The Bastard Prince (43 page)

But his own fate was far more on his mind just now. After a while longer of listening to the
Custodes
mouth platitudes and make noises of regret, he excused himself and retired with Cathan and Fulk to the quarters the abbot had allocated him on his previous visit. He was dragging with exhaustion as they helped him out of his armor and into bed, and he lay there shivering under several sleeping furs until Cathan brought him another dose of the tacil. Though no one had summoned him, Stevanus came in very shortly with Brother Polidorus and another, younger monk carrying a small wooden chest and a two-branched candlestick for more light. Cathan had just set the empty cup and the little earthen flask of tacil on a small table beside the bed and tried to push them farther into shadow before the monk set the candlestick on the table.

“I want to change your dressing and see how you're faring after a day in the saddle, Sire,” Stevanus said, setting down his medical satchel on the foot of the bed. “Brother Polidorus also thought to have a look at you. Brother Deiniol, could you fetch us a basin and some hot water, please?”

As the younger monk disappeared to obey, Rhys Michael reluctantly pulled his bandaged hand out from under the furs and let Stevanus begin unwrapping it, while Polidorus felt his forehead and made
tsk
ing sounds.

“Dear, dear me. These things are always so tiresome when broken bones
and
wounds are involved. The forearm looks clean enough. I see no red streaks.”

“Aye, but there's fever in it,” Stevanus said.

“Yes, I can feel that.”

“And the laceration shows more inflammation than I would like. I also don't know what may be going on around the bones that were crushed. There's still too much swelling and bruising to see or feel much.”

As he exposed the hand and the two started poking and prodding, Rhys Michael gasped and even cried out, trying not to squirm with the pain. At Stevanus' summons, Cathan and Fulk came to help hold the arm steady while the examination continued, and Brother Deiniol returned with towels, a basin, and a steaming pitcher, which he set beside the fireplace.

“I think perhaps those sutures should come out,” Polidorus said, drawing back to wipe his hands on a clean towel. “The flesh is very swollen, the skin taut and shiny. I would say that the wound wants cautery to burn out the impurities. Have you bled him yet?”

“I didn't want to weaken him,” Stevanus began.

“No! I won't be bled!” Rhys Michael whispered, sitting up in alarm. “And I don't want cautery. I'm making good progress. Just give me time.”

“If you hope to keep the hand,” Polidorus said coldly, “then you must allow us to do what we think best.” He gave a curt nod to his assistant, who turned back to the fireplace and began taking things out of the chest he had brought. “The crushed bones may yet necessitate more aggressive treatment,” he went on, returning his attention to Stevanus, “but we can postpone that for now, see how he looks in a day or two. What are you giving him for the pain, syrup of poppies?”

“Aye.”

“But I can't stay here!” Rhys Michael protested. “I have to ride tomorrow—”

“Well, give him half again the dose you've been giving,” Polidorus continued, paying the king no mind at all. “And you, sir—” He nodded to Fulk. “Fill that basin with very hot water, and we'll get his hand soaking. The heat will draw out some of the inflammation and also ease the removal of the sutures.”

“I've told you, no,” Rhys Michael said again. “Leave the sutures. I don't want cautery, and I won't be bled.”

“Don't be foolish. You're in no condition to know what you want, or what's best for you,” Polidorus muttered, turning away to supervise his assistant.

As Stevanus also withdrew, pulling his satchel from the end of the bed to measure out the painkiller Polidorus had ordered, Rhys Michael pulled Cathan closer with his good hand.

“Go and tell Rhun what they're doing,” he whispered. And added, in Cathan's mind,
Tell him I refuse to stay here and that if I die, they're going to have a different regency than they bargained on. Tell him about the codicil
—
but you haven't got an original copy, and I've ordered you not to tell who does
. “Hurry.”

Stevanus looked annoyed as Cathan nodded and turned away to dash out the door, and he was shaking his head as he brought a small metal medicine cup filled with syrup of poppies.

“Sire, Rhun isn't going to interfere in this,” he said, holding out the cup. “Drink this down now. You needn't make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

“I don't want the cautery,” Rhys Michael said stubbornly, ignoring the cup. “You can soak the hand if you want—I can see how that might help—but the wound isn't bleeding. And I won't be bled; I might be too weak to ride. I can't stay here. I have to be able to keep traveling. I have to get back to Michaela.”

“Sire, are you trained as a surgeon?” Polidorus said pointedly.

“No, of course not.”

“Then do not presume to tell me my business. Take this and drink it. What must be done will be done, with or without this help. Don't force me to have you held.”

As he pressed the cup into Rhys Michael's good hand, Fulk brought a steaming basin to the right side of the bed, looking uneasy as Polidorus came to move the bedside table closer. The earthen flask of tacil and the empty cup were still sitting on the little table, and the monk had to move them before he could spread the towel hung over Fulk's arm. He sniffed curiously at the cup as Fulk set the basin down.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It's something for the fever,” Rhys Michael said, before Fulk or Stevanus could reply. “It seems to be helping. The chatelaine at Lochalyn Castle gave it to me.”

“Some folk remedy, eh? What is it called?” The monk glanced at Stevanus as he opened the flask and then peered inside and sniffed again.

“The old midwife with her called it tacil,” Stevanus replied. “Lady Stacia said her mother used to get it from a Healer who's since died.”

“From a Healer? Then it's a Deryni drug!” Polidorus said, holding it away from him with a grimace of distaste. “I'll have none of that under
this
roof!”

“No, it's helping me!” Rhys Michael cried. Still encumbered with the cup in his good hand, he made an inadvertent grab for the monk with his injured one—and jarred it against the edge of the basin with enough force to bring tears to his eyes, just as Stevanus rescued the cup of painkiller.

“Don't be impertinent, Sire,” Polidorus muttered, as Rhys Michael curled defensively over the injured hand, gasping, and Fulk moved in protectively. “Brother Deiniol, get rid of this. Burn it or something.”

“But, it
does
seem to be helping,” Stevanus said uncertainly, though he blocked Fulk from interfering with the younger monk, who came and took the flask from Polidorus.

“Nonsense.” Polidorus shook out another towel with a snap and spread it on the bed beside the table. “If it's Deryni, it can't possibly be helpful. Now, give me that hand, Sire, and let's get it to soaking before the water gets cold. Stevanus, either persuade him to drink that or get some strong men in here to hold him down.”

As Rhys Michael heard the smash of pottery down the garderobe shaft, he sank back against his pillows in dismay, gasping but no longer resisting as Polidorus took his injured hand and plunged it into the steaming water. The tacil
had
helped—he was sure of it—but now there would be no more relief from that quarter. And all because a Deryni had made it …

Queasy and disheartened, jaws clenched against the heat coiled around his hand, Rhys Michael anxiously watched the younger monk return to the fireplace, where Polidorus had gone to check the cautery instruments heating in the fire. As Stevanus put the little cup of painkiller back in his good hand, he reflected that his only hope was for Cathan to get Rhun here before these
Custodes
butchers started doing really horrible things to him.

It was not just the threat of pain that set terror in his heart. He could have submitted to cautery with hardly a whimper if convinced that it would be beneficial, but the thought of being bled sent a cold chill of dread down his spine, especially since he had heard of Paulin's treatment. He turned the little cup nervously in his fingers as his mind flashed back over his own reluctant acquaintance with the practice.

The first time, though he could not remember it, had been after his “rescue” from his kidnappers, to make him think he had lost more blood from his “wounds” than he actually had. Stevanus himself probably had been responsible for that one. They had bled him occasionally during those awful months after Javan's murder, to keep him weak; and he had been bled several times just before his coronation, so that he would display a paleness and lethargy appropriate to long illness.

There were legitimate medical reasons for bloodletting, of course. And he knew it was a common enough monastic discipline in some religious houses, sometimes permitted as a voluntary aid to preserving chastity, since lowering the blood also lowered inclinations to “passions of the flesh.”
Minution
, they called it, from the Latin
minuere
, to lessen or diminish.

But the
Custodes
had a less benign use for it—not only a required test of the vow of obedience but also, in some cases, a vehicle of intimidation. Javan had told him how they bled an innocent priest called Faelan, trying to force him to reveal why Javan had requested his services as a confessor; they had even bled Javan himself, during his stay in the monastery, to demonstrate their absolute power over him.

Believe me
, Javan had told him one night,
there are few more helpless feelings in the world than watching your lifeblood pump out of your veins and knowing that if it suits them, those in authority over you have the power to forbid a halt
…

Polidorus' return with a new pitcher of hot water brought an abrupt release from
that
image, though the monk's intent was hardly more reassuring as he bent to check the temperature of the water. Blessedly, and somewhat to Rhys Michael's surprise, the hot water actually was starting to ease the ache in his hand, after the initial shock. But when Polidorus began slowly pouring more hot water into the basin around the hand, increasing the temperature, the king remembered the cup in his good hand and gulped down about half the contents before handing it off to Stevanus.

“You ought to drink it all,” the battle surgeon murmured, glancing into the cup. “That isn't enough to put you under.”

“I don't
want
to be put under,” Rhys Michael said stubbornly. “I have to be coherent when I talk to Rhun.”

“That won't change anything,” Stevanus replied. “At least lie back and let what you've drunk take effect. This first part won't be too bad.”

“Sire, shall I go and see what's keeping Cathan?” Fulk asked a little nervously, from over nearer the door.

Rhys Michael shook his head and closed his eyes briefly, heartened that Fulk had offered that assistance on his own, belatedly wishing he had dared to set stronger compulsions in the young knight, who could not help the fact that his father was one of the men responsible for the king's servitude.

“I'm sure he'll be here soon,” he whispered. “Just don't leave me alone.”

“Just don't
interfere
,” Brother Polidorus amended sharply, bending to peer more closely at his reluctant patient's hand.

For the moment, neither Rhys Michael nor Fulk had any choice but to comply. At least for now, in just the short time the king's hand had been submerged, either the heat or the drug or a combination of the two had eased the pain substantially. Some of that relief was canceled out when Polidorus began cleaning around the laceration, though it did not hurt as much as he had feared. At least the monk's touch was gentle.

What did hurt was when Stevanus started probing out the first of the sutures to be removed, for the stitches were deeply embedded. Resistance only made the surgeon's task more difficult and brought further sharp threats of physical restraint from Polidorus, who was steadying the hand, so Rhys Michael gave it up and lay back, turning his face away so he would not have to see his blood reddening the water in the bowl. Closing his eyes was not an option, because if he did, he could feel himself starting to float with the lethargy brought by the syrup of poppies. That was dangerous until after he had talked to Rhun. So long as he kept his eyes open—

“What the devil is going on?” an angry voice intruded suddenly—Rhun's—as Rhys Michael came alert with a start. “Stevanus, what are you doing?”

“It was my opinion,” Brother Polidorus said, “that his Highness' wound should be cauterized to burn out the impurities. I believe he should be bled as well. For now, the hot water is drawing out the inflammation.”

Rhun stalked over to look at the hand in its basin, flicked a glance to Rhys Michael's face—taut with discomfort and defiance, the grey eyes dilated from the painkiller—then swept a hand around the room.

“All right, everyone out of here. I'll speak to his Highness in private. Cathan, you may stay.”

Stevanus set aside his instruments and hurriedly dried his hands, sketching Rhun a nervous bow before heading for the door, Fulk accompanying him. Polidorus let Cathan escort him and his assistant after them, but paused to murmur something to Cathan before the younger man closed him out of the room. Cathan latched the door, then came to take the king's hand from the basin and set it on a clean towel.

“What are you doing?” Rhun demanded, as Cathan took the basin to dump it down the garderobe.

“Brother Polidorus said I should put the king's hand to soak in clean water while we talk,” Cathan replied, returning to the fireplace to refill the basin with hot water. “That will prevent further contamination and continue drawing out the inflammation. I don't agree with the cautery, if the king doesn't want it, but I do agree with this.”