Darker Jewels (6 page)

Father Krabbe stumbled toward the hearth, his habit showing wet stains at the shoulder and across the back. For a moment he steadied himself against the stones of the mantle, then he sank down onto his knees in front of the fire and began to pray, interrupting himself with the same tense, hacking cough as before. He was shaking visibly.

“Zary, go find Rakoczy at once. Tell him to come here.” Istvan got up from his chair, leaving his saddle half-polished.

Knowing advantage when it stared him in the face, Zary went down on his knee, kissed Istvan’s hand. “It is done,” he said as he hurried from the room.

From his place by the fire, Father Krabbe stared. His face paled as Istvan approached him, and very hesitantly he said, “Majesty?”

Istvan’s joints were too sore to permit him to do more than bend down a little, but he did this, saying, “God give you recovery, good Jesuit. I am Istvan Bathory. You are Father Milan Krabbe, I believe Father Pogner said.” As Father Krabbe broke off praying, turning his face up in true shock, the King went on. “I am sorry you are ill. It is not fitting that men in my service should suffer unnecessarily. That is why I have sent for the alchemist who is to travel with you. He will be able to tend you better than the physicians we have here, who are used to binding up minor wounds and cauterizing serious ones but have little skill beyond such treatments. Rakoczy will know what to do to make you better.”

“You must forgive them. They intended no insult, Majesty. Father Pogner did not know,” Father Krabbe said urgently, masking his cough with his hands. “Truly, Majesty, he did not know.”

“That was apparent,” Istvan said dryly, who was less certain than Father Krabbe that such knowledge would have made much difference to Father Pogner. “For if he did know, he would have had to pay his first duty to me, no matter what he preferred to do.”

“He will be
...”
This time his coughing covered his confusion.

“I suppose he will be embarrassed. He has brought that on himself. Still, it is acceptable to me that he was candid.” His leg ached steadily, and he leaned against the stone mantle of the fireplace to provide some relief. “Depending upon how he comports himself when he discovers the truth, I will endorse or end his chagrin. If he is chagrined.” He rubbed at his hip. “Winter has been hard on all of us. Your illness has been prevalent with some of my men. Four of my captains have been sent to monasteries in order to recover.”

“The monks will cure them, in the Name of Our Lord,” said Father Krabbe with the kind of desperate certainty that comes with having the same disease.

“Perhaps.” He looked up as the door flung open and Hrabia Zary returned. “Rakoczy is coming, Majesty,” he said with a casual bow. “He begs that you will excuse him for not accompanying me; he asks you to wait a moment or so while he completes his preparations.”

At another time Istvan would have been dissatisfied with this message, but after the calculated indifference of Father Pogner the grace of this response was most satisfactory. “If he does not expect me to wait very long.”

“He was loading something into that peculiar oven of his, the one that looks like a brick-and-stone beehive,” said Hrabia Zary in disgust. “And that manservant of his was sifting through a tray of little green pebbles. Rakoczy claims that the pebbles would combine with acid to yield copper.” He shook his head at such nonsense.

“Did you tell him about Father Krabbe?” asked Istvan, just a touch of condemnation in his tone.

“I said more Jesuits have arrived and one was ill.” He tossed his head, his fair hair brushing his broad ermine collar. “He said his work would be for nothing if he did not load the oven properly.”

“Then I suppose he has done what is best,” said Istvan, though a vertical line was deepening between his brows.

“You may be certain he will claim so,” said Hrabia Zary, drawing his poignard half out of its scabbard suggestively. “I could compel him.”

“No, you could not,” said Istvan bluntly. ‘Try such a foolish thing and he would make short work of you.”

Hrabia Zary laughed outright. “He? He is past forty and he dresses like a dancing master.”

“It isn’t wise to be deceived by his appearance,” said Istvan, looking down with concern as Father Krabbe continued to cough. The priest’s color was muddy and his breath wheezed.

“If you command me to treat him as if he were a soldier—”

Zary began, then broke off as Rakoczy, dressed in a heavy black fur-lined mente over a dolman of red, black, and silver, came into the room and walked directly to Istvan before offering his Italian bow.

“I’m sorry for the delay, Majesty; my athanor is finally hot enough for the work you have asked of me. In three days I will have the talismans I mentioned.” He kissed the King’s hand, then gave his attention to Father Krabbe. “This is the priest?” he asked as he knelt.

“Yes. As you see, he coughs.” Istvan abandoned his place by the fire and returned to his chair. “Is there anything you can do for him?” he asked as he eased himself into the most comfortable position he could find.

Rakoczy did not answer at once. He gave the priest a quick, expert inspection, noting how Father Krabbe strained to draw air into his lungs, and the faint rustling sound in his chest. Only when he had touched Father Krabbe’s forehead, neck, and hands did he say, “Yes, I think there is something I can do. He is filled with illness, but there is still a chance to save him.” He looked Father Krabbe directly in the eyes, commanding the priest’s attention. “There is a compound I can give to you. It is not one of the substances approved by the Church, but there is nothing diabolic about it. You may ask one of the priests who have come with you to bless it, if that will relieve your mind. Will you take it?”

Father Krabbe tried to draw a deep breath and failed. When his spasm of coughing was over, he said, “I will.”

“Then there is a good chance that you will be better shortly,” said Rakoczy, but made a sign to the king as he continued to talk to Father Krabbe. “What you need now is a warm bed and hot wine.”

“I will arrange it at once,” said Istvan, and signaled Hrabia Zary, who sighed dramatically and bowed in inelegant imitation of the bow Rakoczy had offered. “A bed and a servant to tend this priest.”

“He will need broth,” Rakoczy went on. “I will speak to the cooks myself.” This last gesture was wasted on Zary, who glared.

“The world is full of Jesuits,” he muttered as he left the room.

Rakoczy knelt closer to Father Krabbe. “Tell me, Father, have you had much pain in your chest?”

“A ... a little,” said the Jesuit.

“Pressure?” Rakoczy pursued. “Do you feel as if there is a weight on you?”

Father Krabbe nodded. “Father Pogner says it is the weight of my sins.”

Unwise though it was, Rakoczy shook his head and gestured his exasperation. “It is the nature of your illness. Do not blame your sins for it.” He placed his small hand on Father Krabbe’s neck again, feeling the fast, thin pulse. “I want you to sleep. You have worn yourself to the bone, aside from this illness. Why on earth did you force yourself to travel—” He broke off, realizing full well why Father Krabbe had done so ill-considered a thing. “Father Pogner.”

“He has exhorted us to be diligent and firm in our dedication.” The last two words ended in coughing again. He stared at Rakoczy out of his dark-rimmed eyes. “Is there anything that can be done? Or are you offering me comfort and an easier death?” As Rakoczy started to answer, Father Krabbe continued, “For if that is what you intend to do, I ask that you will not. If I suffer, I will offer it up, and you will not waste your medicaments to no purpose.”

Rakoczy’s smile was fleeting. “Very brave, Father. But I fear that there is still enough life in you to justify the treatment.” He patted Father Krabbe on the shoulder, then got to his feet once again, moving a short distance away and motioning for Istvan to come with him. “He is going to need constant nursing for the next four days,” he said in an undervoice.

“He has putrid lungs?” asked Istvan, who had seen the sickness many times before.

“Yes,” said Rakoczy, “but he is not dead yet.” He knew how quickly those with putrid lungs were given up for dead, and he wanted to prevent the neglect that would be more deadly to Father Krabbe than his illness. “With syrup of poppies to help him sleep and the hermetic sublimate I can provide, he will recover, if he is well-attended.”

Istvan shrugged. “There are monks who—”

“Your pardon, Majesty,” said Rakoczy as if there was nothing strange in interrupting the King. “Monks are very well in their place, but that is ministering to the poor.. This man requires a greater skill than monks may provide, and more help than simple prayer.”

Istvan cocked his head and Med his hand in warning. “Do not let the Jesuits hear you say that, Hrabia Saint-Germain, for the sake of Father Krabbe, if not your own. Your ancient name and your title would not be proof against them, if they decided you were the servant of Satan.”

Rakoczy nodded once, his dark eyes distant, his long memories recalling the zeal of priests for more than three thousand years. From the dread of the High Priest in Nineveh to the jealousy of Denim Mahnipy in the Temple of Imhotep to the hysterical austerity of Ranegonde’s confessor to the self-destructive excesses of Tamasrajasi to the denied greed of Savonarola, Rakoczy recognized the breed: they had served many gods, and in a variety of ways, but their mania was the same. “I have learned that lesson, Majesty.”

“Have you,” said Istvan, seeing something in Rakoczy’s face that revealed more than he knew. “Then keep the lesson in mind, my friend.”

Rakoczy made a gesture of assent. “In the meantime, there must be two or three squires who would take turns with Father Krabbe. I will send Rothger to watch him in the night.”

Hearing the priest cough again, Istvan watched him critically. “Are you certain he will recover? I have seen many another less ill than he who could not be saved.”

“He is young and strong,” said Rakoczy. He looked around the room as he continued his observations, as if others might overhear him. “He must be kept warm, that is most important. The only true danger to him is continuing cold—the rest I can remedy. Once he is warm and dry he needs hot wine and broth until his cough lessens and the fever is gone. After that, provided he is not forced to leave his bed before he is ready, good food and rest will restore him.” He shifted his stance so that his back was to Father Krabbe. “It might be wisest to settle him before the others return?”

“I take your point,” said Istvan. “It will be tended to immediately. The man has suffered enough.” He returned to his chair and picked up the large brass bell lying by the saddle. As he rang it, he said to Rakoczy, “Do you wish to supervise moving him?”

“It might be best. And with your permission I will give my manservant the task of selecting three squires to assist him in the care of Father Krabbe.” He offered Istvan another bow. “Thank you, Majesty.” With that he turned and went to assist Father Krabbe to get to his feet.

The priest blinked several times before he realized what was happening, and then he struggled to manage on his own, protesting that it was wrong for a nobleman to aid a priest. Since he doubled over with coughing before he had finished objecting, Rakoczy paid no attention.

By the time the other three Jesuits made their way through the wind and snow back to Istvan’s quarters, Father Krabbe was snug in bed under a quilt and fur robe, Rothger supervising the inexpert ministrations of Tomcio. Rakoczy had already given him the first of five doses of the hermetic sublimate that began as moldy bread.

Entering the chamber where they had come before, Father Pogner was a little surprised to see that the older nobleman was still in the room, tending to his saddle. He spread out his cloak before the fire before he addressed Istvan. “What has become of Father Krabbe?”

Istvan regarded the priests with interest, noticing that the other two seemed more cowed now than before. “He has been put to bed where he may rest easy and his illness may be treated.”

“Prayer will do him more good than any physic or luxury,” said Father Pogner with a gesture of dismissal. “It is for God to heal him.”

“That may be, but Scripture instructs us to look for the world’s solutions in the world.” There was a trace of amusement in his voice and his eyes brightened with a smile. Istvan was feeling better since Rakoczy had supplied him with more of the tincture of pansy, willow, and angelica; his leg and hip no longer ached as if caught in a vice.

“A man in your position may be excused for thinking so,” said Father Pogner with hauteur. “Who has been given the care of our companion? It is fitting that we approve him.”

“I will send for him, if that would suit you?” He started to reach for his bell.

He was spared the necessity. The door opened and Ferenc Rakoczy came into the room, for once going down on his knee to Istvan instead of bowing in the Italian manner. “Majesty,” he said, paying no obvious attention to the three priests, “I have left Father Krabbe with Father Mietek, who is hearing his Confession.”

“Very good,” said Istvan, motioning to Rakoczy to rise. He saw the outrage in Father Pogner’s face, unguarded and blatant for an instant, then gone and replaced with apparent humility.

Father Komel crossed himself. “Jesus protect me.”

Father Brodski stared at Istvan. “You are King?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“By Grace of God,” said Istvan seriously, taking satisfaction in the discomfiture of the priests. If only die old Polish nobility could be as effectively influenced. “And this is the man who has made the care of Father Krabbe his business—Rakoczy of Saint- Germain. like myself, he is a Transylvanian.” He motioned to Rakoczy to rise and find a place to stand near him as a sign of favor that the priests would understand.

“Honored, good Fathers,” said Rakoczy, ducking his head to the priests and watching them without appearing to notice much about them.

Fathers Brodski and Komel returned the half-bow, but Father Pogner stood straight and disapproving. At last he spoke, begrudging every word. “Your family name is not unknown to me,” he said grudgingly.