Jack Whyte - The Saxon Shore

I managed to smile at him, but I was very weak. Somehow, the thought of what he had said was amusing. I had not been sick in years, and neither had any of my fellows, apart from the infrequent unpleasantness of overindulgence in wine. Our bodily functions, matters of simple human routine, were acts we took for granted and seldom had occasion to consider, other than in the casual performance of them. Now I could see the unsettling effect my condition had on my companions. I had to lick my lips before I could speak, and when the words emerged, they were a whisper.

"I must have eaten some bad meat. Is anyone else affected?"

Ded was frowning. "No, not like you. Cyrus threw up an hour or more ago, but he's fine now. No one else has been behaving any differently than usual." He paused. "Course, I haven't checked Athol's people."

"Cyrus," I said. "The bird. We shared a cold fowl earlier, before noon, a partridge I think, but he only ate a leg. I ate more of it, but I noticed a strange taste and threw the rest away."

His brow cleared immediately. "That's it then, you're poisoned, but at least it was self-administered. I was beginning to think one of these Outlanders had slipped something into your cup." He paused, squinting at me in speculation. "It might get worse, but I don't think you'll die. You're too damn strong and far too stubborn to go that way. Besides," he grinned for the first time since I had been brought back, "from what I heard about the way you puked and shat, the poison must be out of you by now."

I closed my eyes. "I hope so, Ded. I hope so."

During the remainder of that day and night I awoke frequently to drag myself—and there were times when the intense pains racking me made me think I would never succeed—to the bucket beneath the wooden frame Benedict had built for me to use for either of my two urgencies, and on each occasion, I remember, the room was lamplit and the bucket was empty and clean. The last time, somewhere in the deepest part of the night, Cyrus thrust his head through the doorway as I was crawling back into my cot.

"How are you, Cay? It's my watch. Can I help?" I shook my head, unable to trust my voice, and he stepped forward to collect the stinking bucket. "By the Christus, I'm glad I wasn't as hungry as you were when we started on that bird. Sleep, man, and forget all else. Things are well in hand and there's nothing for you to do or to fret about. I'll clean this and bring it back."

When I opened my eyes again it was full day, and Athol himself was standing by my cot. Somewhere outside a bird was singing, and I realized I had been listening to it for some time. Athol saw I was awake and leaned forward, pressing his hand against my forehead.

"The fever's broken," he said. "How do you feel?"

"Better." I had to work my mouth to gain enough saliva to wet my lips with my tongue, for they felt as though they had been stuck together. "I hear a bird singing."

His eyes crinkled. "Aye, you do, and it sings for you. It's a blackbird."

"A blackbird?"

"Aye, with a wondrous power of song. We call it a merlen."

I drew a deep breath, filling my lungs cautiously, aware that I was no longer in pain, yet expecting my outraged stomach muscles to cramp again immediately. "What time of day is it?" I asked him.

"Late afternoon, nigh on evening. The sun has been shining all day long."

I was shocked. "You mean I've slept the day away?"

The king's smile grew broader. "This day, and yesterday, and the day before that. You have had some kind of fever, from the poison in your system. But it's past now, and you look stronger already. You'll be up and moving again by tomorrow, I'm sure."

Alarmed by his words, I moved to sit up, but the weight of the blankets that covered me kept me pinned to the bed. I was completely without strength.

"You're weak now," Athol said, as though he had read my mind. "But that will pass quickly, as soon as you have some solid food in your body.

Welcome back, Caius Merlyn. Your friends will be happy, and they are loyal, honest friends. Not a man among them but is genuine in his love and admiration for you. Not a bad word, or a shallow affection for their Commander in any one of them. I will send Dedalus in as I leave, and I shall come back tomorrow early. You and I have much to discuss." He turned to leave and I sought to stop him.

"Wait! Sir King—"

He turned back to me, smiling. "No more 'Sir King,' Merlyn. My name is Athol. Only those I govern treat me as a king, and then only when I am being King. To my friends, I am but a man like them. I have learned much of you from your own people these past few days, while you lay sweating, muttering to yourself. And I have spent long hours with my errant son Donuil, while he, too, told me of his love for you, the love of a warrior for a Champion and Leader. I have been much impressed and will be honoured if, from this time forth, you think of me as a friend." He left then, before I could summon a response.

Moments later Dedalus strode into the room, sweeping aside the screen around my bed. Until he moved it, I had been unaware of the thing. Now I gazed at it, noting its construction of woven wicker and the bright colours that adorned it.

"Where did that come from? That screen."

Dedalus glanced at me and continued folding the device, leaning it eventually against the wall by an open, unshuttered window. Finally he clapped his hands together as though dusting them and turned to face me. "From the Lady Shelagh. She came to see you the first day, before dark, shortly after Donuil and the big fellow, Cullum, brought you back. The next morning she came again, bringing this and an army of women. Erected the screen to give you privacy, she said, and cleaned out this hovel from roof to floor, then opened all the shutters. Made me promise to leave them open, too, even at night, no matter what the weather; claimed the clean air would do you good, as long as you were well wrapped up against the chill. Perhaps it worked, perhaps not. I only know that Paulus and I almost froze our arses for the past two nights. You hungry?"

Was I? With the question, I was suddenly ravenous, the mere thought of food triggering a flood of saliva. "Aye," I said.

"Good. I'll be back." He started to leave, then stopped. "You need to piss or anything?" At my headshake he nodded and then quickly left.

I lay there in the sun-bright room, looking at the long, afternoon shadows from the window and listening to the bird outside, the merlen. Three days I had been sick! The thought spurred me, and I made another effort to raise myself, this one less feeble, but no more successful than the first. Subsiding, I lay still for a time, gathering my strength, then loosened the tight-wrapped blankets that swathed me and tried again. This time, by gripping the edge of my mattress and using it for leverage, I managed to sit upright, swinging my legs free of the side of the bed. I was naked, I discovered, as my feet fell to the floor as though my legs were made of wood and I sat there, swaying and clutching at the edge of the mattress. A wave of giddiness almost overcame me, but I fought it off and forced myself to breathe deeply, willing the room to stop gyrating. It did, after a short time, and I sat motionless, gathering my strength again before I attempted to stand up. Then, when I felt I had my mind and body under my control once more, I stood, and swayed, and fell, twisting my body at the moment when I knew I must fail, and managing to sprawl facedown on my right side across the bed, rather than crashing to the floor.

"Sweet Jesus, there's no leaving you alone, is there? You're not fit to be trusted on your own at all. Here, wait a moment." I felt Ded haul me bodily until I lay where he wanted me, properly positioned on the cot. He then covered me up, tucking in the blankets before gripping me beneath the armpits and hauling me up into a sitting position, after which he wrapped a soft, warm woollen shawl about my bare shoulders. I protested at being treated like an old man, and he growled.