Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [316]
He had no more colour to lose. Instead, he took a short breath like a man hit in the face, and stayed where he was, with hauteur, in all that humiliating disorder. Marthe put down the tray with a small jolt, which she had not intended, and said evenly, There is soup for you. If you want anything, ask for it. Jerott and I will do what we can.’
Thank you,’ said Francis Crawford. His voice was cynical, and almost as steady as hers. ‘The origin of pain, says Buddha, is the thirst for pleasure; the thirst for existence, the thirst for change. Destroy your passions as an elephant throws down a hut built of reeds: the only remedy for evil is healthy reality. You are my healthy reality. I am indebted to you. But as I have already told the hospital brethren, I need no further attention.’
‘You need food,’ said Marthe. ‘If we do not bring it, then the priests must. It is a time for logic, not vanity.’
His lashes were wet and the pillows sodden with sweat. He said, ‘And a time, I suppose, for revenge.’
Her hair, drawn back in its shining silk coils, was the same gold as his: her face, pale and high-boned and controlled, came from the same mould. She said, ‘I am not here to mock. Ring the bell if you want help. Jerott will come if he can. If not, you will have to put up with me.’
To Jerott below, she said merely, ‘It has begun.’
Once under way, the illness gained weight like an avalanche, and the next time Jerott climbed the stairs he found the door locked and, listening, realized that Lymond was up somehow and roving the room, the light footfalls buffeting up and down, backwards and forwards, round and round. Jerott spoke through the door, and knocked, but received no answer then or later; nor did Marthe on the same errand. They alternated like clock weights, said Jerott with bitterness, through the entire dreary day until evening, when Jerott lost patience and threatened to kick in the door.
A moment later the key turned and the door crashed back open as Francis Crawford, turning back inside, sat on the bed, his head in his hands. He said, without looking up, ‘Do what you have to do, and get out.’
Jerott banged down the milk he had brought. ‘Look. If you are having pains, scream. If you are seeing thousand-pound elephant birds with reinforced iron nests, tell us and we shall believe you. If you want to climb up and jump from the roof, let me tell you that we feel exactly the same. Only don’t lock your door like a maiden aunt with the gravel.’
Lymond moved suddenly, and then was still. ‘I agree in principle,’ he said. ‘Only, if I did begin screaming … you wouldn’t like it.’ He added abruptly, ‘I don’t want Marthe. Send her away.’
His brows drawn, Jerott looked down on him. ‘She could have gone with the others. She stayed behind to look after you.’
‘Oh, Christ. I don’t …’ began Lymond and broke off, stopped by a long, shuddering yawn, the circles brown-black under his eyes.
‘You don’t need help?’ said Jerott with desperate sarcasm. ‘Or I don’t need help?’
Like a man lifting a great weight, Lymond looked up. With the same terrible effort, he said flatly, ‘Every time that door opens … I start counting. And I go on counting until it shuts again. Otherwise I should be on my knees, crying for … what I want. If you want to help me … keep out. If you want to shame me, send Marthe. She and I are … unmerciful adversaries.’
Jerott’s breath caught at the top of his stomach; but this time he knew what must be done; and he did it.
‘You and she are brother and sister,’ he said.
Francis Crawford gave a small sigh. His face, already stripped to the bone by extreme physical stresses, looked