While the days that followed are a blur to me now–events seen through a gray fog–I remember that night with perfect clarity: how he led me to a coach waiting on High Street and spoke quiet words to a man clad in a servant’s coat.
“Lay him down in the back. Be gentle with him. And after you arrive at Madstone Hall, you must send for the doctor at once.”
“What of yourself, sir?”
The servant’s voice was rich with an accent I could not name, unlike the stranger’s speech, which seemed to bear no accent at all.
“I must finish my business here in Edinburgh. I’ll take a horse to the manor later tonight.”
“We’ll keep a fire burning in the library for your arrival, sir.”
I could not see–yet I felt–his smile. “Thank you, Pietro. Even after all these years, I haven’t grown used to the chill of this land. To think, they call this springtime. Here–use this to keep him warm.”
He removed the dark cloak and wrapped it over me. It was soft, and laced with the sweet, masculine smell of tobacco. Though his hair was white, and his angled face weathered with age, the servant picked me up with little strain, for I was light as a bird. The tall buildings tilted; stars wheeled in the sky above, then vanished as the coach door opened and I was set on the leather seat inside.
“Go quickly, Pietro. A fever burns in him. I fear he is near to death.”
No, I tried to call out. I am well now.But my lips could not form the words, and it didn’t matter, for the door was shut, and moments later the coach was clattering down the High Street.
I lay on the seat, wrapped in his cloak, weary in every bone of my young body, but strangely awake and alert. I had the sense that the coach was heading downward, and in my mind I could see it moving through the Canongate, past the spires of Holyrood Palace, and into the night‑shrouded world beyond, like a tiny craft on a wide, dark sea.
It occurred to me that I should perhaps be afraid. Maybe the stranger had not saved me after all. Maybe he merely wanted me, and sought to use me just as all the others had before him. But no, he was not like other men; that was the one thing I was certain of.
After that my mind drifted, and soon it seemed I was floating on the dark sea. From time to time I heard voices, and I think they were what kept me from sinking into the water. The voices were difficult to make out; they blended with the murmur of the waves. One was the strangely accented voice, while another spoke in the lilting tongue of a well‑to‑do lowlander. Then, sometimes, there was the other voice, as deep as the ocean I drifted on.
“Come back to us, James,” I heard it say once, and I tried to call out in answer, only black water filled my mouth.
“The fever burns hotter in him than ever,” said the Scottish voice. “It must break soon, or it will burn him to death.”
“It will break,” the deep voice said.
I felt something cool touch my brow. A peace came over me, and I smiled as at last the water pulled me down.
When I woke, it was quite to my surprise.
By the light streaming in through the window, it was late morning. I propped myself up and found I was naked beneath clean white sheets in a large bed. The chamber around me was large as well, with a fireplace, a pair of chairs, and three tall windows, one of which stood open to let in a sweet breath of spring air. Beyond gauze curtains I saw green hills rolling away to a misty horizon. I stared, for I had not been beyond the walls of the city in all my fourteen years, and I had never seen a sight so beautiful.
I was still staring when the door opened and a man stepped through. I recognized him at once by his servant’s coat and his gray hair, which was pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck. His nose was hooked like a hawk’s, and his wrinkled skin was a deep olive color I had never seen before. He regarded me with black eyes and nodded.
“The doctor said you would likely wake today.” The servant, Pietro, seemed more to sing than talk, for all words were musical and trilling upon his tongue. “The master will wish to speak with you, but first we must see to your appearance.”
I felt strong and ready to talk to the master at once. I started to tell Pietro this, but as I slipped from the bed I found I was anything but strong. My limbs shook with an uncontrollable spasm, and I would have fallen but for the older man’s tight grip.
Such was my state that I felt no shame at my nakedness as Pietro bathed me before the fire in a wooden tub and dressed me as if I were an infant. He dusted my shoulders and turned me to face a mirror. The figure of a young nobleman gazed back. His coat and breeches were a soft dove gray trimmed with silver, and his shirt was as crisp as snow. A dark ribbon held back long gold hair from a face that was pale and delicately wrought. His eyes glittered like twin emeralds. The only thing that spoiled the image was the bruise that marred his left cheek.
Pietro nodded. “I believe the master will approve. You look a fine young lord, sir.”
I ran my fingers over the cool silver buttons. “Tell me, Pietro, who is he? The master.”
“A kind man,” the servant said. “Though a private one. He shall tell you in good time, I believe.”
“But what is his name?” I said, turning from the mirror. “I must know what I am to call him.”
“His name is Albrecht. He is lord of this manor, and so you may address him as Master.”
“But what does he want with me?”
“Your fingernails need paring,” Pietro said, clucking his tongue, and went to fetch a knife.
To my great disappointment, I did not see the master that day.
“He has been called to Edinburgh on sudden business,” Pietro informed me as I ate breakfast in the manor’s kitchen. It was a great, rambling stone room with fireplaces as large as the niche in the tunnels where I had slept with my mother as a child. Pietro waited on me himself, and I might have found that unnerving save I was ravenous, and my thoughts were wholly occupied by the dishes prepared by the kitchen staff that Pietro set before me.
In all my life, I had never eaten such marvelous food. There was crusty bread and butter, eggs and fat sausages fried crisp, and dried fruits drowned in the thickest cream. I ate until my belly visibly protruded from my thin body.
After that I thought no more of the master, but only of sleep. Docile as a lamb I let Pietro lead me back to my room, remove my fine new clothes, and lay the bedcovers over me.
When I woke it was evening, and the doctor was there, a corpulent, red‑cheeked man with a jovial air about him. He examined me, used a silver knife to let a small amount of blood from my arm, and pronounced me firmly on the mend, much to his amazement.
“Favored by God, this lad is,” he said to Pietro as he gathered his things. “The Lord must have some purpose on this Earth for him.”
At his words I shivered, but perhaps it was only some last remnant of the chill that had afflicted me.
“Master Albrecht thanks you for your service,” Pietro said, then saw the doctor to the door. When the man was gone, Pietro brought me a cup of water.
“Does God really have a purpose for me, Pietro?” I touched my bandaged arm. It hurt where the doctor had cut me.
“Such things are beyond me, Master James.”
My gaze went to the window and the deepening twilight outside. “He has a purpose for me. Doesn’t he?”
“Go to sleep,” Pietro said, and I did.
When I woke again, the sky was still gray outside my window, but I knew that many hours had passed, and that it was no longer dusk. Rather, dawn grew near. I heard a faint ringing noise, and I thought perhaps it was the sound of bells. Then I knew it for what it was: the music of a horse’s bridle jingling.