“You must keep him comfortable and quiet. Moisten his lips regularly with water or wine. If he is able to swallow, give him wine to drink. I will come twice daily to check on my patient, madame. If there is an emergency, I can be reached either at the castle or at my house in the High Street.” Master Achmet arose from his place by her side. “I will leave you now,” he said, bowing before he departed.
Rosamund was still wearing her cloak. She stood and unfastened it, laying it aside. “I want to see him now,” she said and walked past them into the earl’s bedchamber.
Patrick lay upon the bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, his skin pale. Yet he looked no different than when they had parted last October.
“Oh, my love,” Rosamund whispered softly as she sat upon the edge of the bed and took his hand into hers. His hand was clammy, and the limp fingers did not squeeze hers back. “Patrick, can you hear me?” she begged him. “Oh, God, this cannot be! Do not take him from me. From his son. From Glenkirk.”
The man on the bed lay still and silent.
Rosamund did not hear her cousin until he spoke to her.
“What am I to do about Philippa? Will you tell her, or shall I?” he asked.
Rosamund looked up at him, her face stricken with her grief. “You must tell her, Tom, if you will, for I cannot. I will not leave him now.”
“Shall I send her home with Lucy?” he wondered.
“Nay. Poor lass, she was so looking forward to this trip. We are here now. You heard what the physician said. Patrick could awaken and be absolutely fine. If I send her back she could miss the wedding and would not be able to visit the court. You must take her to court, Tom. And how did the king know of Patrick’s illness to send a physician? I would ask Adam that.”
“He has already explained that to me,” Tom said. “The earl had corresponded with King James in order that your marriage be celebrated in the Chapel Royal. As soon as they got here last night, Patrick sent a message to the castle. This morning, when his father fell ill, Adam sent to the king for aid.”
“He is a good son,” Rosamund remarked.
“He is like his father,” Tom responded.
“It is too late to dispatch a messenger today,” Rosamund said. “I will write to Maybel myself, but you must see my correspondence sent in the morning by the fastest means possible, Tom. And we will move Patrick as soon as the physician says we may. He was an odd fellow, wasn’t he? He is not a Scot.”
“He’s a Moor,” Tom told her. “Another bit of information I gleaned from Adam Leslie. His family was driven out of Spain by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. They resettled themselves across the Strait of Gibraltar. The physician has been visiting King James’ court. He is a skilled doctor, and a surgeon, as well. You know the king has begun a college for medicine here in Edinburgh. He feels a physician should be educated and that surgeons should not be barbers as well. Master Achmet is skilled in diagnosing disorders of the brain. He is famous for his knowledge. King James hopes to convince him to lecture to the Scots students. It was fortunate he was here.”
“How do you obtain all this knowledge in so short a time?” she demanded of him.
Tom grinned. “I have my own skills, cousin,” he told her. Then he said, “Come out into the dayroom now with Adam. Your earl is comfortable for the moment. You need not sit by his side constantly.”
“His lips are dry,” Rosamund replied. “Let me moisten them. I will join you shortly.” She went across the bedchamber and dipped a clean cloth she found into the pitcher of fresh water sitting on the table beneath the window that looked out over the inn’s back garden. The garden below was showing signs of green in many places. After returning to Patrick’s side, Rosamund wiped the cloth gently over his mouth several times. He made no movement or sound at all. Rosamund felt tears beginning to fill her eyes. She blinked, and they ran down her cheeks. Impatiently she brushed them away as she bent and kissed his cold lips. Then she replaced the cloth by the pitcher and went out into the next room.
“He is so still,” she said to Adam. “His lips were beginning to dry. I have moistened them.” Looking about, she saw her cousin was no longer there.
“He went to seek out your little daughter,” Adam said.
“Poor Philippa,” Rosamund responded. “She will be very distressed to learn her beloved Uncle Patrick is ill. My girls love him very much.”
“He was always wonderful with my sister, although she tried his patience greatly,” Adam said.
“You never found her,” Rosamund answered him. “I am sorry.”
“I haven’t given up hope, madame,” he told her. “I will seek her until I find her. One day I shall. Then I shall bring her home.”
“She is fortunate having you for a brother, Adam Leslie,” Rosamund said. “My brother died when I was three. I do not remember him or my parents.”
“My father has told me your history and of how you met,” he replied.
“Does your wife know about me yet?” Rosamund inquired.
A small smile touched Adam’s lips. “My father has told you of Anne?”
Rosamund nodded but said nothing, for she did not think it would be polite to say she had heard Adam Leslie’s wife was a shrew.
He laughed a short laugh. “She is difficult,” he admitted, “but it is just because she wants everything right. I have a fair mistress who keeps me happy. But Anne keeps Glenkirk in perfect order, and she has given me three children. I will ask no more of her. Nay, she does not know of you, madame, for my father was not of a mind to spend a winter locked up with her carping at him about his age and the foolishness of a man of his years thinking he was in love like some green youth. And of how a young woman would be interested only in his small wealth and title. And how if he managed to give her a child, another child would but lessen her children’s inheritance. My father is, as you know, madame, a wise man. Better my wife learn of you after the marriage is celebrated.”
Rosamund could not help but giggle at his recitation. “Aye, Patrick is a wise man, Adam, and I am certain he would want you to call me by my Christian name. Will you please do so?”
“I will, Rosamund, and gladly,” he told her.
Tom had told Philippa of Lord Leslie’s tragedy, and nothing would do but that Philippa come to her mother. The little girl could not refrain from weeping, but Rosamund calmed her daughter.
“Will you remain in Edinburgh with me, child?” she asked her daughter. “Your company will be a great comfort to me.”
“Oh, yes, mama!” Philippa cried. “I shall not leave your side.”
Rosamund smiled softly. “Nay. I will nurse the earl alone, Philippa. But Uncle Tom would take you to court to meet the king and the queen. It is important that you make that connection, for one day Queen Margaret could aid you. She is my oldest friend. Friarsgate needs friends on both sides of the border, given its location. You are my heiress. It is your duty to make the most of this first visit to Edinburgh. I will be content by Lord Leslie’s bedside, helping him regain his health. When he is able, child, we will move to your uncle Tom’s house here in town.”
Philippa nodded. “Mayhap we will be there for my birthday,” she said.
“I think we will,” Rosamund agreed. “We are sending to Friarsgate for Maybel.”
“She will not be happy to have to travel, mama,” Philippa remarked.
Rosamund laughed. “Nay, she will not be. But she will come because I call her.”
“I hope Uncle Patrick gets well soon, mama,” Philippa said.
“So do I, my angel,” her mother concurred.
But Patrick Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, lay in a stupor for three days. The crisis would come sooner than later, the physician told Rosamund. In his unconscious state he was unable to swallow, and his body was drying out for lack of liquid. Halfway through the fourth day, the earl began to stir restlessly. Rosamund held a cup of water to his lips, and while his eyes did not open and he did not give any other sign of consciousness, he drank greedily until he fell back upon his pillows.