‘Was the Moidart injured?’ enquired Ramus.
‘No-one is saying, sir.’
‘Thank you, Master Lane. Most kind of you to let me know.’ The young man nodded excitedly and moved back to the street and entered the bakery next door. His voice could just be heard through the thick walls, but only the occasional word sounded clearly. ‘Moidart . . . assassins . . . arrests . . .’
‘We live in perilous times, Master Ring,’ said Ramus with a sigh. Kaelin Ring lifted the canvas bag to his shoulder, offered a short bow to the apothecary and walked out to the cobbled street.
Ramus could see people gathering in the street, and wandered back into his store room, sitting himself down in an old wicker chair. Leaning back against the embroidered cushions he closed his eyes. So much violence in the world, he thought sadly.
On the table beside his chair was a package of herbs and ointments he had prepared for the Moidart only this morning, soothing balms for the old burns on the skin of the lord’s arms and neck. These had come from yet another act of violence, when assassins had set fire to the old Winter House. Eleven people had died in the blaze – all of them servants. Before that, some fourteen years ago, there had been the murder attempt that had seen the Moidart’s wife strangled, and the Moidart himself stabbed in the groin while trying to save her. He had almost died from that wound. It had been the Moidart’s good fortune that Ramus had been summoned. There was much internal bleeding, but the apothecary had managed to stem the flow, and halt the onset of infection. Even so it was a full four months before the wounded man recovered sufficient strength to walk unaided. Years later the angry scar was still occasionally leaking pus, and causing the Moidart bouts of fever.
Ramus sighed. Acts of violence were beyond his imagination. Never in his life had he desired to hurt anyone. This latest attempt on the Moidart’s life would cause great anger among the Varlish. It was likely there would be riots and bloodshed in Eldacre, followed by more arrests and hangings. Ramus felt the weight of sadness heavy upon him.
Thirty-two years ago his own father had been hanged for stealing a sheep. He had not stolen the sheep, and the true culprit was discovered later. The Lord of Goriasa had sent five pounds in gold coin as recompense for the mistake. The family had used part of the money to pay for Ramus’s tuition at the Apothecary College. His mother had spent her remaining years hating the lord, her soul corroded by bitterness and resentment. Ramus’s brother, Aborain, had taken to the hills for a life of outlawry and murder, culminating in his execution on the same scaffold which claimed his father.
On the night of Aborain’s hanging armed soldiers had come for Ramus, taking him before the lord. ‘Do you wish revenge?’ the Lord of Goriasa had asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Yet you hate me?’
‘I hate no-one, sir. My brother deserved to die for the sins of his life. My father did not deserve to die. But his killing was an error, and not born of malice.’
‘You know why you are here?’
‘You are considering whether it would be prudent to kill me.’
‘You seem very calm, young man.’
‘I cannot prevent you killing me, sir, if that be your will.’
The lord had sat silently for a while, watching the young apothecary. Then he had drawn in a deep breath. ‘I will not kill you. Equally I cannot have you living within my realm. It would concern me that you might one day discover hatred in your heart. I shall give you coin, and you will travel far from here. There is always a need for apothecaries. So where will you journey?’
‘I have always liked mountains, sir.’
‘Then cross the sea, Master Ramus. Travel to the north and find a home in the Druagh mountains. I am told it is very beautiful there.’
‘I will, sir. Thank you.’
‘A man should not be thanked for resisting evil. I wish you well, Master Ramus.’