All at once, the man turned and fixed Rygehil with a piercing stare. To his shame, Rygehil took a step back and laid his hand upon his sword hilt.
‘Your woman is very ill.’ The stranger’s voice was soft and dry, but its tone was almost musical.
Rygehil swallowed hard. ‘Who are you, Sir, that you know of her trouble?’
The stranger smiled thinly. ‘I am called Euberacon Magus, and, as you see, I am master of this place.’ He waved one long hand to indicate the room about him. ‘I know all that occurs within its confines. Thus, I know that your woman, your lady wife, I believe you term her, is in danger for her life.’
Rygehil realized his hand was still on his sword hilt. He left it where it was. ‘She needs shelter, and a fire. Sir, since you are provided of both, I beseech you to allow us to trespass upon your hospitality…’
‘She needs more than that.’ Euberacon turned his gaze back towards the fire. ‘Death on his pale horse seeks her in the storm outside. He may yet find his way here, if nothing is done to prevent him.’
Rygehil’s stomach knotted painfully at these words. At the same moment, Whitcomb touched his shoulder. ‘My lord, I do not like this. I do not like this man and his guesses and secrets. There is something unclean about this place.’
‘Your man is right to urge you to caution.’ Euberacon turned to them again, with his thin smile showing on his long, lined face. ‘All art, all science and all practitioners thereof should indeed be approached with caution.’
Rygehil waved Whitcomb to silence. ‘Are you a philosopher, Sir? Have you some skill as a physician?’
Euberacon inclined his head modestly. ‘I have, Sir. Bring the woman to me. I will see what may be done.’
‘My lord,’ breathed Whitcomb again. Rygehil ignored him.
‘I thank you, Sir. We will bear her here directly.’
He started up the stairway again. He felt Whitcomb at his back, bursting to say something more.
‘Here is hope for Jocosa, Whitcomb,’ he said softly. ‘What more am I to care for?’
‘I fear here may be more peril than hope,’ muttered Whitcomb. ‘If she dies now, at least her soul and yours are safe.’
Despite the close quarters, Rygehil whirled around. ‘Speak so again, Cein Whitcomb and I will have your heart out of your body. Jocosa will not die. She will not die.’
He hurried up the remaining stairs to the darkness of the upper chamber. His company received him without a word. They had doubtlessly heard his outburst, but he did not care.
‘We have met the master of this house. He is a philosopher and may be able to aid my lady. We shall take her to his chamber.’
It was impossible to fit the litter down the narrow stairway, so Rygehil scooped Jocosa tenderly into his arms. Her maids had wrapped her in Una’s dry shift and found a cloak that was still dry inside. Despite this, her skin was damp from her own perspiration and she lay far too still for a living being. She made no sound as he lifted her. Her head fell back against his chest. He bent to press his lips to her brow and felt the heat of the fever like a fire there. The only sign of life inside her was the all too infrequent rise and fall of her breast.
He carried her down the stairs with Whitcomb and Una at his heels.
Euberacon had moved from his place at the fire. Now he stood beside one of the trestle tables that had been cleared of its instruments and flotsam and covered with a clean, bleached cloth. Rygehil laid Jocosa down and stepped back.
Euberacon looked first at him, then at Whitcomb, then at Una.
‘Send the dross away.’
Rygehil faced them. ‘Return to the upper chamber. I will send for you if there is need.’
‘My lord…’
‘But my lord…’
‘Go!’ Rygehil ordered sharply. ‘All will be well. I will attend to all that is needful.’
They did not protest anymore, but Rygehil could tell they wanted to. When the sound of their footsteps had vanished, Euberacon looked down at Jocosa once more.
For a time he examined her closely. He bent his ear to her mouth and listened to her shallow, sparse breaths. He laid a hand on her brow and measured her fever. He touched her hands and feet and felt the coldness of them. He lifted first one lid and then the other and peered into her blind and staring eyes. He laid a hand on her belly and stood as if listening to some faraway voice.
At last, Euberacon straightened up. ‘Death has almost found her. There is none of man’s physic that will save her from him.’
It seemed to Rygehil that the world split in two. ‘There is nothing you can do?’ he heard himself ask.
‘I did not say so. There are things that may be done, but for them, I will demand a price.’
Whitcomb’s remark about souls came echoing back to Rygehil. ‘What price?’
Euberacon smiled his thin smile. ‘Compose yourself. I am not the Devil. I have no interest in souls in that way.’ Rygehil wanted to bridle at that, but he looked again at Jocosa, pale and still in the firelight, and did not dare.
‘Your wife carries a daughter in her womb. I claim the life of the child in return for the life of the woman.’
Rygehil opened his mouth to say ‘How do you know? How dare you? What manner of man are you?’ But he looked again at the room with its jars and mortars and nameless shadows. This stranger who asked for the life of his child. His child who waited within his wife…
His wife who would die, and presently. He felt it as he felt the blood and fear roaring through his veins. What was one child? They would have a dozen. It was nothing, such a bargain. There were many solutions that could be found before then. This man, this sorcerer, might be satisfied with gold or land or some servant woman. It was nothing, this promise now. It was everything. It was Jocosa’s life.
‘If that is the price, I will pay.’
Euberacon’s dark eyes glittered. ‘Very well then.’
The sorcerer melted into the shadows and returned with a piece of parchment. He spread it out on one of the work tables. From overhead, he selected a gourd and untied the thong that held it to the roofbeam. He unstoppered the gourd and instantly the room filled with the scents of myrrh and rich resins. He poured some of the powder out into a shallow dish.
Euberacon picked up a small knife from the table. With one sharp stroke, he scored his own palm. Rygehil gasped. The other man gave him a look bordering on contempt and held his wound over the dish. Bright blood dripped into the powder. From a bundle of plumes on the table, Euberacon plucked up a crow’s ebony feather. With delicate strokes, he mixed the blood and powder into a dark ink. He laid by the crow’s feather and selected the feather of a white swan. With the same knife that had cut his hand, he trimmed the quill into a point. He dipped the pen into the ink. Despite the blood, its point came out blacker than Euberacon’s rich robe. The sorcerer bent over the parchment and began to write.
Rygehil tried to see what words Euberacon laid down, but he could make no sense of the waving lines and dots. He had seen some Hebrew written once and thought it might be that, but it did not look quite right.
Whatever he wrote, Euberacon was soon finished. He sprinkled sand over his work and brushed it away. Then, he blew gently across it. Apparently satisfied, he reached for a glass beaker that seemed to contain nothing but the purest water. As he stretched out his hand, Rygehil saw his palm. The wound was completely gone.
Rygehil resisted the urge to cross