In a Dark Wood by Michael Cadnum Page A

a tincture of myrtle and garden crocus, and then there is no danger whatsoever.”
    â€œI am glad I talked with you, Doctor. I am much reassured.”
    â€œYou seem much disturbed yourself, my lord.”
    â€œI have concerns, but I am well enough.”
    â€œAllow me to prescribe a mash of rye. It breaks down the concentration of humors.”
    Geoffrey started. “You think there’s something wrong?”
    â€œA precaution, my lord. Simply a precaution. And yet—” The doctor reached forth his slender hands, and Geoffrey cringed before he managed to hold himself still. The physician peered into Geoffrey’s eyes, pulling the lower lids down. “And yet I do see some cause for concern. Your blood may be too cold.”
    â€œToo cold?”
    â€œMmm. Yes, I fear so. Easily remedied, however, my lord.”
    â€œIs it serious?”
    â€œUnchecked, yes, it could well be. Any imbalance, my lord, is undesirable. What we seek is a balance between the four humors, between warmth and coolness, between passion and wisdom, a perfect harmony. Not too much passion, not too much thought, not too much wind, not too much staleness of air. In short, we desire that the elaborate ship of the body be entirely well balanced so that it tips not too much in one direction or another.”
    â€œWhat can I do?”
    â€œI will prescribe wheat soup. It irritates the respiratory passages, but that effect is neutralized by mixing it with warm water.”
    â€œThis will cure me?”
    â€œThere can be no doubt, my lord.”
    Geoffrey stepped close and murmured, “There is one further trouble, my dear doctor, which I am reluctant to confess.”
    â€œI am at your service, my lord.”
    â€œMy nature has always been passionate,” Geoffrey began. “This passion has been a cause of grief to me. I am, to be brief, overly lustful. Although any lust at all is grievous.” Geoffrey faltered.
    The physician closed his eyes and lifted a hand. “Have no fear, my lord. I understand perfectly. You are filled with an understandable desire for your wife’s affections and yet do not want to trouble her during her illness.”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œI know of an excellent medicine for the damping of the desire for coitus. Furthermore, it sharpens the eyesight and dissipates flatulence.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œRue. I have some of the optimum variety, that which was grown near a fig tree.”
    Geoffrey shook the vial in his hand, studying the grainy brown surface of the clay. The cork worked free with a wet pop. “I can’t see into it.”
    â€œTwo good, strong gulps would start the cure, and then just before sleep tonight you should finish the rest, because it is at night that desire is at its apex.”
    Geoffrey swallowed, once, twice.
    â€œJesus’ Face, that’s the bitterest stuff I’ve ever tasted in my life!”
    â€œNo good is accomplished without travail,” said the physician.

18
    â€œI am very pleased with the quality of these pots,” said Lady Eleanor that evening. “I am very sorry that you have only five left.”
    â€œThe sorrow is all mine, my lady. But when the people heard me calling ‘Pots, cheap!’ they came running.”
    Geoffrey eyed the potter without much interest, carving the rind off a green apple. The man was dressed in tatters, but his shoes were of good quality, the sort a footman might wear while accompanying a hunt, and the sword at his side was in a black scabbard tipped with brass.
    â€œWhy,” asked Geoffrey, “did you sell so cheap?”
    â€œI wanted to enter into the spirit of the tournament. What better way than to sell everything as cheaply as possible? And now, my lord, I am so sorry to have sold all but five, I give these to you as a gift, from my heart.”
    â€œOh, no!” said Lady Eleanor, looking pink-cheeked and alert. “Allow us to