After three hours the bustle around him slowed down. Servants moved along the hallway, lighting lanterns. Ramus saw the man he had asked for water, and repeated his request. ‘I’ll get it now, apothecary,’ he said, apologetically. This time he did come back. Ramus thanked him and drank deeply.
He heard his name called and moved to the door. Another servant opened it and announced him. Ramus stepped inside. The Moidart was sitting at a desk, upon which was a mass of papers. He leaned back in his chair, his hooded eyes focusing on the newcomer. ‘Did you bring the balms?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there. I do not have all day. Bring them to me.’
Ramus moved forward and laid his bag upon the desk. Opening it he produced three jars, wax-sealed. Upon each was a hand-painted label with carefully written instructions. The Moidart lifted one. ‘You only make these for me, do you not?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And you have been doing so for years.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘It puzzles me why you write the instructions so carefully upon each jar. After all this time I know how to apply the balms.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You are sounding like a parrot bird,’ said the Moidart. ‘Sit down, Ramus. Relax. No-one is going to hang you today.’
‘Is the war coming to Eldacre, my lord?’ asked Ramus, as he settled into the chair.
‘I fear it is. A more stupid and wasteful business there never was. Fields will not be planted, food will run low, tax revenues will dry up – save from the makers of swords and munitions.’
‘And many will lose their lives.’
‘Yes. Productive men will cease to be productive. So how are you faring after your brush with death?’
‘I am fine, my lord. And you?’
‘In pain. But then I am always in pain. There is no time to paint now, and I miss it. There is a ruined church on the high hills close to the Winter House. In the late afternoon the sunlight upon it is most pleasing. I had thought to recreate it on canvas.’
‘I would like to see that, my lord.’
‘My son is coming home. He escaped the treachery, fought his way clear.’
‘That must have been a great relief to you.’
‘Aye. I need a good cavalry general now. That will be all, apothecary.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Ramus, clambering to his feet.
‘I fear I will paint no more, so there will be no further need for you to attend the castle. I shall send riders to collect the balms in future.’
‘I am sorry to hear that, my lord. Perhaps when the war is over you will feel differently.’
But the Moidart had returned his attention to the papers on his desk and did not answer.
Huntsekker disliked riding, but at this moment he would far sooner have been on horseback. Instead he was driving a four horse wagon along a narrow road, Maev Ring sitting beside him. In the back of the wagon, hidden under sacks of grain, lay eight large wooden boxes, each containing two hundred and fifty pounds in silver chaillings. Under Maev Ring’s direction Huntsekker had dug them up the previous night. It had taken all his strength to haul them from the earth. Each one weighed as much as a full grown man.
Huntsekker was a powerful man, but by the time he had hauled the boxes from the small wood to the farmhouse and loaded them onto the wagon he was exhausted. Once back inside the house he sank gratefully into a chair, his hands and arms still trembling from the effort of heaving the last of the boxes to the wagon floor. ‘Smaller chests would have been wise, I think,’ he told Maev.
‘My Jaim had no problem carrying them out there,’ she observed.
‘I’ll wager he grumbled worse than I did,’ said Huntsekker. ‘Jaim Grymauck was never too fond of physical labour – until it came to stealing bulls.’
Maev Ring suddenly laughed. Her face became instantly more youthful, highlighting for Huntsekker the beauty she must once have possessed. Hell, man, he thought, she’s beautiful enough as she is now!