Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [94]
He winced and the tears filled his eyes, rolling down his tired cheeks.
“But to deny our faith is a destruction even worse,” she went on, hating herself for distressing him. “If you have the light of the Holy Spirit of God to tell you what is right, then you can never deny it, whatever the cost. Denial is not merely death, it is hell.”
He nodded slowly. “You are wise, Anastasius. Wiser, I think, than some of my own brethren. Certainly wiser than that cold-hearted priest from Rome.” He smiled weakly, a flash of light in his eyes. “The only wisdom is to trust God.” He made the sign of the cross, conspicuously in the Orthodox way, then lay back on his pillows and drifted into sleep, a slight smile still on his face.
The next time she went to him, he was awake and feverish, his fingers trembling so it was difficult to hold the cup with the herbal infusion in it. She had to put her own hands around his to help him. This was the time to offer Zoe’s restorative. Normally she would not give any herbs but those she had brought and mixed herself, but she had already tried everything else she had.
She told him she was going to mix something more, sent for him by Zoe Chrysaphes, and left him with the young monk while she did so. When she returned he looked tired, and she offered him the new drink.
“It may be bitter,” she warned. “I drank some myself, as did Zoe, but we took it with wine, and I know you do not wish for that.”
He shook his head. “No wine.” He reached for the cup, and she gave it to him. He drank and pulled his mouth into a grimace. “It’s most unpleasant,” he said ruefully. “For once I wish I—” He stopped abruptly, his face pale, his eyes wide. He gasped and clutched at his throat, struggling for breath.
“It’s poison!” the young monk cried out in terror. “You’ve poisoned him!” He scrambled to his feet and ran to the door. “Help! Help! Cyril is poisoned! Come quickly!”
There were footsteps clattering along the corridor, loud with panic. The young monk was still shouting. In front of her Cyril was gasping, his eyes wild, his skin drained of even the last vestige of color and turning blue as he choked.
But she herself had drunk exactly the same! She had seen Zoe take it out of the same silk purse, and she had given Cyril no more than a pinch. She had not tasted bitterness, but then she had taken it with wine and immediately after had cakes with honey.
Was that it? Wine? Did Zoe know Cyril did not drink it?
She leapt up and ran to the door. “Wine!” she shouted almost into the face of the monk only feet away from her. “Get me wine and honey now! This second, for his life!”
“You poisoned him!” the monk accused, his face contorted with loathing.
“Not I!” She said the first thing that would make any sense. “The Roman! Don’t stand there like a fool, fetch wine and honey, or do you want him dead?”
That accusation moved him. He swiveled on his heel and ran back down the corridor, his sandals slapping on the stone.
She waited in an agony of fear, dashing back into the room to hold Cyril up in her arms, trying to ease his breathing. His throat had closed up and his chest heaved with the effort to fill his lungs. It seemed to be endless, one long, dreadful breath after another, rasping in pain.
At last the monk returned, followed by another. They had wine and honey. She snatched it from them and mixed the two together, not caring a bit how they tasted, and held it to Cyril’s lips.
“Drink!” she commanded. “I don’t care how hard it is, drink! Your life depends on it.” She tried to pry his jaws apart and force it into his mouth. He was barely breathing