Wild Wind

by Patricia Ryan

  Satisfied with the dose he'd chosen, Gaspar unfolded a parchment packet on which he'd written Valerian and poured a little drift of the brownish powdered root next to the hemlock in the mortar. He paused, wondering whether to add more. Lady Nicolette was tall for a woman, but of a slender build.

  Valerian, being governed by Mercury, had warming properties, which made it useful for nervous conditions, seizures and headaches. But, as with so many potent herbs, too much could produce symptoms similar to those for which it had been employed—searing headaches, wrenching spasms, even hallucinations.

  For his purposes, Gaspar sought an amount sufficient to soothe the nerves, but not enough to cause any alarming side effects. He wanted merely to complement the sedative effects of the hemlock. There would be little harm in the lady Nicolette's awakening with a headache, but hallucinations might raise suspicions.

  Too bad he had to sedate her with the hemlock. How he'd love to look into her eyes, wide with terror and mortification, as he did all the things to her he'd yearned to do for so long. How he longed to hear her cry and beg, to feel her thrashing beneath him in a panic as he pounded into her...

  The hemlock would rob him of such pleasures by inducing a deep sleep. Did he have to use it? Excitement mounted within him as he reflected on the potential of dispensing with the hemlock and giving her valerian alone—but far more than would be prescribed for its curative properties. Bereft of her senses, she'd be easier to control. And, deranged or not, as long as she remained conscious—and no woman could sleep through what he had in store for her—she would be completely aware of what she was being made to endure, a tantalizing prospect.

  Quite possibly the valerian would affect her memory, and she would not even recall her ravishment afterward. If she did, her mind would be so dazed, and her account so confused, that she would most likely be deemed ill and suffering from delusions. The only real risk would be if her report was believed and she could identify Gaspar as having been the one to force himself on her, but if he wore a bandit's mask, she'd never know it was him. Most likely some hapless cutpurse would be hanged for the deed.

  It would never come to that, though. Even if she did remember, they'd think she was imagining things, perhaps going mad. He could take her night after night, and no one would be the wiser.

  Gaspar tossed out the contents of the mortar and replaced it with a generous mound of valerian. He hesitated, then added yet more. Hallucinations might actually be rather intriguing, and he didn't much mind spasms; he was certainly strong enough to hold her down. Or he could tie her to the bed; he'd probably have to gag her, anyway, so she wouldn't awaken the household. As for headaches, he cared not how much she suffered upon awakening. Let the bitch suffer, as he had. Let her writhe in agony, her mind a chaos of nightmarish memories, wondering what was real and what was imagined. It was only just, after all the years he'd striven to prove himself to her, hoping that she'd eventually view him as a man, only to have her regard him as dispassionately as she did the rest of her inferiors.

  As an afterthought, he added to the valerian a handful of other herbs known to affect the senses, crushing them together with his marble pestle. He winced at their noxious odor, the kind of smell you could taste in the back of your throat. He'd have to grind the stuff fine and mix it well into something strongly flavored, or she'd never swallow it. She liked spiced wine with her dessert; he could give it to her after supper tonight.

  The rest would be easy. Milo had moved out of the solar; she was all alone up there. After the household had retired for the evening, he could slip into the pantry and climb the little service stairwell to the solar. She'd be feeling woozy by then, perhaps even have begun seeing visions and hearing things. Or perhaps she'd be insensible. He'd slap her awake.

  And then she'd pay, he thought, grinding the brown powder into dust, grinding and grinding until sweat beaded on his forehead and his hand ached. She'd pay for ignoring him all these years. He'd show her she wasn't so high and mighty.

  He'd show her.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  "Spiced wine, milady?"

  Nicki looked up from her peach tart to find Gaspar hovering over with a flagon. Having drunk more wine than usual at supper, she was tempted to wave him away, but he'd be disappointed. Given his facility with herbcraft, he liked to mix up the spiced wine himself and serve it at the end of the meal—to the family, of course, not to the dozens of soldiers supping noisily at the rows of tables that filled the great hall.

  "Thank you, Gaspar."

  Smiling, he set a fresh goblet before her and filled it from his flagon, which he then re-corked.

  "What about me?" Milo demanded thickly. "I'd like some."

  "This bottle is empty, milord," Gaspar explained as he headed toward the buttery. "I'll fetch another."

  Obviously disgruntled, Milo lifted his wine goblet and drained it. This was the first he'd gotten out of bed since they returned home yesterday, and it seemed he was back to his old habits. To her knowledge, he'd eaten nothing since those few spoonfuls of porridge this morning, but he'd drunk steadily all day. "So, Alex," he said to his cousin, who sat across the table from them. "I understand you're going to learn how to read and write."

  Alex looked at Nicki as he took a slow sip from his own goblet. She evaded his gaze, as she frequently did, fearful that he'd see it all in her eyes, the stubborn passion that had never died, but which could never be—a passion, moreover, which he evidently didn't share. He'd never denied hating her, she reminded herself. Although his feelings may have mellowed into ambivalence since their encounter at the longboat, any interest he might have in her—beyond her ability to teach him to read—could only be of a purely carnal nature. His love for her had died nine years ago, when she'd chosen to marry Milo. Now she had to live with that choice.

  "Aye," Alex said. "Lady Nicolette is most kind. I hope she's patient, as well."

  Milo smiled. "I think I can attest to her patience. I must say, I was delighted when she told me you'd asked her to be your teacher." He chuckled. "I should have thought of it myself."

  Alex looked down at his untouched peach tart, frowning. Nicki wondered what had discomfited him.

  "You two are getting on quite nicely, then. Excellent." Milo lifted his goblet, grimacing to find it empty. Unsurprisingly, he reached for Nicki's, swallowing down half of her spiced wine in a single tilt.

  "Milord!" Nicki turned to find Gaspar hurrying toward them from the buttery, another flagon in his hand. "I poured that for your lady wife."

  "You can pour her another." Milo brought the goblet to his mouth, but Gaspar snatched it from him before he could drink any more. "What do you think you're—"

  "That was from the old batch," Gaspar said soothingly. "It might have begun to turn." He filled Milo's empty goblet from the flagon in his hand. "There you go, sire. This will taste better, I wager."

  "It is better," Milo pronounced upon taking a sip. "Much better."

  Some time later, as the serving wenches were clearing the tables, one of them reached for Milo's goblet, which still contained some wine. He yanked it out of her reach, then, swaying on his bench, set it down awkwardly, its contents sloshing onto the table.

  "Milo," Nicki said quietly. "Perhaps you've had enough."

  Shaking his head, he reached for the goblet again, but knocked it over, spilling wine onto the table. Nicki stanched it with a napkin.

  "The hell..." Milo muttered, waving a hand in front of his eyes. "I'm seeing double."

  Nicki looked toward Gaspar, who observed all this with an expression of inexplicable alarm, his face ashen. Curious; one would think he'd be used to this sort of thing by now. "Gaspar," she said, "my husband is ready for bed, I think. Would you please help him to—"

  "Damn!" Milo lurched to his feet, his eyes wild. "What in bloody hell—"

  "Milo?" Alex stood up, his brow furrowed with concern. "What's the matter?"

  "He'll be all right." Nicki rose and put her a
rm around her husband. He was shivering. "Milo, Gaspar's going to help you to—"

  "Something's wrong," Milo said in a quavering voice as his hands began to shake. "Can't you see something's wrong? I'm sick, damn your eyes! I think I'm dying."

  "Come along, sire," Gaspar coaxed as he helped Milo over the bench.

  "I'll help him." Shouldering Gaspar aside, Alex put an arm around him. Gaspar looked on stonily as Alex led his cousin across the hall, with Nicki following closely. The soldiers ignored them, for the most part, accustomed to seeing their castellan being helped to bed.

  "I'm dying!" Milo wailed, squirming against Alex's grasp. "You're trying to kill me."

  Nicki patted her husband's back. "Alex doesn't want to kill you, Milo."

  Milo peered at his cousin, evidently struggling to focus on his face. "I thought you were Gaspar. Gaspar's trying to kill me."

  Nicki's heart sank; she'd never seen him so bad. "Nobody's trying to— Milo?"

  Spasms racked his body, head to toe. Alex called his name as he eased him down onto the rushes, where he convulsed for a few moments before going limp.

  "Milo?" Nicki took his face in her hands. "Milo! Milo, talk to me!"

  "Let me get him into bed." Alex lifted his insensate cousin as if he were a rag doll and carried him to his bed by the hearth. His concern for Milo was touching.

  Every soldier in the hall, and all of the staff as well, watched in wide-eyed silence. Thank the saints for Gaspar. He cupped his hands around his mouth, bellowing, "Supper is over. Everyone back to the barracks."

  As the men filed out amid a buzz of murmurings, Alex pulled off Milo's boots and tunic. Milo's head whipped back and forth, a guttural groan rising from him. He clutched at the bedcovers as shudders coursed through him.

  "Milo." Nicki stroked his hair with trembling fingers. "Milo, look at me. Milo!"

  She didn't hear Alex saying her name until he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. "Nicki, did you hear me? He needs a physician. Tell me where to find one."

  "There's a barber-surgeon in St. Clair." She gave him directions to the home of old Guyot. As he turned to leave, she seized his arm. "What do you think is wrong with him, Alex?"

  "I don't know." He looked toward the high table at the other end of the hall, empty now save for Gaspar, studying them with his arms folded. For a moment, she thought he was going to say something, but he just shook his head as if to clear it. "I really don't know. It could be...anything. Some sort of fever, probably." He squeezed her hand. "I'll be back soon, with the surgeon. Stay with Milo."

  * * *

  "That's it, then," said Maître Guyot as he set his little knife in the bucket of blood and bandaged the vein he'd opened in Milo's arm. Guyot nodded to Alex, who'd taken on the unpleasant task of holding his cousin down for the procedure. "You may release him. There's naught to do now but pray."

  Nicki, kneeling next to her husband's bed, closed her eyes and murmured another in a long string of prayers as Milo tossed and moaned. The praying served a dual purpose—to influence God to release Milo from this dreadful infirmity and to keep her mind off what the surgeon was doing to treat it. Her husband's sudden attack had thrown her into a kind of panic, but now that his stomach had been purged and he'd been bled, she had to believe that the worst of the virulent humors had been expelled from his system.

  When she opened her eyes, she saw Alex kneeling on the other side of the bed and crossing himself. He looked at her, his gaze dark and sober. "Are you all right? You're so pale."

  "I'm fine, I just..."

  Alex cocked an eyebrow. How useless, to lie to the one man who could see into her soul. "Nay," she admitted. "I loathe bloodlettings. I feel faint just thinking about them, and to have to be present at one..." She shook her head.

  "'Tis true," old Guyot interjected, untying his blood-spattered apron. He wore a green coif over his sparse white hair; Nicki always thought of a lizard when she saw him. "She's quite irrational about them. Won't submit to them herself. Once, I had her tied down so I could bleed her for a fever, and she fought so hard against the ropes that they cut into her wrists. Her husband made me release her."

  "I would have, too," Alex said quietly, his gaze still trained on her.

  "'Twas a mistake." Guyot unrolled the sleeves of his tunic. "And one that might have cost her her life. Bleedings can be critical. Take his lordship here. He would have died for sure if we hadn't drained the tainted blood from him."

  Gaining his feet, Alex said, "What do you think the problem is?"

  "I know what the problem is," replied the old man testily as he packed up his satchel. "His lordship is suffering from a cephalical ailment."

  Nicki and Alex exchanged a look of puzzlement as she rose from the floor.

  The surgeon made a face that implied only the barest toleration of their ignorance. "His brain has been afflicted with hot vapors."

  "Ah," Nicki said. "So, does that mean he's—"

  "Being situated at the top of the body, the brain—which is by nature temperate—is exceedingly vulnerable to overheating." Guyot lifted his bloody knife from the bucket and wiped it off on a rag. "Since it is the seat of sense and reason, when the brain is overcome by heat, the afflicted party may experience such dementia as his lordship displays."

  "But what caused this overheating?" Alex asked. "Is he ill, or...is it something else?"

  "Of course he's ill," the old man snapped. "'Tis a contagion brought on by a flux in the atmosphere. 'Twill strike others, mark my word—especially if they stand close enough to his lordship to breathe in the malignant vapors as they're driven out of him."

  Nicki and Alex both backed away from the bed.

  "Will he be all right?" Nicki asked.

  "That's for the Almighty to decide." Guyot pinned his mantle over his shoulders.

  "Isn't there anything more we can do?" she asked, dismayed at the notion of just sitting around and waiting for fate to take its course.

  The old surgeon nodded. "Boil a red onion in a mixture of verjuice, honey and mustard. Hold it under his nose twice a day, while it's hot, and make him smell it. Do you need me to write it down?"

  "Verjuice, honey and mustard," Nicki said. "I'll remember."

  "Very well, then." Maître Guyot cleared his throat and held out his withered old hand, palm up. "Then all that remains is the matter of the—"

  "Oh, yes." Nicki dug in her pouch for the requisite payment and pressed the coins into his hand.

  "Twice a day," he barked on his way out. "While it's hot. I won't be responsible for the consequences if you forget."

  Nicki and Alex stood in silence over Milo's bed as he writhed and muttered.

  "I'll sit up with him tonight," Alex offered, his old instinct for gallantry having reasserted itself. She almost wished he would avoid any such chivalric gestures; it would help to dampen her feelings for him.

  "Nonsense. I've already ordered a pallet made up for me right here, next to the bed. I'll stay with him."

  "You shouldn't be anywhere near him. You might catch his illness."

  "So might you."

  "I'm a man," Alex protested. "I could withstand it better. I should take care of him. He's my cousin, after all."

  "He's my husband," Nicki said, quietly but firmly.

  Alex looked at her. She saw a muscle jump in his jaw. Softly he said, "Won't you let me do anything for you, Nicki?"

  "I won't let you do this. It's not your place. It's mine."

  He rubbed the back his neck. "Promise you'll summon me if...he becomes difficult to handle."

  "I will. Good night, Alex."

  "Good night."

  * * *

  "Where are you? Christ, woman, where are you?"

  Nicki sat bolt upright on her pallet, her heart racing. "Milo?" It was dark; the candle must have burned down. She hadn't meant to fall asleep, only to rest her eyes, but she must have been more tired than she realized.

  "Are you there?" Milo's voice was groggy
and breathless.

  Nicki stood up and saw the dark shadow of her husband sitting up in bed. "Here I am, Milo. Lie down."

  "Thank God." He sank back down onto his pillow. "You're here. You're here." Nicki smoothed the damp hair off his forehead. He'd been sweating; that was probably good, because it would cool the hot vapors ravaging his brain. Most likely he'd slept, as well, for if he'd been consumed all this time by the delirium he'd suffered earlier, she never could have fallen asleep. That had to be a good sign.

  "Go back to sleep, Milo. You've been sick. You need your sleep."

  He reached for her, pulling her onto the bed. "Lie with me. Please. It's been so long."

  It had been a long time—years—since they'd lain together in the same bed. Neither of them had much missed that physical intimacy, but now he was ill, and in need of the comfort of another warm body next to his. And surely comfort was all he was after. He was incapable of anything else.

  "Take this off," he said, tugging at the wrapper she wore over her night shift. "I'm cold. I want to feel your warmth." She slipped it off and laid it at the foot of the bed, then got under the covers next to her husband—who was shivering, despite the balmy night—pulling the bed curtains closed around them lest she doze off here. Servants slept in the rushes nearby, and soldiers would start straggling in around dawn. It wouldn't do for them to see her in bed in a sleeveless shift.

  Milo gathered her in his arms, and she cautiously returned the embrace. Maître Guyot would disapprove of such close contact, but if God intended for her to be stricken with this malady, she would be stricken with it. Regardless of the course their marriage had taken, Milo was her husband, and he needed her.

  "You were always so warm," he murmured, his shivers abating. "So soft. How it pleased me just to hold you." It frightened Nicki to hold Milo, and she did so carefully. She could feel his ribs through his shirt, and the bandage on his arm where he'd been bled. He smelled of wine and sickness, and his skin was clammy to the touch.