Monk's Hood by Ellis Peters Read Free Book Online Page A

Edmund rose from beside the bed, wide and dismayed of eye. He had got the
invalid as near rest as he could, wrapped up here on top of the covers, but
there was little more he could do. Cadfael drew near, and looked down at
Gervase Bonel. A big, fleshy man, thickly capped in greying brown hair, with a
short beard now beaded with saliva that ran from both corners of a rigid,
half-open mouth. His face was leaden blue, the pupils of his eyes dilated and
staring. Fine, strong features were congealed now into a livid mask. The pulse
for which Cadfael reached was faint, slow and uneven, the man’s breathing
shallow, long and laboured. The lines of jaw and throat stood fixed as stone.
    “Bring
a bowl,” said Cadfael, kneeling, “and beat a couple of egg-whites into some
milk. We’ll try to get it out ofhim, but I doubt it’s late, it
may do as much damage coming up as going down.” He did not turn his head to see
who ran to do his bidding, though certainly someone did; he was hardly aware,
as yet, that there were three other people present in the house, in addition to
Brother Edmund and Mistress Bonel and the sick man. Aelfric and the maid, no
doubt, but he recognised the third only when someone stopped to slide a wooden
bowl close to the patient’s face, and tilt the livid head to lean over it.
Cadfael glanced up briefly, the silent and swift movement pleasing him, and
looked into the intent and horrified face of the young Welshman, Meurig,
Brother Rhys’s great-nephew.
    “Good!
Lift his head on your hand, Edmund, and hold his brow steady.” It was easy
enough to trickle the emetic mixture of mustard into the half-open mouth, but
the stiff throat laboured frightfully at swallowing, and much of the liquid ran
out again into his beard and the bowl. Brother Edmund’s hands quivered,
supporting the tormented head. Meurig held the bowl, himself shivering. The
following sickness convulsed the big body, weakened the feeble pulse yet
further, and produced only a painfully inadequate result. It was indeed late
for Gervase Bonel. Cadfael gave up, and let the paroxysms subside, for fear of
killing him out of hand.
    “Give
me the milk and eggs.” This he fed very slowly into the open mouth, letting it
slide of itself down the stiff throat, in such small quantities that it could
not threaten the patient with choking. Too late to prevent whatever the poison
had done to the flesh of Bonel’s gullet, it might still be possible to lay a
soothing film over the damaged parts, and ease their condition. He spooned
patient drop after drop, and dead silence hung all round him, the watchers
hardly breathing.
    The
big body seemed to have shrunk and subsided into the bed, the pulse fluttered
ever more feebly, the stare of the eyes filmed over. He lay collapsed. The
muscles of his throat no longer made any effort at swallowing, but stood corded
and rigid. The end came abruptly, with no more turmoil than the cessation of
breathing and pulse.
    Brother
Cadfael laid the spoon in the little bowl of milk, and sat back on his heels,
He looked up at the circle of shocked, bewildered faces, and for the first time
saw them all clearly: Meurig, the bowl with its horrid contents shaking in his
hands, Aelfric grim-eyed and pale, hovering at Brother Edmund’s shoulder and
staring at the bed, the girl—Brother Mark had not exaggerated, she was very
pretty, with her yellow hair and black eyes—standing frozen, too shocked for
tears, both small fists pressed hard against her mouth; and the widow, Mistress
Bonel, who had once been Richildis Vaughan, gazing with marble face and slowly
gathering tears at what remained of her husband.
    “We
can do no more for him,” said Brother Cadfael. “He’s gone.”
    They
all stirred briefly, as though a sudden wind had shaken them. The widow’s tears
spilled over and ran down her motionless face, as though she were still too
bemused to understand what caused them.