Leaf and Branch (New Druids Series Vol 1 & 2)

by Donald D. Allan

  The Archbishop looked away and declined to answer.

  "Come now, Greigsen! You can tell me. I've heard your joints are full of arthritis and you can barely keep food down. Eating oats with milk for most meals. Is it true?"

  The Archbishop did not like this line of questioning. His health was his own concern and he would rather not share it with the one man between himself and placing a King on the throne. How am I to get through this meal without telling him? he wondered. He thought for a moment and then nodded sharply and waited to hear laughter at his plight. When he looked at Healy, he was surprised to see genuine sympathy.

  "Well, now," said Healy. "I feel for you, my friend. Old age is bad enough without the pain that goes with it. You have my sympathy." Healy picked up a small bell and rang it. A server appeared and placed a carafe of milk on the table, bowed and disappeared. "Here. I suspected you had stomach pains. I had this brought in special. Cow's milk. Fresh and whole. Will you take some?"

  The Archbishop thought of the cool milk hitting his stomach and soothing the burn and nodded. Healy filled his wine glass with the milk and then lifted his wine and offered a toast. "To health."

  He lifted his glass of milk and touched the Lord Protector's glass and took a swallow. The cool milk hit his stomach like water on a fire. He closed his eyes and gave thanks to God.

  "Our meal will be out soon. White fish with white sauce. Something that won't upset your stomach. Before that, I want to offer you something."

  Greigsen raised his eyebrows. Since when does Healy offer me anything for free? He seems in a peculiar mood. He's too happy. He looked around the room and then scowled.

  Healy laughed. "Oh, if you could see the expression on your face. Come. Hear what I have to say and if you aren't interested so be it."

  "Fine. What is it?"

  "Think of it as a peace offering!" boomed the Lord Protector, smiling benevolently behind clasped fingers with his elbows on the table. "You'll feel ten years younger if not more. Trust me in this." Healy rose and circled around the table to clasp the Archbishop with warmth on the shoulder. The Archbishop glanced at the hand in surprise. "I have a man. An expert in pain. I'll have him come round your office in two days. He is out on an errand up in the North region but I expect him back by then. Fair enough?"

  The Archbishop's mind whirled, and he tried to reason himself past the overwhelming desire to grasp this unexpected boon. He was certain this was another ploy of the Protector, a way to undermine him. They had sparred so many times in the past, each of them angling to get the better of the other and, now, he expected nothing less. For decades they had played this out. The pain in his joints begged him to at least see this through. Perhaps this time he is being sincere? It wouldn't hurt to at least meet with his man.

  Greigsen nodded and Healy clapped him on the back and returned to his seat. He rang the bell again and two servers appeared carrying silver trays with a silver lid. They placed the trays in front of them and then simultaneously lifted the lids. Steam billowed, obscuring the plate below. When it cleared, Greigsen could see a perfectly prepared piece of halibut with a bechamel sauce. It smelled heavenly.

  "Dig in," ordered Healy. "Don't let it get cold."

  * * *

  He raised his head at the soft knock at his door. The Archbishop moved over to unlatch the door before he remembered he had already done so. He shouted, "Come in, the door is unlatched."

  A moment of silence greeted him before the door swung open a mere inch or two. The Archbishop watched a thin face thrust into the narrow opening to peer inside. "H-hello? Arch b-bishop, sir?"

  The voice was meek and high pitched and the Archbishop took an immediate dislike to the man. "Yes. Come in. Don't dawdle!"

  "Y-yes, yes, of c-c-course, s-sir!" stuttered the man and pushed the door open to reveal his short, emaciated body. He looked like a boy aged beyond his years. He had a large prominent nose that drew the eyes and made it hard to see past it to the man. He was dressed in black wool clothes and the Archbishop shuddered when he recognised them. The clothes were the uniform of a chirurgeon. He knew, of course, who to expect after the Lord Protector told him, but seeing one in his office was still hard to accept. Chirurgeons were universally reviled throughout the Realm. They were charlatans preying on the invalid. They administered impossible elixirs and potions and delivered fake promises and false hope. The man entered the office and closed the door behind him. He turned back to the Archbishop carrying a black leather satchel in front of him with both hands. He stared at the Archbishop a moment before bowing his head.

  The Archbishop sighed and held out his ring hand and waited. The man merely blinked blankly at him and then stared at the hand for a moment. He is clearly not gifted with an encouraging intellect, thought the Archbishop. "You kiss the ring." For emphasis, he shook his hand a little. The man looked from the hand to his face, still not understanding. "You kiss the ring. The ring on this hand. It's respectful to my office as head of the Church of the New Order."

  Understanding dawned on the man's features and he rushed forward. He placed his satchel carefully on the floor and grabbed the hand and kissed the ring. "H-how's that, sir?"

  "It's not sir. It's your Grace."

  "S-sorry, sir. I m-mean, your G-grace."

  "That stutter is something, isn't it?"

  "S-sir? I m-mean, your g-Grace? W-what st-st-stutter?"

  The Archbishop raised an eyebrow and looked to see if the man was in jest. He waited, but the man just continued to stare back at him with a confused look. Chirurgeons, he sighed. They are all the same. "All right, let's be about this. Sit over here. What do you have for me?"

  The Archbishop led the man over to the small table by the wall. He motioned to one seat but remained standing himself. If I sit now, I won't get back up again. He watched as the man stood next to the table but didn't sit. The man placed his satchel on the table and opened it. The satchel opened like a book, and inside were many silver instruments. No doubt used for cutting and dissecting failed surgeries, thought the Archbishop. The instruments were known to him. His Sect had used them on the demons to draw out their secrets and lies. They were amazingly accurate and fine-tuned instruments, equally good for surgery as they were for torture. The Archbishop smiled and felt his cock stir in his robes.

  "S-So, ah, your g-Grace. The Lord p-p-p-Protector said t-that ya-you w-were in p-p-pain? C-can I p-p-p-lease see your hands?"

  The Archbishop held out his hands, and the man grabbed them and felt the swollen, red knuckles looking from joint to face as he squeezed them. After a moment the Archbishop tore his hands free. "Enough! All the joints are the same. Red, swollen and painful."

  "Y-yes. Rheumatism. Very advanced. N-no surprise at your age, n-n-no? T-t-tell me your p-p-parents? They t-t-too, n-n-no?"

  The Archbishop was annoyed now and waiting for the stuttering fool to get his words out. He had almost had enough of this idiot. The Lord Protector was having his fun again and likely knew he would raise his hopes and had purposely given him this court fool to deal with.

  The man, oblivious to the look of anger on the Archbishop's face, continued talking. "I have t-tears."

  "Tears? Tears!" roared the Archbishop. "You offer me tears? You are a fool! Enough of this! The Lord Protector has played me for a fool! Now get out!"

  "Your g-Grace! P-p-p-please! The t-t-Tears of the P-p-poppy! The p-p-poppy!"

  The Archbishop closed his mouth and gawked at the man. He had heard of this. The demons had spoken of it when pressed but his men had found none and he had forgotten about it. It was one of the demonic conjurations. Devil juice. He sputtered. "That's a product of the Devil!"

  The man blinked in surprise. "The d-Devil? No. No, it comes from a p-p-plant. A p-p-poppy p-p-plant. I have some here for you. The Lord p-p-Protector b-bade me come and give you as much as you require. I have here some d-d-dozen vials. I will explain how to t-t-take it and some c-c-caution on its use. This will help with the p-p-pain." The man ope
ned his satchel further and inside were a dozen small glass vials placed in separate leather sleeves. They were exquisite in their craftsmanship. Inside the vials was what looked like brown water. The man drew the vials out and placed them on the table, all in a perfect line. He then placed a small silver spoon next to them. Next, he reached into his clothing and pulled free a small pouch and laid it on the table, too.

  The Archbishop struggled to seat himself, his eyes glued to the vials. The torchlight in the room glinted off the glass and mesmerised him in their beauty. It was so tempting. The Devil was tempting him, now in this moment of his greatest weakness. He fought to remain strong and resist the urge. He glanced up to the icon on the wall and gasped in shock. He grabbed at his heart. The chirurgeon followed the Archbishop's eyes and looked curiously at the icon of the Lord and looked back with confusion clear on his face.

  The Archbishop was lost in rapture. He looked upon the face of his Lord standing bathed in light before him. He stared at the glory of the Lord and felt His love for him. His pain was too great to fall to his knees, but he knew the Lord knew and felt no anger.

  My son. Remain seated and be calm. Take what this man offers you. It will ease your pain. You have suffered enough. Take it. It is not the Devil that presents this to you, but I. Your Lord.

  With those words loud in his head, the voice ceased, and the Lord was gone. The Archbishop cried out in the sudden absence. The room felt so empty and plain. His breath came in short gasps. His heart beat irregularly and painfully in his chest. Slowly he calmed and realised what had just happened. The Lord had appeared to him and approved what this man offered. He slowly turned his eyes to the man and could see that he was talking to him and was quite agitated.

  "Your Grace? Are you all right? You look in p-p-pain and in d-d-distress? Your heart? Has it stopped?"

  The Archbishop laughed at that. Stopped? He thinks my heart stopped and yet I still sit here next to him? Chirurgeons!

  "I am fine. Fine. Show me what you have for me."

  The man composed himself and looked over the Archbishop once more before turning to the vials. "These are vials of the tears of the poppy. I won't explain the extraction method but suffice it to say it is a laborious and painstakingly slow process. The vials you see here represent but a small sample of my supply. The worth is... well, it is considerable, you understand? Courtesy of the Lord Protector. Let me explain how to take it."

  The Archbishop raised an eyebrow at the man. His stutter had disappeared now that he was speaking about his craft. How very strange.

  "Each vial contains about fifteen doses. It is best if you smoke it, but that is not in habit here in the Realm. It is a much better method for effect. But no matter. You simply take this small spoon and drink its measure. Each dose will last half a day at least, so each vial will last a week. There is enough here for three months. At first I suggest you take it lying down. It is quite powerful and will overwhelm you until you get used to it. I will help you take the first dose and after that — well, you will be on your own. I will return in three months with more for you so you must make this last until then. Once gone you will crave it. Not having it will be painful. I suggest you pace your intake. I cannot stress this enough. Your Grace."

  The man paused a moment before continuing. "This pouch contains chalk. Nothing more. Mix a spoonful with milk and drink it when your stomach is at its worst. It will help greatly. Take as much as you need. Too much, though, and your bowel movements might prove difficult. Take fibre with breakfast — I suggest prunes — but I suspect a man of your years already knows this."

  The Archbishop nodded but heard nothing from the chirurgeon. He was repeating the words of the Lord in his head.

  * * *

  A short time later, the man excused himself and left the Archbishop's office. He left the Archbishop lying on the small cot in the office corner complaining about the bitter taste but now blissfully free of his pain. As he expected, the Archbishop had succumbed to the opiate, and all but passed out. The man smiled to himself. This would be a lucrative business. I need to thank the Lord Protector personally for giving me this opening into the Church. Business will soon be booming.

  Twenty-One

  On the road to Laketown, 900 A.C.

  THE ROAD OUT of Belger continued to meander alongside the river. At times, the river would fall out of sight, but, soon enough, it would return as a pleasant meandering companion to my journey. Occasionally I would sight a laden barge easing its way downriver through breaks in the trees, and sometimes I would run into travellers heading past me on the road. I wished those encounters were more amicable but I found they were typically a nervous time for all involved. It was simply the nature of travelling the roads: the risk and fear of bandits or highwaymen were very real threats and those people who did travel the roads were those with wealth, and, by necessity, they travelled with armed escorts of various sizes.

  I was now three days out of Belger, and I had returned to my usual routine on the road. Thankfully no one in Belger had recognised me as Will Arbor. Nonetheless, the feeling of being watched had followed me out of town, but as with all fears that persist for a long period of time, I simply became inured and quickly explained away my fears with a variety of rationalisations. It was a skill Daukyns had taught me over the years. It was merely a way to remove distractions — to force myself to concentrate on the here and now and push through whatever bothered me. Thoughts of my talks with Daukyns reminded me of how much I missed him, and I felt the now-familiar pang of grief. Memories of Daukyns had me remembering just how much I missed the quiet solitude of Jaipers. I wondered how my friend Dempster was faring and whether or not he thought to build the herb garden out back of the inn like I had suggested. Probably not. With a laugh, I realised the teachings of Daukyns were failing me and all I was thinking about was the past.

  "I think I've been walking out in the sun too long," I said to myself. "Soon I'll be talking to myself..." I shook my head to clear my thoughts and found myself thinking of the Church.

  The discovery in Belger, that the Church was probably behind the murder of Bill Burstone, sat heavily with me. The two proprietors at the salt store for Finnow Mines in Belger had recognised the black boots I had worn. They had treated me with reverence and given praise to the Church of the New Order. I had realised then the assassination of Bill Burstone in Jaipers, the killing of the assassin by Reeve Comlin, and my discovery of my healing powers, were all tied to the Church. The manuscript papers from a tome about magyc and herb lore had me heading to Jergen for knowledge. Selfishly, I had left my life in Jaipers behind and my good friend Reeve Comlin in possible peril. Here, I was safe on the road and away from those troubles, but I knew Reeve Comlin was still back there in Jaipers and unaware. I thought ahead to Laketown and tried to think how I could send word back to the Reeve. I had a little coin and I could write. I had no idea how to pay for the delivery of a message between towns. It was not something I had ever had to do. After a few miles of too many thoughts, I simply opted to wait until I was in the town where I could try to get a barge captain to carry a message. A regular barge captain would know him and be glad to help; I was sure of that. Once settled in my mind, I felt my load lighten and the feeling of eyes on me was forgotten. I turned my attention to the road.

  "How's that Daukyns?" I asked with a smile to the air. I waited but, with no reply, I shook my head and looked down the long road ahead of me. The answers are up ahead somewhere. I just know it.

  To further distract me — and honestly, it was more from the sheer joy of being able to use my powers — I reached out with my gift to the surrounding countryside. I was becoming adept at using my gifts to sense the nature of the world surrounding me. I felt the birds and animals around me and joined in their joy of flight or in finding food in the woods and hills. I drew in the immense power of the plants, grass and trees. It was all around me and so full of life it stole my breath away. I drew strength from it and knew I belonged. Nature s
eemed to notice me as well. Small animals would move to intercept me and watch me walk past. Birds would swoop and cry as they danced in the air above me. I was careful to shoo the animals away when strangers came in sight. What I could do was not something I wanted to have known or seen. And so I used my gift, I'm not ashamed to admit, on the people who approached me on the road. It gave me unique insight into what to expect. Emotionally the people usually felt curiosity toward me, mingled with only slight apprehension. Anyone could see I was merely a young man and on my own and posed no real threat. I had the look of a simple beggar who sold minor things.

  I also found my powers let me gauge the truth behind the lies. When watching the colours surrounding people, I now found I had more of a sense about them. People projected one image of themselves and hid another behind words. It was interesting to observe. I figured out quickly it was all merely a self-preservation technique and I respected that, being guilty of having kept myself hidden for years. My gift eased my worry and the road trip became a pleasant one. I looked forward to meeting these other travellers.

  The other aspect of road safety was that the road was open enough that you could see approaching travellers at least a mile away. I could spot the caravans typically from a couple of miles away by the dust of the road rising up from the wheels. The land by the river undulated gently, and the trees were clumped together and often cleared from the road all the way down to the river; stripped over the years, I surmised, for the repair of barges. So, for the most part, the region was wide open and the valleys and hills gave me unobstructed views all around. The benefit was you really couldn't hide unless you were determined and the travellers walking or riding on the road were usually not trying to hide.

  The people I passed on the road would almost always stop and converse politely before continuing on to their destinations. Common themes were often about the weather and how the summer heat made any road trips a simple matter of necessity over desire. At first, I was uncomfortable speaking with strangers but, once I recognised the patterns and what was expected, I found I could play the part. Observations were exchanged on what lay up ahead on the road and what to expect in the next town. They were all mundane topics but of value nonetheless. Sometimes we exchanged wares but mostly I would politely refuse. I carried more than I needed and I wanted for nothing. Sometimes the merchants and farmers just wanted an opinion of what they carried. The desire to meet the approval of others seemed to be a dominant emotion from people. At least the gentle folk — for others it was about power. I didn't like those people too much but, thankfully, they were rare.