Other contingency plans were also being set into place, though the king did not know it. In the very campsite where he shortly slipped into drugged, exhausted sleep, Ansel, Jesse, Tieg, and a much depleted band of quondam “borderers” gathered by turns in Ansel’s tent, there to compare what they had learned since joining the royal party late in the afternoon.
What little information could be had suggested that the king’s fever was giving cause for alarm. Further, he had quarreled with his commanders, and the Custodes clergy were even more out of favor than previously. No one seemed to know specific causes, but some put it down to differences of opinion over the king’s medical treatment. A Custodes battle surgeon called Master Stevanus was still the king’s principal physician, but another man, the infirmarian from Saint Cassian’s, had been added to the king’s household when they left the Custodes establishment that morning. Brother Polidorus seemed an officious individual, and even other Custodes seemed not to have much complimentary to say about him. The medical implications troubled Tieg, in particular, and made him glad to know that Dom Queron was on his way at all speed to try to intervene.
That same Queron even then was emerging from an underground passage in a village at the foot of Caerrorie Castle, some miles eastward, disguised as a common monk, his Gabrilite braid once again sacrificed in the interests of less distinctive tonsuring. Skirting past the village church, he slipped silently into a neatly kept barn where he saddled a quiet brown mare and led her outside, leaving behind a gold coin and a slip of parchment sealed with the arms of old Culdi. Its finder would take the latter to the village priest in the morning, who would read, A friend of Father Joram had need of this horse and will return it if at all possible.
Queron pushed the mare hard, all through the night. Approaching dawn found him far along the road to Valoret and striking off northward and overland toward the King’s Road, to gain a few more hours’ progress before daylight forced him into hiding. His brown robes marked him as a brother of the Order of Saint Jarlath, whose House lay in the direction he was riding, but his blooded steed was no monk’s mount.
Not that both he and the mare would not benefit from a few hours’ rest, but he resented the delay, when every hour might make the difference for the king’s survival. At least they were headed toward one another. According to Ansel, whose report had been relayed via Camlin before he left sanctuary, Queron could expect the king’s party to reach as far south as Ebor or even Sheele by the end of this third day out of Lochalyn; but Queron still had many miles to cover.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
And as troops of robbers wait for a man, so the company of priests murder in the way by consent.
—Hosea 6:9
Rhys Michael’s condition had not improved by morning, but at least it seemed no worse. Though still feverish, he insisted upon pushing on. He still had little appetite and had to force himself to eat what little he did.
Despite increasing doses of his pain medication, his hand throbbed almost unbearably, and he continued to shiver and burn by turns as the morning wore on. Just past midday, not long after the column had passed a tiny convent perched jewel-like on a distant hill, his condition took a dramatic turn for the worse.
He had been riding along in a sort of stupor for several hours, head bowed over his injured hand and his hood pulled up to shield him from the sun, when a bout of shivering shifted into something very like a mild convulsion. Already hunched down in cloak and hood, his good hand clinging to the pommel of his saddle, he managed to weather the first attack without anyone noticing. But an hour later it happened again, more violently, and he had to pull up, teeth tightly clenched as the spasms bowed his spine and threw his head back, nearly wrenching him out of the saddle.
“Rhysem, what’s wrong!” Cathan cried, pulling up beside him and catching at his reins as Fulk set a steadying hand on his good shoulder.
The spasms eased but little as Stevanus crowded close alongside to take Fulk’s place, reaching out to clasp his wrist, and Rhun and Manfred halted the column, trotting back to find out what was happening.
“Jesus, he’s burning up!” Stevanus muttered.
“What’s wrong with him?” Rhun demanded. “Sire, can you speak?”
Rhys Michael could hear them, but he could not seem to get any words out. The spasms were easing, but his vision was blurred, and his ears were ringing, and it took all his strength of will to keep from falling off.
“We’ve got to get him to shelter and knock down this fever,” Stevanus said, glancing around urgently. “What’s in the vicinity?”
“We’re still about an hour’s ride from Ebor,” Manfred said, consulting a sergeant at his stirrup. “Can he stay on a horse that long?”
“I doubt it,” Stevanus said. “Wasn’t there a convent a mile or two back?” Releasing the king’s wrist, he pulled his medical satchel over his shoulder and started rummaging in it. “Cathan, get up behind him and make sure he doesn’t fall off, or we may not get him back up. Fulk or somebody—fetch me something liquid in a cup—water, wine—it doesn’t matter. Just something to dissolve a sedative. No, that’s not it,” he muttered, discarding several small parchment packets.
“C-cold,” Rhys Michael managed to whisper through clenched teeth, eyes tightly closed, using almost all his strength to get the word out. “B-burning up.” But Cathan was scrambling to a seat behind him, bracing him with his arms around him, and no one heard.
While Stevanus continued to search his satchel, hampered by the restless shuffling of his mount, Fulk had swung down and dashed back along the column. Very shortly he returned with a small horn cup.
“I’ve got wine!” he shouted, as he made his way back toward Stevanus.
Two Custodes knights meanwhile had dismounted and come to stand on either side of the king’s horse, holding his legs steady in the stirrups and keeping the animal quiet, casting alarmed glances at Rhun and Manfred as the king started shaking again. Father Lior and Father Magan were urging their horses forward from farther back to see what was wrong, followed by Brother Polidorus. As Fulk presented his cup, Stevanus passed down two of the parchment packets.
“Dump those in the wine and swirl it round,” he ordered, returning his attention to the king as he set a steadying hand on the royal shoulder. “Sire, I want you to drink this sedative. It will put you to sleep, but it will help control the spasms. Cathan, help him!”
As Fulk held the cup up, Rhys Michael managed to take it, assisted by Cathan, but a new spasm closed his hand around the cup with such force that it shattered, spattering him with wine as his head jerked back. They got him onto the ground before he could fall, amid a milling confusion of grasping hands and anxious voices shouting conflicting orders, and the next thing he knew was a sharp jab of pain in the side of his neck, a second, and then waves of nausea and psychic disruption joining with the spasms and the unrelenting throb of his injured hand.
“Goddammit, Lior, I didn’t want to give him merasha,” he dimly heard Stevanus muttering, as the wave of darkness came welling up. “I don’t know how it will react with what’s already in him!”
Just before he passed out, he found himself wondering whether they would figure out that he was reacting like a Deryni. But the spasms already racking his body prevented that, and the double dose of merasha added to his earlier medication took him quickly beyond being able to care.
How long he remained unconscious he did not know; only that the room in which he briefly surfaced was dim and cool and presided over by several dark-clad women of indeterminate age, with gentle hands and kindly faces. Two of them were sponging his naked body with cool water while a third, younger one applied cold compresses to his burning forehead. At chest and hips, wide bands of cloth bound him to the bed. Dimly he realized that his arms and legs were likewise restrained. Every muscle and joint in his entire body seemed to ache.
He managed a painful croak, yearning for something cool to drink, something to still the pounding pain be
hind his eyes.
“So, you’ve come back among the living,” a cheery female voice said, owned by a fourth black-clad figure who joined the others at this sign of life and bent to feel his forehead under the compress. “Don’t try to move. Your physicians had you restrained because of the convulsions. Now that you’re conscious, though, we must do something more about that fever besides just sponging you down. Sister Regina, release that chest band, please, so we can raise him up. We don’t want him to choke on this.”
Another woman came and put a wooden cup in the speaker’s hand. The women sponging him set aside their basins and drew a sheet up to his waist, then released the band that bound his chest. Through the dull lethargy and pounding in his head, a muzzy part of Rhys Michael’s brain dimly registered that his ministering angels must be religious of some sort. The disjointedness of this conclusion reminded him that at least part of the cause for his wretchedness was merasha, never mind the fever and the hand.
“Where’s Cathan?” he managed to whisper, letting out an inadvertent groan as one of the sisters raised him up with a gentle arm behind his shoulders. “Cathan?”
“That’s one of your men, isn’t it, Sire?” the cup-bearer murmured. “Drink this first, and I’ll call him.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s a tea we brew from white willow bark, very good for fever. Believe me, it will help.”
“My head hurts,” he protested weakly, as the cup pressed to his lips.
“That’s from the fever. Just drink this down. It will help that, too.”
He had little choice but to obey, though he could only get it down in tiny sips, almost a trickle past dry lips. The effort exhausted him enough to slide him back into darkness.
His head was a little clearer when he woke again, but his body still ached, as did his hand. He could feel the chest restraint back in place with the others, and someone was prodding none too gently at his abdomen.
A tentative try at reading the prodder’s identity with his powers produced a stabbing pain behind his eyes and a new wave of nausea and vertigo, confirming that merasha aftereffects continued to disrupt his abilities. A poke in the bladder made him gasp and open his eyes, to discover that his tormentor was a sour-faced Brother Polidorus. Stevanus stood beside him, looking underslept and far too anxious.
“Did that hurt?” the battle surgeon asked, almost hopefully, as Polidorus continued to poke and prod.
Rhys Michael had to swallow before he could summon the energy to shake his head. “Bladder’s full.”
When the appropriate receptacle had been brought, utilized, and taken away, Stevanus took Polidorus’ place, still looking grim as he laid his hand across his patient’s forehead. Cathan and Fulk had come into the room, accompanied by Manfred and Rhun. The latter two looked angry. The room was dim, as before, but now Rhys Michael sensed light beyond the heavy curtains to his right. He wondered what day it was.
“How do you feel?” Stevanus asked, very quietly.
“Am I supposed to feel better?” the king replied.
Stevanus quirked him a faint smile as he took his hand away.
“One keeps hoping. Your fever is a bit diminished, but you’ve had convulsions off and on, all through the night and morning. The hand is draining, but that’s to be expected.”
Rhys Michael flexed at his bonds and closed his eyes briefly. “Do I have to be restrained?”
“When you go into convulsions, you’re pretty spectacular. You could break bones. I’m afraid the restraints have to stay.”
“How long?”
“Until the convulsions ease up.”
“No, how long until that happens? Stevanus, could I die from this?” he asked, trying to catch the battle surgeon’s gaze.
Stevanus glanced away. “I—don’t think you’re going to die from this, Sire,” he whispered. “But here, I’ve got some more of the sisters’ willow-bark tea for you. And a bit of sedative. It seems to help the spasms a bit. Cathan, just lift his head a little.”
Whether the sedative would have helped was a moot point, because the draught had not been in his stomach long enough to take effect before his body was again racked by wave upon wave of violent, cramping convulsions that arched his spine and choked off his breath and eventually left him unconscious. When he came around, he knew not how much later, angry voices were being raised in argument all around his bed, and he could feel his body tensing for another set of convulsions even as he opened his eyes to look around him.
“Medically, that’s precisely what is called for!” Brother Polidorus was saying, as Lior laid a restraining hand on an angry Stevanus’ shoulder. “I wanted it done days ago and look what’s happened.”
Manfred was standing in the background, looking determined, and Sir Rondel, his aide, had the furiously struggling Rhun in a hammerlock, two Custodes knights pulling his arms outstretched while Father Magan bared one burly forearm and angled for a clean jab with a Deryni pricker. Cathan was nearby, but Gallard de Breffni had him in custody, with a dagger held to his throat rather than a Deryni pricker. Fulk was over by the door flanked by two more Custodes knights, not actively in custody but looking defeated and sick at heart.
“But he’s too weak already!” Stevanus was protesting. “If you bleed him, he may not even survive that, much less the longer-term effects.”
Through the red haze that was creeping over the king’s vision as convulsions claimed him again, wrenching him once more toward oblivion, the sense of Stevanus’ words sent cold dread flooding through his mind. They meant to bleed him after all! He had forbidden Stevanus or Rhun to allow it, but Lior and Polidorus apparently had prevailed against even Rhun’s orders. By an exhausting act of will, for the residual effects of the merasha continued to cloud his access to his powers, Rhys Michael managed not to succumb to this latest set of convulsions, but as they receded and he could again turn his perceptions outward, he was not certain he would not have been happier not to know.
For they were not arguing over him anymore. Cathan was kneeling at the right side of the bed, one hand gently stroking his forehead, weeping bitterly into his other hand. And on the left, as a sudden, burning pain in his arm made him flinch and turn his head in dismay, he saw Polidorus lifting a bloody lancet.
“No!” he cried weakly, instinctively trying to jerk away, even as Polidorus released the ligature that had kept his blood from flowing. “Noooooo!” he groaned, as the hot blood began to stream around his arm and collect in a basin set beneath his elbow.
But a Custodes knight had one hand set firmly against his shoulder and the other on his upper arm, and Father Magan had that forearm in an unrelenting grip, to ensure that their unwilling patient did not twist against the padded wrist restraint that held the arm outstretched. Another Custodes knight had moved in beside Cathan at the king’s first sign of movement and restrained his right arm and shoulder. Stevanus was nowhere to be seen.
The horror and the helplessness of it all swept through him in less than a blink of an eye, along with the anger and betrayal and the utter futility of continuing to resist. Even so, he did try, wrenching at his bonds with a moan of outrage but then forced to succumb as Gallard de Breffni pressed across his body to pin him helpless, crushing the breath from his lungs, and his other captors tightened their holds on his twitching limbs. The exertion made the blood flow even faster, a still-rational part of him dimly realized, briefly spilling over the edge of the bowl until Polidorus could steady it. As the king gave up his struggling, Gallard eased off on crushing his chest, and the Custodes men pinning his shoulders let up slightly.
“Rhysem, forgive me, I couldn’t stop them,” Cathan whispered, urgently turning his kinsman’s face from what was being done. “They won’t kill me, for Mika’s sake, but they would have made me leave you, if I hadn’t stopped fighting them. I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering this alone.”
“But, why?” Rhys Michael managed to croak, his voice quavering. “Is this ho
w they’re going to kill me?”
“Now, Sire, you mustn’t get such ideas in your head,” Polidorus purred, calmly milking at his upper arm to keep the blood flowing, the bloody lancet still in his hand. “You’re a very stubborn patient. You don’t know what’s best for you. Bleeding will let out the evil humours that are causing your illness. Believe me, we know what we’re doing.”
Unable to argue such illogic, Rhys Michael cast his gaze helplessly around the room and saw that Rhun had subsided onto a stool over nearer the door, eyes closed, his head leaned back against the wall. Manfred was standing beside him, one hand on his shoulder, glancing down at him occasionally. Lior was on his other side. And Rhys Michael’s blood continued to run around his elbow and into the basin, more and more of it, just as Javan had described when the Custodes bled him, what seemed like a lifetime ago.
“Rhun, listen to me,” Rhys Michael called, with as much strength as he could muster. “Rhun, if they kill me, I’ve told you what will happen. Don’t let them do this—for your own sake, if not for mine.”
Manfred’s hand tightened on Rhun’s shoulder, and he quirked an uneasy smile at the king. “I’m not certain he can hear you, Sire. In any case, I am not as gullible as Lord Rhun. I don’t believe you.”
“Shall I have Cathan show you the document?” the king asked.
“Anyone can draw up any document in their fantasies,” Manfred replied. “I think you’re bluffing.”
“And if I’m not?”
Manfred shrugged. “Sire, it is regrettable that sometimes, despite the best of medical care, even the most illustrious patients do not survive illnesses as serious as yours. There will be ample witness that all was done that could be done and that your Highness refused sound medical advice on more than one occasion, until it was too late to save you.”