Chapter 3 – The Flower of the Andelin #4
And then, once it seemed Dagober Brestle wasn’t going to kill anyone, Genon had worried that the valley’s inhabitants might actually prefer the new man.
Brestle looked like an herbalist straight out of a woodcutting, after all: a fortyish family man with a broad, kindly face and a woodsy air about him, and spectacles that Genon was positive he did not need.
Whereas Genon Hengest was a twisted old gargoyle with a crooked shoulder and half a face.
More than thirty years had passed since a dousing with boiling oil had left him half-bald and one-eyed, his flesh melted into pink-silver runnels and his left shoulder permanently crabbed.
Genon knew how other people saw him. It was a sad truth that when a lot of folk saw a burned man, they assumed he must have done something to deserve it.
A world where an innocent man could be burned so horribly was a terrible, frightening place.
But despite the catastrophe that had forever changed the course of his life, Genon knew he had been luckier than he deserved.
Lucky that he had found a healer in Ereguil with experience in burns, who preserved his life and the motion of his body.
Lucky that Duke Ereguil had introduced him to Remin.
Lucky that when the summons came to march to war, Genon hadn’t been off another errand, though he had already packed his bags and saddled his horse.
And it was only by the blessings of the stars that Remin was still alive after so many stabbings, shootings, and poisonings, including a crossbow bolt that had been smeared with some mysterious substance that began to rot his flesh the moment it entered.
By the time they got Remin to Genon’s tent, he’d had to cut away almost a pound of flesh above the young man’s right hip.
To be sure, Genon was the one who had done the cutting and cauterizing, but Remin had survived something that would’ve killed any other man three times over.
You couldn’t watch a man endure that and not admire him.
And so, like so many others, Genon had elected to stay with Remin when the war was over, knowing that he was not so much skilled in his healing as incredibly fortunate in his most famous patient. If Remin had ever called for another healer, Genon would have bowed his head and stepped aside.
He never had. And a surprising number of people were willing to have a gargoyle for a healer so long as that man also served His Grace, the Duke of Andelin.
“Do you find it’s especially bad in certain places, or certain times of year?
” he asked Mistress Tregue, who had had him in three times to inspect the boy’s snot and was a bit of a hypochondriac besides.
Genon suspected the trouble was an imbalance of air, specifically the amount of dust in it.
Mistress Tregue was of the opinion that her middle son’s nose was about to fall off.
It was the first time Genon had considered a referral to Brestle.
“He does sneeze a lot more after he’s been to the woodpile,” the mistress began, and the doors of the tavern burst open on a wild-eyed Sim, one of the footmen from the manor.
“Mr. Hengest, sir!” he gasped, sweating. “His Grace says you must come up to the house, the lady’s had a fall off her horse and he said to fetch you double quick!”
“Did you see her yourself?” Genon asked, rising at once and gathering his things.
“Aye, His Grace was carrying her up the stairs.”
“Any broken bones or blood you could see?”
“Well…no sir,” Sim admitted.
“Was she speaking clearly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” This was not so much for his own benefit as to curb the valley’s gossips, particularly the avid-eyed Mistress Tregue, who would’ve had the duchess on her deathbed by sundown and alarmed the whole town if Genon didn’t squash it quick.
“She’s a sturdy lady, our duchess, for all her size.
Mistress Tregue, excuse me. Lead the way, boy. ”
This was both reassuring and true. Genon repeated it to himself as he trotted after the boy to the manor, cursing himself for leaving his horse at the infirmary.
Genon had known Ophele from the day she arrived in the valley and had seen her take a tumble or two with his own eyes, never mind the man’s work she had done at the wall.
Most people tended to put it down to her cleverness, to manage such hard work so well, but Genon knew how surprisingly tough she was.
There weren’t many women who could’ve lasted so long.
His first glimpse of Remin and Ophele only confirmed it. The lord was visibly shaken, but Ophele was propped up against her pillows with an air of patience that told Genon at a glance where the real trouble was.
“Well, well, my lady, let me have a look at you,” he said briskly, straightening up and trying to catch his breath. That damned hill outside the manor and then a lot of stairs at the top of it, and Genon was not in his fifties anymore.
“Nothing hurts,” the duchess said, turning her head at the pressure of Genon’s fingers. She was dressed in a modest linen chemise that tied at the back, and slid out of bed so he could see her stand, touch her toes, and otherwise demonstrate that there wasn’t a thing wrong with her.
“Nice, clear eyes,” he said approvingly, making her follow his finger with them after she had done these minor calisthenics.
And though it was awkward to be examining a lady, a duchess, and most importantly, Remin’s wife, Genon tried not to let it show.
Letting himself be embarrassed would only embarrass her, and she needed to trust her physician.
“It was a fall from a horse onto cobblestones,” Remin said severely, watching through narrowed eyes as Genon inspected each vertebra.
“It never hurts to be careful,” Genon agreed. “But I see no injury. A good night’s rest and you’ll be fit as ever tomorrow, my lady.”
“Fit for…everything?” Remin sat down in the chair beside the bed, his big hand covering hers on the blanket. The back of his neck reddened.
“Aye, so long as there’s no pain,” Genon agreed, hiding his amusement.
“And it wouldn’t do anything to…harm a baby, if there was one?” Ophele asked, blushing furiously. “Falling?”
“No,” Genon asked, after an astonished moment. “My lady, do you suspect you are with child?”
“No. Well…” She glanced between them guiltily. Remin looked as if someone had hit him in the face with a brick. “I don’t know. How would I…know?”
“It is harder to tell, as you still have not bled,” Genon said slowly. “Have you been sick in the mornings? Sensitive to smells?”
“No.” Her eyes widened. “Will I?”
“Those are the usual signs of pregnancy, though not everyone has them,” Genon replied, and went to get a chair. He had a sudden, dreadful suspicion, and he wanted to be sitting down for this conversation.
“We cannot be completely sure until the babe begins to show,” he said, blunt. “But absent the usual signs—no monthly bleeding, sickness, the obvious physical changes—then we can only assume you are not. My lady, forgive me, but…you do know how you become pregnant, don’t you?”
“I…what Remin is…doing?” She dropped her eyes. “Not…specifically.”
Merciful stars.
This possibility had never occurred to him.
It was a tricky business, physicking a young lady when all of Genon’s training and experience was with men in general and soldiers, specifically.
But this was the most important duty of a lord and his wife, above all others: the getting of an heir to secure the succession.
Everyone in the valley would breathe a sigh of relief once this all-important child was born, and ideally a spare afterward, just in case.
But given the many deficiencies in the duchess’s education, it should not be surprising that the lady didn’t know how it was…done.
“…ever told you?” Remin was asking, with a visible effort to pull himself back together. His Grace was having a chaotic day.
“No,” she said, her fingers plucking at the blankets.
“I think it would be best if you discussed it together,” Genon suggested.
Really, it only added impetus to something he should’ve done long ago.
“Forgive me,” he said, puffing out a breath.
“I suppose I ought to say now that this is not my area of expertise. If either of you have a fever, or stars forbid you break something, then I’m your man.
But you need a proper healer, my lady, and a midwife too, sooner or later.
I’ve delivered two babes in my life, and I don’t fancy trialing a third one with the heir of House Andelin. ”
From the stricken looks on their faces, it was clear that this had not occurred to them, either.
“The sooner you start looking, the better,” he said firmly. “And not just for your wife, Rem. This isn’t a military camp anymore. You need real healers, as know how to treat women and children. I’m just a camp surgeon.”
“I need someone I can trust,” Remin countered immediately, scowling, and Genon gave him a scarred, snarling smile. He knew very well that the Tower was still refusing any support to House Andelin, and their foolishness had been Genon’s very great gain.
“I know you do,” he replied gruffly. “I’ll speak to Juste and Duke Ereguil, to see if we can find a midwife. And I’ll look over their shoulders, if you like. Never too old to learn, and I can at least tell if they’re like to kill you.”
“Do that,” said Remin, so flat that it made Genon wince. This was exactly what Remin would be afraid of. Though the Empire was one of the more enlightened places in the world regarding sex and childbearing, it was still a risky business, even without the chance of someone trying to sabotage it.
“I’ll see if I can’t make you some herbs and tonics, my lady, to tone you up and help regulate your cycles,” Gen said reassuringly. “I’ll see Wen gets them. Easiest to add them to your food each day, and they will do no harm to His Grace if he takes a bite.”
“All right,” Ophele agreed, glancing at Remin for approval.