Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [95]
He obeyed, shivering with terror.
With two hands she was more able to force his lips apart and his head back. A little of the liquid went into his mouth, and he swallowed it convulsively. He gagged, then gulped again, and it went down. She gave him more, and more. Infinitely slowly his throat eased, his breathing became less labored, and at last when he focused his eyes the panic had died out of them.
“Enough,” he said hoarsely. “A moment and I will take it all, I promise.”
She laid him back gently and sank to her knees on the hard floor, the prayer of gratitude more audible than she had intended. It was not just for Cyril’s life, but perhaps for her own.
“Explain,” the abbot demanded when she stood before him in his beautiful, sparse office later that evening. He was gaunt, his face lined with anxiety and the long battle against grief. He deserved the truth, absolute and not diminished or twisted by emotion. But he also did not deserve her burden of suspicion that could not be proved. She had had time to weigh what she should tell him.
“Zoe Chrysaphes gave me an herb to offer to Cyril,” she answered. “She told me it was a restorative. She emptied some of it into her own wine goblet, and then into mine, and we both drank it with no ill effects. She gave me the pouch of herbs and I took it. It was from that that I mixed an infusion for Cyril.”
The abbot frowned. “That does not seem possible.”
“Not until I remembered that Zoe and I drank the herbs mixed with wine, and Cyril took his with water,” she explained. “Also we ate honey cakes. She said it prevented an aftertaste. Those were the only differences I knew, so I immediately sent for wine and honey, and forced Cyril to take them. He began to recover. I assume it was the wine, and that Zoe Chrysaphes had never taken it with water, and did not know of its hideously different effect.” That of course was a lie, but neither of them could prove it, nor could they afford the truth.
“I see,” he said slowly. “And what of the Roman? What part has he in this?”
“None that I know,” she said. Again it was a lie. If he had not wished to persuade Cyril to sign the addendum, and Zoe had not feared that he might succeed, then Cyril would simply have died quietly here in this monastery, and public opinion regarding the union would have been unaffected. Zoe would choose that before his surrender. Anna’s visit had offered her the chance to make certain of Cyril’s refusal, or, if at the worst he had signed, then Anna and Vicenze would be blamed for his murder and the document accounted worthless.
But the abbot did not need to know that.
“We are grateful for your quick thought in saving him,” he said gravely. “Perhaps you will tell Zoe Chrysaphes that?”
“I will convey whatever message you wish,” she replied.
“Thank you,” the abbot said gravely. “One of the brothers told me you are from Nicea. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I grew up a little distance from here.”
He smiled, a slight, sad gesture, but it reached his eyes with a startling tenderness. “One of our brethren does not ever leave here. There was a man who visited him, but he has not been lately. I think it would be a great kindness if you would spend an hour with Brother John.” He barely made it a question.
Anna did not hesitate. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you,” the abbot said again. “I shall take you.” And without hesitation he led her out of the room, along a narrow, slightly echoing passage and through a huge carved door studded with brass, then up a steep and winding stairway. He stopped on a small landing at the top, high over the rest of the vast building. He knocked at the only door, and at the word of command, he opened it and went in ahead of Anna, holding it for her to follow.
“Brother John,” he said quietly, “Brother Cyril has been ill and a physician has come from Constantinople to help him. He has done well, and will shortly leave, but he is from Nicea, and I thought you might like to speak with