The trembling did begin to ease within a minute or two, and Jamie opened his eyes with a sigh.
"I'm all right," he said. "Claire, I'm all right, now. But for God's sake, get rid of that stink!"
It was only then that I consciously noticed the scent in the room—a light, spicy, floral smell, so common a perfume that I had thought nothing of it. Lavender. A scent for soaps and toilet waters. I had last smelled it in the dungeons of Wentworth Prison, where it anointed the linen or the person of Captain Jonathan Randall.
The source of the scent was a small metal cup filled with herb-scented oil, suspended from a heavy, rose-bossed iron base and hung over a candle flame.
Meant to soothe the mind, its effects were plainly not as intended. Jamie was breathing more easily, sitting up by himself and holding the cup of water the monk had given him. But his face was still white, and the corner of his mouth twitched uneasily.
I nodded at the Franciscan to do as he said, and the monk quickly muffled the hot cup of oil in a folded towel, then carried it away down the hall.
Jamie heaved a long sigh of relief, then winced, ribs hurting.
"You've opened up your back a bit," I said, turning him slightly to get at the bandages. "Not bad, though."
"I know. I must have rolled onto my back in my sleep." The thick wedge of folded blanket meant to keep him propped on one side had slipped to the floor. I retrieved it and laid it on the bed beside him.
"That's what made me dream, I think. I dreamt of being flogged." He shuddered, took a sip of the water, then handed me the cup. "I need something a bit stronger, if it's handy."
As though on cue, our helpful visitor came through the door with a jug of wine in one hand and a small flask of poppy syrup in the other.
"Alcohol or opium?" he asked Jamie with a smile, holding up the two flasks. "You may have your choice of oblivions."
"I'll have the wine, if ye please. I've had enough of dreams for one night," Jamie said, with a lopsided answering smile. He drank the wine slowly, as the Franciscan helped me to change the stained bandages, smoothing fresh marigold ointment over the wounds. Not until I had resettled Jamie for sleep, back firmly propped and coverlet drawn up, did the visitor turn to go.
Passing the bed, he bent over Jamie and sketched the sign of the Cross above his head. "Rest well," he said.
"Thank ye, Father." Jamie answered drowsily, clearly half-asleep already. Seeing that Jamie would likely not need me now until morning, I touched him on the shoulder in farewell and followed the visitor out into the corridor.
"Thank you," I said. "I'm most grateful for your help."
The monk waved a graceful hand, dismissing my thanks. "I was pleased to be able to assist you," he said, and I noticed that he spoke excellent English, though with a faint French accent. "I was passing through the guest wing on my way to the chapel of St. Giles when I heard the screaming."
I winced at the memory of that screaming, hoarse and dreadful, and hoped I would not hear it again. Glancing at the window at the end of the corridor, I saw no sign of dawn behind the shutter.
"To the chapel?" I said, surprised. "But I thought Matins were sung in the main church. And it's surely a bit early, in any case."
The Franciscan smiled. He was fairly young, perhaps in his early thirties, but his silky brown hair was threaded with grey. It was short and neatly tonsured and he had a brown beard, finely trimmed to a point that just skimmed the deep rolled collar of his habit.
"Very early, for Matins," he agreed. "I was on my way to the chapel because it is my turn for the perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at this hour." He glanced back into Jamie's room, where a clock candle marked the time as half past two.
"I'm very late," he said. "Brother Bartolome will be wanting his bed." Raising his hand, he quickly blessed me, turned on a sandaled heel, and was through the swinging door at the end of the corridor before I could muster wits enough to ask his name.
I stepped into the room and bent to check Jamie. He was asleep again, breathing lightly, with a slight frown creasing his brow. Experimentally, I ran my hand lightly over his hair. The frown eased a bit, and then resumed. I sighed and tucked the blankets more securely around him.
I felt much better in the morning, but Jamie was hollow-eyed and queasy after the broken night. He emphatically rejected any suggestion of caudle or broth for breakfast, and snapped irritably at me when I tried to check the dressings on his hand.
"For Christ's sake, Claire, will ye no leave me alone! I dinna want to be poked at anymore!"