Wicked Whispers (29 page)

“Only if you continue to stay close to him. Be grateful none of you has taken sick. You must clear all rooms surrounding his.”

Ignacio spoke to Enrique. “Who will see to his care? Bring him food, water, and whatever else he needs?”

“Pedro and I will. His care is our duty and privilege.” He patted the alforjas with her materials inside. “We bring much of what he loves to eat and drink to help make him strong again.”

“Sancha will pray for God’s mercy,” Pedro said. “He answered her pleas when Fernando lay injured at the convent.”

Juan and Ignacio nodded. They’d been with the group when Sancha’s uncle had waylaid Fernando, nearly murdering him before Fernando had struck the final blow and killed the puto.

“If you please,” she said. “I need a prayer bench in the room next to Tomás’s.”

Juan gestured to the stronghold. “You can have full use of our chapel.”

“I need to remain as close as I can to Enrique and Pedro to see if they show signs of the illness. Any worry I have for them will interfere with my pleas to God.”

“The prayer bench is yours,” Ignacio said. “Along with whatever else you ask. Be prepared, though, for how ill Tomás is. He is not the same man.”

He and Juan wheeled their horses around, leading the group to the fortaleza. A chill settled in Enrique for his brother’s state and what Sancha was about to do.

Once at the entrance to the stone building, Juan alerted the men to stay away from Tomás’s room. “Spread the word. Tell the knights in the chambers next to Tomás’s they must leave the area at once.”

The men fanned out, many running into the structure.

Torches lit the interior. Everyone’s footfalls rang loudly on the stone floor.

“Wait,” someone shouted behind them.

An older man hurried toward the group, his unshaven face ashen even in the dim light.

“Xavier, our surgeon,” Ignacio said.

“Is it true the illness spreads?” the man asked.

Enrique nodded.

Xavier backed away and made the sign of the cross over himself. “I did all I could for Tomás. Nothing else can help him.” He left as fast as his age allowed.

Enrique and the others stopped long enough for Ignacio to locate a prayer bench. He and Pedro hauled the item up a narrow flight to the next level. In the hall with Tomás’s chamber, knights hurried past them, possessions in hand, clearing the area as warned.

A rattling cough mingled with the men’s footfalls.

“This is the closest chamber to Tomás’s.” Ignacio inclined his head to the room before he and Pedro put the bench inside.

Ignacio came out first, trying to catch his breath. Enrique rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Leave food and drink at the bottom of the steps for my wife, Pedro, and me. We can fetch the items, so you have no need to go further. Tomás would never want you risking your health for him.”

“I know. I will keep him in my prayers.” He backed away slowly.

Enrique suspected the man was ashamed to show his fear of the illness. “Go. Before you fall sick.”

Ignacio smiled gratefully and hurried away.

Pedro gestured to a room on the left. Light from torches spilled from within the space to the hall.

Tomás’s coughs were relentless, followed by a thin wheezing sound.

“Come.” Sancha led the way into his room.

* * * *

Although Ignacio had warned them of Tomás’s state, no words could have prepared Sancha for his condition.

He’d lost so much weight his cheeks and eyes were sunken, face reddened from the force of his coughs, hair plastered to his head. The beautiful blond locks she remembered were far darker and greasy, his upper lip and cheeks bristly with his beard.

His lids were partly open, but she didn’t think he recognized them. He was far too ill. She made the sign of the cross over herself and begged God to give her the skill to make him well.

After her quick prayer, she gestured to Enrique. “Please bring my materials to his bed.”

He lowered the alforjas to the floor and unpacked the items quickly. After Pedro had closed the door, he joined his brother to help.

She rested her palm on Tomás’s forehead, biting her lip at the heat. The fever was burning him alive, his skin dry, lips swollen and cracked. “I need clean water. The coldest you can find. As much as you can bring immediately.”

She opened the shutter over the narrow window, letting the cool night air inside.

Pedro hurried past Enrique to her. “Tomás is shivering already. More chill can do him no good.”

“I need to bring his fever down. If not, he will die. Bring me the water now.”

“Listen to her.” Enrique pulled Pedro from the room, their footfalls fading quickly.

She yanked the blankets off Tomás and undressed him until he wore naught but his braies. His wasted body, once so solid and strong, brought tears to her eyes. “You will be well.” She touched his cheek. “I promise you.”

He jerked away with another violent, rattling cough.

She dipped a square of clean linen in the basin of water and bathed his face, throat, chest. Wind blew inside, ruffling her skirt. The torch flames danced.

He shivered violently.

She dampened the cloth again and laid it across his forehead. On her knees, she paged through her book for the best potions to treat his illness. Her search seemed endless, but at last she found the needed passage and lined up containers containing yarrow, ginger, and peppermint. She prayed for Enrique and Pedro to hurry.

By the time they returned with four pails of water, she’d already measured the herbs and cleaned Tomás’s cup with wine.

“I need to brew a potion for his fever.” She handed Enrique the cup. “Fill this with clean water. Can you set up the torch so the water boils?”

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

“Do so quickly.” She lifted small squares of linen tied with string, the herbs inside, and handed them to Pedro. “These go into the cup after the water bubbles.”

As the men worked on the potion, she lifted the ladle from the first pail and brought the water to Tomás.

“Drink.” She settled her hand on the back of his head to keep him up.

More water poured over his lips than inside his mouth. He moaned, wheezed, coughed.

Soon, his upper chest and her skirt were soaked. She filled the ladle repeatedly until he’d managed to get some of the liquid inside. Next, she ladled water on his throat and chest to bring down the fever and used a sodden cloth to dampen his face. He coughed and wheezed, struggling for breath.

She put her palms on his cheek and forehead. He seemed slightly cooler, though not enough.

“What of the potion?” she asked.

Pedro bounced on his heels. “The water has yet to boil.”

He, Sancha, and Enrique kept vigil over the cup and Tomás. No one spoke. Tomás’s agonized coughs filled the chamber.

At last, the potion was finished and cool enough to use. She gestured to both men. “Please hold him up for me.”

Enrique and Pedro supported their brother. His head flopped forward, shoulders jerking with his cough.

She slipped her hand beneath his chin and lifted his face. “Drink. You must finish every drop.”

The effort took a painfully long time before he finished. Immediately, she handed the cup to Enrique. “Please brew more water. I must now see to the potion for his cough.”

* * * *

Sancha focused so much on tending to Tomás hour after hour, day after day, she would have forgotten to eat or sleep if not for Enrique. At his command, Pedro brought a mattress into the room for her to lie on. Enrique fetched the cheese, bread, wine, and beef Ignacio always left for them, urging her to eat her fill.

Swallowing any food was an effort, given her worry over Tomás and her condition. With every dawn, her queasiness returned. Pedro provided a bucket for her to use. Afterward, Enrique wiped her face with damp linen. They took care of her when Tomás was the one in need.

He still looked terrible, his coughs pronounced. While Enrique and Pedro slept, she read her book to see if she’d missed a better remedy. The words finally swam in front of her, her mind too tired to make sense of the text. What seemed only seconds later, someone shook her shoulder, waking her.

She ran her hand over her eyes and glanced up at Enrique. “What is it?”

“Tomás is shivering more than he has been.”

Sweat rolled off him as water would after taking a bath. She hurried to his side and pressed her palm to his forehead. Much cooler. “His fever broke.”

He wheezed, coughed then gagged.

“A square of linen.” She wiggled her fingers.

Enrique handed her several pieces of cloth.

She held one close to Tomás’s mouth. He coughed, made a face, and spat into the linen. His phlegm was a deep green streaked with blood.

Enrique paled but didn’t look away. “Will he live?”

She took his hand, wanting to comfort. “The first of his sickness is leaving.”

“The blood…”

“His throat is raw from trying to expel the phlegm. Once he clears his lungs, he will heal.”

A new cough racked Tomás.

Enrique looked as helpless as she’d ever seen him. “When will that be? Him healing?”

“In time. We must wait.”

* * * *

Enrique communicated Tomás’s progress to the men with notes he left on the steps. Ignacio left his own missives. His last concerned him not having to send again for the sacerdote to anoint Tomás for death.

Padre arrived two days ago. When he heard the illness could spread, he declined to go to Tomás’s room, saying the matter was best left in God’s hands, and to send for him after we had buried Tomás.

Enrique didn’t want to consider what would have happened had the priest seen Sancha here along with her materials.

Although Tomás grew better for a few hours at a time, his health always seemed to worsen toward the end of each day. Sancha poured potions down his throat. Enrique and Pedro threatened to thrash him within an inch of his life if he didn’t eat.

He finally curled his upper lip at them. “Sancha will stop you.” He gave her a weak smile. “Will you not?”

“Eat, or I will thrash you.” She pushed another spoonful of broth between his lips.

Dutifully, he swallowed the watery stock. “You used to be so nice. What happened?”

He’d almost died on them. Enrique had never been more grateful to see anyone survive.

Within a few days, Tomás was able to leave simple broth behind to partake of bread and cheese. He soon asked for meat. The heartier fare put some weight back on him.

One afternoon, he threw back his covers. “I need to leave this bed. I want to walk.”

Enrique and Pedro caught him before he fell to the floor, his legs too thin and weak, wobbling worse than a newborn colt.

With their help, he walked a bit more each day, at last growing strong enough to cross the room on his own. The short journey left him panting and leaning against the wall for support.

Worried, Enrique pulled Sancha aside. “Will he ever be hearty again?”

“Once he fills out, he will be the same as always. You need to stop worrying.”

“If I could, I would. Have I thanked you for your courage and skill? Without you, he would have died.”

“I like Tomás far too much to let such a thing happen.”

Laughing softly, he pulled her into his embrace. “You are a wonder. Promise never to do anything as foolish as this again.”

She eased away, her lovely face drained of enthusiasm, heavy with disappointment.

He sighed. “When you do proceed, I insist on being at your side.”

“Always.”

* * * *

At last, the time came to leave for the castle, Tomás accompanying them to convalesce in a comfortable bedchamber with servants available to indulge his every need. Enrique had already sent word ahead for Hortensia to prepare for their arrival.

Outside the stronghold, Tomás stopped and wrinkled his nose. “You expect me to ride in a carriage like a mere woman?”

Sancha crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “A mere what?”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “In no way did I mean you, dear Sancha, wondrous Sancha, beauteous Sancha, glorious—”

“Here he goes,” Enrique said, happy to have his too-charming brother back. “If you keep going on as you always do, we will never arrive. Get in.”

“How can I with these blankets wrapped around me? I am not a helpless babe.”

Enrique slung his arm around his brother’s neck and pulled him close, not wanting anyone to overhear. “Would you prefer to stay and have the surgeon bleed you again?”

“I have no wish to die. However, I refuse to get in that thing until I say farewell to my men.”

“Do so quickly.”

He took an inordinate amount of time to wish his fellow knights well, taking every opportunity he could to state how his brothers’ care and Sancha’s pleas to God had saved him.

“Yes,” he said, answering one warrior’s question, “Enrique did shove food down my throat despite my protests. Did I tell you how Pedro tried to outdo him by forcing me to drink whatever he could get his hands on? None of my oaths stopped either of them.”

The men laughed.

“If not for Sancha, they would have surely killed me.” Tomás gave her a sweet smile. “Much to my delight, she called Enrique and Pedro away from my bedside to see if they were also growing sick. She made certain they ate their fill and had enough rest before returning to torment me.” He sighed. “Many times at night I heard her fervent prayers, begging for my good health, asking God to spare me, the same as she prayed for Fernando. My brother Enrique is a lucky man and hardly deserves her.”

How true.

The knights clamped Enrique on the shoulder or patted his back, respect in their expressions for Sancha.

She smiled shyly, playing the demure wife.

What a woman he had in her.

At last, they were on their way home, guards around the perimeter, Sancha riding in the carriage with Tomás, Pedro driving the conveyance, Enrique on his mount, lighthearted for the first time in weeks.

He glanced at his brother. “How long can you stay with us?”

“After a few days of your excellent food and wine, I must go back to the stronghold.” He gestured Enrique closer so they could talk without the guards overhearing. “Sancha was magnificent. If we had left Tomás to the surgeon, the fool would have bled him dry.”