From the Journals of
Barber Eichhardt
9 December
As I write in these pages, snow stirs outside and a noisome
throng are all around, drinking and cavorting. I have not been here long, but
long enough to know that this place is not for me. My master has had us on tour
for the better part of a year, mostly back and forth across England. It had
been my home that we would see out winter on the Continent, but he received a
summons here. While I appreciate his devotion to our calling, it would have
been nice to escape British weather, if only for a couple of months.
So here we are. Rural Scotland, attending to a local lord,
or laird, or Covenanter, or whatever it is that they like to call themselves.
The man has fallen ill in most dramatic form. He lies in bed, breaths rasping
through him, skin blackened as if from a fire, looking ancient beyond counting.
He is barely 50. His son is built like an ox, and from what the locals tell us,
up until a couple of weeks ago, so was he. And thus, we are here.
Our travelling companions, having no especial skills in
areas medical, have disappeared, doing whatever it is that the idle rich do
when they are without explicit business. That has left us to the delightful
tasks incumbent on attending to the deeply sick man.
My introduction to this Scottish village was being accosted
by soldiers and being accused of being English! While I was able to establish
that was not the case, it was a more tricky proposition for my master, at least
until he could establish his credentials as both a physician and an invited
guest of our hosts.
From there, we were escorted directly to the “manor”. The
lordship’s house was little more than a townhouse, but in a community of this
size, that made it palatial! Indeed, were I some distance away and squinting, I
might conceivably have mistaken it for an exceptionally poor example of a
Venetian façade. His lordship’s quarters were a modest chamber on the first
floor; little more than a large bed, a fireplace and a chest for his clothes
and valuables.
It was a dark place, of ill humours and an unshakeable sense
of foreboding. Were it not for our oaths, I suspect I would have made haste
from that place quickly. As it was, it took all that I had to stand fast while
my master pulled back the quilt from our patient and examined his body. The bed
itself was sodden with the discharge from pustules and bedsores untended. My
master examined the man, and while he did, I found replacement linens and
prepared.
Together, we raised the man from his bed and offered what
ministrations we could to his sores and wounds; I replaced his bedding, and we
set him back. I tried not to be bitter that it fell to me to not only organise
the bedding, but also to handle the appetising tasks of scraping his wounds,
while my master resolved to ponder our patient’s condition.
This was made easier when his pontification gave rise to an
actual discovery. Quite apropos of nothing, he leapt to his feet and wandered over
to the fireplace, examining it far more closely than he had our patient.
Just as abruptly, he took a step or two back from the
fireplace, and waved his hands through certain positions, murmuring softly. As
he completed the incantation, a faint purple wisp became visible. It was like a
tether, binding his lordship to the fireplace, and up its shaft to somewhere
beyond. My master looked thoroughly satisfied, and I could not blame him. There
was no doubt that this malady was not borne of natural causes; rather, foul-play
was afoot. And foul-play of the worst sort.
Our initial observances completed, we sought out our
companions, Clayton and Grafton. While the pair did little to encourage us that
their time had spent in anything other than revelry, they had learnt some
valuable tidbits of information that, given our most recent discoveries,
appeared pertinent to our enquiries.
It seems that about a month ago, a group of Englishmen
passed through the town. Given recent tidings, they were given short shrift and
sent on their way. While they headed back down the road they arrived by, the
local garrison do not recall their passing back through the wall. They had
clearly not gone far.
Additionally, around the same time Lord Hamish fell ill,
strange lights started appearing in the night sky over Barrhill Wood. That
these two facts could be unconnected seemed far-fetched. Thus our plan for the
night was set.
And now I sit amidst this drunken rabble, waiting for the
appointed hour.
10 December
Today’s writings are made in much more favourable surrounds.
We have been given shelter, food and a quiet place to rest and recuperate after
the night’s adventures.
Today has been hectic, borne on the elation of the night’s
successes and the apparent glorious triumph of our medical ministrations. While
Lord Hamish is not fully recovered from his ordeal, his skin returns to a more
normal hue for a Scot, and he is capable of movement and conversing, at least
in short bursts. We have indicated that we expect a full recovery.
His son entirely credits me with the father’s recovery – I actually
tended to Lord Hamish’s wounds and circumstances, where my master only
pondered. And for his mis-understandings, he has rewarded me with a purse of
coins – a purse that I do not doubt will come in handy in the days ahead.
We have determined that we are happy for him to continue
with this belief. It is far better that the innocent remain that way. It is
only mere luck that prevented our companions from learning darker secrets than
we were prepared for, during the night.
But I get ahead of myself.
In the evening, before sunset, we stole away into Barrhill
Wood, in the direction that had been indicated to us as where the lights were
sighted. We only needed to travel a few hundred metres before we found a
secluded, but well trampled, clearing with a fire pit in its centre. There, we
took up position, hidden in the undergrowth, watching and waiting.
We waited a long while. Long enough that the idle Grafton
fell asleep, unbeknownst to the rest of us. So it was that when shadowy figures
entered the clearing, to go about whatsoever their dread business was, they
were alerted to our presence by a great roar of snoring. They seized upon
Grafton, clutching at him, and dragging him into their circle. This woke him,
and prompted him to draw his foppish Mediterranean sword and starting pricking
away at his foes. We watched aghast as his feeble blows appeared only to
aggravate his attackers… until the tip of his blade slid into an ear, promptly
ending a man. The others saw this and quickly determined that discretion was
the better part of valour.
We tried to give chase, but the robed figures disappeared
into the night forest. No lights appeared over the forest that night. As we
returned to the township, we informed the guards at the wall that the
Englishmen yet lurked in the woods, and indeed, that they were responsible for
the strange lights. In the morning, a detachment of soldiers entered the woods,
only to return a few hours later with some English heads in their possession.
And so it is, that we are heroes both for our prowess as
healers, and for our canny abilities in routing out treacherous foreigners.
Oh, there was one other thing. The man we slew bore a note.
A note marked with an ostentatious heraldic crest across its top. It made
reference to enemies of the King, and to Dee’s translation of an “accursed tome”,
and using said tome for the glory of God and King. The missive was signed JR. A
mystery for another day.
