To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [325]
He thought, as he moved to the bed, that it was as well that the doors had been broached, and that men had at last seen their King as he was. No one could blame the Banco di Niccolò’s doctor. No one could blame Nicholas now By tonight, word would have reached Nicosia, and Crackbene might well act at last to retrieve Nicholas. Tobie, looking down at the withdrawn, suffering face, found himself hoping that Nicholas was safe, but a long distance away.
After that, entered wholly into his chosen profession, Tobias Beventini took no account of time passing, or of food, or of sleep as he worked for his patient. He had to commit the cruelty first of allowing the opiates to fade unrenewed, in order to see what he had, and what could be done for the poison. But it had had four days to work. And the answer came plainly enough through the night, in Zacco’s feverish mumbles and uneven screeches of protest.
Through it all, Tobie let it be known, unwillingly endorsed by the Venetians, that any man of standing might enter the room, provided he sat in silence and out of his way. The courtiers of a lesser King would have been forbidden the chamber, to spare the dignity of their lord in this most degrading of afflictions. For four whole days, that had served as an excuse to isolate a man who would have been astounded at the presumption of such an idea: at the assumption that his subjects could embarrass him.
All his friends came. David de Salmeton was not among them, nor were the relatives of his wife. At times, through the night, he saw and recognised the dim faces. Between the bouts of pain, when the fever allowed, he would stop snarling abuse at his doctors to call to one or other of the stricken men on the bench, asking a question, demanding a service, indulging with malice in some barbed joke in a brilliant exhibition of pride. When the exhaustion started to show, Tobie prepared the potion that would send him to sleep, knowing that there was nothing to be gained, now, by stimulation.
A few hours before dawn, he dispatched Gentile to rest. As the King slept, one by one the observers also left until Tobie was alone in the lamplit room with his patient and the nursemaid who served him. When he saw the King stir, he sent even the woman away. He was not sure, but he thought he was wanted.
Between awakening and pain there existed sometimes a space where the mind reigned as it once did. Now the magnificent hazel eyes unclosed, and the King said, ‘You are Nikko’s small excrescence. A doctor.’
‘Yes, roi monseigneur,’ Tobie said.
‘He was too nice in the stomach to come himself?’
‘He would be here, if he knew the King was ill. He has been sent for.’
The eyes frowned, and closed, and opened. The King said, ‘Have I been poisoned?’
A doctor’s training is long and hard, and consists, in the main, of learning what answer to choose. Tobie said, ‘I believe so, roi monseigneur. I believe it will never be known precisely by whom. I believe you will know what good might be done by accusations.’
‘And will I survive?’
One could count on that question as well. With a man like this, there was no need to use words. Tobie kept still, and allowed his face to be read. The King studied him, saying nothing. Presently he asked, ‘And how is my Queen?’
Tobie said, ‘You should send for her, sire. And you should rest content. Whatever happens, the succession is secure.’
‘Content!’ the King said. It was a scream. The nurse outside heard, and quickly entered. Others came. They were in time to see their indomitable lord caught, blaspheming and shouting, in the fresh spasms of a new agony. Tobie worked as he did in the field, fast and accurately and in full awareness of all that he was doing, and what would result from it. He decided then that