, pay attention, Jack. You
must put ten drops in her mouth, one in each nostril, and one in each ear. This
will ensure the medicine reaches her belly, but also her blood from the ears
and the brain through the nose. The three B’s, if you like.”

“Just
a thought, Jack,” the other brother added. “Why didn’t you take Sharon to one
of the physicians in Richterton?”

Master
Henry’s voice tightened as he answered, “Er—urgent business. I have urgent
business.”

Brandol
had never been a good liar, but even he could feel the atmosphere in the room
change after Master Henry’s terrible excuse. What began as a casual question
had now transformed into an awkward situation.

Master
Henry tried to recover. “And—and I thought she was . . . tired.”

The
physician’s brother moved a fraction closer to the door. “I thought you said
her name was Susan?”

“I
did. Why do you mention it?”

“Didn’t
you call her Sharon?” the Winmore closest to the door asked his brother.

“Oh,
did he?” Master Henry asked. “Yes, her name is Susan.”

The
physician seemed oblivious to his brother’s suspicions, and once again prattled
on about how to administer the essence of herbs properly. Brandol sensed the
eyes of the other brother watching both him and Master Henry with an unraveling
stare.