by Tamara Leigh
Though she understood their anger toward Theriot, it made her ache further, certain it was not due this Norman.
“You stare, Lady Marguerite,” Theriot said.
So she did. When the girl and boy departed and closed the door against the cold, she said in Norman-French, “You appear much improved.”
“Do I?”
Was that innocently spoken or a reminder that what her eyes could see his could not? “You do. Are you satisfied with the greater comfort provided you?”
He set his head to the side. “Since there is but an alteration in how I am bound, I assume I remain a prisoner.”
He had been neither pleasant nor unpleasant this morn, speaking few words before she departed, but now his tone revealed he leaned toward unpleasantness. Had something happened that should not have?
She looked around the confines and at the Scotsmen. Just as there were no signs of an altercation, neither did she glimpse anger on their faces to indicate one had occurred. As usual, they but looked resentful their warrior skills were wasted.
“You remain in the power of the King of Scots who suspends judgment until you are recovered,” she said.
The chevalier’s nostrils flared, but he did not confront her over judgment he did not believe due him nor what could be the devastating limits of his recovery. “As these men prefer to be elsewhere, I am ready to be bound.”
“Would you like to eat first? The viands are from the king’s own table.”
“I am well with you aiding me.” He stood. There was confidence in his first stride as he stepped past her, but his next faltered as if he remembered his new limitations. She half-expected him to reach hands before him to ensure the way was clear, but he shortened his steps to negotiate the narrow space between pit and bed.
“Stay, Dubh,” she said, and as she followed Theriot, noted the back of his hair, unlike the front and top, was dull down to its matted ends. Had there not been enough water to rinse out all the soap?
As he lowered to the mattress, she looked to the sideboard against the left wall where items for his ablutions were set. There were three basins, two filled with water—one for the body, the other the hair—and an empty one over which he would have bent to allow it to capture what was used to wet his hair in preparation for soap, then to rinse the soap from it. She had been certain there was enough water, especially since his hair was relatively short, but…
There—the dark of heavily moistened ground before the sideboard. Had he spilled water? Or had the guards?
Guessing the latter, anger stirred, but she reasoned had he been set upon, he would have retaliated and it would show. Thus, his inability to see must have caused him to shame himself. And here further proof his sight was as damaged as told.
As the guards bound him both sides, Marguerite realized moving the bed nearer the center of the room had eliminated the ability to prop him against pillows supported by a wall. Might she secure a headboard? Considering how difficult it had been to gain a second fur, impossible without the king’s intervention. And best she not seek it since the longer Theriot remained out of Malcolm’s sight, the better.
When the Scotsmen departed, she asked, “Would you like me to draw the covers over you? Perhaps a fur?”
“Non.”
“I saw you were unable to remove all the soap from your hair. I…” She hesitated. “I could rinse it with drinking water.”
“As if I am an invalid,” he muttered and turned his face to her. “Though the guards did not speak of what happened, I believe you know, meaning you are observant.”
“There is moisture on the ground before the sideboard.”
“So now the question—did this D’Argent cause himself to suffer shame, or was it his jailers?”
“You.”
“How do you know that?”
“There are no signs of an altercation here nor about your person, and I believe had the guards disobeyed their king, you would have retaliated and it would show.”
“It would, though still I would be here, invalid and prisoner.”
“I believe that a temporary state, that you—”
“Temporary, Lady?” Despite crimson bleeding across the whites of his eyes and clouded irises that could see only dark against light, still he was able to speak with them. And their depths revealed anger, perhaps even self-loathing.
She moistened her lips. “With greatest certainty I refer to your captivity, but I have hope your sight will be restored, for which both Princess Margaret and I pray.”
Once more he gave her his profile. “Prayer,” he murmured.
Though she caught no scorn about that word, she heard uncertainty as if he questioned the power of prayer to raise him up out of his present darkness. But perhaps there was more to it. Might he doubt the Lord, even reject Him? If the latter, was it only now because he felt helpless and abandoned, or had he never believed? Some professed faith only for the acceptance and protection it afforded.
“Do you worry over my soul, Lady?”
She startled.
“Do not. It remains faithful inside this shell and is less concerned than this flesh over what has become of its eyes upon the world.”
Though she wanted to probe further and offer assurances the Lord was with him, she feared her trespass would be too great. “Ere we eat, will you allow me to rinse your hair?”
“As it feels stiff, my scalp itches, and I am bound, I will.”
Just as she had known how to more comfortably secure him to the bed, she knew how to do this from aiding her sire with her mother. As she crossed to the sideboard, she said, “Lie down and shift upward until your neck is on the edge.” When she turned back with a basin and towel, he was correctly positioned to prevent the mattress from being soaked.
Seeing Dubh had moved to the bed, her nose near the prisoner’s hand, she said, “You do not fear my hound.”
“She gives me no cause, being as certain I will not harm her as I am certain she will not harm me—providing I do not threaten you.”
Marguerite gave a huff of disbelief.
“Believe it,” he said as she set the basin on the floor beneath his head. “She may not show great affection, but she knows what is due you.”
Marguerite lifted the water pitcher and paused to look at the hound who continued to familiarize herself with Theriot’s scent. “I hope you are right, else I suffer watering eyes and sniffles for naught.”
“I believe it is worth the discomfort, Lady.”
After filling a cup full should Theriot prefer water over ale, Marguerite took the pitcher and lowered to her knees behind his head. “As the water was recently drawn, it will be cold.”
He closed his lids, and once more she scrutinized his face.
Having met his eldest brother not long after first she encountered Theriot, she had noted though this D’Argent was of a leaner build and a bit shorter than Guarin, they shared so great a resemblance it was not necessary to stand them alongside each other to confirm they were related. However, since being reunited with this man, differences beyond build and height were apparent.
Theriot’s eyes were more deeply set, lower lip less full, and barely visible beneath lengthening whiskers were dimples. Too, despite fewer years than his brother, he had more silver in what might become a full beard were a blade not soon taken to it.
Not, she hoped. Though he was handsome clean-shaven and she would like to see the depth of his dimples if ever again he smiled broadly, better she liked a bearded man to which she was more accustomed.
Catching up with her thoughts and feelings, which once more sought to make more of their relationship than there could be, inwardly she groaned.
“If you have had your fill of my face, my neck begins to ache, Lady.”
Face warming, she was tempted to deny that was what she did, but she had told enough half-truths without adding lies in full. Deciding the best cover for her fluster was to make light of what she did, she said, “But you have such a fine f
ace, it is not easy to gain one’s fill, Theriot.”
His eyebrows rose, mouth nearly smiled, and dimples deepened slightly. Though it was but one brief moment after another, her own lips turned.
“Would I could say the same of a face that remains unknown to me,” he said, though not darkly.
Not unknown to you, she thought. Merely, he was unaware he had looked upon her months ago when she peered down at him from atop her mount, and less than a sennight past when she tried to save him from Hendrie. But since both times shadows had abounded, he could not possibly have had his fill of her face.
“I hope one day you shall look well upon me,” she said, then silently added, And forgive me.
Ensuring the basin was centered before her knees, she reminded herself to have a care for the tender flesh where Hendrie’s blade had failed to cleave his opponent’s skull and began trickling water down one side of his head. Relieved he did not appear discomfited by cold, with her other hand she guided the moisture down to the roots and scalp and in to his nape.
Just as her sire had lovingly done her mother.
Chapter Ten
When Theriot had awakened well past dawn and found he was no more sighted despite hours of prayer, he had believed himself in control.
Determined to maintain his composure amid the indignity of performing his ablutions beneath the watch of the guard, he had memorized the placement of items on the sideboard and been frustratingly precise with movements that should be almost involuntary. But as he had finished setting himself aright, he erred in retrieving the rinse basin. Had not instinct for its path of travel and good reflexes allowed him to catch hold of it and sidestep, his garments would have been soaked and the contents entirely lost.
As if the spillage of half the water was not humiliation enough, the Scotsmen had spared him only in not laughing outright, their amused grunts and murmurings tempting him to an altercation of which this lady would have found much evidence.
To ensure he did not lose the advantage of this prison that could become a cell in which he was fit with chains rather than ropes, while he and the guard awaited the lady’s return, he had continued to press hard on the door of his anger to hold inside that which made him long to pound flesh and bone. And more he had ached to strike someone when this woman entered and he became intensely aware of how impotent this warrior appeared—and how much he cared.
He had known that in seeking to win her to his side there would be a price to pay for shifting thoughts and emotions from helplessness and humiliation to the gentle ministrations and attraction of this lady. However, now as her hands worked water down to his scalp, causing his skin to warm as if a fur were drawn over him and his heart to beat so hard he feared she felt it, he knew the price would be higher than expected.
Imagine her a much older woman as first believed, he told himself. Imagine no firm curves about her, hair more silvered than your own, and gnarled fingers against your scalp. Oui, older than your mother. No longing to have your fill of her face nor attentions.
Lies, and yet heart and breath began to calm—until in an appealingly husky voice, she said, “Your hair comes clean, so much the silver turned grey is bright again, Theriot.”
As she tipped more water down one side, defensively he said, “Sir Theriot.”
She faltered, then her fingers resumed their strokes and tugs. “Forgive me. In Scotland, we are somewhat lax with titles, especially in close company.”
“This captive is considered close company?”
She turned his head to the side, and he closed his lids against the fire whose flames yet pained. As she trickled water onto his hair, she said, “Certes, close company to this lady who shares this dwelling with you, gains her rest near enough to attend to your night travels, and ministers thus.”
As she urged his head opposite, he said, “You imply I speak aloud my dreams.”
“Fear not.” Her breath fanned his brow. “Only as I awakened this morn did I hear you, and as I could make no sense of what you spoke, your secrets remain your own.”
What secrets? he wondered, but he did not have to deeply search his conscience. Like his brother who had scouted for the king, he had aspired to root out rebellion in the hope of sooner healing the country. Still, the service performed for William had troubled him before his encounter with Edgar, and more his conscience was battered that a village which had escaped the harrying had fallen to it. True, its people lived, but their lives would be harder now.
“I think it is done,” the lady said. “After I towel your hair, you may shift down.”
She was as gentle and thorough with the towel as she had been rinsing out the soap. When she drew back, his hair was barely damp.
He sat up. Glad his restraints were slack enough to permit him to turn toward her, he did so and saw the smudge of her lower to the mattress as if he could not one-handedly seize her and do harm before the dog at the fire pit was upon him and the guards inside.
“Is it that too much you trust me, Lady, or do you forget yourself?”
“I do not forget myself, nor what I know of you—by way of Princess Margaret. As you are aware, the guards and bindings are required by my king if I am to tend you here rather than in a cell where many go to die as you ought not.”
“Not yet.”
“I pray never, and more confident I am because of the princess’s influence on the king. When first she came to court, I doubted the depth of her faith, but now that I meet her again, I—”
“Again?” he interrupted, knowing Malcolm had granted sanctuary to the Aetheling and his family last year. “You have been absent from court?”
“For a time,” she said dismissively and began picking over the platter’s contents. “I believe you have enough slack that if I place food in your hand, with a bit of lean you can feed yourself. Do you prefer that?”
He did. Not only would he feel less helpless, but having her place food to his lips was uncomfortably intimate. “I prefer it.”
And yet when she set meat in his hand, the mere brush of her fingers also seemed an intimate thing—and further he was disturbed by the loosening of a memory of when she affirmed the dawn came soon. It had not, but that night when he took hold of a hand that felt familiar, he had been reassured. Now he knew better.
Lowering his head, he fed himself and was grateful for the distraction of how ravenous he was for food of substance. The lady hungered as well, only speaking between bites to ask which viand he would like and if he wished her to carry drink to his lips—until there came the sound of men riding on the tower, raised voices, and the rumble of the gate granting admittance.
“Likely the king returning from a hunt,” she said.
He did not believe it, though not because his unnatural sense told him so. That which was mostly heard revealed urgency about the riders of few number unlike those of greater number returning from a hunt.
Assuring himself there was no reason to be alarmed the extra sense that gathered close and strengthened his other senses was not more present, Theriot asked, “Malcolm hunts with only two or three?”
“Non, it think it more than that.”
“Two or three,” he said firmly.
“Then mayhap it is tidings of import delivered my king. If so, we shall know soon.”
Though they resumed eating, he remained attentive to what went beyond the hut while seeking to fully engage his extra sense.
When their appetites were satisfied, the lady said, “You should rest.”
Confident of her position from the smudge of her and warmth of her body, he gripped her arm as she began to rise.
She startled, and a growl sounded from the fire, but just as the dog did not set itself at the prisoner, neither did the woman try to pull free. “Sir Theriot?”
“You make tolerable what is barely tolerable, Marguerite,” he said, and though he spoke with self-serving intention, he had not meant to eschew her title. But it served. “I am grateful.”
“I am
pleased to be of aid. Now—”
“Do not tell me to rest. I am not tired.” It was a lie. Having prayed away much of the night, he had slept little and was further fatigued by the effort to control anger that better allowed him to understand the struggles overcome by his brothers and cousin—and further acknowledge his life had been easier than theirs even before the losses they suffered at Hastings.
Having mostly fought in the front ranks of that bloody battle, Theriot knew it was not only God’s favor and his skill that protected him. It was his kin who were determined the youngest depart the battlefield whole of body even if they could not. Thus, it turned his stomach to find himself in these circumstances and more helpless than any of them had been, and greater that shame should they suffer more losses in seeking to recover him.
Prayer, he determined as he had on the night past when he assured himself come the new day the Lord would give proof His will remained in accord with the one ever shown favor. Morn had come, and unanswered prayer had rendered him incapable of completing the simple task of rinsing soap from his hair. For that humiliation, he had allowed this woman a glimpse of the doubt rising on all sides of him. But as told, she need not worry over his soul.
Like his sire who believed God was given to interceding when called upon, unlike his uncle who had been certain the Divine was but an observer, Theriot would continue—must continue—to believe he would be raised up out of this darkness. It might be gradual, but God would not abandon him. And when next the physician came, the man would confirm patience was all that was required.
“…more tired than you think,” the lady returned him to her presence.
He frowned. “What say you?”
“I said since twice I have asked what you wish to do rather than sleep, it appears you are, indeed, tired.”
“My thoughts drift, that is all. If you are willing, I would pass the time with talk since”—he tugged on his ropes—“my options are few.”
“Very well.”
