Royal Blood. Rona Sharon
sickness sprouting wings on his back.
The Irish healer removed a precious Italian glass bottle from the casket. “Alack, the serving wench had the right of it. I did not care to stir up panic and mayhem, for you and His Lordship are afflicted with the sweating sickness. This is the second stage of the disease. Cold shivers, aches and burns, apprehension, perspiration, delirium, megrim, heart palpitations, and intense thirst.”
“The Sweat!” Michael lunged up, mad with terror. “You dotant! Why conceal the truth from my servants? They will infect the vill! Have you no care for babes, Celtic tinker?”
“Fables! The contagion is in the blood. The old sages knew it, but their wisdom was torched by savages. The disease is venerius v
“Poison,” Michael chocked, agitated, feverish.
“Precisely. You have consumed natural venom that had been put in your food, such as blood of a sickly rodent. See, I was partially untruthful with the tasty wench. You cannot infect others with your breath. Nor with skin contact. The illness lives within you. Your blood is dying. If it is not treated, you will perish in three days. Recovery may take seven nights. What is your choice?”
“Life!” A stab of pain arched Michael off the bed. When it subsided, icy tremors seized him.
“Interesting. That is the usual preference among my patients.” The motley-minded O’Hickey shoved a hand beneath Michael’s head and put the mouth of the bottle to his lips. “Drink this.”
Panting, Michael complied. His first gulp of the medicament nearly ripped the inside of his throat. “Hell’s broth! What is it? Blood and uisce?” Instantly he craved more.
“The blood of Grendel’s mum! He-he-he… Lick your throat, did it?” O’Hickey cackled. “It is dragon’s blood, a cordial of sweet wines, crushed pearls, lead powder, marshmallows, salt of Amen, coral, elder leaves, sorrel, linseed vinegar, worms, marigold, meadow plant, feverfew—”
“Enough!” The old rook’s imbecility of mind was exacerbating his sufferance.
“Certes, if my potion is not to your taste, I could leech you. That is what they did last year in London when the plague smote them. They bled the sick three days afore they burned them.”
Michael snatched the glass bottle and drained it in a long swallow. Sweetness suffused him. He fell back on the pillow, gasping for air, and closed his eyes as the palliative effect of the thick brew spread through his tormented body, soothing his flesh, his mind, his spirit…
“You will want to sleep now, little lord, but harken well. My lord of Tyrone says you are to England for the St. George’s tournaments.”
“I doubt I will partake of aught but my own funeral…” Michael heaved.
“In a sennight you will be as good as new. Better than new. You have a casketful of bottles and will need every drop to carry you through your adventures. Once a day you will have a fierce thirst on you, mayhap twice. Drink and be merry but do not let anyone find you out, nor transfer the contents into another vessel, for the elements will lose their curative qualities if not contained in glass. You may feed and drink properly but do not wet your drouth with aught else.”
Michael realized the dotard had the right of it. None could know he had the plague, not even Pippin, who was to accompany him to court. His thoughts drifted. Through the mist he heard the Irishman say, “Ah, the forest of dreams beckons, and the worst to affright now lives within….”
Michael’s eyes flicked open at the sharp pricking at his gullet. Darkness filled his vision, but within two heartbeats he gained focus. A polished blade of a sword reflected silvery moonbeams. A shadowy form loomed over his bed. “Cockcrow in two hours, sunflower,” Ferdinand informed him, malevolence thickening his raspy voice. “King Henry’s court awaits your incompetence.”
A woman moaned sleepily; a rounded bottom wiggled against his naked hip. Ah, Cáit. After seven days and nights of sweaty delirium, of ravaging pain inflicted by inner fire and imaginary stropped blades, of fighting off the effects of the poison with the remedy prescribed by the Irish healer, Michael emerged from his sickbed hungry for life. However, his fête was premature. He felt ill and thirsty all over again. He ached for O’Hickey’s draught.
“Healed, sunflower?” snarled the bane of his existence, his sword point intentionally keeping Michael away from the glass bottles stored in the cupboard. “You are swyving harlots while your liege lord is dying.”
“There is no shame in living, you spayed ox!” Michael growled. His triumph over death was eclipsed by his lord’s ongoing battle with the disease. But what could he do? Tyrone would not see him. Stealthily he wound his hand in the sheet and reached for the dagger stashed under the mattress. Of a sudden he lunged up, deflecting the sword from his neck and pressing the dagger to his archrival’s black heart. He met Sir Ferdinand’s stunned gaze at eye level. “Rouse me at the tip of a blade again, and I will execute you, with or without my Lord Tyrone’s permission.”
“A harmless thunderbolt, a vain threat, a voice and nothing besides! We will meet again on the combat field upon your return from court! I will not be merciful as I have been hitherto!”
Michael shoved past him and sauntered to the cupboard across the spacious bedchamber. He ripped the doors open, grabbed a bottle, unsealed it with his teeth, and poured its contents down his throat. Cool air blew on his bare back.
“My lord would see you!” Sir Ferdinand growled from the entryway, and slammed the door.
Gasping for air, Michael leaned back against the wall and savored the sweet relief flowing in his body. His skin felt hot and febrile, the once pale complexion resembled a roasted swine. He knew he should be thankful, for few who were struck down with the Sweat survived it. It was a marvel he lived at all. Yet how could he journey to England, knowing his noble protector might never recover and that he might never see him again? And how would he prevail over the king’s champions in his dismal state? He would not last a single course in the lists. He would disgrace his lord’s insignia, lose Ireland to some trencher-knight, and make a laughingstock of himself.
Fortune favors the brave, Tyrone had taught him. Michael’s mind cleaved to the maxim as the Irish villagers drew faith from their crucifix and weeping deities. Moments ago he had bested his archrival for the first time. Mayhap his luck was changing. He had to believe it.
“Come back to bed,” Cáit whispered drowsily. “I’ll give you a proper send-off.”
His thirst slaked, a familiar hunger awakened. Michael came over and flung the bed linen off her curvaceous softness. He flattened his hands on either side of her and climbed in between her warm, parted thighs. “We’ll have to be fast,” he murmured, and invaded her lush country.
A mere shadow of a great man, the formidable Earl of Tyrone looked deathlike in the tawny candlelight silting his bedchamber. Tapestries depicting ancient battles swathed the stone walls. Swords, axes, and chieftain shields hung over the cold fireplace. Michael had not seen his worthy lord since the night he had gone up to the eyrie, the night they had both contracted the Sweat.
“Michael.” Tyrone extended a feeble hand.
Michael knelt down beside the bed and clasped the veined hand in his. His gaze darkened on the ugly incisions marring the skin along Tyrone’s wrist. “O’Hickey leeched you? Why?”
“Make me proud at King Henry’s court. Bring honor and glory to my house…and all that is mine shall be yours, riches and power beyond your wildest imaginings.”
Terrible sorrow possessed Michael. “You are dying….”
Tyrone found the observation amusing. “I am old. Certes I am dying. I have been dying for a long time.