Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [93]
She greeted him gently, introducing herself and expressing sorrow for his illness. He was not an old man as she considered age, certainly not over seventy, but his body was wasted from years of self-denial and now also from illness. His hair was thin and white and his face sunken; his skin felt like old paper to her touch.
She asked him the usual questions and heard the answers she had expected. She had brought herbs that were pleasant tasting but purgative. To begin with, what she wanted most was to give him some ease, a better chance to sleep for a length of time, and to restore the balance of fluid in his body.
“Drink as much as you can of this I have brewed for you,” she told him. “It will ease your pain considerably. I shall make a jug full every few hours, and bring it to you. By tomorrow this time, you will be less distressed.” She hoped that was true, but belief was a large part of recovery, Christian or not.
“It would be more comfortable if you were to be attended by someone you know well,” she said to him. “But I shall be as close by as your brethren will permit, and will come at a moment’s notice if you call.”
“Should I fast?” he inquired anxiously. “With Brother Thomas’s help I will pray. I have already confessed my sins and received absolution.”
“Prayer is always good,” she agreed. “But be brief. Do not weary God with what He already knows. And no, do not fast,” she added. “Your spirit is strong enough. In order to continue in service to God and man, you need to regain the strength of your body. Take a little wine, mixed with water, and honey if you wish.”
“I abstain from wine.” He shook his head fractionally.
“It’s not important.” She smiled at him. “Now I shall make the herbal infusion for you, and come back with it.”
“Thank you, Brother Anastasius,” he said weakly. “God be with you.”
She sat up most of the night with him. He was feverish and restless, and she began to fear she would not be able to save him. By morning he was very weak, and she found it difficult to persuade him to drink the stronger herbs she had prepared. He was in much distress, and she became concerned that he had an internal obstruction rather than merely the natural effects of fever and ill diet. She increased the strength of the purgative, feeling she had little to lose. This time she added sandalwood for the liver, aloeswood to treat blockage in the liver and urinary system, and again more calamint.
By nightfall he was in even greater distress, but he had passed a large amount of water and seemed less pinched and his eyes less sunken.
Sometime in the middle of the night, the monk who was with him reported to her that Cyril had passed a quantity of waste and seemed relieved in his pain. He was now asleep.
She did not disturb him in the morning but looked at him closely and felt his brow. He was no more than warm, and he stirred vaguely at her touch without wakening. She allowed herself to hope he might recover.
Later in the day, Vicenze insisted on obtaining his audience. As far as the monks were concerned, it was he who had brought the physician under whose care Cyril had begun to recover, even though he was still desperately weak. In gratitude, the abbot could not refuse. Anna was kept from the room.
When finally she was allowed in again, Cyril was exhausted and he looked as if his fever were returning. The young monk who had attended him all through his illness looked anxiously at Anna but did not speak.
“I will not,” Cyril said hoarsely. “Even if it costs me my life. I will not sign a paper which swears away my faith and leads my people into apostasy.” He gulped, his eyes fixed on Anna’s face, frightened and stubborn. “If I do, I will lose my soul. You understand that, don’t you, Anastasius?”
“I am not always sure what is right,” she began slowly, choosing her words and watching his