Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [208]
Eighty-eight
ANNA HAD BEEN SENT FOR AND ACCOMPANIED THE white-faced messenger to Zoe’s home. Sabas was waiting for her and took her immediately to where Zoe was lying on her bed, Thomais at her side, her face impassive.
“Bishop Constantine excommunicated her from the Church,” Sabas informed Anna. “God has stricken her, but still she lives. Please help her.”
Anna moved forward and looked down at Zoe. Her tunic was crumpled and she lay awkwardly, as if placed there by someone who dared not touch her with any more intimacy. Her eyes were almost closed, but she was breathing quite regularly. Without thinking, Anna smoothed Zoe’s dress over her stomach and thighs, then she felt her pulse. It was weak but quite regular.
“Is it not the bishop’s doing?” Thomais asked.
Anna hesitated. Constantine would not have poisoned her or struck her. He might have frightened her into an apoplectic fit if he had invoked the deep terror inside her of the punishment of God, the abandonment of all light and hope.
She touched Zoe’s hand, gently. It was warm. She was not dead or even dying. “We must not let her get cold. And put a little ointment on her lips to stop them drying. I will fetch herbs and come back.”
Thomais stared at her, her face filled with doubt, perhaps fear.
“God may have struck her,” Anna said gently. “If He takes her life, that is His judgment. It’s not mine.”
She did all she could for Zoe, waiting and watching to see if her condition changed. On the fifth night, she was sitting in the corner of Zoe’s room next to a painted and inlaid screen, half asleep. The room was almost dark. One small candle burned on the table about seven feet from Zoe, just enough to see her outline, not enough to shine on her face.
She still had not opened her eyes or stirred more than to move one hand a few inches. Anna did not know if she ever would again. Thinking of the destruction Zoe had caused, Anna should have been glad. It confused her that she felt instead a sense of loss and a troubling pity.
She was almost asleep when she was suddenly, terrifyingly aware that there was someone else in the room. He was moving soundlessly, no more than a shadow passing across the floor. He couldn’t be a servant or he would have spoken.
She froze, her breath caught in her throat. She watched as he crept toward the bed, a small man, dressed not in a tunic but a shirt and britches. He had a pointed beard, and as he came closer to Zoe the candlelight touched his face and she saw that he had sharp features, thin and clever. His hands were empty.
Her mind raced. She knew from the awkward way the man’s jacket lay over his hip that he had a knife at his belt, and Zoe was defenseless. If Anna called out, there was no one near enough to hear or come in time to help. Anna herself would be dead before then.
She must move silently or the intruder would hear her and strike, probably Zoe first and then her. She had nothing near her, no heavy bowl, no candlestick. But there was the tapestry. If she threw that over him, it might confuse him for long enough to reach for the candlestick on the table.
“Zoe,” he said quietly. “Zoe!”
Could he not see she was not asleep but senseless? No, thank God the candle was small and far enough from her that her face was in the shadow.
“Zoe!” he said more urgently. “It is going well. Sicily is like a tinderbox. One spark, one wrong word or move, and it will burn like a forest fire. Dandolo has worked well, but he has just about served our purposes. Give me the word, and I’ll