Reginald proved his worth as a physician, looking in on his patient several times during both day and nighttime hours, and often brought something to brighten Ester’s long wait—Valencia oranges or Poitevin peaches. Such fruit was rare. The Crusades had taken up most of the freight vessels throughout Christendom, and what shipping remained was increasingly harried by pirates. “The doctor seeks to snare you in his net,” said Ida. “I barely notice him,” said Ester, “except to discuss my father’s health.” “The bee spies the hedge rose,” said Ida, employing a well-worn conversational motif, “whether the blossom notices or not.” Bernard drifted into a restless sleep, shivering and muttering. At times he parted his eyelids, only to look around as if at some unholy place, startled, unaware of his surroundings. At the sound of his daughter’s voice, however, his anxiety always subsided. “Have some warm hippocras,” she urged—spiced wine, yet another gift from Reginald.
