Justice
‘Ahhh!’
Ferdinand arches his body, sending a leech flying through the air. His nightshirt, pushed up to his shoulders, reveals a line of the swollen parasites neatly placed between each rib. His scarred abdomen protrudes like a grotesque fruit from his skinny frame. The air is foul with body gas. The physic, keeping his face averted, presses his patient back down onto the satin-covered bed and swiftly retrieves the leech which has landed in Alphonso‘s lap.
‘He seems dreadfully weak.’
The actor anxiously stares at the white face of his lover. It is two days since the prince was first stricken by the mysterious illness; blue rings have appeared around his eyes and he is losing weight at an alarming rate.
‘It is natural. When his vitals have replenished themselves he will recover,’ the physic announces in his painfully slow Swiss-German accent.
The count, who stands beside him, peers with visible distaste at the young royal. Noticing that the prince’s mouth is a nasty purple colour and his tongue appears yellow he ushers the physic to one side. ‘Could it be the pox? Or the Black Death? Or perhaps the wasting disease?’ he whispers fearfully and, worried about infection, crosses himself.
The physic glances at his patient, whose limp hand is being caressed by Alphonso, then turns back towards the count. Without a word he walks out of the bedroom. The count, steeling himself for the worst news possible, follows. Outside they stand huddled in an alcove containing an icon of Saint Luke which once belonged to Gerhard’s mother.
‘If it were the pox, sire, there would be dementia and a rash. As for the Black Death, he has no lumps, no weeping sores. And if it were the wasting illness he would be pissing every hour.’
‘So what in all of Christendom is it, my good physic? You are aware that the prince is fourth in line from the emperor himself—if he should die both our lives are at stake, not to mention those of our families.’
The physic winces nervously then, fearing spies, squeezes himself even further into the alcove. ‘I believe the ailment is intestinal. I suspect it is a blockage.’
‘The blockage, sir, is in your head. If he is not improved within the day I shall relieve you of your position.’
Ferdinand opens his bloodshot eyes, blinks blearily at Alphonso then struggles to sit upright.
‘Hush, there is no need for formality, you are much weakened.’ Alphonso carefully places two pillows behind the prince’s bony back.
‘Does my uncle know? I fear he will think it the pox.’
‘Word has been sent. The message merely stated that you are stricken with a fever.’
‘Still, I think you should make sure the servants light a red candle for Saint Fiacre. He is the patron saint of venereal diseases, is he not?’
‘He is, my love. But it has not come to that,’ Alphonso whispers back.
Distracted, the prince tries to crane his neck to see who else is in the room but finds that he lacks even the energy for this. Frustrated by his frailty he whispers to his lover, ‘Dismiss the pages.’
Alphonso, adopting the persona he uses when playing King Lear, raises his voice and waves his hand regally. ‘You may all leave now.’
Confused about whom to take orders from, the two pages and the prince’s personal valet bow then edge backwards out of the chamber. Once they have gone, Ferdinand immediately collapses back onto the pillows, his face pallid.
‘I fear I am dying.’
‘But my love, the physic is confident.’
‘I know myself. I am much weakened since yesterday. What if it is Cupid’s itch?’
‘I have seen the pox at close quarters, you have none of the markings.’
‘There is much I wish to achieve. Alphonso, what if I have no time left?’
Surprised by the prince’s uncharacteristic intensity, yet honoured that he should be privy to such intimacies, Alphonso struggles to find a reply that will encourage recovery.
‘You shall have time. You shall have the rest of your life, I swear it. We will find you another physic—perhaps one that has more knowledge of the abdomen.’
‘I have always wanted to die nobly, on the battlefield, or as an aged reigning monarch or duke. Uncle has promised me a dukedom in Flanders. I will live there and you shall be my queen, my Rebecca of the bedsheets, and we shall love openly. Together we shall breed Arabian stallions and they shall be purple and gold with manes of the finest silver…’
As Ferdinand lapses into another fiery delirium, Alphonso, who like his forefathers does not believe in the power of bloodletting, plucks four of the largest leeches from the prince’s body. He drops them into a dish of salt beside the bed. The creatures, glutted with blood, writhe atop the white crystals. Watching them die, the actor wonders whether the prince isn’t being poisoned slowly. Since Ferdinand fell sick he has been secretly testing his hypothesis by feeding pieces of the prince’s food to the count’s favourite Kammerhund. So far the animal appears unaffected.