Chapter Fifteen

Gaston’s cough worsened as the rain continued to fall, and Catherine considered it a blessing when the caravan was forced to stay two days in Smyrna to gather necessary provisions. This morning it was clear Gaston couldn’t travel. Catherine, afraid of losing someone she loved again, begged the queen to let her remain an extra day.

She had used the last of Larissa’s willow bark for Gaston’s fever. They needed something stronger. After discussing the situation with the king, Eleanor decided Larissa and Payen would stay too, and the crusaders went on without them.

Catherine had never passed a night so filled with worry, not even when Ragenard died. Her husband had been a grown man responsible for his own choices. Gaston was an innocent who trembled in her arms as he fought for each painful breath. He depended on her.

She stood militantly outside the herbalist shop, impatiently waiting for the merchant to open. She looked at Payen, but his features remained smooth. How did he manage such remarkable self-control?

“The other shops are open,” she said in a tight voice. “We should try somewhere else.”

The market slowly came to life as the sun rose, the golden orb reminding Catherine that time passed as Gaston suffered. Someone had better open the door before she kicked it in. The ancient city had so far been a bitter disappointment.

“This was recommended as the best. Be patient, Catherine.” The light touch of his hand at her back was the only outward sign that Payen shared her concern.

“Patient? I don’t like this city. The people crawl instead of walk. They even talk slow. And now this shop isn’t open when it says it will be.” Her shoulders slumped.

“It will be all right,” Payen said for the tenth time.

Gaston’s cough sounded like the rattle of a snake trapped in his chest. More willow bark was needed, but what else? Frog soup, horehound cough syrup. Opium? Worried, she paced in front of the white stone building, her cloak snapping behind her.

At last, the door opened and she rushed inside the shop, brushing past the Greek man still holding the wooden frame.

Payen followed calmly.

The shop owner seemed bemused by Catherine’s demeanor, and she waited impatiently for him to make his way around the counter. Once there, she immediately explained her problem.

The man didn’t say anything until she finished. Then he shrugged.

She despised feeling helpless, and Payen’s soothing hand on her shoulder was the only thing keeping her from vaulting over the counter. Thankfully, Payen’s Greek was flawless, and he told the shop owner the problem.

The man nodded, then rubbed his fingers and thumb together.

Catherine would give her entire purse to see Gaston well.

As the man went into a private storeroom, Payen stayed her hand. “Just wait.”

“If he does not return with proper medicine, I will cut his throat,” she said, her fist curling around the hilt of her short sword. What took so long?

“Catherine,” Payen said softly, “let go of the sword.”

The Greek man returned with an ancient woman who stooped so far down Catherine worried she’d scrape her nose against the stone floor.

Assisted into a tall chair, she brushed back her snowy hair. The man handed her a rolled flannel, setting it before her. She waved him away, untied the roll, and revealed an array of dried herbs.

The stench was horrific, but Catherine willed her stomach to be still. The old lady pinched a bit of one herb, smelled it, then put it back. She tried a dozen or so before finally choosing the combination she wanted.

Catherine gritted her teeth, her tension mounting as the woman showed them how to mix the ingredients, speaking slowly to Payen, who nodded. Catherine watched, cataloguing how much of each noxious thing to add.

“I hope it doesn’t taste as bad as it smells,” Catherine said to Payen.

If it could cure Gaston’s cough, she would pour it down his throat while sitting on his chest.

The old woman reached beneath the counter and brought out a jar of honey, then smacked her lips. The woman smiled, showing her three teeth.

She gratefully accepted the honey, and the old woman’s fingers brushed hers. A tingling awareness jolted up her arm. The crone’s bright black eyes sparkled from within the folds of her face.

It will be all right.

Payen paid the Greek man while Catherine gathered their items. Once they were outside the shop, Catherine took a deep breath of fresh air. Grilled lamb replaced the smell of mildew and ancient things.

“What did that old woman sell us?”

He rubbed his chin, then glanced at her before walking toward the center of the road and the inn. “Grasshopper fungus.”

Catherine yanked him back, not caring that people would see. She held her hand to her stomach and glared at him. “What did you buy?”

“It’s an ancient Chinese cure for a wet cough.” He met her gaze, purple shadows beneath his eyes. “I’ve heard of it before. We are lucky she had some.”

“I don’t think—”

He held her upper arm, bringing them nose to nose. “We have nothing left to try. He’s got to breathe, Catherine.”

He was right. Did the ingredients of the cure really matter?

They raced to the inn, where they’d gotten two small rooms next to one another. Larissa waited in the smaller chamber. The fellows would stay in the larger one.

Larissa’s skill with herbs made her the perfect choice to stay and help Catherine and Payen with Gaston. And to chaperone? Catherine brushed the thought aside; it was no time for romance.

They took the stairs two at a time and opened the door to see Jacques sitting behind Gaston, propping him up, while Larissa patted Gaston’s hands. The boy’s eyes were closed, light purple veins visible around his forehead. Catherine had never in her life seen skin so pale.

“What happened?” Payen paused at the door.

Catherine burst inside to dump the miracle fungus on the table. Not bothering to remove her cloak or gloves, she mixed the remedy by memory, adding a spoonful of honey.

Gaston wheezed.

She stirred the mixture even faster until the bits of grainy, crushed leaves and fibers swirled in the cloudy liquid.

She could hardly see through the film of tears, but she made her way to Gaston’s side. Death was not going to steal another person she loved.

Larissa pinched her nose. “What is it? Is it safe?”

“It’s grasshopper fungus,” Payen said softly, as if not wanting Gaston to hear.

Jacques’s face twisted, but he tightened his hold on the boy. “He was shaking all over,” he told Catherine in a trembling voice. “We were worried . . .”

“You did the right thing,” Catherine said. “Holding him still.”

Payen stood at her left. “How can I help?”

“Tickle his throat,” Larissa said, “to open his mouth. Angels have mercy, that stench is foul.”

Catherine watched Payen stroke Gaston’s neck to ease the clenched muscles. As soon as his jaw released, she pried open his lips and slid a large spoonful of the medicine down his throat.

Payen stroked Gaston’s neck, ensuring the boy swallowed it all.

Catherine stood back, the empty spoon in her hand. She looked to Payen, who seemed just as lost as she after the last few days. Now what?

He put his hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to the moment.

She paced the room.

Jacques, exhausted, fell asleep on the small cot by the opposite wall. His arm covered his eyes as he sprawled on his back.

Larissa dozed in her chair by the door.

Payen sat on the floor next to Gaston’s bed.

Catherine watched Gaston sleep, counting his breaths, exchanging concerned looks with Payen that neither cheered nor comforted her. “We should have—”

“You know there was nothing we could do. Sometimes these things happen. Pacing until you wear down the floor will not bring him around any sooner.”

“You are so cool,” she said, not understanding him at all. “Yet I know you feel. I’ve witnessed it.” She touched her pounding heart.

A look of hurt crossed his face.

She winced. “Never mind. I am tired. I am looking to place blame where there is none.”

Payen rose in a fluid motion, his knees cracking. He glanced at the dozing Larissa and the sleeping Jacques, then took Catherine gently into his arms. “You are a tigress, fierce in your protection. Gaston will be well. I have no doubt.”

She melted into his embrace, desperately needing Payen’s strength. She knew it was temporary, but she accepted what he could give her. “Thank you.”

Moments passed before she felt strong enough to stand on her own. She leaned back, arms around his waist, regret and longing filling her soul. “I—”

“Can I have a hug too?”

The boy’s quivering voice interrupted them, saving Catherine from a confession of love she couldn’t make. She slipped away from Payen and turned to Gaston, almost afraid of what she might see.

The boy’s damp, dark hair flopped over his brown eyes, and a flush of color on his cheeks brightened his pallor. He lay on his side, taking even breaths.

“Of course.” Catherine’s voice was barely a whisper. “As many as you want.” She and Payen helped him sit up, propping him against the wall. He looked so small as his hands curled over the cover. She hugged him tight, vowing not to cry. “Do you feel better?”

“It is good to breathe,” he told her solemnly, wise beyond his years.

“It is,” she agreed, exchanging a glance with Payen.

Jacques woke, as did Larissa, and they immediately crowded around the bed.

Catherine wished she could hold Payen’s hand, but since she couldn’t, she sent him a look of gratitude.

He met her gaze. With love?

Non. It changed nothing. If she allowed herself to feel, she would curl up in a ball and never stop sobbing.

Pretend to be strong. “This is cause for a celebration,” Catherine declared. “It won’t take me long to go to the market. I smelled lamb kebobs earlier. How does that sound?”

“It has to better than grasshopper fungus,” Jacques said, lightly poking Gaston’s shoulder. “That’s what it took to cure you.”

“Yuck!” Gaston turned to her.

She stifled a laugh. “It was a miracle. I will be right back.” She grabbed her cloak and headed out into the late afternoon.

Payen helped Gaston get more comfortable and opened the wooden shutters to look out the stone encasement. Catherine strode toward the market, her braided hair covered by a light blue veil. No cloak.

“She walks with purpose,” Payen mused.

“Because she wears chausses beneath her gown,” Gaston said. “She says she likes it.”

“I like it too.” Jacques crowded in.

Payen tried to imagine a life where all the women dressed like men. Impossible.

But he had done as she’d asked and opened his thinking to different ways. He supposed if Catherine wanted to dress like a man, he could accept that.

But his father? He would never allow such an eccentric character into his home.

“She forgot her coin,” Larissa said, holding the leather purse. “Hurry, monsieur, so you can catch her. Jacques and I will tidy the room for your return.” She smiled. “Take your time.”

Payen accepted the pouch and ran out the door.

It was easy to spot Catherine in the crowd of women. She wore French blue and gold. He was tempted to call for her by name, but that would be unseemly. Besides, this way, he could watch her.

Payen smiled as she ordered lamb kebobs, bread, and broth. Her Greek was so bad that the good-natured merchant seemed to guess by her enthusiastic hand gestures more than her words. She finished the list with honeyed almonds.

Catherine’s zest for life astounded him.

She patted her cloak, clearly realizing she had no coin.

He quickly came to her aid. “Lady Catherine, you left this in your haste to buy food. Coin is helpful.”

She laughed softly. “I am beginning to understand you, de Montfer.” She paid the merchant, who put the food in a wooden box.

“May I?” He picked up the box.

She looked up, past him, and gasped.

He pivoted. “What?” he said, trying to pinpoint something in a sea of people.

“It was Ragenard. He was behind you. I know it was him.” The color drained from her face. She held her hand to her throat, and he knew she was touching the gold necklace her dead husband had given her.

“Dead men do not come back to life.”

Her eyes widened.

He had spoken too harshly, but how else to make her see reason?

“I am perfectly aware that dead men do not come back to life. I am telling you, I saw his ghost.”

And that was rational?

He fumed all the way back to the inn. What was supposed to have been a pleasant evening was now soured because she couldn’t let go of her dead husband.

Payen set the box on the table, then took off his cloak.

Larissa gave him an odd look, obviously wondering why they hadn’t lingered.

Gaston said, “What’s the matter, Lady Catherine?”

She made a rosebud of her pink mouth, then shrugged. “It is nothing. I thought I saw someone I once knew.” She started handing out the food. “But as Lord de Montfer keeps reminding me, I can’t possibly see this person because he is quite dead.”

Payen gritted his teeth. “There are no such things as ghosts. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, boys?”

Jacques shook his head, then gave Lady Catherine an apologetic glance.

Gaston accepted a bowl of soup with a hungry smile. “Non. But at night when I hear scary sounds, I forget. Ghosts seem very real, especially in the dark.”

“I believe there is more to this life than we know.” Larissa nodded. “Are there extra almonds? Mmm.”

Payen, feeling as if Catherine was being terribly unreasonable, went to his pack and brought out the drawing she’d made of Ragenard. He dropped it on the bed so the boys could see.

He heard her gasp but remained facing Jacques and Gaston. “This is Lady Catherine’s ghost.”

“I remember camping here by the river.” Jacques smiled at Catherine. “It curved around a bunch of rocks. You drew the trees perfectly.” He looked at the sketch again. “Who is that fellow?”

“I’ve seen him.” Gaston swallowed a spoonful of soup, oblivious to the chaos caused by his observation.

“What?” Payen said, hearing Catherine echo him.

“Sure.” Gaston took another bite, unaware of the effect he had on everyone else in the small room.

Catherine looked as if she might faint. Larissa set down her almonds and walked to her. Jacques, too, went to her side. Her body visibly trembled.

Payen was sorry he’d brought the sketch out of the pack.

“But how could that be?” Catherine left her protectors and shuffled to the side of the bed, sinking to the edge. “Gaston, are you certain? Could you look again?” She tapped the drawing with her fingernail.

“I’m certain. I just saw him when Jacques and I were looking out the window. He wore a dark cloak but no hat. He has brown hair, lighter than mine.”

“I wrapped his body, fitted him into his coffin. Ragenard is dead. You can’t have seen him, Gaston. Though I thank you for your devotion.”

Payen hated the raw emotion on Catherine’s face and stepped forward to touch her shoulder.

She pulled away from him, then marched toward the box of food. Resolute, she lifted a stick of meat. “Lamb kebob?”