Richard’s chamber had one small window at the far end, its shutters closed tightly, barring the chilled night air from entering. The walls were bare with no tapestries to lend color to the large room.
And although the blazing fire in the hearth burned hot, several candles surrounded the room, lit with the intention of chasing away the dark spirits lurking there. But instead of chasing away the entities, the light cast dark shadows on the whitewashed walls, allowing them a place to hide while they waited to collect another human soul.
Jonathan looked over to the right, and noticed Raulf leaning against the wall, staring at his boots.
As if he sensed Jonathan’s eyes on him, he looked up. “I was wondering when you would arrive,” Raulf said, pushing himself away from the wall. He walked over to join him. The usual color in his round cheeks seemed duller and his face was carefully blank.
Jonathan nodded at Raulf in acknowledgement, and walked to the four poster bed set in the middle of the chamber. All furniture was pushed aside, allowing for the small cluster of people to surround Richard’s bed.
A tall, thin servant wiped the sweat from Richard’s brow with a cloth. Another younger servant moved to the fireplace to add more wood and for a moment, the room grew bright, the warm flames licking, crackling. The light chased all darkness away before it diminished and the chamber was once again cast in cold flickering shadows.
There was a pudgy priest at the corner of the bed, nervously clutching his rosary and murmuring prayers in a droning voice. Not far off, a physician worked, his face peering into a flask that was in his hand.
The physician looked up when Jonathan found his way to the group, but then turned his attention back to the flask, holding it up to the candle light. He examined the contents, and continued to mutter under his breath.
The thin servant moved aside to make room for Jonathan. “Sir Jonathan is here, sire,” he said quietly to Richard as if speaking any louder would send him to his death.
Richard’s eyes opened and then he promptly closed them again as if the dim light hurt his eyes. He looked like a small child in the big bed. His face was as pale as the sheets, making the dark shadow under his eyes more prominent. He was propped up with large pillows at his back, and a dark fur coverlet covered his bloated stomach, revealing only his bare chest and thin arms.
Apart from the occasional snap from the fireplace and the quiet tones of the priest, the room was quiet, so when the physician coughed out loud, all eyes turned to him.
The physician dumped the flask into a basin and was now preoccupied with looking at his astrological charts, all the while muttering under his breath. He didn’t seem aware that the others were watching him.
He frowned. “‘Tis not good,” he said to himself. The man wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. “Not good at all.”
“What is wrong with him?” Jonathan asked the man.
The physician jumped as if he suddenly remembered that there were other people in the room with him.
He smoothed down the sparse hair on his head. “The stars indicate that there’s an infection in the lungs,” the physician answered before going back to study his chart. Running his finger down the parchment, his frown deepened as if his fears were confirmed. “He has the sweating sickness.”
Jonathan nodded at the physician to show him that he understood. The people who contracted the sweating sickness mostly recovered from the disease, although there were a handful of people who didn’t survive.
“Has he been ill long?” Jonathan asked the servant beside him.
The servant nodded his head gravely as if his gesture said it all and there was no point in putting voice to it. He kept his eyes averted, focusing on the task of wringing a cloth and wiping the sweat off of his master’s forehead.
Richard began to stir again, and the two servants jumped to attention.
All of a sudden his eyes opened and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as if he couldn’t understand why he was still in bed. The sickness had aged his face, adding more years and wrinkles, but even in his relaxed state, the surly twist that forever played on his lips was present.
Just then Richard’s body was seized by a spasm; the sound of his barking cough filled the room, his thin frame quivering with every cough. The physician shook his head. “‘Twas better when he slept,” he said disapprovingly, wiping more sweat from his eyes.
But the coughing seemed to add more life into Richard’s sick body and for a moment he seemed like his normal self. “Damn cough,” he said, pounding his fists weakly on the mattress. “Do — something.” He began to wheeze, struggling for breath after every word he uttered.
He turned his head and looked at the priest, who was still murmuring his solemn prayers at the corner of the bed. “Stop that droning,” he gasped. “I’m not dead.”
The priest looked at Richard in surprise and fell silent. Richard began to cough again. “I want this cough gone!” he said in a hoarse voice.
The physician let out a small sigh, and dug his hand in the medicine bag. He rummaged through it as if he knew the cure he needed could be found there. After a while, he pulled out a small vial with amber liquid in it and lifted it up triumphantly for Richard to see. He then turned to face one of the servants. “Bring me a goblet of wine,” he said.
The young servant scrambled over to him, and held out a cup filled with red wine. The physician took the goblet and poured a few drops of the liquid into the wine, tilting it as carefully as if he was afraid to lose even a single drop of his precious elixir.
The young man stood too close to the physician, and he pushed him away. “Move to the other side and lift up his head,” he ordered. Then gentling his tone, he said to Richard, “You must drink this potion, my lord.”
Richard’s jaw opened as if he were a child taking instruction from a parent. The physician tipped the mixture into Richard’s mouth and his patient dutifully swallowed the drink. The coughing subsided, and his eyes once again fluttered closed.
The physician handed the goblet back to the servant, and then walked over to where Jonathan stood.
Raulf stepped closer too as if he wanted to hear what the physician had to say.
The physician glanced over at Richard and spoke in low tones as if he didn’t want him to overhear. “Sir Richard has been ill for several days. He should have recovered by now, but things have gotten worse.”
“How long will he live?” Raulf asked bluntly.
“Live?” The physician repeated. He blinked at Raulf, surprised by the direct question. “I cannot determine how long he will live. All I can do is to help clear his infection. ‘Tis up to God to decide his fate — everything is guided by the hand of God. Sometimes my remedies work and other times it doesn’t.”
Raulf made a sound of disgust as if to dismiss the physician’s words.
The physician turned his back on Raulf, and said to Jonathan, “I’ve given him Horehound,” he explained, lifting the bottle in his hand for Jonathan to see. “It helps with the coughing although I don’t have an actual remedy for the sweating sickness. If his sickness doesn’t worsen, and if the infection doesn’t spread to his heart, he should be able to recover by the next full moon.”
The thin servant walked toward the small group. He looked uncertainly at Jonathan. “Sire, Sir Richard has fallen asleep again. Perhaps we should leave him to rest?”
“‘Tis a good idea to let him rest,” the physician agreed. “‘Twould help speed his recovery.”
Raulf shook his head. “I disagree. We are here at his request,” he said, his voice ringing in the chamber. “Let us get this over with, and find out what he wants.” He walked closer to the bed, his expression surly. “We all have work to do and cannot afford to come run —”
“We will come back once he has recovered from his illness,” Jonathan cut in. There was little else that could be done on this night. And it would be a relief to get out of the stifling room. He made a move to exit the chamber, but
Raulf put out an arm, blocking his way.
“I say that we stay,” Raulf said, his face dark and unsmiling. He stared at Jonathan as if daring him to contradict him.
Jonathan cocked one eyebrow at him. “Why are you so intent on having Richard speak?” he asked calmly.
Raulf shot Jonathan an annoyed look as his face turned a bright red. “You heard the physician,” he snapped. “Sir Richard has the sweating sickness. He could very well die at any moment. Anything he has to say should be said now.”
“I did not say that Sir Richard will die!” the physician protested.
At the sound of the raised voices, Richard roused from his sleep. “Enough!” he said to the two men, his voice faint as if he spoke from a distance, but it still held a ring of command. “I said I’m not dead.” He held out a frail hand, beckoning them to come forward. The thin servant put down the cloth, and moved aside. “I shall speak now.”
Raulf shot a triumphant look at Jonathan and he walked toward the bed, reaching out to grasp Richard’s hand.
But Richard shook his head. “Jonathan,” he said.
Raulf staggered back as if Richard had slapped him. He kept his eyes focused on his face. “If ‘tis Jonathan you seek, then why was I summoned here?” he demanded.
The Lord of Blackburn blinked as if the mere act exhausted him. “I will speak with Jonathan first.”
Jonathan stepped forward, and when he was within reaching distance, Richard’s cold hands took hold of his, clutching him with surprising strength.
“My son,” he said in a voice that was barely audible through the wheezing. “My only son… I feel my time is near.”
“The physician says you will live,” Jonathan said, pulling his hand away from Richard, uncomfortable touching his clammy hands.
“That man is an idiot!” Richard said, letting out a weak cough. “I would have gotten someone else had I the choice.”
A pained look crossed the physician’s face, but he didn’t respond to the attack. Instead, he focused his attention on putting all his instruments and bottles back into his leather case.
“I want my wishes known before I die,” Richard continued. “This is why I summoned you here. I —” His words were cut off by a strong hacking cough.
The physician shook his head, and frowned. Mumbling under his breath, he began rummaging through his medicine bag again.
Jonathan frowned as he listened to the rattling cough. “You will recover, and live to see your grandchildren. You waste your strength by speaking.”
Richard attempted to laugh, but the sound that came out sounded choked. He lifted a limp hand and wiped a tear from his eye. “If only that were true. You have yet to marry and give me grandsons,” he said.
A new series of coughs racked his thin shoulders, causing him to gasp desperately for breath.
Raulf let out a loud curse. He stalked over to the table where the flagon of wine and empty goblet sat, and then grabbing hold of the goblet, he filled it to the brim with the crimson liquid.
The young servant rushed over to take the cup from Raulf, but he pushed the servant aside and stalked over to the bed.
“Drink,” Raulf said, holding the goblet to Richard’s lips.
Richard closed his eyes and complied, at first taking a small sip, and then draining the contents.
When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and waved Raulf away as if he were one of the servants.
Richard didn’t notice the dark cloud that crossed Raulf’s face for he was looking once again at Jonathan, a strange light in his eyes. “As my only son, my only heir,” he said with difficulty. “My enemies lie in wait. The future of the Abelard legacy rests with you and your offspring.” He paused, his breathing laborious. Then he added, “I will not survive my grandchildren. But while I am yet alive, I give you everything that I own. All that I ask in return is that you promise to marry quickly, produce an heir, and protect my demesne with your life.”
Jonathan folded his arms over his chest. “I have unfinished business that I need to take care of,” he said. Unfortunately Richard had many enemies — too many to count. His mission was to locate the Grey Knight and bring him to justice, not become mired in someone else’s troubles and petty wars.
But Jonathan’s answer brought a flash of anger to Richard’s eyes and the color returned to his pale face. “Forget about that girl — that Amelia!” he said harshly. “Don’t think I’m not aware of your senseless pursuit of her killer. She is dead, and she is best left buried and forgotten. You can find another more suited to your status, and you can live as a lord, a life that you were born into.”
“She was the daughter of your good friend the Earl of Chester,” Jonathan said quietly.
“A friend no longer,” Richard corrected. He tensed his jaws. “‘Tis better that you didn’t marry her and taint the Abelard lineage.”
“Amelia never had a choice in the matter. She was killed, if you remember,” Jonathan said, his voice turning cold. “Besides, I promised her that I will find her killer. And I will not go back on my word.”
A burst of energy seized Richard. “Then you are an idiot! My only son is an idiot. Understand — I want —”
“I don’t care want you want,” Jonathan interrupted, his eyes growing hard. “Producing an heir or protecting your demesne is not my priority, nor is it my interest.”
“Please Jonathan…”
Jonathan looked down at the pathetic man who sired him, a man that was hated by many, including his own son. In the deep reaches of his heart he felt a faint stirring of sympathy for Richard and that was the last thing he wanted to feel. Not with all the hell that he was put through. He clenched his teeth. “I will do what I can to protect the demesne,” Jonathan said coolly. “But marriage will have to wait until the Grey Knight is caught and his body is hanging from a noose for all to see.”
There was no noise except for the fire crackling in the hearth. At last Richard heaved a deep sigh. “Very well,” he said in a tone so soft that Jonathan had to lean closer to hear. “Do what you will. Just keep my demesne safe from my enemies. That is all that matters.” Richard looked defeated, his eyes glassy as if he wanted to cry but couldn’t bring himself to do it in front of so many witnesses.
“Sorry to break the father-son bonding,” Raulf’s nasal voice interrupted, although it was obvious that he wasn’t sorry at all. “There must be something else that you want to tell — something that the others are not privy to?” he said. His lips were compressed; his eyes glinted, unwavering and focused intently on Richard’s face. “Perhaps you can reveal to these good people something that has been secret between us. I’m sure the others would be interested to hear about it.”
When Richard refused to say anything more, Raulf grew incensed. “Reveal the truth,” he said, glaring at the older man. “Tell it before you die.”
Richard gazed at him as if he was a stranger.
Furious, Raulf turned away from Richard, and lighted his eyes on Jonathan. “What are you looking at?” he snarled.
Jonathan blinked, noting the intensity of the other man’s fury but letting the energy pass through him. “I was just thinking. ‘Tis nothing of consequence,” he said mildly.
He was spared from saying any more when Richard interrupted. “More drink,” he said in a hoarse voice.
The young servant jumped to do Richard’s bidding but backed away when he witnessed Raulf’s dark look.
Raulf, still holding the goblet in his hand, stalked over to the table and began to fill it with wine. Then without a word, he went to the bed and thrust it at Richard’s lips.
Richard obediently drank from it, some of the wine dripping down his pale face. He closed his eyes, and soon after it appeared as if he had fallen asleep.
Raulf bent his head and murmured something into Richard’s ear. Whatever Raulf said caused him to open his eyes. He turned his head on the pillow, and made an inaudible sound while gesturing to the priest.
> “Declare the will,” Raulf said to the priest.
The priest, still holding his prayer beads, looked at Richard with uncertainty. Wills were normally read after the death of a person and not while he was yet alive. Richard gave him the barest of nods. With reluctance, the priest then pulled out a parchment from inside his sleeve, and smoothed the document open. Raulf focused his attention on him, his eyes unwavering.
The priest cleared his throat before speaking. “Sir Richard has stated in his will that all his estates including Blackburn shall be granted to his son Jonathan once he passes. To Sir Raulf, one bag of gold coins shall be given as a reward for his loyalty and service at Blackburn castle.” He proceeded to read the rest of the will. “I hope that this is the information that you seek, sire?”
“That’s it?” If it were possible, Raulf’s eyes grew even colder. He didn’t even acknowledge what the priest was saying. “That is all I’m getting?” he said, his voice thundering across the room.
Richard flinched. Jonathan might have missed the movement if he was not so focused on the strange exchange between Richard and his father’s commander.
But the priest seemed ignorant about what had transpired and addressed the question as if it were directed at him. “Aye, that is all you’re getting,” he said, blinking rapidly. “‘Tis a very good and generous amount, I vow.”
Raulf made a sound of disgust, and spat on the ground. He marched to the door. “If you knew the truth, that amount is a mere insult.”
CHAPTER 15
Jonathan woke with a start when he heard voices just outside his door. It was still several hours before dawn, but he was alert in a matter of seconds. He heard a muffled conversation and then the door opened quietly.
He was already sitting up, reaching for his sword, which he had left leaning on the wall near his bed. A necessary habit formed from all the years of fighting, he made sure his weapon was always near.
The grip on his sword eased when he made out the shadow of Albert, his young squire hovering at the chamber door. Eleven years earlier Jonathan was sent by King Edward to stop a siege at a strong hold up in the northern part of the country. And stop it he did, killing the rogue leader who led the attack. He won back the demesne without too much effort, since the remaining men-at-arms dispersed like scared rabbits when they realized that their leader had expired. He was about to leave the great hall when he caught sight of a little figure, huddled underneath a trestle table and crying for his parents who were lying a foot away, dead. The image of the newly orphaned child struck him to the core, and he abruptly changed his course and took the boy under his wing.
One True Knight (The Knights of Honor Trilogy) Page 11