All Fall Down (24 page)

In the meantime, I could do little except continue to dab at the ulcerating lump in the boy’s groin. His howls redoubled. With a sigh, I stood and went to light another lantern so I could see better what I was about. In truth, the malignant bulge did appear to have grown in even the short amount of time that had passed since I had fallen asleep. No wonder he’d cried out so and tried, in his delirium, to rid himself of the source of the pain. Red streaks radiated outward from the mass, and it had begun very much to resemble a shiny white egg shoved underneath his skin.

Wilys returned, a sturdy brass brazier in one hand and a sack of coal in the other. Moving quickly, he set up the brazier in a corner as well away from the bunks as he could safely manage, and then struck a flint to catch a spark from the coal. “It’ll still be a few minutes, mistress,” he said.

“I understand. But in the meantime, could you fill that pan with water? Over there.” I pointed to where I had collected the pots and pans in one place, next to a heaped pile of water skins.
 

He nodded and set to work, and then hung the pan from a trivet and set it over the brazier. As he completed this task, he shot a worried glance toward the boy in the bunk, who still writhed against his bonds. The light from the various lanterns glistened in the sweat that had collected along the young man’s brow.

“He looks very bad, mistress.”

Well, there was no denying that, but I had seen people who appeared even worse and yet had somehow managed to live. Of course, none of them had had the plague, but I made myself take heart from the fact that over the years I had managed to save several who had, to all appearances, been on their death beds. “How is that water doing, Wilys?”

My question hadn’t been meant as a rebuke, but he appeared somewhat chastened as he replied, “Nearly hot, Mistress.”

“Good.” I selected a few pieces of choice willowbark from my satchel and went and dropped them into the steaming water. Among the other kitchen accouterments that had been sent along were several wooden spoons, and I took one and began to stir the mixture slowly. It needed to steep, but not boil, and I adjusted the trivet slightly so the pan of water wasn’t quite so close to the coals, which had begun to glow in shades of orange and red.
 

Wilys glanced past me to where the boy twisted and turned in his bed. He had stopped screaming, but continued to moan in low, guttural breaths that somehow were more wrenching than the screams had been. “Can you really help him?”

I never paused in my stirring of the willowbark mixture, even though Wilys’ question had caused my heart to skip, just for a second. What good, really, was willowbark tea or hot compresses or any of the remedies I might employ against something so pernicious as the plague? But I couldn’t let myself doubt. I had to try, no matter how hopeless the cause might seem.
 

“I’m treating his—” Again I floundered in my poor Selddish, and resolved that I must ask the word for “symptom” from Ourrel or Lord Shaine or whoever might be the next one to check in on us. I sighed, and said, “I cannot cure the actual plague. All I can do is treat the signs of it. But it’s those signs that can kill you, whether from the fever, or vomiting, or—” Again I had stop; “hemorrhage” was also not in my limited vocabulary. “At any rate, if I can bring the fever down, he might have a fighting chance.”

The stable master nodded slowly, but he looked grim. “And if not?”

I did not reply. The answer seemed clear enough to me, and Wilys was no fool. He knew what would happen if all my tisanes and poultices were for naught. Now it was time to put them to the test. “Bring me a cup,” I said.

Of course the stableboy did not want to swallow the tea. From having been dosed with it myself once or twice when I was a child, I knew it tended to be bitter; my mother had always put honey in her willowbark tea, but I had to save my precious stores of honey for infections. I could not use it as a simple sweetening agent. But the boy was certainly not the first patient I had dealt with who did not want to take his medicine, and I coaxed it down, tipping it toward the back of his throat so his gag reflex would cut in and he had no choice but to swallow.
   

After he had forced it down he did seem to quiet a little. His head fell back against the pillow, and he no longer seemed to fight against the restraints on his wrists and ankles. I knew better than to think this was anything but a momentary victory. In dread diseases such as this, a physician may win a battle here and there but still ultimately lose the war. Still, I was a little heartened to see the boy slip into what appeared to be a natural sleep. Often the defenses of one’s own body could be the best medicine. If he slept, perhaps he could gain the strength to fight off the disease himself.

Wilys asked quietly, “He’s not…?”

I shook my head at once. “No, he but sleeps. I’ve cleaned the wound he gave himself, but I shall have to keep an eye on that. I’m hoping that it will continue to rise.”

“Whyever for?”

“Because then I can cut it open.”

The stable master shot me an aghast stare. “What?”

I explained to him how the poison of the disease could be drained from such a wound, but it was clear he didn’t understand, or didn’t wish to. Perhaps he was only envisioning having to be my assistant in such a procedure. Obviously he was the only likely candidate for such a role, as I doubted any of the other stableboys would be of much use in the operation.
 

“It’s all right,” I said gently. “There may be no need for such a thing, if he can fight off the fever. The plague is not always fatal.”

At that Wilys raised an eyebrow. It was true, although one could never predict who would live and who would die. Some people seemed to be immune, while others would come down sick and yet somehow recover. This applied only to the bubonic form, of course—if the disease entered the lungs or the bloodstream, then the victims invariably died within the day. That is what I feared happened to Lord Arnad’s household, as almost all of the victims there seemed to have perished from acute pneumonia.
 

“I’ll watch over him,” I told the stable master. “You need your rest as well, and this is my task, my charge. If anything happens, I will call for you.”

It seemed as if he would protest, but then he nodded. “You know best, mistress.” He hauled himself to his feet and went through the doorway to the stables. I could hear him say a few words to the boys who still seemed to be loitering near the entrance, and they appeared to disperse back to their respective beds.

As for me, well, this would certainly not be my first sleepless night, and I guessed it would not be my last. There was a little stool tucked into the corner near the head of the bunk, and I fetched it and sat down. The sick boy did not stir, not even as I touched two fingers against his throat to gauge his pulse. It was weak and fast, but the sweat on his brow had dissipated a bit, and his skin did not feel quite so hot as it had previously. I had to be content with that.

Usually when I sat up with patients through the night I had a book or a piece of handiwork to keep me occupied. I had no books with me, save the notebook where I recorded the various medicinal mixtures I concocted, and I had forgotten to ask for one of my half-finished needlework projects when I gave my list of required items to Ourrel. Just as well, I supposed, as I would have had to burn it once I left this place—if I left this place.

I chided myself for that. So far I felt fine, if more than a little weary, but I was used enough to that. Lacking anything else, I catalogued my list of supplies once again, and made mental notes to myself to ask for more alcohol and turmeric, which I had used in the past to treat a variety of illnesses. I had never read anything about turmeric being useful in treating the plague, but it had aided me in the past and could possibly be of some help now. And so I rattled on, trying to keep my mind active, as the minutes and then hours ticked by and the boy slept quietly before me.

It came on so quietly that I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep until I lifted my head with a jerk from where it fallen on the rough blanket of the stableboy’s bed. Careless, even if I had been weary. I should have asked Ourrel for some tea; the stimulant would have helped to keep me awake.
 

I could do nothing about it now, however. I leaned forward and laid my hand against the boy’s cheek.

Only to find it cold against my touch, cold and still as the bitter morning outside. As I slept, he had passed from this world.
 

For a long moment I only sat there, staring at his still features. He looked peaceful enough. Perhaps his heart had stopped, or some other organ had failed. It happened that way sometimes, according to the accounts I had read. Better that, I supposed, than to die in convulsions and writhing pain, or drowning in his own mucus. Still…

I reached out and lifted the blanket to cover his pale, quiet face. And then I wept, for I realized I had never even asked his name.

Chapter 13

We could not bury the body, of course; the ground was frozen solid and would remain that way for some months. Ourrel’s men left a pile of firewood near the rear entrance of the stables. Everyone in the household was under strict orders to stay away, and so we sent the boy—whose name was Drym, as it turned out—from this world on a pyre that rivaled those of the barbarian kings of old. And then we could do little but wait and worry, and wonder who would be next.

A day passed in such quiet misery. The stableboys sent furtive looks at one another, as if trying to see who might be displaying any symptoms of the plague. None of them did, so far—they were a thin but healthy lot, as far as I could tell. Perhaps Drym had been the exception, and perhaps the disease would pass the rest of us by. That was foolishness, I knew, but the heart will often hope for what the mind knows cannot come to pass.

Ourrel brought by more supplies, and Lord Shaine came to me in the late morning. I had no words of reassurance for him, save my continuing health, but that seemed to be enough for the moment. He spoke quietly of his sorrow at Drym’s passing, and I could only say in response that at least the boy’s death seemed to have come to him peacefully enough. I did not bother to mention that it was a far better fate than that which had met those in Lord Arnad’s household. There was no use in painting pictures of future horrors. And after a murmured wish that our quarantine would not continue for much longer, he left. He had his own frightened household to keep watch over. After he left, I tried to hold the sound of his voice within my mind, the warm tones that always made me think of a finely tuned woodwind. It was all I could have of him, it seemed.
 

And on the third day of our quarantine, Wilys came to me with a face somehow pale and flushed at the same time. His steps, which usually seemed so steady, now wavered, and he watched me with frightened, bloodshot eyes.

No
, I thought.
Not him. Of all of them, he should have been safe
.

“I have it, don’t I?” he asked. And though the expression in his eyes reminded me of a wild animal caught in a trap, his voice sounded calm enough.

“Perhaps,” I replied. One touch on his forehead told me he burned with fever. “Any aches?”

“My head pounds, and I hurt here.” He reached up and touched his left armpit, but gingerly, as if even the slightest pressure pained him.

I knew what that meant, of course, but I still had to see for myself. “May I?” I inquired.

A careful nod, and he watched with white-circled eyes as I removed his leather jerkin and then undid the laces on the heavy linen shirt he wore underneath. Sure enough, as I lifted the billows of fabric away, I could see a reddish patch under his arm, vaguely circular in shape. The lump had not yet begun to rise, but I knew it lurked under the skin, a vile eruption waiting to come forth. Carefully I replaced his shirt and said, “Let me help you back to your bed.”

“So,” he said, his tone heavy. Then he nodded, and straightened his shoulders, even though I could tell the movement pained him. “Should I not come to you here?”

“No,” I said at once. “Your bed is already separate from the others, and you will be more comfortable in familiar surroundings. I can move my pallet in there, as well as the brazier and my other supplies.”

He watched me for a moment, his face pinched but resigned somehow, as if at least now that he knew the worst he would do his best to face it. “No need to help me, Mistress Merys. I can still walk under my own power.”

Slowly he turned from me and made his way back to his own room, while I bent to gather up my pallet and all the other items I would need to nurse him. My hands shook as I tucked my little notebook into the satchel, and I paused a moment to regain my composure.
 
I would be of no use to Wilys or anyone else if I could not keep calm. He was just another in a long line of patients I had cared for through the years. I could not let the fact that I knew and liked him stand in the way of his treatment. Nor could I allow myself to be shaken by the severity of the disease we all faced. My masters at the Order would be most displeased to see me rattled like a young student confronted by her first case of the pox.

Thus having mentally scolded myself, I trudged through the stables with my burden as the stableboys watched me with frightened, pale faces. At least the scent of horses and straw was familiar and almost comforting, bringing to mind happier times and memories of freedom. Of course, I was free now—technically. But the bonds which tied me to this place now were just as strong as the chains of slavery had been.

In an odd way, it was almost a good thing that the stableboys were slaves. The habits of obedience had been so ingrained in them that I guessed none of them even thought of trying to escape, to break quarantine by fleeing this place and seeking to run somewhere away from the plague. They certainly had the means, were they so inclined, as they had access to mounts and tack and a good supply of food and water. If I had been in their place, I would have at least entertained thoughts of escape, but although the fear on them was so palpable I could almost see it rising like some sort of miasma in the pale sun that poured in through the high windows of the stable, none of them did anything beyond mutter to their fellows as I passed them by.