But then Lady Joanna coughed, and became sick in the rushes behind the great table. The pages leapt away, but the hounds lunged. And in the next moment, Lord Beghely, who had also eaten of the “tainted” meat, was bending over, retching from the depths of his belly.
“My lord,” Marian said, “I am sorry. But I-mpph!”
She clapped a hand over her mouth as if she were to vomit again, making the appropriate gagging noises, and the prince sidestepped her with alacrity. Turning away, she faced Will, whose countenance had paled beneath his tan. Their eyes caught, and he looked at her with accusation and fury. She saw the illness in his face, lighting his eyes and making his skin appear clammy. Realization blazed in his eyes, and fear lurched through her. Would he accuse her here and now?
By now, there were others in the hall who’d become ill. The excuse of the tainted meat seemed to have taken hold, for Marian heard others speaking of the odd taste of the boar’s meat . . . despite the fact that she knew for certain that it was only a bit of boar’s meat that had been tainted.
Only a particular hunk of that cut had been shared among the high table and a few rows below it. But the power of suggestion was strong, and the sight, smells, and sounds of illness tended to raise the same in other spectators.
Of the residents of the hall, only the hounds were in their glory.
“ ’ Tis the meat!” John said, as if it were his own realization. He appeared pale and weak, and when he gagged, Marian lurched away, bumping into the solid arm of Will.
The sheriff too appeared ill, but he did not bend to empty his belly as the others. Marian assumed it was because he had ceased eating the tainted meat after her gentle warning.
Thus it was with great relief that, moments later, Marian watched a weakened John, doubled over in pain, being escorted from the hall by two of his men. From what Alys had told her about the decoction made from the herb called broom, the illness would soon manifest itself from both the upper and nether regions of the prince . . . and others.
“What have you done?” Will asked fiercely, grabbing Marian’s arm and yanking her away from the crowd, toward a corner of the hall. The sheen of sweat had grown on his forehead, and now dampened his cheeks. “You have committed treason!”
“Nay,” she hissed back, pulling away. “No one will die. ’Tis only a brief illness, just enough . . .” Her voice caught. “Just enough to keep him at bay for a night. Will . . .” She looked up at him, even about to reach for him, when he pulled back. This response, after her confused and varied feelings today, sparked a bit of anger. “At the least, your Alys tells me it will not cause but a day’s worth of illness.”
“Alys?”
“Aye. Alys.” Marian glared up at Will, fully aware of the damp wall behind her and his looming person in front of her. The bitterness of vomit lingered in the back of her mouth and she swallowed hard.
Just then, his face changed, and he spun away, heaving the contents of his belly into the corner. Braced against the wall by his splayed fingers, he lifted his face to shoot her a furious look as he swiped the back of a hand across his mouth. “Get you from me, madwoman,” he whispered. “And pray that John does not learn of your perfidy.”
Marian stepped aside, still watching him, and then turned and fled when he spun back to the corner, his body convulsed by the illness. For the first time, she wondered if Alys could be trusted. What if she hadn’t known what she was doing?
What if she’d given her poison for the prince?
What if she’d poisoned Will?
Marian hurried from the hall and made her way up the stairs to her chamber. Ethelberga, for a wonder, was there . . . although she was not alone.
“Get up!” Marian ordered, rushing past the two figures writhing on the maid’s pallet and into her chamber. She’d told them to wait for her here, not to attempt to add to the world’s population. Ethelberga’s companion was one of the steward’s sons. He would also be able to lead Marian to the dungeon gaol.
By the time Ethelberga extricated herself from the young man, Marian had yanked off her vomit-splattered overgown and was unlacing the side of her tight-fitting bliaud.
The maid rushed to her side and quickly helped divest her of the undergown and her sagging hose as her mistress drank watered wine to wash the bitter bile from her mouth. Moments later, Marian was dressed again, this time in a simple kirtle. She’d cleansed her face and hands with violet water. In the loose-fitting gown, tied only with a leather girdle and new hose beneath it, she felt more comfortable. And she thought the less-formal attire would make her less noticeable as well.
