A Royal Affair

by John Wiltshire

  The door flew open. A mob crashed into the room. In reality, it was only three men, but my mind had leaped to a far more unfortunate conclusion. I thanked the God I did not believe in that my horror at being so discovered led to a detached calm. I did not remove my hand from Aleksey’s wounds or step back from him. He only craned his neck back to peer upside down at the intruders. I considered our little tableau from a stranger’s perspective and saw only a doctor treating a wounded man. They could not detect my heart beating so rapidly that I felt my shirt flutter from its drumming. They, thankfully, could not detect many things as I stepped away with deceptive calmness and asked what they wanted.

  “The king cannot breathe. He has been bewitched. You must come.”

  Immediately I began to move toward my study to collect some instruments, but one of the men strode forward and grabbed my arm. “You misunderstand, Doctor.”

  “Take your hand off him.” Aleksey had risen from the bed. Despite being half-naked and clearly caught off balance, his voice was obeyed. Perhaps it was the vast wolf in the corner of the room, muzzle retracted, that hastened their obedience to the spoken command.

  I rubbed my arm and said as coolly as I could, “I must go to the king. What is this about?”

  “You have been accused of bewitching King Gregor.”

  “What! I have just cured him. We have only been back a few hours! He was perfectly well, and now you say he is sick again, but I have been here the whole time.” I wasn’t at my most persuasive or coherent. I would challenge any doctor accused of witchcraft to be calmer. Much that we did could be called enchantment, for it went against or in spite of accepted dogma. “Does the king know you are here?” At this they faltered in their certainty, and I pressed my advantage. “Take me to him.”

  Aleksey sighed, took my arm himself, and shouldered us past the three counselors. “Of course we’re going to speak to him. Get out of my way, Vencoir, or I’ll have you dangling from your balls on the gibbet. Or shall I have you burned? Out! Out!” His bluff and bluster did the job, and we were out into the hallway and on our way before I could point out to him that he had no shirt on and we were both barefoot. Fortunately, Stephen had been lurking outside the door (something I noted to be very aware of in future), and I indicated for him to run and fetch a shirt for the prince. He nodded and scampered off.

  We were alone, heading very swiftly through passages I was beginning to recognize. Suddenly Aleksey shouldered me into a side room. It was empty. He slammed the door and barred it, effectively shutting Faelan outside. “What are you doing? I must see the king. He can’t breathe!” I pushed him aside and began to lift the bar.

  He grabbed my arm. “We still have the ship ready and waiting. You must flee.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous! Stop being so melodramatic. I’m not fleeing anywhere. But I must go. No!” I threw off his arm. He tried to grab me again, but I rounded on him and put an elbow to the side of his head. He was not expecting that. No man ever is—particularly from a doctor. He went down like a collapsing piece of laundry when the wind ceases to fill it. I sighed as I lowered his head carefully onto the stone floor, unbarred the door, and ran. I confess my anxiety for the king’s life was not the only thing driving me. The thought of Faelan’s reaction when he saw inside that room also hastened my steps.

  His Majesty was on the floor of his chambers, surrounded by useless people caught between being desperate to do something and terrified to act. I shouldered them all out of the way. I felt for breath. There was none. But the heart was beating strongly. Swiftly I released the bindings at the king’s throat, tipped his head back, held his nose, and kissed him full on the mouth. At least that is what the court thought I was doing, for I dimly heard a vast collective intake of shocked breath. I was too busy concentrating on watching the old man’s chest and breathing for him to be concerned at their horror. Just because they still lived in a previous century, there was no reason why I should not use the knowledge I had. I was extremely worried about the king’s throat. It looked swollen and red from where he had been tearing at it. If swollen inside, then none of my efforts would prevail. I carried on, steady breaths giving him the air he could not yet take for himself.

  Time seemed to stretch forever. I was surprised that I was left unhindered, as the number of people surrounding us multiplied from the rumors sweeping through the castle. Suddenly I felt that moment that every doctor longs for, when those near dead take back responsibility for continued existence. I felt the king shudder. I sat back on my bare heels, cradling his head. All eyes were upon me. In menacing undertones, I heard the word magic.

  I hoped they’d stack the faggots high around me so I would burn fast—best not to linger at times like those.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE KING had unquestioned power in Hesse-Davia, something for which I was to be profoundly grateful over the next few hours. He had not been aware of my arrest. There was no more talk of my being a witch or of using magic, first to try and kill the king and then to save him.

  For my part, I was incandescent with rage that all my good efforts seemed to be so easily overthrown. Whilst I had been amusing myself with his youngest son, the king had almost been killed. Something had to be done. He had eaten nothing since his return, merely had some wine to drink, which four other men had shared with him, and then he had gone to pray. He did not appreciate my joke about the dangers of Christian prayer, but I could think of nothing else to offer him.

  I studied his rooms carefully. The bedding had been completely changed, as I had requested. The new coverings were not to my taste: rich damasks and velvets in deep burgundy. One simpering minion pointed out to me in a supercilious manner that they matched the decoration of the room: Baroque style, had I not heard of it? I didn’t point out to him that Baroque was quite out of fashion now in the best drawing rooms in England. England, as I constantly reminded myself, was a very long way away. Nevertheless, he continued to follow me around the room, pointing out the finer detail in the ornate paintings and the crimson and azure hangings, and something was pricking at the back of my skull again. I felt it as a little draft of understanding blowing from some open door of memory. But what was it? Why could I not bring it further forward in my mind?

  I ran my finger over one of the richly detailed paintings. “When were these done?”

  He thought for a moment. “They were commissioned when His Majesty took his summer leave last year. They were completed for his return.”

  I pursed my lips for a moment. It coincided with the onset of the man’s illness, but I had never seen fewer than ten people in this room with him. He even slept with a manservant at the foot of his bed. I slapped my head in anger; I had not even thought to ask. “Has anyone else been sick with the same illness as the king? Think, man.”

  He screwed up his face theatrically. “Absolutely not.”

  “They must have been! Make inquiries.” I was desperate to be right.

  But apparently I was not. After exhaustive inquiries, there was not one account of anyone feeling sick at all from prolonged exposure to bad art. I felt like stamping with frustration. All my good work being undone by someone or something cleverer than I. Could I pack the old man up and take him back to the lodge? I could see in his face that he wanted this too, but what could be done? He was the king. His country had already had a minor war in his absence. He was only king whilst he was actually being… king. At least he recovered swiftly from this latest setback. An hour’s rest and he was up and about and wanting to hold councils and do whatever else he usually did all day. I was glad. I had a personal problem to take care of.

  His Royal Highness Prince Christian Aleksey had made his reappearance as I’d been breathing life back into his father. I’d been aware of him, of course. Even after this short time of our acquaintance, I was always aware of Aleksey whenever he was in the same room. I had seen his bare feet in the crowd as I’d cradled the gasping old man in my arms. He had at least put on a shirt. I’d ke
pt him in the corner of my eye as I walked around inspecting the wall hangings. I’d stood a little way from him as the courtiers had been questioned about their health. But I could delay the inevitable no longer. When everyone swept out after the king, I put a hand onto his arm to retain him. He pouted, staring stonily ahead, but stayed behind.

  “I’m sorry.” What else was there to be said? I’d knocked him unconscious with one blow. I knew I’d wounded his pride as much as the side of his head. This was black and blue, but I did not attempt to ease it. I think we’d both had quite enough of my ministrations for one day. He looked down for a moment. He’d been about to examine his boots, something he did habitually when challenged or thinking, but this time he found bare feet—toes. He scrunched up his face in confusion. I snorted; I couldn’t help it. He gave me a wounded look and then shook his head fondly, despairingly. He mock punched the side of my face, and I took the blow in the same theatrical manner: a slow motion spinning away.

  He laughed. “I should thank you for saving my father’s life again, not want to bend you over and—” He stopped there, thankfully. I’m fairly sure he was as confused by the image he’d conjured as I. Perhaps he bent his soldiers over and flogged them. It was an interesting thought….

  We began to walk back to our rooms. I desperately needed to put something on my feet. Shaved head, un-tucked shirt, bare feet, I looked like a condemned man heading toward a scaffold. That was not a thought I wanted to dwell upon.

  “What did you do? With my father? I have never seen anything like that.”

  “I learned it many years ago. A child drowned, and an old woman revived him. She was… I suppose you would call her a doctor.”

  “A woman? Hardly.”

  I glanced over at him. “You do not think a woman could be a doctor equally well as a man?”

  “Of course not. How ridiculous can you possibly be? Maybe my beloved Anastasia could take my place as head of the army. I’m sure her dresses would look superb fluttering in the wind as she charged, lance held high.”

  This was so annoying and so stupid that I didn’t want to engage with it. Perhaps I just didn’t like being reminded of Anastasia or having her called his beloved. Then I wondered if he’d done this deliberately: mention her and remind me of her place in his heart. I’d apologized for the punch, but he still wore the mark of another man—a stronger, quicker man—upon his face. He had very effectively gotten his revenge, if this was what it had been. I determined there and then not to underestimate this prince of mine again. He was not vacuous and flighty, as he liked to give the impression he was. And why was I calling him my prince? He was strong wine: something I thought about consuming but knew would be bad for me.

  Aleksey seemed to be enjoying my silence. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t confusion leading me to not speak and that I’d seen through his nonsense very easily, but I felt this would only encourage him. I took my revenge upon his revenge. Petty, I knew, but quite satisfying. “Would it be convenient for me to leave my equipment here until it can be safely shipped? I would like to leave tomorrow.”

  “What do you mean? We have already discussed this. You’re staying!”

  I didn’t remember discussing it at all. But then I remembered my hands upon him, his eyes closing, the arch of his back to my touch. Had we actually been deciding my fate in those touches? Perhaps we had. But it could not be. Hesse-Davia had nothing for me. A man like me had nothing anywhere in the civilized world, but certainly not in this country that favored medieval superstition over enlightened law.

  I’d rather take my chances in prison than on a spike.

  We’d arrived back at the rooms. He came into mine as if he now belonged there and flung himself once more upon the bed. I pulled on my boots, arranged my dress a little more decorously, and sat down on the edge alongside him.

  After a moment he stretched out one arm, his hand coming to rest by my hip, not quite touching me but close enough to be felt in my mind. I studied it, then commented dryly, “You should clean your nails.”

  “Oh, for the Lord’s sake, you sound like an old woman.”

  “They are dirty, and you’ve probably been scratching and picking at your wounds with those nails, and so you now have some bad blood.”

  “Now you sound like a priest. I do not have the devil under my nails, Nikolai. And if I do, he cannot be washed off.”

  I shook my head despairingly. “I cannot prove all that I know. I speak only from the results of a lifetime’s observation of these things. People who are cleaner survive injury better than those who are dirty. It is why, incidentally, women make better healers than men. They are generally cleaner. And before you spout some more of your arrogant nonsense, I learned all I know about healing from a woman.”

  He drew back his hand and studied it, turning it this way and that. “You must have been dropped on your head as an infant. It is the only explanation.”

  “I’m sure I was. I remember worse, but think….” I touched him very lightly on his temple, where the bruising was the worst. He winced, perhaps expecting me to lash out again. “Why did I hit you here?”

  “Because you are an untrustworthy bastard?”

  I smiled. “I meant here specifically and not… I don’t know… on your shoulder.”

  “Don’t be so irritating. You know why. Because I would not have lost my senses as I did had you hit me on my shoulder.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Well… I don’t know why! Because my brain is in my head?”

  “I’m glad you can confirm that; I had wondered. So, why does hitting you here affect your brain? I only hit bone.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, all right? I am not a doctor.”

  “But you are a soldier, and you know where to hit for unconsciousness, where to stab for death, where to stab to incapacitate, but you don’t know why; you can’t explain it. Well, it is like that with dirt. I see that poor people who live surrounded by dirt die very quickly when they are only slightly injured, but that wealthy people can sometimes survive much graver wounds. Why is that?”

  “Perhaps the rich are better fed and less anxious.”

  I frowned and looked at him closely. He looked embarrassed by his comment, but I shook my head. “No, that was the first wise thing I think I have heard exiting your mouth. I might make a doctor of you yet.” I sank a little into myself. “You might do better than I. For all that I know, I cannot seem to save your father. On second thoughts, do not bother to listen to me. Keep your nails as dirty as you wish.”

  “No, I’ll clean them now, or you’ll think about the dirt every time I touch you.”

  I stood up rapidly and went toward the balcony. I heard him sigh. Let him. I was tired of playing his games for today. I only liked playing games if I knew I would win. Win or lose, I had the distinct feeling that playing with Aleksey was dangerous for my health.

  CHAPTER 11

  AFTER A month of near fasting, I was very hungry by dinnertime. I had Stephen show me the way down to the banqueting hall. The evening meal was not to be taken in the airy dining room I had eaten luncheon in but in the more formal and ancient hall in honor of the king’s return to health. Something of an impromptu celebration had been ordered. There was to be entertainment: music and dancing. Stephen was so excited I thought he would be sick, and I warned him that if he disgraced his new position I would ban him from ever attending me again. He nodded solemnly, and I could not then get another word out of him as he led me through the dark hallways. I noticed that the castle seemed much colder and gloomier now than it had upon my arrival. I had been here nearly five weeks by my reckoning, and winter was coming.

  The hall was festive with sweet-smelling rushes upon the floor and hangings of greenery. This time the tables were arranged in the shape of a large flattened U. Important royals sat on the short joining table at the top, and the rest of us arranged ourselves down the two long arms. I was annoyed to find myself sitting next to Prince J
ohn at the very top of one of the legs. I thought they might at least have seated a lady between us, for form’s sake, but as the meal got underway it occurred to me that he might have engineered the seating arrangement. Aleksey was seated diagonally across from me at the very farthest end of the short table. I was surprised at this, as his brother sat next to the king, until I realized with a smile that Aleksey was nearest the door that led out to the formal garden. He got the benefit of the cool air and the opportunity to disappear every once in a while with no one noticing his absence—except me.

  At first I made polite conversation with John and found him to be witty and clever, well read, and relatively well informed. He was also curious, a trait that endears in anyone, for he was genuine in his interest in my experiences and listened attentively when I spoke. I gave him the same courtesy, and we were getting along famously until he said after a slight pause, “I hear you had an unfortunate experience on your journey, Doctor.”

  I asked him again to call me Nikolai, and he nodded briefly in assent. I think he knew I was dissembling. Finally I had to admit that I had witnessed both the burning of an old lady and the impalement of a young man.

  He nodded sagely. “Witches are a curse, but I am more interested in the boy. Did he speak at all—at the end?” He dabbed his lips with his napkin and waved for a servant to bring him a clean one.

  “He was not in any condition to speak, Your Highness. I believe he was screaming too much.”

  He winced, nodding. “Was anything said by his accusers of the man with whom he had been discovered?”

  I hesitated. I was watching his hands. He was sitting with the casual, slouched aspect of one who finds life full of ennui—except for his hands. Here he betrayed himself. I do not think he even realized that he had one fingernail digging into the palm of his hand so hard he was bleeding. I lifted my eyes slowly. I held his gaze until he had to look away. “I believe they knew who he had been with, yes. But they did not tell me.”