Eventually the physick straightened up and came over to Malden. Leaning close enough that Malden could smell the garlic on the man’s breath, he said, “The wound is deep, but it hasn’t festered yet. I’ve bandaged it properly, which is most of what I can do for now. He’ll want an electuary of borage root if he takes fever. Watch his stools for any sign of flux. At the first such movement he’ll need to be bled. Do not tarry or the poison will take him in hours. If he’s hungry, give him foods that bolster the blood. Black pudding, blood sausage, the like.”

“Very good. Anything else?” Malden asked.

“You may want to offer a prayer to the Lady. If he does survive through the night, it will be a marvel. If he’s to make it through tomorrow, his stars must be with him. If he survives three days—well, I doubt that will happen. He will almost certainly take to fever, convulsions, and black vomit. Now. My fee.”

He held out his hand and Malden poured the rest of Croy’s silver into it. Malden had never had a problem spending other people’s money. “Is this enough to buy silence?”

“It is. Though let me warn you—I’m not the only one who’s going to recognize a knight of the realm when I see him. Get him out of sight, and quickly. The bailiff has sent word down from Castle Hill that this man is a wanted outlaw.” With that the physick left.

“Did you hear that, Croy? You’re an outlaw,” Malden said, nudging the knight’s foot with his own. “Just like me now. And no better.”

Croy moaned and fell over on his side with a crash.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Croy didn’t die in the night. He didn’t wake up either.

By mid-morning, with time growing short, Malden resorted to desperate measures. He filled a basin with water and then dumped it over Croy’s face. The knight sputtered and coughed and his eyes flicked open. One of his hands reached over his shoulder, looking for a sword that wasn’t there.

The wounded man’s face hardened. He looked around the room, even sat up a little. “You moved me,” he said.

“You’re safe. Or perhaps it’s better to say—no one knows where you are,” Malden told him. Croy was lying on Malden’s own bed, in his room above the waxchandler’s shop. “That’s a good thing, because right now Anselm Vry has his watchmen searching for you in every district of the city. It could become a bad thing, because none of your friends know where to find you. It’s up to you, Sir Knight, if you wish to leave this room again.”