by Anita Mills
“Rise you, William of Dunashie.” David referred to the letter handed him by a clerk, then looked up from his carved chair. “So Giles of Moray asks our indulgence, does he?”
“For the boy, Sire.” Knowing that David was by custom more Norman than Scot, William forced himself to speak properly before him. “He cannot walk, and I have brought him to seek the opinion of your physicians. Although I have money to pay they would not see him, saying there was naught to be done, but I’d have them look on him ere they decide.”
“Your son?”
“He is James of Woolford, Sire—son to my wife by her first husband.”
“Woolford?”
“ ’Tis English, but there were too many sons already in the house. With their consent, I have the boy.” He lifted his cloak from around Jamie, revealing the twisted leg. “We do not ask that he be cured, for that is in the hands of God, Sire, but we’d know if aught can be done that he may walk.”
He’d chosen the right words for David, who prided himself on his piety. He leaned forward in his chair to look more closely at the leg. “ ’Tis shorter than the other,” he observed.
“Aye—and the foot turns half over so he cannot stand.” He set the child down before the king, holding him up by his shoulder, showing that the foot alone would not hold him.
“I cannot order miracles, William of Dunashie.”
“And I’d not ask that.” Will reached into his cloak and drew out a rolled parchment from the pouch within. “I’d have the physicians’ opinion ere I attempt to remedy each thing. I have brought drawings of what I’d do, but afore I attempt it I’d know I do not harm him further.”
Walter watched, his lip curled derisively, as the big man held out his parchment. But David unrolled it curiously, looking at the pictures William had made, then handed it to a clerk. “Tell the doctors that this man comes to them with our consent—aye, and with our hopes also. They are to look on the boy and determine a course of treatment.” He looked again to where Jamie balanced himself against Will’s big leg. “God grant that they can aid you, young Woolford, for I’d see none of His creatures like that.”
When the child nodded mutely, William spoke for him, “And God grant his blessings to you, Sire, for the kindness you do this day.” Picking Jamie up again, he started to leave. But King David’s voice stopped him. “You have been to Dunashie—how fares our namesake there?”
“I stood at the font for him,” William answered proudly. “He is as strong as his king.”
David nodded, pleased. “Tell the physicians also that they are not to take this man’s silver. Make it known to them that we consider such service a gift to God.”
“Nay, I can pay them.”
“There is no need. Buy the child what he requires instead.”
The brief audience was over, and it was not until they were outside the room that William realized his own knees were weak. Walter fell in beside them, and Ewan followed.
“They are physicians, my lord, not workers of miracles,” Walter muttered. “I know not what you think they can do.”
“I mean to see. Had I the money I’d take him to the hospital at St. Gall, but I cannot.”
For the better part of the next day, those who counted themselves skilled in everything from the humours to surgery examined James of Woolford, pulling, twisting, and stretching on his bad leg. Finally, Androchus of Ravenna came forward to meet with William, who sat across a littered table from him. Clearing his throat, he examined Will’s drawings carefully, then looked up.
“These are yours, my lord?” he asked in Latin.
“Aye,” Will answered in kind, surprising the physician.
“He will not walk as you or I.”
“I do not ask that. I would that he walked at all.”
“The boy is your son?”
“He is my wife’s.”
“He is fortunate then to have one with such a care for him.”
“He is dear to us.”
Androchus cleared his throat again, then traced with his finger along Will’s first drawing. “There is more than one problem, as you know, my lord. But the worst are that the leg is weak and the foot will not support him,” he murmured, stating the obvious.
“Aye.”
“And when you put the steel rod in the boot, two things will happen. First, he cannot bend his knee, and second, the steel foot is heavy.
“Aye.”
“He is not a strong boy, my lord.”
“But he is willing.”
“He is that,” the physician conceded. “He bore much today.” For a moment William thought he would say that it had all been for naught, that the device was useless—or worse, that it would harm the child. Instead, the man nodded. “The boot is fine, my lord. ’Twill keep the leg and foot straight. But the third problem is the length of the leg.”
“I’d thought mayhap a block of wood on the bottom.”
“Aye—or a metal stirrup that extends down beyond the sole. Again, ‘twill be heavy.”
“Aye.”
“I’d measure poles to support his arms until he is used to the weight of this. ’Tis all I’d suggest that you have not proposed. As for whether he can learn to walk thus, only time and his effort will show.” He looked directly at William for a moment. “Your Latin is good, my lord.”
“I studied with King Henry’s clerks.”
“They taught you well.” Faint amusement lurked in the dark eyes. “Why did you bring him here, when you had already reasoned this out?”
“When his mother says he cannot, I’d tell her you said he could,” William answered honestly. “And I’d know I do not harm the child. It pains him to be as he is, for he’d dream of being whole.”
“I wish I could say there was the means to straighten the leg—or to make it grow—but there is not.” Androchus rose to leave, indicating that the interview was over, then turned back. Drawing a small vial from within the folds of his gown, he held it out. “ ’Tis oil from the Holy Sepulchre, my lord, and I’d not thought to give it. But ere you put the boot on the boy, I’d have you rub three drops on the leg, and invoke the Savior’s healing grace each day for a week.”
“You honor me with it,” William managed, taking the precious oil. “I’ll not waste it.”
The physician smiled. “As you can write, William of Dunashie, I’d have you inform me of the boy’s progress. Someday I may discover another so afflicted, and I’d use what you have shown me.”
When William finally came out, Ewan was waiting with a very tired Jamie. “They said I canna walk,” the child decided.
“Nay, they dinna,” Ewan insisted. “They said ye can, and ye are willing to suffer for it, I’d expect.”
“How?”
“Well,” Will joined in, “first we find a bootmaker as can make one that comes high above your knee.” He held up the vial. “And to ease the pain for ye, we are given oil from Christ’s tomb.”
“A boot!” Jamie snorted in disgust.
“ ’Twill not bend, ye know, for there is to be a metal rod the length of the shaft on either side to hold the leg stiff. And the foot will be encased in armorer’s steel inside the leather, that the foot does not turn,” Will explained patiently. “And beneath the sole there is to be something to make the leg as long as the other.” He reached to ruffle the pale hair. “ ’Twill be no thing of beauty, I grant ye, but God willing, ye can learn to walk a wee bit with it.”
“ ’Twill be heavy, Jamie, but ye can do it.”
“Aye, but we put poles beneath his arms until his legs are strengthened enough to walk without them.”
William reached for the boy, taking him from Ewan. “All I’d ask of ye, James, is that ye try. We canna do it for ye, ye know, but we can pray.” Shouldering Arabella’s son, he noted the priest’s absence. “And where is Edmund of Alton?”
“When he left he dinna say, but he is to meet us at our lodging. Unless I mistake me,
he is gone to purchase herbs.” As they emerged outside, Ewan spat on the ground. “Coming from Kelso, he is skilled with them, he tells me.”
The child’s arm tightened around William’s neck. “When do I get my boot, my lord?”
“As soon as it can be made as I’d have it. And then I’d nae go home until ye can make a step for your mother.” He hoisted the boy higher. “And tonight, wee son, we rub ye wi’ the sacred oil.”
The bootmaker puzzled and argued over William’s design, and in the end agreed to consult with a smith. ’Twould take at least three days, he said, ignoring the boy’s eagerness.
“Nay, but for six years ye have not walked,” Will told the disappointed Jamie. “Three days is as nothing. We’ll wait for it.”
Walter waited for them to return and seek their beds. It had been a near thing earlier at King David’s court, for he’d recognized one from Kelso amongst the royal clerks. Nay, he dared not tarry where any might know him. And so he had spent the day separate from the others, replenishing his bags of poppies and of belladonna berries, the two most useful tools he’d discovered, for the one lulled while the other did its deadly deed.
He’d considered giving all three of them his mixture here, to say later that they’d succumbed to the strange sickness from Blackleith, but the time was not yet right. When he did it he’d be where he could comfort Arabella of Byrum—he’d be there to hold her, to soothe her while she wept. Nay, ’twould be better even if he were not where they died, for then when he revealed himself there’d be none to suspect him. Mayhap he ought to excuse himself, leaving them with his deadly potion, that he would be at Blackleith when the word came.
He was restless, for thus far his plans had come to naught: He was no closer now than ever to killing Giles of Moray. And lately Arabella of Byrum seemed to be truly enamored of the great lout she called husband.
But would Moray not come to Blackleith to bury his brother? That still left the matter of Elizabeth of Rivaux and her infant sons. The list of those he’d have to kill seemed to grow ever longer. The way he saw it now, nothing less than a selective epidemic would serve. And it would not be enough for only those of Moray’s blood to die. Nay, there would have to be others as perished from his plague. Mayhap the woman Ena, for he knew she did not like him, and a kitchen boy or two . . . and possibly an ostler. It didn’t matter who, beyond those sharing the blood of Giles of Moray. Mayhap he would but make up enough of his poison, and leave it to the Devil to determine who shared it.
He had only just finished his work when he heard them, and he slipped his newly made powders into his bag. William of Dunashie wanted piety, did he? Carefully Walter readjusted his crucifix over his breast, then took out his small sheaf of prayers and bent his head over them as though he would commune with God. As the door opened before him, his lips moved silently.
“Father Edmund! Father Edmund! God grants that I may walk!”
William silenced the child with a finger to his lips and murmured, “Nay. ’Tisna right to disturb a man at his prayers. And He doesna grant it yet—He but gives ye the chance to try.”
Walter crossed himself and looked up. “It went well then?”
“Well enough, I think.”
“I dinna like it when they would pull my leg,” Jamie protested. “One called Ambrose would have put a rope and rock on it, but another said ’twould but separate my joint.”
William set the boy down on a bench opposite to Walter and reached into his pocket for the vial. Taking it out, he showed it. “ ’Tis holy oil. And ye do not mind it, I’d have ye put it on his leg ere we retire.”
“Me? Surely—”
“There canna be enough prayers, Father.”
Later, when all was done and Ewan and the boy had taken to their pallet, Walter broached his departure with William. “And it takes days or weeks here, my lord, I’d return to Dunashie. Ere we left there was sickness there, and I’d be where I am needed.” When William said nothing he went on, “The physicians have seen the boy, after all, and ’twould appear your prayers are answered. Nay, but I’d minister to mine flock ere I am counted remiss.”
William knew he had no real reason to keep him, yet he hesitated. For all that he now truly trusted Arabella, he did not trust Edmund of Alton. There was something wrong with the man, a coldness that belied his mission. For a man of God, he attended to his soul less than William himself did.
“While I am here, no masses are said for the dead or any other,” Walter reminded him.
Aye, and William knew not how long it would take James to make that first step. He knew not even if the boy would make it at all. And it was no small thing to deprive his people of the sacraments. With Edmund of Alton in Edinburgh no babes were baptized, no marriages blessed, and no dead shriven. Nay, he had no good reason to demand the priest’s continued presence. Finally, he nodded.
“When you are returned, I’d not have you tell my lady why ’tis we are come here,” is all he said. “I’d not have her hope until we know. Promise me that, and you may go.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Arabella lay upon her bed fully clothed, unwilling to move, for fear the sickness would return. Sweet Mary, but Ena had said it did not last long, and yet for three weeks and more it seemed that naught but dried bread and stale cheese would stay in her stomach. And still William did not come.
“Gentle lady …”
Too miserable to rise, she opened her eyes and saw Edmund of Alton leaning over her, his face betraying his concern. “Forgive me, Father, but I’d not rise,” she whispered.
“Aye. The woman says you cannot eat. Would you that I brought you something—a little fowl is easy on the stomach—or some sweetened wine, mayhap?” he asked.
“Nay.”
He’d returned to Blackleith to find her sick, and while it served him by making an epidemic plausible, it also worried him. She was the one thing he’d not see perish there. He pulled a bench beside the bed and sat down, possessing one of her hands. It was damp, despite the chill in the room.
“Would you that I summoned Burwell’s barber to bleed you? Or I’d even brew you a soothing potion, and you willed it. At Kelso, I studied the use of herbs for many maladies.”
“ ’Twill pass—’tis but the babe.”
It was as though his blood chilled. He felt actual pain in the center of his chest and his stomach knotted, sickening him. And then he felt an impotent anger: at her, at the Bastard, at everything. In letting William of Dunashie’s seed take hold within her body, she’d betrayed him. She gave the Bastard what Walter could not allow: She gave him an heir to Blackleith. He recoiled, drawing his hand away.
“I’d thought mayhap ’twas the sickness that plagues us here,” he said, his voice strained.
“Nay. Sweet Jesu—there are others?”
“The old man as lowers the gate. ’Twas this morning,” he added, recovering his composure.
“But it has been weeks. Surely—”
“ ’Tis a strange malady, to be sure, but there is no mistaking ’tis the same, for he was discovered in his bed like the other two.”
“But he was old. Mayhap ’twas his heart that ceased.”
“I’d not think it. His face bore the same expression as that on the girl Avisa. E’en though he was not warm, I shrived him,” he added. Thinking he had to leave ere he betrayed himself, he rose. “But I can hope you are right, of course.”
She turned her head away and closed her eyes. “I would that William came home, Father.”
And to him, it was as though her words sealed her fate. He wanted to wound, to tell her that the Bastard would never come again to Dunashie, that her precious brat died—aye, and Ewan with them. And he wanted to tell her that she would join them, she and the babe she carried. But he dared not. Instead, he forced himself to pat her arm and murmur soothingly.
“As ’tis but the babe, sweet lady, I’d send you a draught to ease the sickness.”
&nb
sp; “ ’Twould not stay down, Father.”
“I will add enough poppy juice,” he promised. “It seems to stop the retching.”
“Aye.”
“Rest you, daughter, and I will return forthwith, bringing it.”
He left her then, but instead of hastening he walked slowly back to his small room. And when he got there he sat for a time at his table, the two pouches open before him. It had been too easy before, and he realized it now. Like any who bargained with Lucifer, he now was discovering the price higher than he would pay. It was as though the Black Angel had lured him, dangled the woman before him, then pulled her away before Walter could have her. It was the cruelest jest of his life, for he’d had not much to love in his life, and he believed he loved her.
But what if the child she carried were a daughter? Walter argued within himself. And what if it were not? Whether William of Dunashie came home or not would not matter then, for the Bastard would have left yet another mountain in Walter’s path. As he climbed one, it seemed another always rose before him. Once he would have needed only to kill the Butcher after Edmund, knowing it unlikely that William would inherit, but then he’d found the Bastard already there before him. Then he’d had two to kill. But that was before Elizabeth of Rivaux bore her sons, making it four. And now Arabella of Byrum stood ready to cheat him also. There appeared to be no end to it.
He’d wanted her, he wanted her still, and even when she was dead he’d think on what he’d been denied. For a moment he considered letting her live, in the hope she bore a girl. Torn, he did that which he’d not done since the Butcher had burned Dunashie: He laid his head upon the table and wept for himself and for her. Six people he’d murdered for Blackleith—and he expected to hear of the other three at any time—and he was not yet done.
He sat back and shrugged his shoulders to ease them.