The anointing was quick and immeasurably gentle, a feather touch by the Abbot's rapidly moving thumb. "Superstitious magic," said the rational side of my brain, but I was deeply moved by the love on the faces of the monks as they prayed. Jamie's eyes were open once more, but very calm, and his face was peaceful for the first time since we had left Lallybroch.
The ceremony concluded with a brief prayer in Latin. Laying his hand on Jamie's head, the Abbot said in English, "Lord, into Thy hands we commend the soul of Thy servant, James. Heal him, we pray, if that be Thy will, and strengthen his soul, that he may be filled with grace, and know Thy peace throughout eternity."
"Amen," replied the other monks. And so did I.
By dark, the patient had lapsed into semiconsciousness again. As Jamie's strength waned, it was all we could do to rouse him for the sips of water that were keeping him alive. His lips were cracked and peeling, and he could no longer talk, though he would still open glazed eyes when shaken roughly. He no longer recognized us; his eyes stared fixedly, then gradually closed as he turned his head away, moaning.
I stood by the bed looking down at him, so exhausted from the rigors of the day that I felt no more than a sort of dull despair. Brother Polydore touched me gently, bringing me out of my daze.
"You cannot do any more for him now," he said, leading me firmly away. "You must go and rest."
"But—" I began, then stopped. He was right, I realized. We had done everything possible. Either the fever would break soon of itself, or Jamie would die. Even the strongest body could not endure the consuming ravages of high fever for more than a day or two, and Jamie had little strength left to see him through such a siege.
"I will stay with him," Polydore said. "Go to your bed. I'll summon you if…" He didn't finish the sentence, but waved me gently in the direction of my own chamber.
I lay sleepless on my cot, staring at the beamed ceiling. My eyes were dry and hot, and my throat ached, as though I were coming down with a fever as well. Was this the answer to my prayer, that we would die here together?
At last I rose, and took up the jug and basin from the table by the door. I set the heavy pottery dish in the center of the floor and filled it carefully, letting the water swell up over the thickened rim into a trembling bubble.
I had made a short detour to Brother Ambrose's stillroom on the way to my chamber. I undid the small packets of herbs and scattered the contents into my brazier, where the myrrh leaves gave off a fragrant smoke, and the crumbs of camphor flamed with tiny blue tongues between the red glow of the charcoal sticks.
I set the candlestick behind my reflecting pool, took my place before it, and sat down to summon a ghost.
The stone corridor was cold and dark, lit at intervals by dimly flickering oil lamps hung from the ceiling. My shadow stretched forward under my feet as I passed beneath each one, lengthening until it seemed to dive headfirst and disappear into the dark ahead.
In spite of the cold, I was barefoot and wearing only a coarse white cotton nightrobe. A small envelope of warmth moved with me under the robe, but the chill from the stones crept up my feet and legs.
I knocked once, softly, and pushed open the heavy door without waiting for an answer.
Brother Roger was with him, sitting by the bed, telling beads with bowed head. The wooden rosary rattled as he looked up, but his lips continued to move silently for a few seconds, finishing the Ave Maria before acknowledging my presence.
He met me near the door, speaking quietly, though it was clear that he could have shouted without disturbing the motionless figure on the bed.
"No change. I've just put fresh water in the hand bath." A few drops gleamed on the sides of the small pewter kettle on the brazier, freshly filled.
I nodded and put a hand on his arm in thanks. It was startlingly solid and warm after the imaginations of the last hour, and somehow comforting.
"I'd like to stay with him alone, if you don't mind."
"Of course. I'll go to the chapel—or should I stay near in case…" His voice trailed off, hesitant.
"No." I tried to smile reassuringly. "Go to the chapel. Or better yet, go to bed. I can't sleep; I'll stay here 'til morning. If I need help, I'll send for you."
Still dubious, he glanced back at the bed. But it was very late, and he was tired; there were shadows under the kind brown eyes.
The heavy door squeaked on its hinges, and I was alone with Jamie. Alone and afraid, and very, very doubtful about what I proposed to do.
I stood at the foot of the bed, watching him for a moment. The room was dimly lit by the glow of the brazier and by two enormous candlesticks, each nearly three feet tall, that stood on the table at the side of the room. He was naked, and the faint light seemed to accentuate the hollows left by the wasting fever. The multicolored bruise over the ribs stained the skin like a spreading fungus.