Free Pendragon by Catherine Coulter

pulled on another dressing gown, this one so old the elbows were nearly worn through. She hurried down the stairs. No candle was needed, there was nearly full light now.
    He was there, standing in the entrance hall, wearing riding clothes, boots.
    Meggie felt no Christian kindness in her heart. “What do you want?”
    He merely nodded to her, then walked swiftly to where she stood on the bottom stair. She saw then that he was carrying a small package. He pressed it into her hand. “I have spoken to Dr. Dreyfus. He said to bring this over and give it to Rory, that it couldn’t hurt. It’s a medicine, one of many that my shipping partner sent me from Genoa, Italy. It’s for the fever. Is Rory better?”
    â€œNo,” Meggie said flatly, and she knew, knew to her heart, “No, I don’t think he will get better. What is this?”
    She was ripping away the paper. There was a long thin bottle filled to the corked top with a dark brown liquid.
    â€œIt’s a medicinal root called the maringo. It grows near a river on a lava plateau on the western slopes of Mt. Etna in Sicily. Perhaps it will help Rory. The letter from my man says that this particular root is effective for virulent fevers. Here, Meggie, give it to the boy, quickly, a small drink, that’s all that’s needed. Then another drink every hour, until—well, until he’s better.”
    Tysen and Mary Rose believed the medicine was from Dr. Dreyfus. Meggie didn’t correct them. She managed to get Rory’s little mouth open and poured a bit of the brown liquid down his throat, then lightly rubbed his neck with her fingers. He wheezed and coughed even as his teeth chattered and his small body clenched with the violent spasms that were killing him. But he was breathing, little gasps of breath.
    They said nothing at all, just watched the little boy continue to labor for each breath. Suddenly, without warning, he went into convulsions.
    Tysen held him firmly while Meggie tried to keep him from swallowing or biting his tongue. Mary Rose rubbed his arms, his legs, to keep him still and warm. After an eternity, the convulsions passed. Rory became utterly still.
    Mary Rose fell back on her heels. “Oh God, no! Tysen, no, he can’t be dead, he can’t!”
    â€œNo, just wait, just wait.”
    Meggie was praying harder than she’d ever prayed in her life. She couldn’t hear him breathe, couldn’t hear him do anything. He was dying. Oh, please God, no, not thiswonderful little boy. She watched her father squeeze Rory’s chest, then massage it, again and again as he whispered, “Breathe, Rory, breathe.”
    Meggie looked up then to see Lord Lancaster standing in the doorway, saying nothing, just standing there quietly, watching the tableau in front of him, his face pale, his dark eyes hooded.
    â€œThank God,” Tysen said then, unutterable relief mixed with tears in his voice, “he’s breathing.” He grabbed Mary Rose to him and held both Rory and her close. “Thank the good Lord, our boy is breathing again.”
    He lifted Mary Rose onto his lap and on her lap she held Rory, her white hands shaking even as she stroked them up and down his small back, steady circular motions while Tysen still massaged his small chest. Finally, Mary Rose laid her head against his neck. He kissed her hair even as his arms tightened around the two of them. Meggie knew she would never forget that moment her whole life. Rory was breathing, not just the stingy little gasps, but full breaths that sounded more and more normal. His cheeks were flushed, but now it wasn’t with fever. She took a blanket off the bed and wrapped it over all three of them.
    â€œAnother one, Meggie. He isn’t shivering now, but I want to make all of us sweat.”
    â€œHe’s all limp now, no more shudders or convulsions,” Mary Rose whispered, hope brimming in her voice. “Oh, Tysen, do you