gnovel Chapter 13: Giving a Glimpse of Modern Medicine
Chapter 13: Giving a Glimpse of Modern Medicine
Chapter 13: Giving a Glimpse of Modern MedicineMarch 29th, 1788
Royal Palace of Madrid — Morning
The breakfast table was set with royal care.
A silver carafe of hot chocolate steamed in the middle, surrounded by crystal dishes of honey-glazed bread, citrus slices, and warm almond cakes. The Royal Chef himself stood a few paces away, nervously adjusting his cuffs as the final plate of omelet soufflé was brought in.
Princess Juliette sat with her legs swinging beneath the table, humming a little tune as she poured syrup on her swan-shaped brioche. Her golden-brown hair had been brushed into neat curls, and her blue dress matched the morning sky visible through the tall windows.
Lancelot sat across from her, still in his formal black coat from the early morning meetings. Though tired, his smile was gentle as he sliced a piece of pastry and placed it on her plate.
"Too much sugar again?" he asked knowingly.
She shook her head quickly. "Just enough. I need energy today. We’re walking later, remember?"
"After my next meeting," he promised.
Juliette tilted her head, chewing thoughtfully. "You’re always meeting someone. Lords, soldiers, bishops... now who?"
He chuckled softly. "An old man. Our father’s doctor. I need to speak with him about something important."
"Is Papa worse?"
Lancelot hesitated. "Not worse, but not better either. That’s why I’m trying something new. Something that might help."
She looked down at her plate, solemn. "I want him to get better."
"I do too," he said. "And if there’s even a chance... I have to try."
Juliette nodded, quiet. She reached across the table and took his hand.
"Then go. I’ll be here when you come back."
Lancelot gave her hand a soft squeeze. "Thank you, sister."
An hour later, the hallway outside the King’s chambers was quiet save for the low footsteps of Lancelot and the sharp clack of his cane against the marble floor.
Beside him walked an older man—thin, straight-backed, and dressed in somber gray. The Royal Physician, Don Emeric de Salvatierra, was in his late sixties. His white hair was neatly combed, and his hands, though veined, were steady as stone.
He spoke in a calm tone as they approached the door.
"I must remind you, Your Royal Highness... the King’s condition remains extremely delicate. Any agitation, stress, or false hope may cause more harm than good."
Lancelot stopped at the threshold. "I understand, Don Emeric. But I believe this is a conversation worth having."
The guards opened the door without hesitation this time. The chamber was warm with morning light, one curtain drawn aside to let the sun fall across the King’s bed.
To their quiet surprise, the King was already awake—propped against two pillows, a thin blanket covering his chest. His eyes, though tired, were alert.
"I was wondering when the two of you would arrive," he rasped, managing a faint smile. "The birds beat you to it this morning."
"Majestad," Don Emeric greeted, bowing low.
"Father," Lancelot said, stepping forward. "You’re looking stronger."
The King gave a huff. "No lies in this room, please. I look like a man being hollowed out by a chisel. But I can sit up, at least."
Lancelot offered a half-smile. "That’s something. And it’s why I brought Don Emeric with me."
The King turned his gaze to the physician. "He claims to have a cure. For what’s killing me."
Don Emeric blinked. "A cure, Your Majesty?"
Lance stepped forward. "A potential treatment. I’ve been re
The physician looked up slowly. "How are you knowing this, Your Royal Highness?"
Lancelot just ignored him and continued.
"I’ve already begun drafting a simple lab inside the old alchemy wing. It has fireproof walls, access to clean water, and enough room to grow the cultures safely. You’ll have what you need."
Don Emeric’s face remained unreadable, but he finally said, "Even with perfect conditions, it will take a month. Maybe longer."
"Then you start today," Lancelot said. "I will supervise once I am freed with my constitutional and birthright duties. Expect sudden visits."
He handed over a smaller envelope. Inside was a folded parchment written in his own hand—a step-by-step synthesis note, with simple illustrations, filtration procedures, and dosage estimates.
"Once you have the crude extract, we’ll test microdoses. On mice, rats, pigeons—any small creatures we can monitor safely. Then... when it’s safe, we treat my father."
Don Emeric held the envelope carefully, as though it were a relic. "You understand, this will need secrecy. If word spreads we’re testing mold on the King, the court may erupt."
"I’ve already drafted a cover story," Lancelot said. "You’ll tell them we are trialing a new immune tonic extracted from tree bark and fungi. The kind once used by indigenous tribes in the colonies. Something exotic but harmless-sounding."
The physician gave a tired sigh, then nodded once.
"It’s dangerous, Your Royal Highness," he said, voice low. "But... so is doing nothing."
Lancelot offered a faint smile. "Then let us risk it. For my father. And for a future where we can fight death, not fear it."
"As you wish, Your Royal Highness."
"I’ll take my leave."
Lancelot left the room, leaving Emeric inside alone. At this point, he was still confused. Was he talking to the prince of a genius scholar? And what’s more, he knew the prince and his reputation, so it’s very confusing for a person like him to know much more about medicine.
Nevertheless, he would try it, for the King. His reputation is also in the line if he failed to save the monarch of Aragon.