CHAPTER SIX
Four Drops to Save Him
I am wrenched back to awareness by the worst pain imaginable - blazing agony that courses through my veins and drags a scream from my mouth, despite the presence of the stick that I can feel between my teeth. God, not again…not again…
I have no idea where I am, as my vision is still troubled, but I can feel something upon my chest, a cold pressure of some sort, and my hands are being clasped tightly as my head rests upon something. I know that I must not make so much noise, but this time I cannot keep myself from howling out even as I clench my teeth against the stick, and I kick wildly, my heels drumming the floor violently.
"It's poison, Richie," I hear, somewhere in the distance, "the sovereign specific is having to burn it from your blood."
It seems to go on forever - far longer than it had when I first experienced its torture; and the pressure remains upon me for longer. I want to wrench my hands free, to knock that pressure away, for it is there that the burning is at its worst, as though a bonfire has been lit upon me.
"It's killing him, Thomas!" another voice speaks now, one that seems to be even further away, "Stop, for God's sake!"
"Be silent, Tom." The first voice admonishes, "This is the only hope he has. The venom is deadly, and I have never seen the like. This can cure any wound or hurt - and it needs time to do it."
I am aware of a dampness about my eyes - tears drawn out by the pain that seep away as I continue to cry out. Somehow, I remember vaguely that I knew I must not do so, for fear of bringing the…something…I cannot remember, and the thought fades again.
"Come on, Richie…come on…" the first voice speaks again, but it is fearful now, "Don't give in to this…hold on…"
And then, at last, it begins to fade away - the hideous fire dying down to be replaced with just that vile sensation of grit in my joints. And I remember what must be done now, as I feel the pressure lift from my chest, and the stick is removed from my mouth. God help me, it is almost more than I can stand to endure...
"A cupful, Tom. Set the basin down upon the floor. It is very possible that he shall not tolerate the cordial. We needed six attempts the first time."
"What?" the second voice sounds rather nervous.
A cup floats into my unreliable vision, and I know what it contains - that I need to swallow it, but also that it does not seem to wish to be swallowed. I am on my knees now, and a pair of firm hands holds my shoulders to help me remain upright. Forcing my arm to move, I raise the cup to my lips, pause for a moment to steel myself against its ghastly reek, and drain it. Again, the taste is truly foul, and I lean forward, already feeling the sense that my stomach is not willing to retain it. I cannot keep back a miserable whimper, but sure enough, I tense, retch and the whole damn lot is splattered into the copper basin before me.
"Try again, Richie. It won't be so bad this time - you've had it before. It's never so bad the second time." The voice is kind, encouraging, and I do as it asks; not that I want to. Again, I feel it going down, and that horrible sense of nausea sends waves of discomfort through me. As before, I retch; but this time, as I have been assured, nothing comes out. I am, however, not permitted to move for a while, until the owner of that voice determines that I should - presumably to ensure that I do not bring it up after a few moments rather than immediately. I cannot remain upon my knees any longer however. Instead, I slither sideways and find myself sitting - though the hands holding my shoulders keep me from toppling over completely. Should I not feel recovered now? Why do I feel so ill?
"He's still burning, Thomas." The second voice says, "Is this not meant to be quick?"
"It was poison, Tom." The first replies, "The fluid can heal all, but there is likely to still be some of the venom lurking in his extremities. That shall also need to be eradicated. His cuts are already healed - see?"
I wish that I could - but the room is still moving somewhat, and I am not sure whether that which I see before my eyes is real, or false.
"Come, Tom. Help me put him to bed - he needs to rest. We can discuss this with him when he is more able to understand us."
That would be nice. They sound like my father admonishing me from the bottom of a well - I should very much rather they didn't.
I vaguely note that I am being lifted from the floor again, and I am carried somewhere before being laid down, "It's your own bed, Richie," the voice murmurs, rather faintly now, as I think I am falling asleep - at least I hope I am, "So you will not need to be moved again…" and it falters to silence.
Time passes in something of a blur. Sometimes, I think myself to be awake, and talking to people - but I cannot fathom who they are, or what we are talking about. Other times, I am lost in a maze of high hedges, and I cannot find my way - and then I am on an icy lake, and the ice cracks beneath me; and I am falling. Now and again, there is something deadly behind me, and my flight is impeded; either my legs will not obey me, or I am wading through thickness that holds them fast; I try to scream, but no sound will emerge from my mouth - and again, I fall into darkness...
When I open my eyes again, and feel that I might truly be in my right mind, John is nearby, and he looks at me with great relief before hastening from the bedchamber. I have woken - and he has fled. That seems most strange. I try to sit up, but find that I cannot; my arms are weak, and I can barely lift myself.
When John returns, he has Cromwell with him, and Wyatt is not far behind, "Thank God, Richie - had I not been obliged to report to the King I would have been here when you woke."
I try to speak, but my mouth is dry.
Cromwell pulls up a chair as John carefully pours a herb cordial into a cup and assists me in drinking it. As he helps me to lie back again, I make another attempt, "How long have I been asleep?" God, my voice sounds hoarse.
"You have drifted in and out of consciousness for the last four days." He advises, quietly, "For some of the time, you were delirious, but for much of the time, you were beyond waking."
"You said something about poison…" I have a vague memory of lying down, voices addressing one another as I burned in torment from the ministration of that vile curative from the ebony coffer.
He nods, "When we found you in the gardens, you were shaking upon the floor as one afflicted by the falling sickness, and foaming at the mouth. I was fortunate to have my coffer of sovereign specific in my chambers when Tom arrived at my door, and I dispatched William to prepare the cordial and bring it to your quarters. Then we came in search of you, and I carried you over my shoulder to bring you safely indoors - God be thanked that none saw me do so, for you made a fearful sight. You were so close to death, and so deeply poisoned, that I took the risk of using four drops of the fluid to combat it. I have never used so much before."
I frown, dredging up the memory of our final encounter, "She came upon me when I was in the offices. I forgot the keys to my coffer - there were confidential papers within it - and I had attempted to evade her…but in the moment I laid my eyes upon her, I was as enamoured as ever; and followed her out to the gardens without so much as a second thought."
"It appears, however, that she was sent against you, does it not?" Wyatt adds, "For that is what I heard her say as I fled. What was she?"
"I do not know." I admit, "She claimed to be called 'the Huntress', and Lamashtu sent her to kill me so that I could not complete my task. If I falter, then so do you, Thomas."
"Thank God you had your sword with you." Wyatt says, quietly.
"I did not."
Cromwell and Wyatt look at me, surprised.
"I left it in my chambers - for I did not wish to risk being caught with it in the corridors. I was not expecting the demon to come upon me in the offices - and when she did I was so keen for her that I did not care. I do not yet understand how it came into my hand, so I cannot answer any question you might have. If anything, thank God you followed me, Tom. If you had not, then I should be dead."
Wyatt looks deeply embarrassed, "When I saw her, and then you, I was enraged that you had taken her from me. She had said nothing to me, not even looked upon me - and yet still I thought her to be mine. Thus I followed you, with the intention of ensuring that whatever you had planned would not come to pass; instead intending that the encounter should be with me. And when I found you together…"
"You took issue." I interrupt. I really do not want Cromwell to know that she had me half undressed. Then I remember something, "Tom - please forgive my comment about Anne. I knew even as the words emerged that I had spoken wrongly."
"Willingly, Richard - for it awoke me from that enamoured daze under which I had been living. And, I think, it woke you also, for it was only then that she revealed her true form."
"The weather broke while you were unconscious, Richie," Cromwell advises, "I took the liberty of visiting Grant's Place myself - as Tom stayed with you during that time. With Molly's assistance, I was able to secure this." He hands me a folded paper, "I think it shall keep you occupied while you rest - you should not rise until you are strong enough. The poison has taken a great deal of your strength."
I have no objection to his words - for I know them to be true. I can barely hold the paper, and it weighs almost nothing. Even the weight of my arms seems insurmountable, and I am still dreadfully tired.
I suspect that I sleep for much of the day, and the night that follows; but when I wake again, I feel somewhat stronger, and I can at least sit up; though even this is achieved slowly, as I cannot do so quickly without becoming dizzy, so I must be helped up in gradual stages with more pillows at my back. My attempts to eat have so far been rather poor, as the most I can manage is broth, which I despise, and cordials thick with herbs that are supposedly restorative, but taste bad. I do, however, have the paper to occupy me.
The creature that Lamashtu sent against me is indeed a huntress - known by the name Psciponista. In her human form, she is truly called Lady Midday; at least by those who fear and revere her. Now that I think about it, I can recall the words she spoke as she unfastened my doublet, and I wonder that they did not make sense to me at the time - was I truly so keen for her that I did not hear that she was intending to slice me open and devour my insides while I still lived? God have mercy, what was I thinking?
Worse, I had thought nothing of descending into the emptiness of the gardens in search of something of which I had no knowledge and without any means of defending myself. Have I learned nothing since I first became a Second? I grow hot with embarrassment at my ineptitude: Cromwell was right - I certainly have not ceased to make mistakes. In which case, I must endeavour to learn from them, and thank God that the only man to suffer the consequences of my foolishness was myself.
I read on, and find that she did indeed exude venom from her claws - both on her hands and feet. If I had thought to turn away as she fell, as I thought at the time, then her claws would have merely sliced into my padded sleeve and done me no harm. Instead I stood before her, and she cut me. I am most fortunate, I think, that Cromwell has the sovereign specific - for the paper says that the venom has no cure. Perhaps, as she fell, whatever passes for a soul that she had might have exulted for she thought that I should die with her, regardless of her failure to feast upon me. Thank Christ for that foul fluid. I may despise it, but if it did not exist, I should not be here.
As I set the paper aside, I turn my thoughts to my sword. How did it get to me? What were the words that Wolsey said? And where is he? Why has he not come to me to berate me for my foolishness?
"Eminence?"
He is silent for a worrying time, and when his voice finally emerges, it is rather faint, What do you want? If it were possible for a soul in purgatory to feel exhaustion, then I do so.
"Why?"
Have you any idea how hard it is to reach someone who is not near the library, or something to which I can anchor myself? You were out in the gardens - it took all I had to get to you.
"Then I am even more grateful that you came to my aid in my stupidity. I have no idea what words I spoke - but without them, I should have died - for I had no means to defend myself."
I shall tell you how much of an idiot you are when I have rested. Leave me be.
"Yes, Eminence. I look forward to it." I sit back amidst the heap of pillows. I am still weak, but not so tired as I have been, so I cannot escape the encroaching boredom with sleep. Fortunately, Wyatt visits frequently, and Cromwell spends as much time with me as he can afford, for I have missed several meetings of the Privy Council, though it seems that the King is no more interested in them than he was when I was there.
"Alessandro still seems to hold him in thrall, Richie." Cromwell sighs, "At any hint or suggestion of discontent or boredom, he seems able to reveal some new bauble or wonder. The King still demands his company at all times - and has no wish to recall Chapuys. How he can receive news from the Emperor if he will not receive the bearer of it, I cannot say. I am doing all I can to secure news from my spies - but it is not enough. I do not dare to raise it too frequently, for the King is already averse to the name of the Imperial Ambassador quite enough as it is."
He then retrieves a paper from his robes, "Her Majesty asked me to send you this."
It is a brief note, asking after my health and hoping that I recover swiftly. In the face of such indifference from the King, that his Queen is still concerned for us is quite heartwarming, "Do you expect to see her before I emerge from this blasted bed?"
He nods, "I shall pass on your thanks. She has been most concerned about your welfare, as have the Ladies Mary and Elizabeth. It seems that they follow our adventures with fascination."
"I am glad they didn't see this one."
After four days abed, I am becoming desperate to escape, but John is insistent that I remain, "Mr Cromwell has made it clear that if I assist you to rise before you are strong enough, he shall personally remove certain parts of my anatomy with his knife."
"And what if I consider myself to be strong enough?" I demand; though, that said, it is not my anatomy that is under threat.
Such is my boredom now that I decide to risk annoying Wolsey again, "Eminence, are you stronger? I am going mad at the dullness of my situation, and I have questions."
For you are an idiot.
He seems to be better.
"What were those words that you spoke to me in the garden? The ones that made my sword appear in my hand?"
That I do not know - they were given to me to give to you. It seems that it not only I who is charged with saving you from your stupidity.
"How charming. Why not ask whoever gave them to you to tell you what they are? That would be more helpful than admitting that you know no more than I do."
He stays silent for a while, I am not sure that I can.
"Why not?" I need to know what I have in my hand - and if the only information that exists is available solely to Wolsey, then he must get it.
The information is held by Cassandra - a fact that I distinctly recall revealing to you. She does not reside within Purgatory, and thus I cannot reach her.
"Don't make such excuses Wolsey." I snap, "If you cannot reach her, then who gave you those words, and how? You did not allow your red robes to keep you from breaking rules when you lived - and you were forgiven for that. Break some more now, for God's sake! I need to know about that damned sword!" I sink back on the pillows again, surprised at how my outburst has tired me. No wonder Cromwell is refusing to allow John to let me get up.
Do not disturb me. I shall come to you. And then he is silent.
I am obliged to remain abed for two more days, and my temper deteriorates further as my strength returns. I am sick of broth, and of gruel, and of bloody cordials that taste like cat's piss. John endures my frustrated anger with loyal aplomb, and continues to serve the damned stuff in the face of my childish complaining.
I have received more kind letters from the Queen, alongside one from the Lady Mary and another from the Lady Elizabeth, wishing me well. It seems that they have indeed accepted that our loyalty is unimpeachable in the face of all - which seems odd to me given my once-deserved reputation for untrustworthiness. I have re-read that paper on Pscipolnista more times than I wish to count, lost my temper with Wyatt because he can get out of my bedchamber and I can't, and called Cromwell some truly vile names - some of them to his face.
It is as John has departed in the face of another childish tantrum that Wolsey finally returns.
How pleasant you are to your staff, Rich. He must truly value you as a master.
"Shut your mouth up, Wolsey." I snap.
So you don't wish to know more about the Damask blade, then? Fair enough.
"Please God, my patience is at the end of its stretch! What do you know?"
It seems that Lamashtu was correct when she spoke of power in that sword, Richard. I was able to speak to Cassandra, for a short time, at least. The blade was forged many hundreds of years ago by a group of wise men - for metalworkers were thought to be wizards in those far off days. It was created for a man descended from Scythian warriors, who ruled great grasslands beyond the Hellespont. When they did so, they imbued it with certain properties.
I frown, a little nervous at this. It sounds like magic - in which I absolutely do not believe.
Nothing can stand against it - it can cleave through bone, metal and stone without punishment. It cannot blunt, and cannot break. But most importantly, it forms a bond to the one meant to wield it - when it does so, that individual cannot be fooled by any demon's false form, and, should they speak the four words you were given in the gardens, it shall come to their hand - no matter where they, or the sword, are.
That explains how it was that my ridiculous behaviour around Lady Midday vanished in the instant I lifted the blade, and why I saw her as the demon she was when I had it in my hand. Now I think upon it, did I not see, for a moment, Lamashtu in an inhuman form while in the Queen's Presence Chamber? Perhaps even at that early time, the sword was beginning to forge this supposed bond. Clearly this sword was indeed meant for me - and now, if I speak the four words Lezviye k moyey ruke, it shall come to me. Fortunately, as I turn the words over in my mind, nothing happens - clearly I must speak them aloud. Thus I can repeat them over and over again in my head to ensure that I shall not forget them should I need to speak them in future.
"If nothing can stand against it, then can it destroy Lamashtu?" I cannot believe that we could be so lucky, but I need to ask.
It cannot. Cassandra knew that you would ask that question - even as I thought you would not have the wit. It seems that there is but one thing - and that is the Gemfire. She knew not what that was, and I cannot enlighten you either.
I sigh, disappointed. It was worth asking - but if we cannot use the sword, then this 'Gemfire' it must be, "As soon as I have recovered myself," I tell Wolsey, "I shall add that to my collection of tasks alongside finding the missing ruby. I suspect that the stones shall provide the answer, given that they are known also as 'Fires' - but I must make that final connection."
Indeed. Wolsey sounds almost disappointed, And I was so looking forward to telling you not to expect me to do that for you.
After another night of sleep, Cromwell finally agrees that I may leave my bed. I am, remarkably, still rather lacking in strength, but the true weakness has departed. I am able now to sit beside the fire in my main chamber, and the ghastly broths have been replaced by proper victuals. That is, we think, all that I now need to complete my recovery - and God, I cannot wait to escape the confines of my chambers. Even boring codicils are preferable to the boredom of nothing at all.
The following day, I am back at my desk. The clerks are very conscientious of me, and ask after my health - to the point that I am becoming very tired of explaining that I am well again. No one particularly cares amongst the men of the Privy Council, though Suffolk, in his usual, quiet way, asks after me once the Council meeting ends. Despite the minor baron to whom Lady Midday was supposed to be attached still being at court - everyone seems to have forgotten she was ever there; but then, given the havoc she caused, and the embarrassment, perhaps it is just as well that a collective forgetfulness seems to have descended, and we can all concentrate instead on Lent, and its journey towards Easter.