by Jack Whyte
Now his father was frowning. “You can’t blame yourself for the fury of God’s weather, Robert. That storm we had today was unlike anything in living memory. Not once in a hundred years does such a thing come along.”
“That may be true, sir. But not once in a hundred years did anyone mend the corner of that wall. And now it has cost lives.”
Light and darkness stirred as Nicol MacDuncan stepped forward, followed by the third man, who had not yet uttered a sound.
“It’s as your father says, Rob,” Nicol began in his flowing, liquid Gaelic. “And you are as right as he is. But what’s done is done—the will of God. There is nothing to be gained by blaming yourself for something no one could have foreseen. Did you ever imagine a torrent strong enough to rip that wall apart and tear down the whole building? A day ago you would have said that was impossible. Well, today it’s no longer unimaginable, and never will be again. But you will rebuild your stables and they’ll last another hundred years, perhaps twice that long, because you’ll know the strength they must have to withstand such things. Life goes on, Rob. And so must yours. We all have our appointed time, and who can flout God’s right to dictate that?”
Bruce nodded, and his eyes moved to the stranger standing behind Nicol. “Your pardon, sir,” he said, addressing the man in Gaelic. “I have not yet even greeted you or made you welcome in my house. I presume you must be the Earl of Mar, good-father to my sister Christina and soon, it would appear, to me myself.”
Lord Annandale straightened up abruptly, plainly appalled that he had neglected to introduce the old man, but Domhnall of Mar was already standing above the bed, smiling down at Bruce, and when he spoke his voice was musical, reflecting the ancient Western Isles tradition in which he had been raised.
“You have no need of my pardon, Robert Bruce, or that of any other. Your father here has praised you, justly, for today’s performance of your duties, and now I would add my own voice to his. You might have come to greet and welcome us, bowing to our supposed importance while your stables collapsed and buried your people. But what would that have told me about the man to whom I have agreed to give my last remaining daughter’s hand?” His smile grew warmer. “No, Sir Robert, I would not change your welcome if I could. Any man who places his folk and their welfare first and above all else in his concern, ignoring mighty men and rank and station to do what he must do, might, I believe, be relied upon to see to the welfare and protection of an old man’s favourite daughter, even were she not his wife.”
He stood gazing down pensively at Bruce, but when he grinned, the lines bracketing his mouth stood out sharply through the whiteness of his beard. “You remind me of your grandfather at your age— bandages and all. The first time I set eyes on him I was ten years old and he was twenty, and he had taken a tumble from a horse, landing in thick brambles while chasing a boar. His face and hands were cut to ribbons and he was bandaged about the head just as you are now. When I saw how he laughed at himself and his own folly, I decided, even at the age of ten, that this was a man I wanted to know. I became his squire soon after that, and then his loyal friend and follower forever after … And I had hopes of serving him as my king one day, though that was not to be.”
He began to nod his head rhythmically, his smile spreading as he switched from Gaelic to English. “I think your noble father has the right of things, though. We’ll keep my daughter away from you until you’ve lost that wild, raw look and grown some hair. Before then, you and I have much to talk about.”
Had Bruce been capable of moving at that moment he might have squirmed while he recalled the demeaning things he had said and thought about this gentle man’s daughter—a woman whom he had believed had leapt out at him, as if by magic, at the whim of others. Now, witnessing the evident fondness of the father for his daughter, he recalled the disparaging things he had said about her to Sir James Jardine and Thomas Beg, suggesting, without the slightest reason other than his own inchoate fears, that she might be humpbacked or warty or facially disfigured.
Now, faced with the kindly, unassuming humanity of his dead grandfather’s “disciple,” he found himself unable to hold the old earl’s gaze.
Earl Domhnall did not appear to notice anything and turned away to say something to Nicol MacDuncan, and while the two conferred Sir Robert Bruce withered with shame. Self-loathing was a new experience for him, but he took to it with the zeal of a convert and shuddered at the prospect he now faced: the daunting task of facing the blameless young woman he had demeaned and reviled, with all the hypocrisy of keeping his simmering resentment and ill will hidden from her.
He was rescued from pondering his dilemma further by the arrival in his chambers of Father Baldwin and his invited colleague, Maître Reynald de Frontignac, who walked with a heavy limp. Father Baldwin, plainly in awe of his new companion, launched at once into a recitation of the man’s qualifications and experience, but the Frenchman quieted him with an upraised hand and a self- deprecating smile.
“Please,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of the bed. “I am here solely to examine the wounded man, and obviously this is he. Will you permit?”
He clearly took their agreement for granted, for he ushered Lord Annandale and the others towards the door and out, sweeping his arms upward as though herding geese.
The Frenchman was an eldritch-looking figure, emaciated, with unruly grey hair that had seldom known the touch of comb or shears save on the crown, where his tonsured pate marked him as a monk or a priest. The shoulders beneath his plain black cassock must have been broad once, Bruce thought, but now they were bowed in a pronounced stoop that emphasized the man’s advanced age, though he still towered head and shoulders over his thickset companion Father Baldwin, the local village priest. He wore a thick belt, tightly cinched about his waist, from which hung a bulky and anciently supple leather bag that covered him like an apron from waist to knees, but it was his face and hands that held Bruce’s attention. The face was arresting, dominated by large, wide eyes of the palest silver grey that gleamed out from beneath bushy brows on either side of a nose like a hatchet blade. The lower half was concealed beneath a riot of grey-white beard to match the profusion of hair on his head, yet Bruce could clearly imagine a determined jut of jaw and chiselled chin. The man’s hands were huge, the knuckles pronounced and the fingers long and spatulate with wide, carefully tended nails. He stood wringing his hands absently, as though washing them, while his narrowed eyes roamed over Bruce from head to toe, and finally he grunted and looked the earl straight in the eye for the first time.
“You have pain, oui?” Bruce nodded, gently. “Of course you have. How far did you fall?” Bruce did not know, though he might have guessed around ten feet, but the Frenchman did not wait for an answer. “Onto stones,” he continued. “Sharp stones? With sharp edges?”
“No. Rounded … River stones, smooth.”
“But solid, non?” The beard twitched in what might have been a tiny smile. “But not sharp is good. And now we have to look.” His bushy eyebrows twitched. “My friend thinks the ribs are merely bruised but not broken. I think he might be right, but first I have to … to probe. You will not enjoy. You understand?”
Bruce gritted his teeth. “I understand.”
He felt his coverings being removed and then a long surge of fluctuating agony as the two men moved him around, working together to remove the bandages that swathed him. But that pain faded to insignificance beside the torment that followed as the Frenchman poked and prodded at Bruce’s injured ribs, at his shoulder and his hip, while his patient fought, with clenched teeth, against the ever-growing need to cry out. Eventually, the old Frenchman inhaled deeply and straightened up, his grave grey eyes returning to meet Bruce’s.
“It is as my friend thought. Nothing is broken. Cracked, perhaps, but no fractures, no splinters inside you waiting to bite. Your head is injured, too, from the fall, but also not broken. Thus, you will live and you will heal, quickly, one hopes … ”
“But?” Bruce looked the old man in the eye. “You did not say it, but I heard it in your voice. But what?”
This time the quirk of the mouth was undeniably a smile, and the Frenchman nodded in acknowledgment. “But, with such injuries to the ribs, broken or bruised, the sole cure is the same. It requires time … Time and a lack of movement. A complete lack of movement. That is difficult for everyone, but for a young man like you, it might be close to impossible. To lie as still as is required for as long as is required would try the patience of a saint. We can … how does one say it? We can immobilize you, strap you down so that you cannot move—that is what we do with people who have badly broken ribs—but I doubt you would tolerate that for long. Would you?”
Bruce grimaced. “No, probably not. Is there anything else you can do?”
The grey eyes narrowed yet again, this time to slits as the maître’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Yes. We can make you sleep.” He turned to his companion. “I will need a small bowl, Father, clean and dry. Can you find one for me?”
As the other priest hurried off, Bruce touched one hand gently to his aching side, feeling the skin hot over the throbbing pain. “You think to make me sleep for days on end? With this? That would not be possible, Father.”
“That is Brother, Master Bruce. I am a monk, not a priest. And all things are possible. As a Christian and a knight you should know that.”
Bruce said nothing, suddenly aware of a black patch of cloth on the old man’s left shoulder that was less worn than the cloth surrounding it. It showed where another layer of cloth had once been removed, a layer in the familiar shape of the cross of St. John that marked its wearer as a Knight of the Hospital. He frowned, now curious about the tall old man. A monk’s vocation, like a priest’s, was a lifetime calling, not to be revoked, and he could not remember ever having heard about a Knight Hospitaller renouncing his membership in the order.
The old monk was holding his hanging waist bag open with one hand while he rummaged inside it with the other. The door at his back swung open, and Father Baldwin came back in with a number of small bowls of various sizes.
“Ah, excellent, Father,” said the Frenchman. “You provide more than was asked.” He picked one, weighing it in his hand. “This will be perfect. Now … ” He turned to Bruce again. “You have good milk here, Master Bruce?”
Bruce began to shrug, but was instantly reminded of the unwisdom of that. “Good and ample, Brother. Cow’s and goat’s.”
“Which would you prefer?”
“Goat’s.”
“So be it. Father Baldwin, would you assist me once again and bring me, please, a jug of goat’s milk? Enough to fill this bowl will suffice.”
The priest nodded and left again, and Maître de Frontignac returned to his capacious bag, drawing out a small, beautifully carved wooden box inlaid with what looked like nacre. He placed the box on the bed, glanced about him, and lurched quickly to a small table that sat by one wall. He carried it back to the bedside and set it down carefully before placing his box on the tabletop. Bruce watched him curiously as he prised it open with extreme care, then reached inside the box with a gently probing finger. He withdrew it slowly and held it up, its tip coated with a fine, whitish powder. He returned the fingertip to the box and held it there while he wiped fastidiously with his thumb at the stuff coating it, returning every grain to the box.
“What is it?” Bruce asked. “That powder.”
The old monk was examining his fingertip to be certain that none of the contents of the box yet adhered beneath the nail, and when he was satisfied, he looked down at Bruce, his eyes twinkling.
“A treasure from the Holy Land,” he said. “More precious than the Magi’s gifts. I had a good friend there who was something of a Mage himself—of great wisdom but not holy. His name was Sayeef ad-Din and he was a muslim unbeliever, but a good man none the less, and a far better physician than I could ever be. I was wounded in battle and taken prisoner and he took care of me. He saved my life, beyond a doubt, for I was close to death.” He held one hand in front of him, making the sign of the cross in the air.
“People here at home prefer not to think, or even hear, that the followers of Allah might be able to outdo the Christian world in anything, but truth, even when unacceptable, must be acknowledged. When it came to healing battle-broken bodies, we Franks, even among the ranks of the Hospital, had no physicians with skills that even approached those of our enemies. Thus it is true that had I not been taken prisoner, I would have surely died among my own kind. The Sultan’s people held me captive for two years until I was ransomed, and Sayeef ad-Din and I became friends because my injuries had ensured that I would never be able to fight again. That, allied with the fact that I was a healer, albeit of limited skill, led to my being well treated while I was among the warriors of Allah.
“When I regained my freedom, Sayeef gave me this box, along with his blessings. I knew what it contained, for I had been studying its use under his guidance, and I was deeply conscious of the honour he paid me by parting with such a gift. In consequence, I have used it very sparingly and only in time of great need because it is genuinely irreplaceable.” He smiled. “But I have been back now from the Holy Land for many years and I have used it but twice, so that even having it and guarding it with great care, I have been wasting it by failing to use it. That has concerned me recently, for I have been wondering if perhaps it might be losing its potency, as powdered herbs frequently do. Has it maintained its freshness, despite its age, or has it faded with the passage of years? Now, with you, I intend to find out.”
Bruce had been staring at the wooden box as the old man spoke and now he looked up.
“What does it do?”
“It does nothing, but taken in a draught it causes sleep and relieves even the worst pain. I will show you.”
“Is it … dangerous?”
The old man’s hawkish smile gleamed again. “Not in the fashion that you mean,” he said, shaking his head. “But it has a danger of its own. Men grow too fond of it, Sayeef told me, and overuse brings its own perils.”
Father Baldwin returned with a jug of goat’s milk, and those were the last words Maître de Frontignac spoke to Bruce for some time, for he turned away at once and with his back squarely towards the bed began issuing low-voiced instructions to the village priest. When he did return to the bedside, Father Baldwin moved around to assist him on the other side, and between them, ignoring his groans, they encircled Bruce within their arms and eased him up into a position in which he could swallow the concoction fed to him. His gorge revolted against the acrid taste, but the old man merely removed the bowl and waited for the shuddering revulsion to pass before bringing the bowl back to Bruce’s lips. The injured man gagged the mixture down, his body quaking as the last bitter grains lodged at the back of his throat. He swallowed once more, clearing his mouth, and then relaxed limply as they lowered him flat again.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now we find out whether the powder has retained its powers,” the French monk responded.
“And if it has?”
“Then you will sleep without pain. When you awaken you will find yourself restrained. We will do that once you are asleep and you will feel nothing. That mattress is too soft for our purposes. We will replace it with a padded board and bind you to the board with wrappings of cloth lest you move and injure yourself further.”
“And how long will I have to stay here?” The mattress on which he lay, a straw-filled palliasse, was already hard and thin.
“For as long as necessary. Father Baldwin and I will watch you closely, and when we think it safe for you to move we will permit you to. In the meantime, you will sleep.”
“Now?” Bruce snorted gently at the mere thought of sleeping. “I’ll ask you to forgive me, Brother, but I am nowhere close to … ” As he spoke the words, though, he felt a strange sensation stir somewhere inside his head, and it seemed to him the room receded. He b
linked and turned to look again at the physician standing over him, only to see that the man was wavering visibly, like a reflection in water. He opened his mouth to speak and found he had no words, and he was not even aware of his eyes closing.
He had little awareness of anything at all, including the passage of time itself, and the few scattered memories that would return to him later would all share a dreamlike quality. He vaguely remembered being manhandled and being unable to react as he was moved around like some inanimate object, and he remembered the bitter taste that seemed permanently lodged beneath his tongue; he remembered faces peering down at him, some of them, his father’s and Thomas Beg’s, distorted and fluid-looking, others no more than moving, featureless shapes; and he remembered, equally indistinctly, seeing and hearing young women; several of them, he thought, their differences coalescing into a single presence. He had memories, too, of being fed—warm milk-soaked, honey-sweetened bread being spooned into his mouth and the acrid taste of the white powder that had been mixed with it.
He opened his eyes and saw the old French monk standing by the foot of the bed, watching him. He lay still for a long moment, returning the silent scrutiny, questioning himself and examining his body with his mind. He felt no pain anywhere, and when he tried to move his arms they moved freely, unencumbered.
“How do you feel?”
“Awake,” Bruce said. “And alive and well, I think.” He moved a hand tentatively towards the injury he remembered, the spot over his ribs, and discovered that he was wearing a shirt of some kind. “There is no pain.”
That brought a quick smile to the monk’s fierce old face. “Oh no, do not deceive yourself on that, Master Bruce. There is pain there aplenty, should you provoke it. Sleep is a wondrous curer of ills, but miracles are the work of God Himself, and nothing miraculous has happened here. We have but given your body time to heal itself a little, and the worst of the pain has passed.”