Viper's Blood

by David Gilman

  Blackstone turned for the door. ‘If I’d thought you were really asleep I’d have told him the truth,’ he lied.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Blackstone’s quarters were welcoming and warm, a far cry from muddy fields and a wet blanket for cover. It could make a man soft having this much comfort, he thought, a faint memory stirring of a home he had once had and the way his wife had been careful to cosset her family. Candlelight flickered and the embers from the fireplace cast their crimson glow. Sheepskins were laid across freshly cut rushes and he could smell their sweetness. He glanced to where Aelis lay asleep on the feather mattress. He had rested on it when the servants had first taken him to the room and decided it was too soft for him and that he would sleep on the floor with his cloak over him and his back to the fire’s warmth. Her head rested to one side on the bolster and the bed covering lay across her just above her breasts. The linen sheet crumpled against the rise and fall of her breathing. She obviously slept naked and the image in his mind of her body below the covering stirred desire in him again.

  It would serve no purpose to bind himself to the woman; it might make him care for her and feel the need to protect her more than he was already doing. By holding a mirror to his life and seeing a truth he could not explain she had already enticed him closer. A voice inside him warned against staying in the same room. When darkness came witches turned to shadows and slipped into men’s souls. He lit another candle, tall enough to last through the night. Witch or seer, healer or poisoner, was there any difference? he asked himself. He stripped off his clothing and placed firewood into the embers. They smouldered and flamed and he settled himself onto the sheepskin rug, the soft wool itching at first against his skin. The wine and a sense of safety lulled him into idle thought. The comfort of the wool made him think of the simplicity of being a shepherd. No battles to be fought other than those against wolves and bear. A hut and dogs for company and once in a while payment to a whore. And when a shepherd died a clutch of sheep’s wool was put into his palm so that when he reached heaven the angels would know he was a good and simple man who tended his flock and that was why he could not attend church on a Sunday.

  Blackstone let the image fade. What of when he died? Would Wolf Sword be in his palm still held by its blood knot on his wrist so the angels would know the kind of man he was? What excuse would he offer for not attending mass? Would he proffer the memory of childhood and the village priest’s switch across his back? Or his father’s skill in teaching him how every leaf took life from its tree and each animal they hunted was a gift from nature? Earth and sky, wind and rain. The silver goddess nestled at his throat. He raised her to his lips. She would take him across the dark abyss as surely as she had eased the soul of the dying Welsh archer who had pressed her into his hand all those years ago.

  As his eyes closed he heard a soft rustle of the floor reeds, swift and almost silent; then the figure was suddenly upon him. In that instant he reined in his instinct to roll clear and reach for his archer’s knife, for he wanted her. She slid next to him and he felt her arm around him and her needle-sharp fingernails on his chest muscles as the fullness of her breasts pressed into him. He turned and pulled her into the crook of his arm and let his free hand explore her. She urged him on as her hands sought him out and then tried to turn him away so she could straddle him. She bit his lips and clawed his skin but he easily overwhelmed her as she bucked beneath him. And as he pushed into her it felt as though his mind was held as it had been when he saw her with Killbere at Balon. Nothing was clear, the sensations overwhelmed him, and for a moment he thought he had been drugged again.

  As he hungrily pressed his mouth against her raised nipples the spell was broken. She pulled his face to hers. She whispered something that he could not hear; her breathing was laboured, and sweat glided between their bodies. He took hold of her arms and the candlelight shimmered across her as he raised himself to gaze down on her. The burn marks on her breasts and belly from her torture had faded. Her eyes widened like a trapped beast, crimson from the fire glow, showing him the witch in her. He didn’t care. If she was the devil’s servant he would subdue her. She embraced him with her legs and pulled him deeper into her. And then once the fury eased and her body arched they settled into a slow rhythmic embrace. There was no telling how long the night lasted. The last thing he remembered was rolling off her as the candle flame flickered and died. Aelis lay in the crook of his arm, her breathing slow, her breasts soft against his chest. He breathed the fragrance of their sex and its potion eased him into sleep.

  *

  She was gone when he awoke. For a few moments he wondered whether the night with Aelis had been a drunken dream, but he knew it was not. He could smell her fragrance on him. He went down to the courtyard where his men were billeted and sluiced his body with the cold water from the well. Some of the men smiled knowingly.

  ‘Sleep well, Thomas?’ said Will Longdon as he cranked the well handle and poured water for his cooking pot.

  ‘Well enough,’ said Blackstone, wary of the archer’s grin.

  ‘Aye. I see you’ve been off in the Count’s orchard early this morning. Have to be careful of those peach trees when you reach up: they snare a man’s skin.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘Scratch your back and neck. Best to wear a shirt when you’re foraging.’ He turned away, carrying the pail towards the men who were tending their cooking fires.

  ‘I could save you the long horse ride to Milan by kicking your arse over those mountains,’ called Blackstone.

  The men jeered as Will Longdon played the fool and hurried his pace.

  ‘Thomas!’ Killbere called from one of the palace doors and beckoned him.

  Pulling on his shirt and jupon Blackstone strode across the yard. Killbere led the way inside. ‘The Count’s chamberlain sent me to find you. There’s a problem. The child is sick.’

  ‘The Princess?’

  Killbere nodded. They climbed the stairs within the turret until they reached a broad landing. The Princess’s companion ladies waited outside one of the doors. Their fearful looks said more than words. Pestilence.

  ‘She has the fever?’ said Blackstone.

  Killbere nodded. ‘In the night, or early this morning. The town’s physician has not yet arrived.’

  ‘He’s been sent for though?’ said Blackstone, keeping back from the door like Killbere. The very thought of the plague being in the room was enough to make fighting men fearful.

  ‘He serves those who cannot pay in the town. It’s his contract with the city council and the Count. The noblemen pay for their treatment and he tends the poor.’

  ‘Has it struck the town yet?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Killbere.

  Blackstone gripped Killbere’s arm and lowered his voice so the Princess’s ladies could not hear. ‘Gilbert, this child means nothing to me, but if she dies I can’t seek my revenge. I cannot get into Milan. Find the damned doctor.’

  Killbere turned his back on the women, who were now looking towards the two Englishmen. ‘Thomas, if that child dies we all may die. Who knows how long she has borne the pestilence? They say it strikes quickly but who knows? She was coughing on the journey here and Henry said she has been shivering these past two days.’

  Blackstone knew the situation could worsen. ‘Henry was close to her. We need that doctor. Where’s the Count?’

  ‘With his family. They’re staying in their private quarters until the physician examines her and the priest attends her.’

  ‘Then why has he sent for me?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Because Aelis is in there and he is fearful of what she might do. He wants you to get her out.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Entering the room felt more dangerous than defying night creatures in a forest. He eased open the door and saw Aelis bending over the Princess. The room was warm from the fire burning in the grate but the canopy that hung across the bed moved gently from the breeze that came through the open window.
The child was either asleep or close to death, he decided as he heard the soft rasping of her breath.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Aelis as she looked at him.

  ‘If it’s the pestilence I’ll seal you in this room with her,’ he said dispassionately.

  She smiled. ‘You’re cold-hearted, Thomas. After last night I wouldn’t have thought that of you.’

  ‘Don’t confuse lust with anything other than what it is. I’ve seen the plague before and I’ll not expose myself or my men to it. Why did you come in here?’

  ‘I heard the child’s cries.’

  ‘You should have waited for the physician.’

  ‘I didn’t know how ill she was. There are times you have to step into danger. Haven’t you ever done that?’ she said with a hint of teasing in her voice.

  Why was she being so unconcerned? he asked himself. If she had the powers of a witch, did that protect her from the pestilence?

  Aelis rinsed out a cloth and placed it on the Princess’s forehead. ‘Thomas, it’s not the plague. The child has a fever. That’s all.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ he said. ‘Look at those red blotches on her arms. I’ve seen the pestilence before.’

  She sat on the edge of the bed and held the child’s hand. ‘Don’t bring the physician here. Tell the Count she will recover.’

  He had closed the door behind him but stepped no further into the room. ‘If she dies because of what you have done to her I won’t be able to save you.’

  ‘Think clearly about this. I give her herbs to reduce the fever and I will feed her broth when she is able. The physician would bleed her and that will weaken her further. If the pestilence has reached the town then the last person you want in here is the man who has been treating those who have it. Her skin is blemished by the fever; that’s all it is.’

  There was a tap on the door. Blackstone opened it. Killbere stood close to the opening; behind him in the background, hovering with an impatient and worried look, stood the Count’s chamberlain, and with him a valet, the Princess’s chambermaids and ladies-in-waiting. A crowd of those who attended the royal child was gathering.

  ‘They’re talking about sending in some of the Count’s men. She’s a princess, for God’s sake. They can’t have a… a…’ He looked at Blackstone, trying to find a description of the woman that would not cause offence to his friend. ‘You know what I mean,’ he said.

  Blackstone glanced at the chamberlain, whose face clouded with concern. ‘Tell them… tell them that the Princess was tired from the journey, that she has only a chill, not the pestilence, that she is recovering and that she has asked to be left in peace for a few hours more before her ladies attend her. She is content with the administrations of the… er…’ Blackstone faltered.

  ‘Apothecary?’ Killbere suggested.

  ‘Apothecary,’ he agreed. ‘And that if the pestilence is in the city then the physician should stay away. For everyone’s sake.’

  Killbere sighed. ‘I’ll stand at the door until you get her out. And that will give me enough time to pray that your lying tongue does not send us all to the devil’s graveyard. If the child has it, Thomas, then you might as well stay in there with her.’ He pulled closed the door.

  Aelis looked at him. ‘Not so afraid, then? Or cold-hearted.’

  ‘I need that child alive. She serves a purpose.’

  ‘Like me?’

  He ignored her. She had predicted this journey. Whatever advantage he could gain from her would help him reach those who had sent the assassin that murdered his wife and child. ‘Do not let her die,’ was all he said. Because of their passion the previous night he knew he had been drawn closer to her than he had wished. Part of him felt guilty for having succumbed to his desire for her, haunted as he was by his dead wife’s memory. Whatever magic Aelis had cast he had been willing.

  ‘Help me,’ said Aelis as she eased back the Princess’s bed coverings.

  He stepped around a chair and bench towards the bolstered bed. Isabelle lay unmoving and for a moment he thought again that her flushed face and hands were the warning signs of the plague.

  ‘Lift her,’ said Aelis.

  He hesitated.

  ‘She needs dry bedding and a fresh nightdress.’

  ‘I’m not undressing a girl child,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘No one is asking you to. Lift her.’

  He did as she instructed. The eleven-year-old girl was as light as a feather but her clothing was soaked with sweat. As he lifted her free of the bed Aelis stripped back the linen undersheet from the padded cover that lay on the feather mattress. Blackstone looked down at the helpless girl. Agnes, his own daughter, would have been her age had she lived. For a moment the unconscious girl in his arms was more than a means to an end and the tenderness he suddenly felt towards her caught him by surprise. Aelis quickly remade the bed and then eased aside the green coverlet stitched on one side with sable. ‘Put her down,’ she said.

  Blackstone bent forward and placed her gently onto the mattress. His face hovered close to hers and he resisted the urge to kiss her forehead. His calloused hand eased away a lock of hair that had escaped from below her nightcap. Aelis nodded him away as she began to lift the child’s nightdress.

  ‘Close the window,’ she said. ‘There’s been enough air to ease away the stale smells.’

  He did as he was told and as he pulled the latch closed he saw the Count’s captain of the guard talking to a horseman who had obviously been let through the palace gates. Will Longdon and the archers had gathered to one side and Meulon and Gaillard watched with the men-at-arms. The captain of the guard ushered the horseman across the courtyard towards one of the palace doors.

  ‘All right,’ said Aelis, making him turn his attention back to her. Isabelle had been changed into a fresh nightdress.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘What for?’

  Aelis’s resigned smile triggered an alarm in him. ‘To see whether she has the pestilence or not.’

  *

  By the time the palace chapel’s bells rang for vespers, Isabelle’s fever had subsided enough for her to sip water, and as the candles burned lower and the cresset lamps were lit she took a little broth. Blackstone fed the fire small pieces of wood so no great heat would build in the room; it was enough that any evening chill was kept at bay. The chamberlain had been told how Aelis had saved Killbere’s life and of the child’s progress. The Count sanctioned Aelis and Blackstone to stay with their charge until morning. Blackstone slept fitfully on the narrow bench, his back against the wall; he awoke when the chapel bell rang for the night’s vigil prayers and he saw that Aelis had stayed awake at the child’s side. She sat, head unbowed, her back straight, eyes slightly open, staring into the flickering shadows as if she was watching something unfold ahead of her. The muted sound of prayers whispered across the palace’s walls, but Aelis made no sign of hearing them. Isabelle slept soundly. Settled on the child’s chest was the crystal rock he had seen when she had healed Killbere. It had some significance but as it roused only mild curiosity in him rather than posing any threat, he let it be. When the dawn’s rose light eased across the snow-capped mountains Aelis pressed her hand against the child’s heart and lowered her ear to the sleeping Princess’s lips.

  ‘She’s weak from the journey and the fever but if they let her rest she will recover,’ she told Blackstone, who had slept a couple of hours since vigils and, as he had always done, awoken before the dawn.

  ‘The Count will be grateful,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I doubt it. I am already condemned as a roadside herbalist, banned by royal decree. I’ll have my hand out for payment – that’ll make sure I am appreciated. If you’re not paid the service rendered is thought worthless, by the rich at least. They only permitted me to attend her because they were afraid it was the pestilence. It was your presence and your lies that kept me here to see it through. Now, she can sleep and I’m hungry.’<
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  They had not eaten since breakfast the day before because Aelis had forbidden any food to be brought into the room except the broth she had ordered for Isabelle. Her fast had something to do with her powers of healing and Blackstone had borne the hunger well but now his stomach growled. When they opened the door a dozing Killbere fell off the stool that he had propped against it. The ladies-in-waiting, the valet and chambermaid slept on the stairs and in doorways. Startled, they quickly got to their feet as Aelis went ahead of Blackstone, her satchel of medicines on her shoulder, walking nose in the air as if she were royalty.

  She addressed the gathered servants. ‘These are my orders. See they are carried out or Count Amadeus will hear of your neglect. Broth only for the Princess when she asks for it. She must be allowed fresh air for one hour, the room must be kept warm – warm, not hot – and she must be given the liquid I have prepared in the carafe on the table in the room. I will visit her highness later to see that she is kept quiet. No chatter. No fuss. Understood?’

  The cowed servants kept their heads bowed and quickly stepped aside as Aelis strode down the stairs without a backward glance.

  Killbere rubbed a hand across his short hair. ‘Witches can do that, you know,’ he said.

  ‘Heal the sick?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Scare people shitless,’ he answered and led the way from the chamber’s door.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Amadeus, the sixth Count of Savoy, was grateful that ten years earlier his sister, Bianca, had married Galeazzo II Visconti, Lord of Milan. Peace with Milan was secured and the marriage helped him protect his southern borders across the Alps in Piedmont. Good fortune had blessed her when she gave birth to Gian Galeazzo, now almost nine years old, who would marry the French Princess who lay prostrate in her bedchamber. This marriage between the house of Valois and the Visconti was too important to be lost. But something was wrong. That the girl had fallen sick had caused him enormous concern. Not only could she have died under his roof, thus jeopardizing his alliance with the Visconti, but if she had had the pestilence it might have spread and he could have lost the beloved infant son he and his wife had awaited for so long. And now trouble was lurking in the foothills of the mountains, but he could make no sense of it. Who would benefit from ambushing the royal Princess? His thoughts danced back and forth as Blackstone and Killbere stood before him. It had been only minutes since they had responded to his summons.