by Tamara Leigh
Chapter Six
He raged. And how!
Praying the men given watch over Theriot did not harm him, Marguerite snatched up her skirts, descended the tower steps, and ran across the bailey beneath the regard of those patrolling the walls.
Damp hair swinging across her face, she rounded the hut she had departed at sunrise accompanied by the hound she had forgotten to collect from the hall. Finding the door open, she sprang inside.
Norman-accented shouts sounding all around, she saw past the men lunging left and right—attempting to advance and avoid kicks—the bed lay on its side. When she was past the fire pit, she noted the posts to which the chevalier remained bound bent as if to snap, and his eye covering was down around his neck.
“Enough!” she commanded in Norman-French with which the Scotsmen were passing proficient. “Give him space!”
Malcolm’s men retreated, and as she drew level with them, she saw the lower face of one was bloodied, likely from a kick to the teeth. Of greater concern was Theriot, as much because he seemed savage enough to tear his arm from its socket, as the thrusts of his body caused his head to come close to striking a post. Already he had taken two such blows. One more could finish him.
“Lady!” a guard barked in Gaelic when she stepped forward.
She flung up a staying hand that would be honored only if she remained out of reach of those kicks. “Hear me, Theriot!” she cried.
He did, as told by the jerk of his body, a curse of less volume, and blood-red eyes whose clouded centers landed on her face. Then he stilled and stared—sightlessly, she was fairly certain though his eyes were on hers as if he knew where to find them.
“It is Lady Marguerite of the night past,” she said. “Do you remember when we talked?”
He narrowed his lids as if to better see what could not be seen. “Oui, we spoke of the dawn that comes soon. It did not, Lady. Still it is as dark as a blizzard gone grey, and this one who cannot see through the snow is fettered like a man given unto the torturer.”
Once more observing the reach of his legs, she took another step forward, causing the Scots who advanced with her to grumble. Seeing the swelling of Theriot’s abraded and bruised lids had lessened like that on his jaw whose thickening whiskers would cover the injury before it fully healed, she said, “I am sorry for it. Be assured, no harm is intended. It is precaution, as are these men set to watch over you in my absence.”
“Precaution?”
“As told on the night past, you are at the court of King Malcolm in Dunfermline.”
“Edgar,” he growled.
“Oui, he and his men—”
“For what did they bring me here?”
Why are you not prepared for that question? she rebuked herself. “I wish I had an answer—”
“Who are you to me, Lady who speaks my language as if it is her own and yet has the Scots dancing all about her tongue?”
If it danced now, what would he say if she made no effort to hide it? “As I am fairly skilled at healing, you have been given into my care to do as the physician directs, and since you are Norman and…”
“A prisoner,” he said with a jut of his chin that caused perspiration-dampened hair to shift across his brow.
There being no way to make pretty of his circumstances, she said, “Oui, for that my king orders precautions taken to ensure my well-being.”
“I am not of the stamp of men who harm women.”
“I do not believe you would, but King Mal—”
“Why do you not believe it? Do you know me?”
She swallowed. “Princess Margaret has told though the D’Argents answer to the usurper, they are well regarded by many of the English.”
“So well regarded much I shall suffer when your king recognizes her brother’s claim on me?”
“I believe it was the princess who persuaded her betrothed otherwise. Thus, King Malcolm claims rights to you by way of his man, Hendrie, who…”
“Who sought to blind me!” he spoke what she could not. “And for it is dead.”
Before Marguerite could think how to respond, one of the Scots grunted with amusement, causing those unseeing eyes to move his direction.
“He is not dead,” Theriot said with such certainty and resentment she was both relieved she did not have to make a lie of it and dismayed she could not since it might settle him.
“Your dagger struck nothing vital,” she said.
He growled, and she wondered if it was as much for confirmation Hendrie lived as memory of Edgar’s taunting over that weapon now on the Aetheling’s belt.
His eyes shifted as if he searched his memory. “That accursed Scotsman was in the wagon with me.” His brow furrowed. “It was he who kicked me.”
“Only to quiet you lest Edgar do great harm.”
“Then I am to be grateful to this Hendrie?”
“He was a good friend to my sire, is a good friend to my king, and your enemy only because of what was done the village by Normans and his belief you intended further ill.”
She hoped he would defend himself, confirming he was not among those who set fires and that he had only sought to aid a child, but he eased back against the slumped mattress.
“We must set you aright, Theriot. Will you allow me—?”
“Does this Scots lady believe herself my friend?”
Because she had not titled him, she realized. “Certes, I am not that to you, Sir Theriot. Not yet.”
“And never shall be!”
“Will you allow us to set you aright?” she repeated.
He narrowed his eyes. “I shall control my anger—for the moment.”
“Aid me,” she instructed the guards and started forward.
“Leave, Lady!” the chevalier demanded.
She faltered. “I will help settle you and tend your injuries.”
“I must relieve myself! Though I do not doubt I have suffered intolerable indignity having bodily needs tended by another, I will suffer no more.” As if interpreting her hesitation as consideration rather than discomfort, he added, “If your Scotsmen are as fierce as I have been told, they will have no trouble ensuring this sightless man behaves.”
“Of course,” Marguerite said and instructed the men to unbind him and provide whatever he required.
As she turned away, the older one gripped her arm. “You saw what he is capable of,” he said in their language and nodded at his companion who wiped blood from his lower face.
Remembering to answer in Norman-French, speaking slowly to ensure he fully understood, she said, “Oui, but forget not our king told he may be unbound providing two guards are within. The same as our sovereign, I trust you can subdue him without doing harm should he lose control again.” She pulled free, crossed the hut, and closed the door behind her.
Listening for further struggle, she recalled what she had witnessed upon entering. Such ferocity she had only seen from afar whilst tucked away during clashes between rebels and Normans.
Not true, she corrected. She had been very near when his brother met at swords with another Norman who believed the rebel, Em, his property. However, there had been control to Sir Dougray’s ferocity and anger, unlike Theriot’s.
Because we have made an animal of him, she thought. A wounded, cornered animal who believes he has naught to lose.
Hearing sounds at her back, she held her breath. They were only voices of little volume and emotion, then came the thump of the bed returned to its legs.
Marguerite closed her eyes. “Lord, heal this D’Argent so he not dwell in the dark the remainder of his life. And if you will not restore his sight…” Remembering Diarmad the Mad whose identity was derived as much from being a man of the sword as a husband, father, and friend, she shook her head. “What then, Lord? How am I to persuade a warrior no longer a warrior that life is worth living?”
And how are you to ease this guilt? her conscience submitted. Because of you, Stephen is dead and Hendrie and this Norman injured nearly un
to death.
“Prayer,” she whispered. “More prayer.”
Alone, just as he needed to be until he vanquished the anxiety that so strained his chest it felt as if his ribs would crack. But soon Lady Marguerite of an accent neither purely Scots nor Norman-French, of freshly washed hair and clean, hearth-dried garments, would enter.
Turning his face toward his left wrist bound to a post, the movement causing ache to spear the back of his skull, Theriot tried to make sense of what the woman and the guard spoke on the other side of the door. Frustratingly, their voices were too low and he could not even determine which language they used though his hearing was keen.
Seeing smudges of dark through a milky haze, he opened the hand toward which he directed his gaze, splayed his fingers and closed them. The smudge moved as had those of the men who had not mistreated him while setting the room aright—though he had sensed the one who smelled of blood longed to drive a fist into this Norman’s face.
It had been difficult to contain anger of a capacity he had not known he possessed, especially when they released his wrists to allow him some dignity, but he had provided no excuse to do to him half what this unrecognizable vengeful self wished to do to them. Instead, he had perseverated on a lesson taught him by his uncle who had trained him into a warrior and his sire who had striven to shape him into a man pleasing to God.
Patience, Theriot! one had bellowed and the other had said firmly with a hand atop his son’s shoulder. When time allows, in all things patience.
Certes, much time he would have to await an opportunity to escape. The great unknown was whether he would be prepared for it.
Ribs further strained, he assured himself that in accord with God’s favor shown him all his life, his vision would be restored, then moved his thoughts to Lady Marguerite from whom there were things to be learned.
Win her to your side, he told himself. You know what moves women—how to make them look once and again, put pink in cheeks, open mouths to laughter, and close lips to receive kisses.
When finally she entered, this D’Argent given to flirtation felt a predator. He would have hated it were he the Theriot he better knew than this one whose emotions dwelt in the dark the same as his sight, but for now there were things he needed from her.
Proceed cautiously, he counseled. From the rough of her voice and that her king permits her to tend you, she may be of an age of much experience.
Feeling her gaze, he said, “As you see, I behaved, Lady.”
“I thank you.”
Attending to her footfalls over the dirt floor, he found they numbered only two less than those of the Scotsmen outside. From her voice, already he knew she was of good height for a woman, and now something else. She did not shorten her stride to appear more feminine. And another thing learned—rather, confirmed—was the length of this dwelling, which he was fairly certain was half its breadth.
The lady halted. “Until drink and viands arrive, will you allow me to tend your injuries?”
He tugged on his wrists. “I cannot harm you.”
“I saw what your kick did to the man whose front teeth are loose. As your legs remain unbound…”
He shifted them atop the blanket. “Many the weapons made of one’s head, legs, feet, hands…” And thumbs, he silently added. “What I should have said is I will not harm you. Unfortunately, all I have to give is the word of a D’Argent.”
“That is enough.” It was said with certainty, and further he was surprised when she lowered to the mattress, allowing him to more deeply draw in her freshly washed scent. Just as disconcerting was the warmth of her hip brushing his ribs.
“We shall begin with your eyes,” she said, her lean indicating she reached to the bedside table.
A bag was opened—canvas, he knew from its fibrous, oiled scent.
A flask uncapped—alcohol, as told by its powerful, stinging scent.
A pot unstoppered—a salve of many herbs, as revealed by a scent so soothing he nearly closed his eyes.
The lady turned toward him, and when her hip settled firmly against his side, he jerked.
“Forgive me.” She scooted away. “I did not know you were sore. Do you think your ribs bruised or broken?”
“Bruised,” he said, then to calm his body, asked, “How many years have you, Lady? Two score? Three?”
Her soft laughter smelled of mint. “I am little more than a score.”
He was not truly surprised. It was good she was young since she would be more impressionable, but bad in that he was too responsive. He needed to move her without himself being moved.
“As I sound a frog due to a throat malady from which I am mostly recovered,” she said, “I do not take offense at being thought a woman of greater age.” She tapped the underside of his chin. “Now your eyes.”
He tilted his head back and drew a long breath of her. “You bathed in lavender water—and recently, as told by damp hair.”
He was pleased to hear her tongue come off her palate, though not as much as he would be had something in him not answered something in her.
Still, I move her more than she moves me, he assured himself.
“You have a good sense of smell,” she said warily.
“Nearly as good as my sight.” It was a response of little thought, but much thought and bitterness once spoken. Tautly, he asked, “When does the physician believe it will be restored?”
Her hesitation made him tense further. “He told me naught.”
Fairly certain she lied, he put between his teeth, “Naught because he would give no answer? Or naught because you, who are to care for me, did not ask?”
“I…did not ask.”
Hands aching to become fists, he said, “Interpretation of his silence and yours on the matter does not bode well.”
He heard her moisten her lips. “I am sure it is too soon to know. Though he will visit again later this day, if you tell me what you are able to see—light or movement or both—I shall carry word to him so better he knows what to expect when he comes.”
“I see white light of the thickest fog, the only other color dark grey when something passes through that light or draws very near.”
“That sounds a good thing.”
“Compared to being entirely in the black,” he snapped, and hating the desperation in his voice, once more assured himself of God’s favor.
“I think it must be poison to the body and soul to abandon hope long ere it abandons you, Sir Theriot,” the lady said softly. “Pray, hold to hope, even if only for the sake of your family.”
Her words jolted, not because they sounded of one far beyond her years, because they revealed her awareness of the lapse of faith that made him sound self-pitying. And that was not who he was. He was a D’Argent the same as the brother he had challenged to rise above destructive wretchedness following the loss of an arm at the Battle of Hastings. And that Dougray had done, as would Theriot if—
Not if, he told himself lest once more he rage against the walls of the body in which he was trapped. My eyes will heal.
A hand on his shoulder returned him to the woman who believed she knew him better than ever she would. “Close your lids so I may clean the scratches around your eyes, Theriot.”
“Sir Theriot,” he corrected as he ought not were he to bring her to his side. But then, it would rouse suspicion if he entirely suppressed these feelings.
“Sir Theriot,” she acceded.
The alcohol stung, the salve soothed, and the cloth she unfastened from around his neck angered. “Do not cover my eyes.”
“But it will keep the salve from—”
“Non!” Not only did binding them make him feel more helpless, but it offended the cloth that had long served as a reminder of God’s favor was transformed into something that testified to a loss of favor.
Thankfully, the woman let it be and asked him to turn his head. “The swelling has lessened,” she said after gently probing the back, then exclaimed, “Your wrists!”<
br />
They were sore, the flesh abraded when, finding himself blind and bound, he dumped the bed on its side and attempted to snap the posts.
“Once the food arrives to break our fast, I shall have the men unbind you so I can salve and bandage them,” she said. “It should not be much longer.” She shifted, then fell into the silence of looking close upon one believed unaware he was observed.
Feeling soft breaths among the whiskers of his jaw, sensing her gaze moving over his face, he set his eyes upon hers and awaited her reaction to his own observance, albeit his was of the smudge of her.
She turned further toward him, and her exhale swept down his throat and ceased to be felt as if she scrutinized him to his feet. When her breath returned to his face, she said, “We must attend to your ablutions and the laundering of your garments. If you are well with it, I shall arrange for a bath—if not this day, the morrow.”
“Only if done by my hand.”
“Of course.”
When a knock sounded, she stood. “Come!”
The door opened, and the lad who entered bearing a rattling platter respectfully acknowledged the lady in the accent of the Scots, then hastened forward with the step of one less than half Theriot’s weight.
Another padded in after him on four feet, and Theriot remembered when earlier he had caught the smell of fur. This dog had been here with the lady last eve.
When the boy set the platter on the bedside table, the hound ceased its padding and Theriot heard it sniff at his knee. It was not a dog of immense size, but were it, he would not be overly concerned. He knew animals well, even those with whom he was barely acquainted. This one was curious and, possibly, friendly—providing Theriot presented no threat to one it held dear.
“Merci,” the lady thanked the lad and, as he retreated, called for the guards to enter and said something that caused the hound to draw back.
Theriot was unbound, then while Marguerite tended his wrists, the guards began feeding wood to what remained of last eve’s fire. When flames were roused, their light was so intense he had to turn his eyes opposite.
