by Tina Donahue
She left Pedro to go to a storage area where she found an unused sack. Making certain no one watched or followed her, she ran to the hidden room where Enrique had moved her books, mice, herbs, and other materials.
Just inside the door she stopped, tears blurring her vision.
Tomás couldn’t die. He had too much to live for, charming countless señoritas, taunting his brothers good-naturedly. Of all Enrique’s siblings, she was closest to him. He’d always smiled and teased her.
She packed her materials quickly, adding her largest volume should her initial remedies fail to help. Given what Pedro had told her, the illness sounded the same as what Isabella said Fernando experienced. The symptoms also matched what the baroness claimed in regards to her servants.
With everything ready, she left the sack in the room, returned unnoticed to the study, and paced for what seemed an eternity. Finally, footfalls rang in the hall. Enrique and Pedro hurried inside the room, breathing hard, their faces flushed.
She closed the door. “I have everything ready in the room. As soon as I fetch the sack, we can leave for the fortaleza.”
Enrique shook his head. “Not you.”
“What do you mean? I can use everything I know to heal him.”
“At a stronghold filled with knights and a surgeon who sees to their care? Pedro never should have asked you to do this.”
“I offered. None of this is his fault.”
“What does it matter? If any of the men sees you healing, they will tell the authorities.”
“You want me to let Tomás die?”
“No. Give me your medicine. Write down what I must do and I can—”
“Listen to me. I need to tend to him as I did Fernando, not through you. Hoping you achieve what I can may cause your brother’s death.”
“How can you treat him at a fortaleza?” He turned to Pedro. “Tell her how foolish her idea is.”
“Enrique is right. I was wrong to have come here. Tomás would never want you to risk your safety, no matter his need.”
“No one will know what I do. No different than at the convent. The sacerdote was there and never knew I treated Fernando. He thought I was holding prayer vigils. The two of you can say the same to the knights and the surgeon.”
Enrique glared. “You hope that will keep them out of Tomás’s room?”
“Telling them how contagious the illness is will keep them well away with none of them seeing what goes on inside. We can say the fever and cough brought down one of the nobles we know after he dealt with his manservant who had the same symptoms. Now he, the servant, and everyone in his castle are ill.”
Enrique shook his head.
She cried, “Each moment you force me to reason with you is another lost as Tomás grows weaker. You promised before we wed you would never stop me from healing. You would help me. Do so now.”
His face turned red.
“Please. If not for your brother, for me.”
“What of our child you carry?”
“You are with child?” Pedro asked.
“I am, but my condition changes nothing.” She went to Enrique. “You asked about our babe. When he becomes a knight and needs a healer I would hope one would chance everything to keep him whole and alive.”
He swore beneath his breath then spoke to Pedro. “Gather what she packed so she has everything she needs.” He told his brother where to find the secret room, then held out his hand to her. “We need to tell our guests of our departure. If we leave without word, they will wonder.”
With Luscinda’s encouragement, they would talk.
The men were in the dining hall, enjoying their repast after a day of sport. Enrique told them of Tomás’s grave illness.
The nobles offered sympathy and their hope the young man would survive.
Sancha led the way to the pond where the ladies rested, talked, and laughed until they noticed her and Enrique’s approach.
With a glance, he took them in. “Forgive my wife and I for leaving you so suddenly. My brother, Tomás, has taken quite ill.”
Several of the women inhaled sharply in surprise and dismay, hands to their throats. A flurry of wishes for renewed health followed.
“Sancha and I will be leaving for the stronghold immediately,” he said.
“Why her?” Luscinda stood. “What can she do there?”
He took a step toward her, hands tightened into fists, face dark with fury.
Sancha grabbed his arm, stopping him. “I can pray for Tomás’s good health, as I would hope each of you will do in the chapel.”
The ladies glanced from her to Enrique, then Luscinda.
Katia came forward. “Of course, we will. I can take care of Rosa in your absence. Go. See to Tomás. Make certain he survives his illness.”
Chapter 15
Given Sancha’s condition, Enrique asked her to ride in the carriage. For him to insist would have proved futile. Repeatedly, his wife did whatever she willed.
She shook her head. “A horse would be faster.”
“And more dangerous. You keep forgetting about the child you carry.”
“Riding a horse is good for both of us.” She recounted what the marquesa had advised. “She and her children are in perfect health.”
“Until a horse throws one of them.”
“We have no time to debate this with Tomás lying near death.”
He loved his brother and wanted him to survive, though not at her expense. To lose Sancha would be more than he could bear, but he couldn’t sway her.
With each league they travelled, his mood darkened, convincing him they rode toward certain doom. Although Tomás’s men were brave warriors who would stand beside him to their deaths, their first loyalty was to God and the Crown. A hint of anything involving heresy and they would seek out the authorities even if the suspected witch were Tomás’s sister-in-law.
The knights would spare no one arrest, an interrogation, torture, or death at the stake when their souls were at risk.
His shoulders ached with tension. He couldn’t seem to catch enough breath. Each time he glanced at Sancha, her attention was on the road, as was Pedro’s, both lost in their own thoughts.
The fortaleza was several hours’ ride from the castle. To Enrique, the horses seemed to move at a pace greater than what seemed possible, fate’s invisible hand guiding them toward destruction.
By the time the stronghold came into view, the sun had already dipped behind the trees, its rays casting long shadows, the air cooling.
Enrique ordered his guards back to the castle. He, Pedro, and Sancha reined in their mounts, dust swirling around them. Two knights rode hard in their direction, their expressions grim, swords drawn.
Pedro shouted, “Ignacio, Juan, I bring my brother and his wife to see Tomás.”
“How is my brother?” Enrique asked.
Ignacio shook his head. “Not good.”
Sancha put up her hand for their attention. “You must stay away from his room. The illness he has will spread.” She related her tale of the noble, his manservant, and the others they infected.
Juan’s features slackened. “Most of us have been in his room wishing him well, doing what we can. Will we now fall ill as he had?”
“Only if you continue to stay close to him. Be grateful none of you has taken sick. You must clear all rooms surrounding his.”
Ignacio spoke to Enrique. “Who will see to his care? Bring him food, water, and whatever else he needs?”
“Pedro and I will. His care is our duty and privilege.” He patted the alforjas with her materials inside. “We bring much of what he loves to eat and drink to help make him strong again.”
“Sancha will pray for God’s mercy,” Pedro said. “He answered her pleas when Fernando lay injured at the convent.”
Juan and Ignacio nodded. They’d been with the group when Sancha’s uncle had waylaid Fernando, nearly murdering him before Fernando
had struck the final blow and killed the puto.
“If you please,” she said. “I need a prayer bench in the room next to Tomás’s.”
Juan gestured to the stronghold. “You can have full use of our chapel.”
“I need to remain as close as I can to Enrique and Pedro to see if they show signs of the illness. Any worry I have for them will interfere with my pleas to God.”
“The prayer bench is yours,” Ignacio said. “Along with whatever else you ask. Be prepared, though, for how ill Tomás is. He is not the same man.”
He and Juan wheeled their horses around, leading the group to the fortaleza. A chill settled in Enrique for his brother’s state and what Sancha was about to do.
Once at the entrance to the stone building, Juan alerted the men to stay away from Tomás’s room. “Spread the word. Tell the knights in the chambers next to Tomás’s they must leave the area at once.”
The men fanned out, many running into the structure.
Torches lit the interior. Everyone’s footfalls rang loudly on the stone floor.
“Wait,” someone shouted behind them.
An older man hurried toward the group, his unshaven face ashen even in the dim light.
“Xavier, our surgeon,” Ignacio said.
“Is it true the illness spreads?” the man asked.
Enrique nodded.
Xavier backed away and made the sign of the cross over himself. “I did all I could for Tomás. Nothing else can help him.” He left as fast as his age allowed.
Enrique and the others stopped long enough for Ignacio to locate a prayer bench. He and Pedro hauled the item up a narrow flight to the next level. In the hall with Tomás’s chamber, knights hurried past them, possessions in hand, clearing the area as warned.
A rattling cough mingled with the men’s footfalls.
“This is the closest chamber to Tomás’s.” Ignacio inclined his head to the room before he and Pedro put the bench inside.
Ignacio came out first, trying to catch his breath. Enrique rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Leave food and drink at the bottom of the steps for my wife, Pedro, and me. We can fetch the items, so you have no need to go further. Tomás would never want you risking your health for him.”
“I know. I will keep him in my prayers.” He backed away slowly.
Enrique suspected the man was ashamed to show his fear of the illness. “Go. Before you fall sick.”
Ignacio smiled gratefully and hurried away.
Pedro gestured to a room on the left. Light from torches spilled from within the space to the hall.
Tomás’s coughs were relentless, followed by a thin wheezing sound.
“Come.” Sancha led the way into his room.
* * * *
Although Ignacio had warned them of Tomás’s state, no words could have prepared Sancha for his condition.
He’d lost so much weight his cheeks and eyes were sunken, face reddened from the force of his coughs, hair plastered to his head. The beautiful blond locks she remembered were far darker and greasy, his upper lip and cheeks bristly with his beard.
His lids were partly open, but she didn’t think he recognized them. He was far too ill. She made the sign of the cross over herself and begged God to give her the skill to make him well.
After her quick prayer, she gestured to Enrique. “Please bring my materials to his bed.”
He lowered the alforjas to the floor and unpacked the items quickly. After Pedro had closed the door, he joined his brother to help.
She rested her palm on Tomás’s forehead, biting her lip at the heat. The fever was burning him alive, his skin dry, lips swollen and cracked. “I need clean water. The coldest you can find. As much as you can bring immediately.”
She opened the shutter over the narrow window, letting the cool night air inside.
Pedro hurried past Enrique to her. “Tomás is shivering already. More chill can do him no good.”
“I need to bring his fever down. If not, he will die. Bring me the water now.”
“Listen to her.” Enrique pulled Pedro from the room, their footfalls fading quickly.
She yanked the blankets off Tomás and undressed him until he wore naught but his braies. His wasted body, once so solid and strong, brought tears to her eyes. “You will be well.” She touched his cheek. “I promise you.”
He jerked away with another violent, rattling cough.
She dipped a square of clean linen in the basin of water and bathed his face, throat, chest. Wind blew inside, ruffling her skirt. The torch flames danced.
He shivered violently.
She dampened the cloth again and laid it across his forehead. On her knees, she paged through her book for the best potions to treat his illness. Her search seemed endless, but at last she found the needed passage and lined up containers containing yarrow, ginger, and peppermint. She prayed for Enrique and Pedro to hurry.
By the time they returned with four pails of water, she’d already measured the herbs and cleaned Tomás’s cup with wine.
“I need to brew a potion for his fever.” She handed Enrique the cup. “Fill this with clean water. Can you set up the torch so the water boils?”
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
“Do so quickly.” She lifted small squares of linen tied with string, the herbs inside, and handed them to Pedro. “These go into the cup after the water bubbles.”
As the men worked on the potion, she lifted the ladle from the first pail and brought the water to Tomás.
“Drink.” She settled her hand on the back of his head to keep him up.
More water poured over his lips than inside his mouth. He moaned, wheezed, coughed.
Soon, his upper chest and her skirt were soaked. She filled the ladle repeatedly until he’d managed to get some of the liquid inside. Next, she ladled water on his throat and chest to bring down the fever and used a sodden cloth to dampen his face. He coughed and wheezed, struggling for breath.
She put her palms on his cheek and forehead. He seemed slightly cooler, though not enough.
“What of the potion?” she asked.
Pedro bounced on his heels. “The water has yet to boil.”
He, Sancha, and Enrique kept vigil over the cup and Tomás. No one spoke. Tomás’s agonized coughs filled the chamber.
At last, the potion was finished and cool enough to use. She gestured to both men. “Please hold him up for me.”
Enrique and Pedro supported their brother. His head flopped forward, shoulders jerking with his cough.
She slipped her hand beneath his chin and lifted his face. “Drink. You must finish every drop.”
The effort took a painfully long time before he finished. Immediately, she handed the cup to Enrique. “Please brew more water. I must now see to the potion for his cough.”
* * * *
Sancha focused so much on tending to Tomás hour after hour, day after day, she would have forgotten to eat or sleep if not for Enrique. At his command, Pedro brought a mattress into the room for her to lie on. Enrique fetched the cheese, bread, wine, and beef Ignacio always left for them, urging her to eat her fill.
Swallowing any food was an effort, given her worry over Tomás and her condition. With every dawn, her queasiness returned. Pedro provided a bucket for her to use. Afterward, Enrique wiped her face with damp linen. They took care of her when Tomás was the one in need.
He still looked terrible, his coughs pronounced. While Enrique and Pedro slept, she read her book to see if she’d missed a better remedy. The words finally swam in front of her, her mind too tired to make sense of the text. What seemed only seconds later, someone shook her shoulder, waking her.
She ran her hand over her eyes and glanced up at Enrique. “What is it?”
“Tomás is shivering more than he has been.”
Sweat rolled off him as water would after taking a bath. She hurried to his side and pressed her
palm to his forehead. Much cooler. “His fever broke.”
He wheezed, coughed then gagged.
“A square of linen.” She wiggled her fingers.
Enrique handed her several pieces of cloth.
She held one close to Tomás’s mouth. He coughed, made a face, and spat into the linen. His phlegm was a deep green streaked with blood.
Enrique paled but didn’t look away. “Will he live?”
She took his hand, wanting to comfort. “The first of his sickness is leaving.”
“The blood…”
“His throat is raw from trying to expel the phlegm. Once he clears his lungs, he will heal.”
A new cough racked Tomás.
Enrique looked as helpless as she’d ever seen him. “When will that be? Him healing?”
“In time. We must wait.”
* * * *
Enrique communicated Tomás’s progress to the men with notes he left on the steps. Ignacio left his own missives. His last concerned him not having to send again for the sacerdote to anoint Tomás for death.
Padre arrived two days ago. When he heard the illness could spread, he declined to go to Tomás’s room, saying the matter was best left in God’s hands, and to send for him after we had buried Tomás.
Enrique didn’t want to consider what would have happened had the priest seen Sancha here along with her materials.
Although Tomás grew better for a few hours at a time, his health always seemed to worsen toward the end of each day. Sancha poured potions down his throat. Enrique and Pedro threatened to thrash him within an inch of his life if he didn’t eat.
He finally curled his upper lip at them. “Sancha will stop you.” He gave her a weak smile. “Will you not?”
“Eat, or I will thrash you.” She pushed another spoonful of broth between his lips.
Dutifully, he swallowed the watery stock. “You used to be so nice. What happened?”
He’d almost died on them. Enrique had never been more grateful to see anyone survive.
Within a few days, Tomás was able to leave simple broth behind to partake of bread and cheese. He soon asked for meat. The heartier fare put some weight back on him.
