Chapter 7 – The Council of the Well #4
No one had mentioned the pageboys yesterday, and she reproached herself as she listened to Jinmin’s report.
Fortunately, none of them had taken the sickness too hard.
They were all sturdy boys, active and well-fed, and she saw some of them darting here and there as they moved about town, looking in on the office, the cookhouse, and the Benkki Desans.
Madam Sanai and Master Balad were both down with it.
They accepted Genon’s medicine with thanks, but they had a number of practices of their own, and Ophele almost had to be dragged away when Huvara appeared with long rolls of fine linen, saying something about a steam shroud.
Things were already slipping askew elsewhere.
The pageboys had delivered food that morning, but it froze solid on quite a few doorsteps.
Tounot was finally succumbing to the illness, and Genon could only spare her a few moments between his most fragile patients, of whom there were more than expected. Neither he nor Brestle had slept.
“But it’s not as if there’s a war on,” Genon said, as if this were reassuring. “We’ve seen worse, my lady.”
No doubt they had, but how long could they go without sleeping?
Ophele watched him anxiously, and it colored her reaction when she arrived in the marketplace to find a wagon laden with firewood trundling past the fountain in the town square, a full six hours later than it should have been.
She didn’t hesitate to hurry over to it, appalled.
“There are sick people in these houses!” she exclaimed, looking up at the many chimneys around them, only a few of which were smoking. “Have they not had fires all morning?”
“Warn’t no firewood by the stables, lady,” said the nearest man, anonymous under many layers of clothing. “Had to get it from the cottages.”
“But you’re not meant to get it from there, there’s a woodpile down the alley behind the smiths’ forges!” She was beginning to be actually angry. “Do you mean you took all the firewood from the cottages? You can’t just take it from wherever you find it!”
“I said it was all right, lady,” said another anonymous man, appearing around the side of the wagon. “We only took half of what we found, no need to fuss.”
Actually, there was need to fuss. They had planned out yesterday exactly where all the firewood would go so everyone would have what they needed and the cottages were much colder than the houses in town, much less insulated, and so burned wood much more rapidly.
But they were all looking down at her together, tall men with gruff voices, anonymous in their woolens, and probably so much wiser than she…
“There—there is,” she managed. It came out wavering and uncertain, and she stiffened. She was right, she knew she was right. “They need much more firewood, they—”
“Can’t hear you, lady?”
“You’re talking to Her Grace,” Jinmin said suddenly behind her, flat and menacing. “That you, Auffray? Take off your hood and show your manners. P’raps you and I ought to have a chat.”
“After they have fetched back the firewood, please, Sir Jinmin.” Ophele raised her voice, her fingers clenching her skirts.
“They burn firewood faster. In the cottages. Once you’ve unloaded, go and get half the woodpile from behind the smiths’ and take it back.
To the cottages, I mean. And don’t do this again. ”
With Jinmin glowering behind her, they could do nothing but bow and murmur apologies, and she bit her tongue and waited through their belated courtesies, glad that her face was covered. It was easy to speak, wasn’t it, so long as no one was speaking back.
“I’ll thump ’em later,” Jinmin growled behind her. “Lazy sods, didn’t want to go all that way in the cold, is all.”
“Genon said the people with the fever can’t afford to take a chill,” she said. Normally, she would err on the side of forgiveness, and it was her own fault if she felt afraid or embarrassed. But she would not allow the least risk to the sick, if she could stop it. “Please speak with them about it.”
But that wasn’t even the worst affront of the afternoon. Master Forgess was one of the last to offer his report at the tavern, pugnacious and glaring out of the slit of his large, woolly scarf.
“They’re well enough to be complaining, Your Grace,” he said of the people in his charge, which was so honest it made her smile. There were a few people at the manor in that condition. “Master Cherche is the worst off…”
But he was not smiling. Indeed, he seemed to grow angrier with every second he looked at her, reeling off the names of the ill so rapidly that she had a hard time imprinting them on her memory.
He and his journeymen very nearly abased themselves every time they encountered her about town, but Master Forgess never really seemed to mean it.
Even as he was donning his cloak and gloves, he kept glancing at her, as if he were chewing his tongue to keep from speaking his mind.
The explosion occurred just after she exited the tavern, as Sir Jinmin caught her boot to boost her into the saddle.
“Your Grace!” She heard the shout from behind her, sudden and furious. “In the name of every scholarly star, learn to write!”
Jinmin released her so abruptly she staggered, righted her by the scruff of her neck like a kitten, and then swung around and went for Master Forgess. The scholar stood his ground as if he was willing to die like a man, so long as he had his say first.
“Your ideas were good!” he exclaimed, his gloved hands held out before him in imprecation to the heavens.
“But no one’s going to read them if they look like they were scribbled by a ten-year-old!
Your position may insulate you from criticism, but it is a profligate waste!
Respect your own scholarship enough to learn to express it properly! ”
The words echoed off the icy stone of the market square and then hung there, dissipating in white clouds.
“I don’t know how,” Ophele said into the silence.
“Then—then permit me to teach you. Please.” Belatedly, he offered a deep bow and held it. “Please. Your Grace.”
“I will. When this is over, I will,” she promised, feeling a giddy rush of excitement. Oh, Remin wouldn’t like it, he never forgave anyone who was rude to her, but she so wanted to learn properly. And hadn’t he said she could study whatever she liked?
“I’ll send my boy up to the manor with materials and arrange a meeting at your convenience, Your Grace,” Master Forgess said, straightening. “When this is over.”
But it was not over yet.
Late that night, Master Cam Sharrenot died. And he was not the last.
* * *
The day began hopefully. In the early hours of the morning, Remin’s fever had finally broken in a drenching sweat, and Ophele sponged his cool limbs and watched as he sank into a sleep that seemed somehow deeper and…
healthier than his previous leaden unconsciousness, or the drugged stupor from Genon’s medicine.
Ophele woke to Emi’s knock on the door, and Remin sat up a moment later, groggy and complaining about his stubble.
“Does your head still hurt?” she asked, inexpressibly relieved to see most of the fever-fog had cleared from his eyes. He managed to sit to the table for breakfast, but was still only picking at his porridge.
“It’s not bad,” he rasped. His coughing had been so violent, it seemed even his powerful chest must fly apart, and she was sure it must have left his throat absolutely raw. Ophele added a little more honey to his tea. “You’re still well, wife?”
“Yes. I told you, I don’t get sick.” But it was lonely, sitting down without their customary kiss and embrace.
Both of them kept reaching for each other before they remembered.
“We’re looking after everyone, I promise.
You will be pleased to hear it, once you’re well.
Genon said for now that you should just sleep as much as you can. ”
“You’re not giving me much choice,” he grumbled, with an ironic salute of his teacup to indicate he knew exactly what was in it. And though saying even that many words at a stretch made him cough again, still, he was better.
She found that Leonin was similarly improved, no longer feverish and energetic enough to protest staying in his cottage.
She had to be very stern with him, but with Genon’s admonishments in her ears, Ophele shut the door in his face and marched off to the stable with Auber trailing behind her, looking entertained.
Somehow, it felt as if this must be a turning point for them all, as if Remin’s recovery must drag everyone else along.
How could they help but follow the mighty Duke of Andelin?
“I am sorry, my lady.” As soon as she arrived at the infirmary, Genon drew Ophele off to one side and sat her down.
“We knew from the beginning that this illness would be dangerous for older people. People lose their water as they age. They go up like tinder with a fever like this, and Master Sharrenot…”
This did not make sense. Ophele sat, stupefied.
“I…b-but was there nothing we could do?” she managed, stuttering in shock. “We kept sponging Remin with cold water when his fever was bad, could we not—there’s snow, if his fever was so high, and make him drink water if he’s so dry, I don’t—”
Ophele bit her tongue. Jinmin, Auber, and Genon were all looking at her with pity as her voice broke and squeaked and she clenched her hands together in her lap. She could not cry in front of them. She was their duchess, taking Remin’s place, she must be as strong for them as he would be.
“It doesn’t work like that, my lady,” Genon said, full of apology. “I am sorry. He was a good man.”
“No. No, of course…you would know.” Ophele swallowed a sob. Breathed, and stood. “I will not take your time. We will speak of the rest this afternoon. Please keep…doing your best.”
Then she went outside and cried.