Commedia della Morte by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Author:Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

5

Five days north of Avignon, Hariot and Aloys became ill with fever and flux; Photine ordered them into the smallest of the wagons and gave orders that no one was to approach them, for fear of spreading the contagion to others, orders which the rest of the troupe were more than willing to obey as they continued northward. Urbain and Michau having left the troupe at Bollene, Pascal agreed to take the reins on the smaller cart, while Roger had taken over the task of driving their sickbed wagon, and kept to a short distance behind the rest of the vehicles; the rapid pace of the troupe’s travel did not slacken. Four days later, Aloys began to vomit, and there was blood in his flux, as Roger reported to da San-Germain while the rest of the troupe broke their fasts with bread, cheese, and hot wine; their camp, a short distance from the river, was wreathed in river-mist that made a smirch of the early morning sun.

“Fever and bloody flux. No sign of a rash? Are there eruptions on their skin?” Da San-Germain saw Roger shake his head. “What do you think has sickened them?” he asked in Imperial Latin as he sat down on the rear of the larger cart, thinking aloud. “Is it from contaminated food, or some other cause? When I visited them yesterday, they seemed only to be ill from bad food, yet the tincture I gave them hasn’t brought about much improvement.”

“Yesterday it seemed to be caused by food. Today it looks like the fevers we saw in Praha in Otakar’s time, the ones caused by animacules in the water,” said Roger in the same language.

“It could be that; the symptoms usually occur within four or five days of drinking the tainted water, and that’s consistent with their illness. You’d think the others would have it,” da San-Germain remarked, shaking his head. “Did they go to the same taverns for drink—a place the rest of the troupe didn’t visit?”

“Not a tavern, no, but most of the others do not drink water from horse-troughs,” said Roger without any inflection at all. “Aloys does often, and Hariot occasionally.”

“Ah.” Da San-Germain glanced out at the troupe, all gathered around their campfire, most wrapped in cloaks and blankets against the chill. “Horse-troughs.” He considered for a bit. “We have some of the sovereign remedy in our supplies, do we not?”

“Yes. A dozen vials.”

“Good. That should be sufficient. For now, give them both the garlic-and-milk-thistle infusion, a double dose for Aloys, since his case is more severe. At noon, administer to each of them a vial of the sovereign remedy, and a second one to each at the end of the day.” He stood up. “I’ll come to have a look at them before we move on.”

“What will you tell Madame?” Roger asked.

“I’ll explain as much as I can, when she’s finished eating. I don’t think she has much interest in medical theory, but she wants to know how serious their condition is, and how it might affect the troupe.

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