The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series) (9 page)

Beniste’s eyes smiled at her. “It pains me to contradict you, but Lord Montrose is quite insensible. Look at him.”

Nadira tilted her head. Montrose had not moved or touched his wine. She leaned forward and waved a hand before his eyes. There was no response. She heard her host laugh softly.

“I can see you have not been traveling with them very long or you would know. My lord Montrose has an interesting habit of falling asleep while appearing awake.”

“Indeed.” Nadira did not dare touch her master, though it was unsettling to see him like that.

“I believe he learned to do that sitting through his father’s lectures, and the old man’s insistence that he attend Mass three times a week.” Beniste smiled sadly and took her hand. “Where did he find you, may I ask?”

Nadira held her breath for a moment, unready for that question. She had no idea how it should be answered, but this was not the time for the truth.

Beniste squeezed her hand, “I see.” He sounded amused.

Nadira felt herself blush. “My lord, I am Lord Montrose’s servant and nothing more.”

The older man released her hand. He sat back and his mouth twitched as he spoke. “You do not have the demeanor of a servant. Your speech is too fine,” he argued, “and my lord never travels with female servants.”

Nadira opened her mouth to argue, but Montrose suddenly came to life, shaking the ropes of hair from his eyes as they heard pounding at the front door.

A boy soon ushered in the doctor. The short man was clad in dark long robes, an elaborate felt hat and long pointed shoes. Behind him trotted another boy carrying a wooden box. The doctor approached the table, and with only a word of greeting to them he pulled down one of the lamps from the hanging chains and began to examine Marcus. Nadira watched him as he felt the lump on the back of his head, then Marcus’s forehead, hands and belly. He lifted Marcus’ eyelids and pinched his nostrils.

Montrose watched him carefully from across the table. When he was finished, the doctor opened the wooden chest and lifted out a leather pouch. He measured out a pile of dried herbs onto a little scale, and then shook the tray onto one of the crockery pieces on the table.

He looked at each one of them before deciding to speak to Nadira.

“Boil this much,” he indicated a spoon’s worth of herb, “in this much…” he pointed to the smaller of the tankards, “…water. Try to get it in him twice each day. Give him some meat broth as well. He may recover in time, but he will not if he is not fed. He will starve to death before he heals. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

The doctor turned to Beniste. “I can promise nothing. See that he lies undisturbed in a darkened room and that the girl feeds him and keeps him warm. If he does not wake up and speak within seven days, he will probably not recover. There is nothing I can do for this wound.”

Beniste thanked him and gave the boy a coin. The boy picked up the wood chest and followed the doctor out. When they were gone Nadira let out a heavy sigh. She picked up the plate of herbs and sniffed, but could not identify them. She set the plate down near the tankard of ale as Montrose went around the table and woke up Alisdair and Garreth.

His voice was low and ragged, “Let’s get him up those stairs. Can you carry him, Garreth?” After the big man nodded, he asked Nadira, “Are you too tired to try to give him some of that stuff now? Shall I call for Beniste’s women?”

“No, I can do it,” she answered quickly. She dipped some of the hot water in the pot over the hearth into the small tankard and tossed in some of the herbs. She carried it upstairs following Garreth who lifted Marcus with his hands under his arms while Alisdair had him by his knees. The boy led them to a room at the end of the short hall.

In it was one large rope bed with no headboard or curtains and three piles of straw on the floor. Montrose held the lamp and nodded toward the bed when the men paused. Garreth and Alisdair laid Marcus down carefully on the soft bedding and stepped back. Montrose hung the lamp on its chain. Behind him a woman entered with a bundle of linens, and a child behind her with a pitcher of hot water. She set them both on a low table near the wall. Nadira thanked her with her eyes and the woman nodded toward a folded dress on top of the linens as she left the room nudging the wide-eyed child before her.

“You men sleep now,” Montrose said. He did not have to say it twice. Garreth and Alisdair fell on the pallets of straw. With a large wooden spoon, Nadira dripped some of the herb infusion into Marcus’ mouth. Montrose hovered over her, getting in her light. She wiped the spilled drops from Marcus’ beard and tried again. On the third try, she saw his throat move as he swallowed.

“Oh, thank God,” Montrose cried. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, the palm of his hand on his forehead.

“He is swallowing,” Nadira said. “Perhaps there is hope, my lord.” She was shaking with the lie and hated herself for it. She steadied her hand and tipped a spoonful between Marcus’ lips. When she adjusted his head on the pillow she found he could swallow easier. Slowly and carefully, she gave him the infusion drop by drop. She set the cup on the sideboard against the wall, and pulled a blanket over Marcus. Montrose looked drained of life. He leaned heavily against the side of the bed, closed his eyes.

“My lord, you need some of this too,” she said softly.

“Tomorrow, maybe. Now I must sleep.” He then slid all the way to the floorboards. Nadira found another blanket for him.

The hot water and the clean dress beckoned to her. She reached for them.

CHAPTER SIX

I
N
the morning Nadira was stiff and sore, but before she went to the privy or washed her face she crawled up from her pallet to check on Marcus. She stretched her hand over the bed to touch his cheek. He lived, but barely.

Nadira pushed her hair from her face. Her braid had come undone in the night. She tilted her head back as she twisted the mass of it into a knot and was surprised to see a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, sitting on a stool beside the bed, absolutely silent. Her dark hair was tied up in a white kerchief, her hands busy with a drop spindle.

She smiled shyly at Nadira, her hands working without a pause. “Good morning, mistress.”

“Good morning to you. Have you been here all night?”

“No, miss. Master sent me in this morning after the guests went down to eat. He told me to stoke the fire and wait for you to awaken, and give you this.” The girl reached over the sideboard and pushed a heavy crockery bowl toward the bed. Nadira leaned over to find hot broth cooling inside. “It’s for the sick man here. And I brought you some breakfast,” she indicated a small bowl of bread and fruit, “and an apron to protect your dress.”

“Thank you. What shall I call you?”

“Sarah, miss.”

“I think I am going to need a great deal of hot water today, Sarah.” Nadira pulled the apron over her head and tied the strings about her waist.

“Yes, miss. It is laundry day, there is plenty.” Sarah nodded at the man in the bed. “Will he live, miss?”

“I hope so, he is a good man.” Nadira dipped the broth with a spoon from the bowl to his lips.

“But he looks dead now, how can he live?” Sarah asked, leaning over Marcus and touching his forehead.

Nadira smiled sadly as she took the cloth and wiped the final drops of broth from his beard. “He deserves a chance, and he is very strong.”

The door pushed open. Montrose entered, followed by Alisdair. Both men were clean and combed and Montrose had been shaved. They were wearing clean tunics and breeches as well. She glanced at the window.
They must
have let me sleep until noon.

Their host entered a moment later, smiling a greeting at Nadira. “Good, good, I see Sarah is helping as I instructed. Girl, go to the kitchen and bring back more hot water and fresh linen.” Sarah disappeared like a wraith.

“He is much the same, isn’t he,” Montrose said.

“Yes, but ‘the same’ means he is not dead,” Nadira insisted.

Montrose turned his head to eye her with skepticism.

Beniste interrupted. “Marcus is not the only one injured. I cannot help but see that you, too, are bleeding. There is blood on the floor and at my table.”

“It is true,” Nadira said. “He needs to have it tended.”

Montrose grimaced. “I wanted Marcus tended first, and my wound is small.”

“Not so small,” Beniste said, indicating the stains blooming beneath Montrose’s tunic. “And more is promised I see. Let the girl sew you up, my lord. That is damned hard on the linens.”

“Yes, yes, very well. It must be done.” Montrose grumbled.

Alisdair frowned slightly. “Shouldn’t we have the leech come up fer that?”

Beniste answered, “Is he better with a needle? Have you seen his hands?”

Alisdair gave a short laugh, “Mebbe not.” His smile faded as he clapped Montrose on the shoulder. “I dunno why you want her to do it, Rob. Just make sure she does it right. I’m to the stables to check on the boys and the horses.” Alisdair narrowed his eyes at Nadira before he left the room.

Beniste gave her a more encouraging look. “I have a messenger below from one of my contacts,” he said to Lord Montrose. “Please come find me in the hall when you are finished.” To Nadira he said, “I am sure you will do an excellent job. Take anything you need.” Then he was gone as well.

Sarah returned to the room carrying a heavy bucket of water in one hand and linens over her other arm. Nadira moved quickly to help her with the bucket.

“Sarah, here, bring the linens to the bed and light another lamp.” Sarah obeyed quickly, getting a straw from one of the pallets and using it to light one lamp from the other.

“I want the girl out,” Montrose said in a low voice. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Marcus.

Nadira turned to him in surprise. “You are in quite a temper, my lord. I can use her help…”

“Go,” he said to Sarah, then turned his face to the wall. Trembling, Sarah hung the second lamp near the foot of the bed and slipped out without a sound. Montrose spoke without turning his head.

“Did you get your needle?”

“No, and you sent Sarah away.” Nadira didn’t try to hide her annoyance.

He didn’t seem to notice. “Have you done this before?”

“Do you mean sew a man’s flesh like I’d darn a sock?”

Montrose glared at her. “Yes.”

“No.” Nadira said truthfully,“ I have not.” She felt her insides swirl at the look on his face. She finished feebly, “…but I have
seen
it done.” He turned away from her again with a deep sigh.

Nadira took that as resignation if not direct permission. “I’m going to look at it, now,” she warned him. She lifted his tunic and bent down. Her makeshift bandage had been removed when he washed. The wound lay opened now, gaping over his ribs but not bleeding heavily. The gash oozed from the bottom, and glistened pink and red in the lamplight. Part of a white rib showed through the flesh. Nadira swallowed; glad she had not yet touched her breakfast. “This must be very painful.” She murmured.

He lowered his eyes. “Just sew it.”

“It will need a poultice as well. I assume your friend Beniste has a garden?”

He shook his head slowly. “That I do not know. However, if you can, make sure to bring me a great deal of wine.”

Nadira peered closer to his side; she touched the lips of the wound to test their depth. Montrose sucked in his breath sharply.

She said, “I will go below to get the makings for the poultice and a needle and thread. Are you dear enough to your friend to get fine silk for this?”

He groaned. “Probably. Don’t forget the wine.”

The materials for the sick room were easily found. Beniste didhave a fine garden. Nadira picked what she could. There had not yet been a killing frost in the valley, so the plants were still tall and strong. Nadira inhaled their green scent, hoping for comfrey and boneset. Yes. She had what she needed.

A needle and silk were already in her pocket and she carried a tray of bowls and herbs as well as some soap wrapped in a coarse cloth which Sarah handed to her as she passed the kitchen. Nadira paused before the door, propping the tray on her hip.
Perhaps I will
surprise myself
. She leaned her shoulder into the heavy door.

Montrose had removed his tunic and was sitting on the bed, hands on his knees. He was staring up at the low ceiling and did not meet her eyes as she placed the tray on the table. He reached for the leather wine jug with his left hand as soon as it touched the table.

“Don’t you want a cup?” She asked. Instead of answering, he lifted the jug to his mouth and drank deeply. He clearly intended to down the entire contents before she started. Nadira laid out her tools on the tray. When the jug was empty, Montrose leaned his left shoulder against the wall with another sigh.

In one bowl, Nadira stuffed the wide comfrey and the boneset leaves, pouring the hot water from the kettle over them and watching as they wilted. The acrid smell of the boneset rose with the steam. Montrose turned to her sharply.