The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce (49 page)

Bruce grimaced. “No, probably not. Is there anything else you can do?”

The grey eyes narrowed yet again, this time to slits as the maître’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Yes. We can make you sleep.” He turned to his companion. “I will need a small bowl, Father, clean and dry. Can you find one for me?”

As the other priest hurried off, Bruce touched one hand gently to his aching side, feeling the skin hot over the throbbing pain. “You think to make me sleep for days on end? With this? That would not be possible, Father.”

“That is
Brother
, Master Bruce. I am a monk, not a priest. And all things are possible. As a Christian and a knight you should know that.”

Bruce said nothing, suddenly aware of a black patch of cloth on the old man’s left shoulder that was less worn than the cloth surrounding it. It showed where another layer of cloth had once been removed, a layer in the familiar shape of the cross of St. John that marked its wearer as a Knight of the Hospital. He frowned, now curious about the tall old man. A monk’s vocation, like a priest’s, was a lifetime calling, not to be revoked, and he could not remember ever having heard about a Knight Hospitaller renouncing his membership in the order.

The old monk was holding his hanging waist bag open with one hand while he rummaged inside it with the other. The door at his back swung open, and Father Baldwin came back in with a number of small bowls of various sizes.

“Ah, excellent, Father,” said the Frenchman. “You provide more than was asked.” He picked one, weighing it in his hand. “This will be perfect. Now … ” He turned to Bruce again. “You have good milk here, Master Bruce?”

Bruce began to shrug, but was instantly reminded of the unwisdom of that. “Good and ample, Brother. Cow’s and goat’s.”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Goat’s.”

“So be it. Father Baldwin, would you assist me once again and bring me, please, a jug of goat’s milk? Enough to fill this bowl will suffice.”

The priest nodded and left again, and Maître de Frontignac returned to his capacious bag, drawing out a small, beautifully carved wooden box inlaid with what looked like nacre. He placed the box on the bed, glanced about him, and lurched quickly to a small table that sat by one wall. He carried it back to the bedside and set it down carefully before placing his box on the tabletop. Bruce watched him curiously as he prised it open with extreme care, then reached inside the box with a gently probing finger. He withdrew it slowly and held it up, its tip coated with a fine, whitish powder. He returned the fingertip to the box and held it there while he wiped fastidiously with his thumb at the stuff coating it, returning every grain to the box.

“What is it?” Bruce asked. “That powder.”

The old monk was examining his fingertip to be certain that none of the contents of the box yet adhered beneath the nail, and when he was satisfied, he looked down at Bruce, his eyes twinkling.

“A treasure from the Holy Land,” he said. “More precious than the Magi’s gifts. I had a good friend there who was something of a Mage himself—of great wisdom but not holy. His name was Sayeef ad-Din and he was a muslim unbeliever, but a good man none the less, and a far better physician than I could ever be. I was wounded in battle and taken prisoner and he took care of me. He saved my life, beyond a doubt, for I was close to death.” He held one hand in front of him, making the sign of the cross in the air.

“People here at home prefer not to think, or even hear, that the followers of Allah might be able to outdo the Christian world in anything, but truth, even when unacceptable, must be acknowledged. When it came to healing battle-broken bodies, we Franks, even among the ranks of the Hospital, had no physicians with skills that even approached those of our enemies. Thus it is true that had I not been taken prisoner, I would have surely died among my own kind. The Sultan’s people held me captive for two years until I was ransomed, and Sayeef ad-Din and I became friends because my injuries had ensured that I would never be able to fight again. That, allied with the fact that I was a healer, albeit of limited skill, led to my being well treated while I was among the warriors of Allah.

“When I regained my freedom, Sayeef gave me this box, along with his blessings. I knew what it contained, for I had been studying its use under his guidance, and I was deeply conscious of the honour he paid me by parting with such a gift. In consequence, I have used it very sparingly and only in time of great need because it is genuinely irreplaceable.” He smiled. “But I have been back now from the Holy Land for many years and I have used it but twice, so that even having it and guarding it with great care, I have been wasting it by failing to use it. That has concerned me recently, for I have been wondering if perhaps it might be losing its potency, as powdered herbs frequently do. Has it maintained its freshness, despite its age, or has it faded with the passage of years? Now, with you, I intend to find out.”

Bruce had been staring at the wooden box as the old man spoke and now he looked up.

“What does it do?”

“It
does
nothing, but taken in a draught it causes sleep and relieves even the worst pain. I will show you.”

“Is it … dangerous?”

The old man’s hawkish smile gleamed again. “Not in the fashion that you mean,” he said, shaking his head. “But it has a danger of its own. Men grow too fond of it, Sayeef told me, and overuse brings its own perils.”

Father Baldwin returned with a jug of goat’s milk, and those were the last words Maître de Frontignac spoke to Bruce for some time, for he turned away at once and with his back squarely towards the bed began issuing low-voiced instructions to the village priest. When he did return to the bedside, Father Baldwin moved around to assist him on the other side, and between them, ignoring his groans, they encircled Bruce within their arms and eased him up into a position in which he could swallow the concoction fed to him. His gorge revolted against the acrid taste, but the old man merely removed the bowl and waited for the shuddering revulsion to pass before bringing the bowl back to Bruce’s lips. The injured man gagged the mixture down, his body quaking as the last bitter grains lodged at the back of his throat. He swallowed once more, clearing his mouth, and then relaxed limply as they lowered him flat again.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Now we find out whether the powder has retained its powers,” the French monk responded.

“And if it has?”

“Then you will sleep without pain. When you awaken you will find yourself restrained. We will do that once you are asleep and you will feel nothing. That mattress is too soft for our purposes. We will replace it with a padded board and bind you to the board with wrappings of cloth lest you move and injure yourself further.”

“And how long will I have to stay here?” The mattress on which he lay, a straw-filled palliasse, was already hard and thin.

“For as long as necessary. Father Baldwin and I will watch you closely, and when we think it safe for you to move we will permit you to. In the meantime, you will sleep.”

“Now?” Bruce snorted gently at the mere thought of sleeping. “I’ll ask you to forgive me, Brother, but I am nowhere close to … ” As he spoke the words, though, he felt a strange sensation stir somewhere inside his head, and it seemed to him the room receded. He blinked and turned to look again at the physician standing over him, only to see that the man was wavering visibly, like a reflection in
water. He opened his mouth to speak and found he had no words, and he was not even aware of his eyes closing.

He had little awareness of anything at all, including the passage of time itself, and the few scattered memories that would return to him later would all share a dreamlike quality. He vaguely remembered being manhandled and being unable to react as he was moved around like some inanimate object, and he remembered the bitter taste that seemed permanently lodged beneath his tongue; he remembered faces peering down at him, some of them, his father’s and Thomas Beg’s, distorted and fluid-looking, others no more than moving, featureless shapes; and he remembered, equally indistinctly, seeing and hearing young women; several of them, he thought, their differences coalescing into a single presence. He had memories, too, of being fed—warm milk-soaked, honey-sweetened bread being spooned into his mouth and the acrid taste of the white powder that had been mixed with it.

He opened his eyes and saw the old French monk standing by the foot of the bed, watching him. He lay still for a long moment, returning the silent scrutiny, questioning himself and examining his body with his mind. He felt no pain anywhere, and when he tried to move his arms they moved freely, unencumbered.

“How do you feel?”

“Awake,” Bruce said. “And alive and well, I think.” He moved a hand tentatively towards the injury he remembered, the spot over his ribs, and discovered that he was wearing a shirt of some kind. “There is no pain.”

That brought a quick smile to the monk’s fierce old face. “Oh no, do not deceive yourself on that, Master Bruce. There is pain there aplenty, should you provoke it. Sleep is a wondrous curer of ills, but miracles are the work of God Himself, and nothing miraculous has happened here. We have but given your body time to heal itself a little, and the worst of the pain has passed.”

“How long have I been asleep?” “Four days.”

“Four
days
? How is that possible?”

“I told you before, everything is possible if one has faith.”

“Your … Your powder is still potent, then.”

“It is, thanks be to God. And you are awake now because you appear to have no more need of it. Yesterday, beginning in the morning, I began reducing the amount you received. You will require no more. Do you feel hungry?”

Bruce thought about that and nodded.

“Excellent, then we shall feed you. Hot broth alone today, though. Perhaps something more solid tonight, but by tomorrow you should be eating normally.”

“Is my father still here?”

The bushy eyebrows rose. “Of course! Where else would he be? I will send someone to tell him you are awake, as soon as you have eaten. And I will send you some broth from the kitchens now.” He turned on his heel and went directly to the door, moving quickly for a man of his age with a bad limp, but he stopped on the threshold and turned back. “One thing. Do not try to rise from the bed alone. You are not strong enough, and should you try, you will most certainly fall and might injure yourself again. Lie where you are and be patient a while longer. I will come back later.”

As soon as the door swung shut Bruce raised himself cautiously on an elbow. He counted to five, then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, noticing that the shirt he wore was a nightshirt of fine wool, plain white and ankle-length. The old man’s warning served its purpose, though, for instead of launching himself up to his feet as he would have done mere days earlier, he sat on the edge of the bed for a time, the whole room reeling and swaying as he moved his eyes. He felt a warning stir of nausea and quickly swung his legs back up to the bed, then lowered himself to lie flat again, grasping the edges of his palliasse and closing his eyes tightly against the sickening sense of motion that came close to overwhelming him. He lay still, holding his breath, and waited for it to pass. The heaving rotation died away gradually and left him clammy with sweat and clutching at the mattress. Finally, when his heartbeat had died down
and his head no longer felt as though it were spinning, he lay quiet, breathing deeply and regularly.

His father was still in Writtle. That surprised him, although he knew the purpose of this visit was to take him along to Westminster with the rest of the Bruce and Mar party. But in days not long past, before the death of his grandfather, he would never have believed his father would remain quietly in one place for days on end when he had plans of his own to prosecute, particularly once he was assured that his son was in no danger and would recover. The Earl of Carrick Rob had known as a boy would have ridden on ahead to do what he must do, leaving instructions for his son to catch up as soon as he was able.

But if the Lord of Annandale was yet in Writtle, so too must be Domhnall, the Earl of Mar, and his daughter Isabella. He felt his spirits plummet at that thought, then remembered the strange sensations he had had of young women here in this room. There were no young women in Writtle … Certainly none that would dare raise their voices in the earl’s sickroom. And yet he was almost sure that he had heard them, perhaps even seen them. He had hazy recollections of differing colours, different shapes. And Nicol MacDuncan! If his father was yet here, then his great-uncle would be, too. He felt a surge of pleasure at that thought, and at that very moment the door to his chamber opened and Nicol himself stepped in, followed by Thomas Beg carrying a covered serving tray.

“We have brought you food, Nephew! Can you sit up? You can’t sup lying on your back.”

“You’ll have to help me. I feel light-headed.” “From starvation, I don’t doubt. Here, hold on to my arm. Now pull up … That’s it. Slowly now, slowly.”

Thomas Beg was holding the tray as though it were a diplomatic offering.

“What’s under the cloth, Tam?”

“Soup,” the big man said. “Clear soup. Ye’re to drink it slow, for fear your stomach winna thole it. Gin ye get sick an’ puke, ye’ll hurt
your ribs again. Here, I’ll hold it for ye.” He lowered himself to one knee with great care and held the tray steady while Nicol removed the covering, then watched as Bruce picked up the horn spoon with an unsteady hand.

The hot broth was delicious, rich and tangy with the flavour of venison and better than anything Bruce could ever remember tasting. He moved tentatively at first, spilling some because of the pronounced tremor in his hand, but after the first startling mouthful he lost all awareness of anything except the need to taste more of it.

Nicol had perched himself on the edge of the bed to watch his nephew as he ate, and when the spoon scraped against the empty wooden bowl he looked up at Thomas Beg with a raised eyebrow. “I think he could have eaten more,” he said.