“Pader Stanislas said it is phlegmatic humors that try me,” Kunigunde told her two waiting-women.
“This will help those humors as well,” said Imbolya. “Phlegm attracts water, according to Klotild.” She gave the cup to the Konige.
Kunigunde sniffed at the dark-green liquid suspiciously. “What’s in it; did she say?”
“She told me it had juniper berries, parsley, celery seed, milk thistle, willow bark, and feverfew. I will drink some if you like.” She ducked her head. “They were ground with a mortar-and-pestle and mixed with spring water. It will encourage the elimination of moisture and lessen the tendency to accumulate heat in the flesh.”
With a slight shrug, Kunigunde made herself drink. “I don’t like the taste.”
“Klotild said you would not,” Imbolya told her. “She also said that if this provided relief she’ll make more for you tonight.”
Setting the cup down, Kunigunde said to Csenge. “The ointment is quite pleasant. The prickle it gives is … agreeable. You may rub my other foot.”
“What pleases you, dear Royal, pleases me to do.” It was the required response, and she made no effort to attempt to sound sincere. Csenge brushed the wisps of hair that had fallen around her hair, using the back of her wrist so that she would get none of the ointment on her face. “If you will recline again?”
“I thank you.” With a sigh, Kunigunde lay back once more and let Csenge rub her foot. She tried to keep her mind on happy things, so that her child would have a good-natured temperament, but her thoughts kept turning to Pader Stanislas’ exhortations, and little as she wanted it, she could not keep from recalling the horrendous visions the priest had conjured.
“Be easy, my Konige,” Csenge whispered as she finished her task and rubbed her hands on the drying sheet.
Imbolya, who had been sitting on the bench away from the windows, rose and came toward the couch. “Should we let her sleep?” she asked her cousin in a hushed voice.
“For a while,” said Csenge, feeling Imbolya’s quiet inquiry go through her head like iron spikes. “Is Gyongyi still in the corridor?”
“I suppose so. Would you like me to go and look?” Imbolya asked.
“If you would be so good,” said Csenge, trying not to make her request abrupt; Imbolya was too young to think brusque responses anything but chastisement; by the way Imbolya’s lips thinned, Csenge realized she had been too short with her. “Thank you, cousin,” she added, to soften her request.
“Of course,” said Imbolya, and went to the door, her head held a bit too high.
“Do you dislike her?” Kunigunde muttered, her eyes still closed.
“She’s very young,” said Csenge.
“True enough, but do you dislike her?” The question was slightly louder but much more pointed.
Startled, Csenge stared down at the Konige. “I … It’s hard to say … I don’t dislike her … exactly. She can read, you know.” She disliked Rozsa of Borsod for her prettiness and the high favor her husband enjoyed in the King’s Court; she disliked Teca of Veszbrem for her endless praise of her dead husband. Imbolya annoyed her, and that was entirely different.
“Then what is it, exactly? Is it family rivalry, perhaps? Have you been agonistic in any way? Do you dislike having her at my Court? Or is it simply that she is so young? What bothers you about her?” Kunigunde inquired; caught off guard, Csenge could think of nothing more to say. “Csenge of Somogy, I asked you a question.”
The ringing in her ears was louder; Csenge saw spangles around the center of her gaze, and as her queasiness grew worse, she put her hand to her mouth. “Pardon, dear Royal. I fear I am about to be sick,” she said, and without ceremony, stumbled up from her chair and hurried unsteadily out of the solarium, making for her small room on the floor below. All but tumbling down the steep staircase, she leaned against the wall as she rushed for her apartment. She found the chamber-pot just in time, and when she had vomited into it, she remained on her knees, panting, trying to stop the clamor in her head. She was astonished by what she had done; what would the Konige make of her flight? She might well be offended that Csenge had not answered her. Perhaps she would order her to absent herself from the Konige’s Court. If that were to happen, how would she reestablish her position with Kunigunde? What would her husband say when he learned of what she had done?
A soft knock on the door warned of the arrival of Imbolya, with whom she shared the cell-like room. “Cousin Csenge? Are you all right?”
“I will need a house-slave to—”
“—remove the chamber-pot, yes. I’ve sent for one of them already.” Imbolya opened the door a crack; the wedge of light this admitted made Csenge’s eyes burn. “Do you want water, or wine, or apple cider?”
Just the mention of these made Csenge’s stomach clench. “Not now.”
“Then a damp cloth for your forehead? Would you like me to get a potion for you from Klotild?” Imbolya sounded so sympathetic that Csenge ground her teeth.
“Don’t bother. I will be better presently. Attend to the Konige.” She felt another cramp in her abdomen, and she shivered as her muscles tightened. “God and the Virgin!” she mumbled. “What’s happening to me?”
“Are you certain you don’t need any help?” Imbolya persisted. “You don’t sound—”
“I will be well shortly.”
“Shall I send for Frater Lovre to aid you?”
The thought of the half-blind monk patting at her with his flaccid hands sent another surge of nausea through Csenge. She swallowed convulsively. “I do not need anything,” she said with great precision. “I will be better if you leave me alone.”
It took a long moment for Imbolya to accept this rebuke; she remained at the door, peering into the dark room. “Shall I come back later? ”
“It is your room as well as mine; I can hardly keep you out.” She felt very, very tired. “Do as you think you must.”
“I’m worried for you, cousin,” said Imbolya in a tone that meant she was worried for herself. “You are not well, and it may be that because of you, our Konige is not well. We are sworn to preserve her in health at all costs.” She stood very straight at the edge of the door. “Do let me come in. I can succor you.”
“Not just now,” said Csenge. “I am still at some loss…” Her bowels twisted once more. “I’d like to think that…” She bent over and retched.
Imbolya pushed the door open enough to see Csenge; the two stared at each other. “What am I to do, if you are so compromised?
“You fear I have taken a contagion? Is that it?” Csenge demanded, putting the chamber-pot aside. “You think I should be moved out of the Konige’s Court until I recover, like Erzebet?” The very notion was intolerable, for once out of the Konige’s Court, she could as easily be replaced as allowed to return.
“I … I … don’t know,” said Imbolya unhappily.
“Then keep your thoughts to yourself,” snapped Csenge as she wiped her mouth.
“But if the Konige should become ill—”
“It is the heat,” said Csenge. “Everyone is suffering from it.”
Imbolya hesitated, unwilling to go against her influential cousin, yet keenly aware of what she was required to do as a lady-in-waiting. Finally she put her hands to her eyes and wept with frustration. She took a step toward Csenge. “You should lie down,” she said, trying to stop her tears. “Truly, cousin, you are not well.”
“No, I shouldn’t lie down; I should go and help Rozsa with Kinga. It is time.” Csenge got unsteadily to her feet, one arm extended to secure her balance. After an attempt at walking, she gave up. “But I’m going to send you in my stead. Since you are worried that I might have a fever, it would be best if I didn’t venture near the child, or the mother.” She tottered over to her bed. “There. Are you satisfied? Do you want anything more of me?”
“Shall I help you to undress?” Imbolya asked.
“I can manage for myself,” said Csenge firmly. “Tell dear R
oyal that I’m overheated and need to lie down. Then go to—”
“Rozsa of Borsod,” said Imbolya, accepting her task.
“Tell her you’ll remain with Kinga through supper and see her to Teca and Betrica’s care for the night.” Csenge resisted another urge to throw up, and wondered briefly if her dislike of Rozsa was the cause.
“I will,” Imbolya promised her.
Bile rose on the back of Csenge’s tongue, and this time she noticed a second taste in its acridity. “Did you eat the fish-stew at dinner?” she asked.
“No,” said Imbolya. “I had the lamb-ribs. And the pheasant with chestnuts; it was dry.”
“Ask if others who had the fish-stew have felt unwell,” said Csenge. “I keep tasting fish.” Very carefully she sat on her bed, doing nothing hurriedly; she felt her insides roil.
“Do you think that it was tainted?” Imbolya’s shock was tempered with relief.
“Fish taints quickly, and in this heat…” She left the rest unsaid.
“It would be a bad thing, of course, and many may have suffered from it, but better tainted fish than fever,” Imbolya said, and dared to touch Csenge’s arm. “Shall I ask before or after I watch the dear Little Royal?”
It was tempting to lash out at the girl, but Csenge decided she needed Imbolya’s help just now too much to berate her. “Before, of course. If the fish was tainted, then there’s no need to alarm the Konige with rumors of fevers, is there?” This last was pointed and underscored by a single, hard stare.
“N … no,” said Imbolya, keenly aware of her cousin’s intent. “I wouldn’t want to add to dear Royal’s upset, considering how wretched the heat has already made her. But if there is another cause for your—”
Csenge nodded. “If it isn’t the fish, you may tell the Konige that I am prostrated by the heat, but say nothing about a fever. Nothing.”
“If Rozsa asks? What am I to tell her?”
“The same thing,” said Csenge. “You have to make it plain that I am not ill, just struck by the weather. I’m not the only one, by the Virgin, I’m not.”
“They say the Devil revels in the heat,” Imbolya remarked, crossing herself. “He could summon up a plague, couldn’t he?”
“If God allows it,” Csenge said darkly. “If we have strayed from Him, God will chastise us for our failure.” This time, when she crossed herself, she longed for the comfort of Pader Lupu, her old Confessor, who always made her see God’s Plan in every misfortune. Here at Court, she knew better than to rely on the priests to support her. “Go on. Find out about the fish and then take up my post with Kinga.”
“Of course. Of course, cousin; at once,” said Imbolya, and hurried out of the room, closing the door before she went off down the hall that led to the great hall and the kitchens.
Satisfied that she finally would be left alone, Csenge reached out with her foot, snagged the chamber-pot, and pulled it toward her; she could tell she would need it again before long.
* * *
Text of a letter from Counselor Smiricti Detrich of Praha to the apothecary Huon of Paris at his shop in Praha, written by Frater Ulric and delivered by messenger.
To the accomplished French apothecary, Huon of Paris, the greetings of Smiricti Detrich, Counselor of Praha, on this, the twenty-third day of May in the 1269th Year of Salvation,
My dear Master Apothecary,
I wish to secure from you such nostrums and potions as you have to treat obstinate flux. I fear that all of my household must succumb to it unless you have a means of treating it unknown to the physicians of the city. One of my slaves, an older man with a habitual cough, has already died of it, and all but two have shown some signs of it. The servants in the household are also afflicted, and that gives me cause for concern, in that it may soon reach my family and me.
The city is afraid the wells may have been poisoned, which would account for the spread of the sickness. If you have some means of determining if this is a justified fear, I and the other Counselors would be most grateful. We would provide you a stipend for any work you might do to improve the quality of the wells, if they are truly the source of the contagion. As the apothecary to Episcopus Fauvinel, we are certain you have the ability to produce a cure for whatever it is that is making so many in Praha sick.
If you would be good enough to call upon me at my house, I will discuss all the aspects of the current outbreak that I have discovered, including the spread of it, and the nature of the miasma that may be spreading from the wells to the people. In the meantime, Episcopus Fauvinel has authorized the priests in all the churches of the city to offer Masses of healing, and encouraged those who are well to show their Christian charity and visit those who are suffering from this affliction. Although there have been few deaths among those contracting the illness, we, the Counselors, have declared that a pit for burial of all those dying of it should be dug and consecrated outside the walls, so that no lingering infection may spread from those interred.
My servant will bring me your answer, and if you require it, will guide you to my door.
May God bless you for your help to those in need.
Smiricti Detrich
Counselor of Praha (his mark)
by the hand of Frater Ulric
4
The contents of the banded coffer glittered in the morning light; more than two hundred jewels lay in the ornate chest, polished and shining with all the glory of a rainbow, colors repeated in the Persian carpets on the floor, making the rest of Rakoczy’s workroom appear drab; at the far end of the room, the athanor was heating, making ready for the production of still more jewels.
“You aren’t going to give them to the Konige all at once, are you?” Hruther asked as he watched Rakoczy close the lid. He spoke in the Latin of his long-ago youth. “It’s one thing to give the Konige’s Court a banquet, but so many jewels at the same time? The Episcopus has already remarked on your wealth, and not flatteringly.”
“Of course I will not give all these to her at once: she would just expect more and grander the next time she summoned me to wait upon her, and more banquets with more jewels as well,” said Rakoczy in the same tongue as he set the padlock in the slots in the two hinged iron bands. “No, I shall give them out judiciously, enough to satisfy Konig Bela that I am upholding the terms of my exile, and to keep the Konige well-inclined toward me but not so much that Otakar decides that he, too, should have his own share of what I provide.”
“You’re certain it would come to that?” Hruther asked, and knew the answer as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
“Think of Cyprus, old friend.” He regarded Hruther levelly, recalling seven hundred years before and his three years there, when he had been faced with the increasing demands for jewels from the island’s ruler.
“I take your point,” said Hruther, nodding slowly.
“I would not like to have to make caskets and caskets of jewels every month again; that one time was sufficient.”
“Even though you could do it,” said Hruther with a suggestion of amusement.
“I could,” Rakoczy agreed, “but it would put me in a more difficult position than the one I am in presently, for their demands would be likely to increase.” He paused, his face unreadable. “I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I may need to have the means of paying for a clandestine departure, and in Bohemia, jewels are more anonymous than gold.”
“Then you’re planning to escape?” Hruther was not surprised.
“Not at present, but it may come to that, if I can arrange for the protection of Santu-Germaniu before we go. If only Konig Bela had not quarreled with his son after granting him rule of Transylvania, suspicion would not have been turned on Santu-Germaniu.” He stifled a yawn. “I sometimes feel I am in a vise, with Otakar on one side and Bela on the other, and that between them they will do their best to ruin me.”
“As was tried on Cyprus,” said Hruther.
“I trust not.” Rakoczy offered nothing more as he g
lanced toward the window. “There will be more rain this afternoon, by the look of it. There are clouds in the distance, and they are towering already.”
“Summer storms,” said Hruther. “At least that will lessen the heat.”
“And the virulence of the current ailment is fading, thank all the forgotten gods,” Rakoczy said. He stretched as thoroughly and gracefully as a cat, then twisted his upper body side to side, which for him was a sign of fatigue.
“Do you think you might rest today?” Hruther asked, a flicker of concern in his faded-blue eyes. “You’ve been out or working all night for the last three days.”
Rakoczy’s smile was more wry than amused. “I am better for having been out last night,” he said. “It restored me somewhat.”
“Did the woman enjoy her dream?” Hruther made no attempt to hide his assuagement. “Are you improved?”
“It certainly seemed she did,” Rakoczy answered, a note of unease in his answer; he changed the subject. “How are the servants? Has their distress ended?”
“All are recovered but two scullions,” said Hruther, adding, “They should both be fine in a few days.”
“Very good.” He touched his small hands together. “We will continue to treat the well-water for another fifteen days, just in case; the Chinese are right about that precaution.”
“Some of the household have complained about the taste of garlic in the water,” Hruther said, his attention on the banded coffer.
“If the animacules in the water are to be killed, they will have to bear with the taste a while longer. And they will have to endure it again next year, when the animacules return.” Rakoczy stowed the coffer in a niche beneath the largest window; though it was heavy, he gave no sign of effort in carrying it. “I’ll want presentation pouches the day after tomorrow; I am asked to make an appearance at the Konige’s Court that day.”
“And besides jewels, what does the Konige want of you—more songs?”
Saint-Germain 24: An Embarrassment of Riches: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 6
