Page 25 of The Cordial Bride

“Did you really think his sister was going to let that happen or that I would stand idly by while you were turned against me?” She shot him a look over her shoulder that froze his blood. Her expression was one of vile satisfaction. “She has acted rashly, but I had no reason to stop her, quite the opposite. Eventually, you will understand that what has been done was for the best.”

Calan wasted no more time with questions or even thinking. He ran out of the workshop and raced back to Ian’s room. The stout soldier stayed hot on his heels, not questioning the rush.

“Get Lady Isabeau,” he shouted to one of the Moorcondian guards standing by the doors. It was instinct that had him demanding her. She was Ian’s sister and therefore someone he trusted to help his husband, no matter what his aunt had implied.

He gasped as he entered the room. Ian hung halfway off the bed, his shoulders heaving with labored breadth, one arm dangling over the floor where the goblet of brandywine had shattered.

“Ian!” Calan gave no thought to the broken glass as he flung himself to his husband’s side. He grunted as he tried to lift the man back fully onto the bed. “Help me,” he shouted to the soldier who was still following him.

The large man had no trouble replacing Ian onto the bed and was sensitive enough to immediately back away to give Calan room to sit beside his husband. Ian’s skin was pasty and shiny with sweat. His body trembled, and his lips were parted in a kind of rictus. His struggle to breathe was even more obvious. Calan’s mind scattered with terror. His husband was dying, poisoned. There was no doubt in his mind what was happening, yet he couldn’t manage to think what to do, despite his training as an apothecary. Ian was going to die right before his eyes. How will I live without him? It was only when Isabeau burst into the room that he was able to marshal his thoughts.

“What is this?” The Moorcondian woman clasped the top of her robe tightly to her neck as she joined Calan at the bedside. Her hair was in a loose braid, and he doubted any man had ever seen her in such casual attire since her husband’s death. She didn’t seem to care, having clearly just risen from her bed. She didn’t wait for an answer, either, dropping to her knees and picking up what was left of the cup. She sniffed its contents. “What was in this?” Her expression was fierce as she glared at him.

Calan shook his head. “I don’t know. I smelled nothing when I poured it.”

“And you didn’t drink any?” Her tone was suspicious, and he didn’t blame her.

“No. The decanter was here when we returned from supper. I didn’t think anything of it. Leaving gifts of food and drink for the newly wedded couple is the custom. And I didn’t drink any of it because I don’t like brandywine. Most people would have no reason to know that, though.” That was then he was sure of what had happened, not that his aunt’s words had really given him any doubt. He looked at Lady Isabeau. “Do you have an emetic? I think purging is the best thing to do, regardless of what poison was used, and I dare not take the time to return to my workshop for some.”

Ian’s sister hesitated only a second. “Fetch my medicine bag.” She shot the order to the maid who had come with her before using her hem to sweep away the shards of glass. She pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed. “We run the risk of damaging his throat and mouth by bringing it back up, but without knowing what it is, you’re right that we have no choice. Ah, here,” she said when the maid returned.

Calan held his husband’s hand, wiping sweaty hair from his brow and feeling useless as his sister-by-marriage processed the emetic. But when Isabeau returned with a cup of liquid, she handed it to him to administer, instead of doing so herself. The show of trust and the recognition of Calan’s rights as a wife chased away any doubt he had about the woman’s intentions. But Ian hadn’t gotten any lighter, so he needed her help to raise him to a sitting position. Then he poured the contents down Ian’s throat. The huge man was hard to maneuver, limp as he was. They managed together to get him leaning over the side of the bed once he started to react to the medicine and his stomach emptied into the pot. The sounds were horrible. Calan felt as if he were killing the man, not saving him. He forced such thoughts out of his head and made himself think as a healer and not someone watching his beloved fight for his life.

Don’t die! I promise to tell you how I feel if you just live. Ian had to survive this. He had to.

Chapter Nine

Calan ran the cool cloth over Ian’s hot skin. He was in and out of consciousness, feverish and restless. But he was still alive as midday approached. That was something. The purging of his stomach had helped, and his husband’s body had expelled more of the poison on its own. It had been slow-acting, the sip or two he’d taken before they had made love having worked its way through him before the symptoms started in earnest. Calan and Lady Isabeau had quietly cleaned his man. It was during that wordless effort that Calan had come to appreciate the professionalism of the woman and to understand why the King of Moorcondia had put his faith in her. She had to be as worried as Calan was about Ian’s fight for survival and maybe even embarrassed over touching her naked brother, yet she gave no outward sign of such feelings. She had left the more intimate parts to Calan, which he appreciated. He hadn’t been married long, but he already felt as if the man were his and no one else’s.

They made Ian as comfortable as possible while they waited. Waited. Waited. Calan had sat by the bedsides of sick people often when helping his aunt. It had always been hard watching others suffer and worrying that they might succumb to illness. Death had been awful, as well, and caused him to feel guilt, even though his aunt had always said that they could only do their best and accept that they weren’t gods to give and take life. Now he knew, though, that whatever he’d felt had been nothing compared with what loved ones had endured. His mind recoiled any time he envisioned Ian dying.

Isabeau appeared in his peripheral vision and placed the back of her hand against Ian’s forehead. “I don’t think the fever is abating. We have to do more to fight the poison. I’m just not sure what. I’ve checked all my medicinals but only brought the basics to treat injuries and general illnesses while on the road. And I can’t be certain what will help anyway, because I don’t know what he ingested. The wrong thing might make his condition worse.”

A sharp pain stabbed Calan’s heart. “Yes. I’ve also been thinking on it. There is something I can try—a combination of medicinals that each help different poisons. I believe that with the right doses, together they might act as a more universal antidote, although I’ve had no opportunity to put the idea to the test. Thank the gods, poisonings are few and far between and always accidental, but sometimes kids don’t understand what they’ve ingested and something generic to treat them would be a great help. I’ve been reluctant to do so now with Ian’s life in the balance, hoping the poison had been dispelled enough to save him.”

Isabeau narrowed her gaze. “You’re not referring to something involving the cordial that brought us here?”

Calan shook his head. “No. That’s only useful against infection. This is…something else, something I’ve been fiddling with for some years.” He blinked back tears. “It might not work, or…” He couldn’t say the words.

“It could kill him.” It wasn’t a question. Lady Isabeau was no fool. “Do it.”

“How can I take that risk?” The thought that he might be the one to end Ian’s life was intolerable.

“To do nothing and watch the poison that’s left in his body overwhelm him is no better a solution. At least if we try, we’ll know we did all we could.”

“You trust me?” He knew the woman disapproved of the marriage, of him.

Isabeau looked away and inhaled deeply once before turning back to him. “No matter what your aunt has said in the matter, I believe that it was you who concocted the cordial that will save so many Moorcondian lives. However I might feel about your marrying my brother, I have no doubt about your apothecary skills. And,” she said, closing her eyes briefly, “I can see how much you love him. Please do whatever you think will work. No matter the outcome, I will always value your effort.”

Calan stared at his husband, forcing himself to see the suffering. “Thank you.” He slid off the bed and put on his boots. “Will you please send a few of your guards with me? One is probably enough, but I…don’t want to risk any interference.” He hated thinking that his aunt might try to stop him. Worse, he feared she would have turned others against Ian and Isabeau, who could keep him from returning out of a misplaced sense of protection.

Lady Isabeau didn’t ask the why of his request. She simply instructed the burly soldier who’d stuck by him before to round up more to go with him. Four men surrounded him as he hurried to his workshop. The weight of their presence bolstered Calan’s confidence as he passed many of the people he knew. They stopped and stared as he went by them, yet no one tried to interfere with his journey or talk to him. Better still, Aunt Celia was nowhere to be seen when he arrived. He wasted no time going to the three jars standing in a cluster on the table where he processed his concoctions. One guard stepped inside the room with him, a silent sentry. Seeing him there and knowing that the others were outside made Calan feel safe and allowed him to concentrate on only the task at hand.

He stared at the bottles for a few seconds as he called up his idea of how to employ them. There was nothing new about any of them, their usage for various poisons having spanned the ages. It was his ideas of how to marry them with one another that was novel. If only he knew exactly what Celia had used, but she would never tell him and there were too many possibilities. He needed to introduce something to bind the poison, neutralize it, then protect the organs in Ian’s body that were being attacked. He believed that a combination of what he had before him would work overall, regardless of what it fought, and while he abhorred the idea of testing his theories on his husband, Lady Isabeau had been right. Doing nothing came with at least the same amount of risk. What would Ian do? The answer was easy. The man was a fighter. He’d take action.

Resolved, Calan went about processing his ingredients. It was all guesswork as to how much of each to use, but he was good at this. He knew that. If not, he’d never have met Ian in the first place. As tempting as it was to dither and re-think everything he’d done, Calan forced himself to trust that his instincts had allowed him to do it right the first time. He slipped the ground ingredients into a pouch, clutched it in his hand—and stopped.

Aunt Celia appeared in the doorway leading to the main house. The inside guard rushed over to block her with silent resolve. She pushed at the man, but of course it was like an ant trying to move a mountain. “Let me pass, you oaf! This is my property, and you are both trespassers.” She slapped at the man’s chest to no avail.

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