The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [178]
The Greffy of Faurstrem wasn’t a large or prosperous one, and the audience chamber reflected that fact in its modesty. An ancient throne of oak sat on a small stone dais, with a banner draped behind it depicting a hawk gripping a scepter and an arrow in its claws. The man on the throne was ancient, too, with a silver beard that nearly piled in his lap and rheumy gray eyes.
Peren dropped to his knee.
“Greft Ensil,” he said. “This is Aspar White, the king’s holter.”
The old man shook, every part of him, as he raised his head to regard his visitor. He stared at Aspar for a long, wasted moment before speaking.
“I thought I would never have a son,” he said at last. “The saints seemed to be denying me. I was almost resigned to it, and then, when I was sixty, the saints made a miracle and gave me Emfrith. Emfrith, my lovely boy.” He leaned forward, eyes blazing.
“Can you understand that, holter? Have you any children?”
“No,” Aspar replied.
“No,” Ensil repeated. “Then you cannot understand.” He sat back and closed his eyes. “Three days ago he rode out against a thing I believed only existed in legend. He went out like a hero, and fell like one. He is dying. Can you save him?”
“I’m not a leic, my lord,” Aspar said.
“Do not make mock of me,” the old man shrilled. “The girl told us. You went to the Sarnwood to locate the cure for this poison. Did you find that cure?”
“Is she alive?” Aspar asked.
The men around Ensil looked suddenly uncomfortable.
“Is she alive?” Aspar reiterated in a louder voice.
Ensil shook his head.
“She died,” he said. “As did the boy. There was nothing we could do.”
And suddenly Aspar smelled autumn leaves, and he knew murder was about—but whether already happened or on the way, he could not know. His throat thickened and his eyes burned, but he stood straighter and made his face stone.
“I’ll see her body, then,” Aspar said. “I’ll see it now.”
Ensil sighed and signed with his hand. “Search him.”
Aspar dropped his hand to his dirk. “Mark me, Greft Ensil. Maunt my words. I have the cure for your son, but it isn’t a simple tonic or the like. It needs doing in a particular way, or the result is poison that will only kill him all the quicker.
“And here’s the other thing. If Winna Rufoote is already dead, from whatever cause, then you won’t have my help. If you try to force me, I reckon I’ll fight and probably die, and I swear to you, so will your son. You cann? Now, I’m reckoning you say my friends are dead because you’re afraid I only brought antidote enough for one or two. Trouble with that is, if they aren’t really dead, you’ll kill ’em soon so I don’t know I’ve been tricked.
“But I know already, and I have enough cure for all three of them. The only thing will save your son is that girl drawing breath. So I’ll see her body, dead or alive, sprootlic. Now.”
Ensil stared at him for another long moment as Aspar battled doubt. Had he guessed right? Or was she really dead? He couldn’t believe the last, so he had to believe the first, even if it got him killed.
“Take him,” Ensil muttered.
Aspar tensed for the battle, but then he saw the chamberlain bow and point left.
“This way,” the man said.
Aspar didn’t weep often, but when Winna’s faint breath fogged the polished steel of his knife, a single salty droplet worked its way out of the corner of his eye.
They were in a sickroom improvised from a chapel. Ehawk was there, too, unconscious but breathing a little better, along with twenty or so others, many of whom were still awake enough to groan and wail.
Aspar retrieved the berries from his pouch and was about to start force-feeding them to Winna when he took pause.
He’d been right about the greft’s intentions. He might get a few berries down Winna, but as soon as they understood that he’d lied about the complexity of the cure, they would probably confiscate the entire pouch.
“Where is the greftson?” Aspar