by John M. Ford
She saw Hywel turn away, as if he were embarrassed. She wondered if he might actually be so, or want her to believe he was; small possibility of either. The wizard had too many secrets, she thought. He had bound himself tight with rules he would never consider imposing on another human being.
Lately he seemed to have taken a rule of silence as well. "You said the old Romans had a camp near here, Hywel.... Did they use this pass?"
"Never twice," he said, looking at the ground.
She waited.
Eventually he said "They were never allowed to find their way deeply into the mountains. If a party found this pass... remember those tall rocks we passed between? There would be someone there, waiting."
She nodded, thinking of Urbino's hill fortresses, where there had always been someone waiting for Byzantium... and, since Duke Federigo had a son, perhaps there still was. She hoped so. Then, not quite seriously, she said "And do skeletons in legionary armor walk this trail by night?" This country seemed to have an overwhelming fondness for spirits, of both varieties.
"They dumped the bodies away, below. So those that came after— and with the Old Empire as the New there was always someone to come after—were led farther and farther from what they sought." He looked at the toes of his boots.
It was one of his rules, she knew, that no one should ever know when he was sad; so she gave no sign of knowing, and changed the subject. "Who is Rhiannon, Hywel?"
He turned toward the estuary, put his feet on the ground and his hands in his lap. There was one of those white medals in his fingers; he seemed to find them everywhere they went. He turned the disc over in his fingers.
She said "You've heard people call me that. I must guess it's not insulting."
Hywel put his medallion away. "She was a healer. According to some."
"Like Mary Setright?"
"Something like her. You could say that Mary is to Rhiannon as you are to Minerva."
Startled, Cynthia caught at her owl pendant. "I didn't know—"
Hywel looked at her, finally, at her eyes, then her hair. "Some say she was the moon. Often she's a lady on a white horse swifter than wind.... Why are you laughing?"
"Because if I didn't I'd cry," she said, and tied her scarf on again. "You know, don't you, that Lorenzo de' Medici called me 'Luna,' for the color of my hair? Dimitrios spoke to me once, or tried to... he talked about riding a white mare called Luna. But his English was not very good... and I was riot well... and I struck him, poor man. When all he wanted to do was tell me a story."
She looked northward. "I wonder how they are, Dimi and Gregory."
"I am sure they are with Richard," Hywel said, starting down the road again, "and I think they are alive."
It was a few days past Iambolc, the February festival of light, and the town of Conwy had finally fallen still; half a foot of snow had helped to hush it.
Cynthia paced across the inn room. It was not a large room, but there was not much in it to interfere with pacing. "I think we should go south for a while," she said.
"In a while it'll be spring; that happens even in North Wales," Hywel said. "And besides, we've just come up the coast... do you want to visit all those little towns and drafty castles again so soon?" He smiled.
She almost giggled. He was better today, and she was certain it was because they had spent the last few days quietly, not drifting across the country in search of plots and legends and planchets of white metal.
Wherever the things came from, they had spread far and wide.
In every village they entered, they found the medallions, worn or carried close to the body and out of sight. Hywel would ask to see them, showing one of those he carried, and words would pass in Welsh dialects she could not understand.
He would not let her touch the discs; she offered to carry his sack of them, and he snapped a refusal at her, stuffing the metal into his pack like a miser caught counting his gold.
Cynthia did not know if it was magic, or madness, or some commoner evil. She did know that she had no cure for it. She wanted to take him back to Brycheiniog, to Llangorse, to Mary Setright, before the red worm of the medallions ate any deeper into his brain.
"South means the coast, you know," he said, "or all the way across Gwynedd to England; the Romans gave us roads that all run crosswise, and the English liked the idea too well to change matters. Hard for us to communicate, easy for them to come in." There was a distance, a wistfulness, in his voice.
"There's a road straight south from here to Harlech," she said, "down the Dyffryn Conwy." Her Cymric was spotty but workable now, and when she'd asked about the road the innkeeper had seemed to appreciate her efforts and meet her halfway.
"Oh, no," Hywel said quickly, "we can't take that road. There's no purpose in it."
"Purpose?"
"A dozen years ago, Harlech was holding out for Henry against Edward, and my lord Herbert was told to take the place. He decided to make an example as he went up the Vale of Conwy, and he assuredly did. You could follow the army by the smoke of its burning, and crows would starve on what they left. I could show you an inn, where still the sooty bones—" He stopped, shook his head. "I don't need to cross the water at Caerhun, my dear. I know what its current is."
He turned up his left palm. One of the medallions was in it, caged by his fingers. He made a slight gesture and the disc disappeared, leaving only a red circle and two livid arcs, ghosts of the struggling dragons. Hywel said "It isn't gone, of course, but only hidden. This isn't magic, but only what passes for it." He shook his sleeve, and the disc slid out, striking the floor with a dull clink. As it fell, Hywel shivered, just faintly; he put his marked hand to his face, stroked both his eyes.
After a long silent while Hywel said "I am sorry, Cynthia. I've dragged you a very long way through a strange country, for a cause you never meant to be part of."
"I asked to be part of it," she said firmly. "And I am sure that Fiorenza, now, would seem just as strange." She saw him brighten, just for an instant; then he hid it, and looked down. Poor man, she thought, trying not to touch the world for fear he would hurt it. She realized that they had been over most of Wales, and she still did not know what part of it he came from.
She thought suddenly and intensely that he had touched her, and had not hurt but healed her; there must be some way of using that to help him.
"You should be careful what you say to me," she said, trying to sound playful but not mocking. "I've heard another legend of your Llyn Safaddan, about the witch who gives a man everything, then leaves him forever when first he scolds her "
Hywel's face tilted up very slowly. There was no readable expression there; not amusement, nor anger, nor even active disinterest. "And you should be careful where you go, and what you ask," he said, in a voice like wind through a pipe. "Rhiannon once went into a strange house, and found a fountain within; but when she touched it she was held there, unable to move hand or foot, lips sealed fast. It took Gwydion son of Don all his wit and the threat of murder to free the lady." He paused, looked past her, out the window. "And I, whatever you may hear, am not Gwydion son of Don."
He held very still then, and she watched him very closely, but his body told her nothing.
Then he stood up, and in a kindly voice said "But I do have a taste for rabbit this evening. Shall we find some dinner?"
Poor man was not the word for him, she thought; she did not know what the word could be.
The carriage slammed and jolted, racing up the road to Ludlow Castle; the first red leaves of autumn blew out of the darkness, past the windows, and vanished again behind them.
Inside, Cynthia held to her armrests and looked across at Hywel, and wondered how he could be so calm. She did not like at all being gotten from her bed by armed men, polite as they were: their deference only made them more frightening. She had several colorfully sickening ideas of what might be happening, but no notion at all of tvhy.
They were taken through heavily guarded gates and
a badly lit hall. From somewhere above came a high-pitched wail, as of an animal, or a child.
They were led into a library... on second look, an office lined with books. There was a large, littered desk, an assortment of weapons and musical instruments on the bits of wall not covered by bookshelves, a brass telescope on an elaborate stand.
A man stood near the desk, leafing rapidly through a book. He was blond, tall, with a warrior's build. He wore a black velvet gown of scholar's pattern, but the collar was white silk instead of linen, and there were more silver ornaments than most professors she knew would have any notion of acquiring. The book, on the other hand, she recognized instantly; it was the most standard of medical references, the Liber Mercurius.
He looked up from the book. He had an open, intelligent look she found attractive at once; he also looked worried. "Are you the persons..." His expression dissolved into surprise. "Doctor Peredur? Is that you?"
"Yes, my lord Earl," Hywel said. "You did not know who you were sending for?"
"Actually I didn't." The blond man shook his head, closed the book with a thump, and put it back on the shelf. "We heard there were a sorcerer and a healer passing through—you are a healer, madam?"
Hywel said "May I present Cynthia Ricci, Doctor of Medicine and Surgery. Doctor, this is Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers; the Queen's brother."
"The Queen's abductor of innocent people, tonight," Rivers said. "I'm sorry you were brought here so rudely, Doctor, truly sorry. As I say, we'd only heard of some healer's presence, passing through; and if I'd sent a man down in the morning and found you gone, my royal sister would. . . well. Elizabeth isn't a woman to make angry."
"No queen is," Hywel said mildly. "Elizabeth is ill, then?"
"Much worse. The Prince of Wales is ill."
The child's cry came again, faintly. Rivers put his hand on his chin.
"I think I had better see the patient," Cynthia said.
"Yes," said the Earl, "I think you better had."
As they climbed the stairs, Cynthia said "Surely you have your own physicians here. What do they say?"
"They say they do not know, Doctor Ricci. The boy seemed to have fever of the milder sort, but now... the Prince is in great pain."
"In the abdomen?"
Rivers shot her a surprised glance. "Yes."
"With flux?"
"Yes. Bloody Pardon, madam... you are a Ricci of Florence, then?"
"I am the last Ricci of Florence," she said, needing to know if she could indeed say it.
"Oh... I understand, I think. Lorenzo de' Medici was my friend."
"He was my patient." It still hurt. She supposed it always would. It was better, surely, then an atrophied soul. "I remember him speaking of an Anthony Woodville of England... but, your pardon, sir, I believed you were a poet."
Rivers laughed, and his eyes were sparkling. "Madam, if you knew what it means to me, to hear that someone believed that!" He wiped his eyes on his loose velvet sleeve. "And of course your reputation precedes you here. Our physicians were rather upset when the Queen insisted a 'country healer' be brought in. I'm sure they will feel much better now."
That leaves only the patient to cure, Cynthia thought.
Suddenly Hywel said "Morton's here." He stopped on the stairs. "How long has he been here?"
"My lord wizard Morton has been traveling with Her Grace for some time now." Rivers gave a tight smile. "In fact, the old deceiver's got her liking him. I must say, he's talented."
"Indeed he has a talent, for..." Hywel did not finish the sentence. A door was opened for them.
Cynthia took in the familiar elements of the Sick Child's Bedroom Scene: the worried mother, the dithering cousins, the calm old nurse (who had probably lost all her own children in scenes much ruder than this), the child himself at the center of attention, often enjoying it—
But not this child. The boy on the ornate bed was genuinely suffering, skin flushed and dry, body rigid. Suddenly everyone else in the room faded into the furnishings; her bag was off her shoulder and she was at work. She had the subliminal awareness that she was being introduced to the worried mother, who happened to be Queen of England; she hoped her subliminal reply was appropriate.
She probed and tapped and listened and stared for over an hour. The boy made more noises; eventually the Queen went out on someone's arm. Cynthia had no complaint. She knew, a little sadly and a little proudly, that she was being her father's daughter: Vittorio Ricci insisted that the patient was first, the patient's family a distant second. The family became primary only if the patient died, and if that happened the punishment was appropriate.
"Earl Rivers."
"Doctor?"
"I noticed that your library contains some medical texts."
"I have books on all the sciences, madam."
"If you own a copy of Doctor Pier Leone's On the Systems of Muscles and Bones, I would like to see it."
The Earl went downstairs himself. One of the others present muttered "Any of us could have read a book." Cynthia opened her mouth to explain, but Hywel, who had been silent and apparently disinterested until now, said "Naturally... if you had thought of it."
Rivers reappeared, out of breath from the stairs, carrying the book. It was not thick, but of a large page size; each page of Leone's commentary was faced by a meticulous diagram of anatomy or surgical technique. She noticed that the book seemed almost new; the illustrations were probably more demonstrative than the Earl cared to look at.
She found herself examining the text for its own sake, looking over the drawings as if they were views of home, which after a fashion they were; Leone had presented her with a copy on her ninth birthday. She colored all its plates by hand. She wondered where it was now; unread in some Byzantine satrap's library, or ashes.
A moan from her patient brought her back to England. He must be only nine, she thought, or ten. "My lord Earl," she said carefully, turning to the pages she wanted, "you said it was dangerous to anger your sister. What if the truth is not what she wants to hear: will she be angry?"
"You sound as if you are passing a judgment." Rivers was grave, but in no way sarcastic.
"Perhaps, my lord. Hywel... may we talk, alone?"
Rivers said "We'll have rooms ready for you at once, of course, and your property brought from the inn."
"Thank you," she said; it came out wrong, too dry. "Then... we need another room, for a surgery; a stone room, so the walls can be scrubbed down with lye. A prison cell will do, if you can clean it, light it very brightly, and stop out any sewer vapors. Linen to drape everything—tell the maids fresh linen, not silk unless it's boiled; it's not the richness of the fabric but how clean it is." She turned to the little group of muttering men, certain now they must be the household physicians. "Are any of you gentlemen surgeons?"
The man who had spoken earlier now turned purple. With exaggerated politeness, he said "Is this what the Italians of such repute do? Drill for demons, and draw out evil with iron? I fear such methods are too...new, for England."
"You may go, Hixson," Rivers said, in a frightening tone, and the man went. Another of the doctors said quietly, "I will be pleased to help, madam. I have incised for abcesses, and cancer." He paused, looking very awkward. "Do you then propose to open the abdomen?"
"Sweet Lady, no!" But she understood: they thought, as had she at first, that the Prince had an intestinal abcess. Cutting through the peritoneum was never less than a desperate measure; in such a case it would be insanity.
Yet she found herself wishing it were only a case of acute abdomen. Calmly, she said "I intend to explore these nodules with a superficial incision." She watched the reaction. Apparently they had completely missed the nodules. She hardly felt triumphant.
"I have some experience in battlefield surgery," Rivers said. "I should like to be present."
"Of course, sir." She could scarcely refuse him, not with an heir apparent under the knife. "Please have me called when our bags arrive... there
are necessary medications. Now... Hywel, may we talk?"
They were met in the hall by a servant, who led them to their rooms. Just outside Cynthia's door, Hywel stopped still, dismissed the page. "Good evening," Hywel said, not to Cynthia but someone farther up the hall, "my lord wizard."
A man was at the end of the hall, descending narrow stairs from what must have been a tower or attic room; he had a roll of papers in his arm, with a brass instrument of some sort. He was of middle age, with heavy black eyebrows and a beard slightly longer than the fashion; sturdily built, but not athletic. He wore a cap of red leather lined with fur, and his gown was a heavy velvet, vivid red and diapered with gold flecks. To Cynthia, he looked oddly like a huge strawberry.
"And to you, my lord wizard," the man said, "and you, my lady." He must, she supposed, be the man called Morton. Hywel confirmed it with a short, almost curt, introduction.
"You did not reply when I sent to you," Hywel said. Cynthia had to think for an instant before understanding that he did not refer to human messengers. He was always able to tell when there was another sorcerer nearby.
"I was busy, I fear. Naturally I did not know it was you—"
"Nevertheless, I did not expect to find you in."
Morton smiled. "In Britain, you mean. Well. A man must remain supple, Doctor. Do you feel no stiffness of age? Oh—your pardon, my lady. Now, if you will excuse me, good night to you both." He swept past them and down a staircase.
Hywel opened the door to Cynthia's room, followed her inside.
After almost two years of Welsh inns and cottages, the bedroom of a royal castle seemed almost unreasonably lush. Cynthia sat on the edge of the bed, felt herself sinking into feathers, wondered how she would ever sleep on such a thing.
Hywel closed the heavy door, tripped the iron latch. "I might as well tell you now," he said with a deadly calm, "I can do nothing for the boy."
Perhaps he was too tired to be anything but blunt: certainly she was. "Then he'll die, in a year or two. Maybe he'll live as long as five—but it wouldn't be a blessing."
