by Tamara Leigh
Now as Theriot sat on the chair with the healer examining the injury done the back of his head and the guards keeping watch, he felt regret. He had not been receptive to Marguerite’s return to the hut, and less so when the sound of her voice outside caused sightless eyes to ache more for the inability to look upon her than anything else denied good form and color.
Though he had been glad she came once she revealed the rest of her truth, it giving him more cause to have naught to do with her, now he regretted supporting the physician in forcing her departure ahead of learning what else she would have told.
Still he did not know how she came to be in the village, and though it could not matter, the traitor of him continued to mull the possibilities.
“It has healed well.” Colban’s fingers moved off Theriot’s scalp and he came around. “Lift your face.”
Theriot clamped his teeth to keep from demanding a diagnosis of his eyes ahead of examination. Already he knew it was believed his vision was lost and, until the man looked closer, that diagnosis could not be confirmed nor refuted.
Tilting his head back, he felt and smelled breath on his face and knew the man’s morning meal was washed down with ale.
“The bruising and swelling lessen, the blood corrupting the whites begins to fade, and the cut and scraped skin shall cast off scabbing soon.”
Theriot nearly growled with frustration over things he did not need to know.
When the physician ordered a guard to bring light near, there came the sound of shifting wood, greater crackling and flashes of fire, then the intensity of light increased with each footfall.
Feeling the heat of the torch held before his face, struggling against squeezing his eyes closed to block the light paining him, he seethed at having only the thin shadow of his extra sense to warn him should the torch be made an instrument of torture. And even were it sufficient to escape cruelty in the moment, the next moment could prove detrimental.
“Much damage,” the physician said. “What color your eyes, Sir Theriot?”
Gripping his arms tighter against his sides to keep from driving a fist into the man’s gut, he said, “What color do they appear?”
As if Colban also struggled to remain civil, he was slow to answer. “Not the pale nor bright of blue. Possibly green, more likely brown.”
Green, Theriot silently pronounced, like those of other D’Argents though many the shades.
“As told, much damage, Chevalier. There is healing, and I believe the clouds at the center thin, but much I question if they will depart entirely.”
“That is your diagnosis?” Theriot bit.
The man grunted. “Will you allow me to probe further? Certes, it will be so uncomfortable you may wish a dagger to stick me as you did Hendrie.”
“Probe,” Theriot snapped and heard the scrape of boots, the guards surely beckoned near lest these fists defy him.
The probing was beyond uncomfortable and did turn his thoughts to retaliation—so much he sought escape in memories of when last he had wielded a sword.
A cat leaping from a window.
A woman pursued by what he believed his countrymen.
An opponent with the sound of the Norman about him.
Theriot paused on that. What the dying man had spoken in diluted Norman-French was near in memory—and then gone. Something of import had been revealed. Assuring himself he would uncover it later, he moved his thoughts to what had come after he put down that opponent.
A scream had sounded again, distracting him from the Scotsman coming for him, and in moonlight he saw the woman he now knew was Marguerite approach from the direction she had fled—a slim figure as told by the mantle flying out behind her and hair that appeared dark. That scream had rendered him vulnerable to the blow aimed at his head.
When he made it onto his back to defend what remained of his life, he had looked nearer upon Marguerite, though he could not recall if it was before or after he stuck his blade in the Scotsman. Though much about her was blurred as she pleaded for the assault to end and fought whoever held her back, he had thought her familiar. Had they met before? Unlikely since he did not think he had encountered a lady of Scotland, even one who spoke Norman-French. She must resemble someone he knew.
Leaving memories behind, again he regretted not allowing her to tell all she had come to reveal. Even if what remained had naught to do with her presence in the village, he could have brought the conversation around to that and satisfied this—
He jerked as pain stabbed his left eye well above the unhooding of that lid, evidencing the examination was exceedingly thorough. Then the pain eased and he heard the crack of a back long folded over.
“Though time and prayer will heal far more than my skills,” the physician said, “I shall visit again to check on your progress.”
“Speak plainly,” Theriot bit.
Colban stepped back, the glaring light shifted to the side, and the torch made of firewood was tossed into the pit. “To your end days, I am fair certain memories alone will be clearly visible to you. Thus, rather than a sword, a cane—or if it is easier, call it a walking stick—shall define your life. Now as that is as plainly spoken as possible, I leave you.”
Moments later, the door closed behind him and the guards. And Theriot began the struggle to contain anger hotter for hopelessness and more hopeless for finding himself in a godforsaken country with no ally.
Breathe ere you give them cause to bind you again or do worse, he counseled. Breathe, brother of Guarin who suffered much abuse and imprisonment but is stronger for it.
“Still he sees,” he snarled. “Still he is a warrior.” The weak of him grasping that excuse to lose control, he gave his head a shake. “You have God’s favor!” he assured himself, but he quaked and the flames tossed back the door dropped over them, scorched his throat, and rushed past his lips.
Once more, he who had little reason to rage before there was Marguerite, raged. And this time in the absence of fetters, he made chaos of all that came to hand, starting with the accursed cane.
Chapter Thirteen
Confession granted her forgiveness, though likely sooner since the princess was present when Marguerite told Malcolm she had delivered Theriot his garments and revealed to him she was as much trap as bait.
The king was displeased, and more so when she said she would not wed the physician. What argument that would have led to could not be known since an instant later a bellow carried across the morning air, bent around the side of the palace, and leapt over the wall of the skeletal garden spring would soon resurrect.
Marguerite knew who it was and was more certain Theriot had been given no hope of restored sight than that he was under attack, but she sprang from Malcolm’s side into his path. “Your Grace—”
Another bellow caused him to slice a hand through the air. As he listened, she noted greater silence had fallen as if all within the walls stilled to assess the danger of that Norman’s roar. Then another bellow.
Malcolm lowered his hand, glanced at his wide-eyed betrothed, and settled his gaze on his ward. In answer to the fear she could not disguise, he said, “’Tis understandable.”
“What know you of it?” she asked amid Theriot’s raging.
“What I guess is the physician has been more forthcoming regarding the chevalier’s vision than instructed, and now the warrior mourns one no longer a warrior.”
“Is it not too soon to say he will be blind evermore?” asked Meg.
Before the king’s betrothal to this Saxon princess, he had been a man of temperate smiles when sober and exuberant smiles when many a horn of drink was drained. Now the smile he bestowed was gentle like those Diarmad had shone upon his wife. “Too soon to know for certain, perhaps, but far greater the chance he shall not see again, My Pearl.”
Meg stood taller. “If God wills it, he will be healed in full. Or do you not hold to the truth all is possible with the Divine?”
He looked discomfited. “I know you believe it, and I am more at
prayer than ever seeking that same strength of faith, but I have not attained it.” He moved his regard to Marguerite. “Fear not for him, Sparrow. Having anticipated he would not like whatever was revealed, I instructed the guards to leave him be providing he presents no danger.”
That was of some relief. “Your Grace, allow me to—”
“Marguerite, though you are daughter of Diarmad, you cannot understand what Sir Theriot has lost, whether it proves temporary with the Lord’s intercession or permanent in the absence of a miracle. This is what the chevalier needs, and we shall leave him to it.” He pointed a finger near enough she saw every barb of his chewed straight nails. “And you will keep your distance.”
When she nodded reluctantly, he raised his eyebrows. “Regarding the physician—”
“Pray, let us not regard him!” she exclaimed, then seeing ridges rise on his brow as if drawing up battle lines, she added, “At least for now.”
“For now, dear Malcolm,” the princess encouraged.
He shifted breath between his cheeks. “Very well.”
Marguerite thanked him, then he set his betrothed’s hand atop his ward’s. In the silence that followed Theriot’s next round of raging, he said, “There are matters to which I must give ear and eye, likely amid more din than usual.” He bowed curtly and strode to the palace’s rear door.
“Do not fear for Sir Theriot,” the princess said. “The Lord can make good of whatever comes.”
“Can, but will He?” Marguerite said.
“Whether Sir Theriot is once more sighted or never again, if he allows God to work in him, the beginning of what is to be shall be better than what was.”
Marguerite sighed. “Like my king, I have not your strength of faith to know and trust God so well.”
The princess slid an arm through Marguerite’s. As they resumed the walk Theriot had interrupted, which was first interrupted by Marguerite seeking out Malcolm, she who would be queen said, “Even in the midst of the impossible, the more you seek Him, the more He seeks you. Spreading that certainty and hope to the people of Scotland is the work the Lord has chosen for me by binding me to a man who can be more ungodly than godly.”
That last made Marguerite tense and her companion squeeze her arm. “I know there is much good in him and his sins do not compare with the one who stole the throne from my brother, but Malcolm can and will be more worthy of the people the Lord has given him to rule.”
“I see changes about him already.”
She smiled. “I am pleased, but still much patience is needed. Years of loss and warring shaped him into the man I first thought would be among the last I would choose for a husband. Heavily worn knees will be required to undo whatever can be undone, but he is willing. Mostly.”
They fell into silence all the more welcome for that into which Theriot had also fallen. As their slippers whispered over stones laid between barren patches, Marguerite wondered what the chevalier did now. If Malcolm had not assured her the guards would leave him be, she would fear he was silent because harm was done him. Had he dropped exhausted onto the bed?
She longed to go to him, but not only was it forbidden, he would welcome her less than any other—indeed, might return to raging.
“Though you need not confide,” the princess said, “concern for your well-being bids me ask the reason you wear Sir Theriot’s cloth which you told was used to bandage his eyes during the journey to Dunfermline.”
Marguerite kept her hand from flying to what ought to be tucked out of sight, but she was unable to correct the falter in her step. She turned to the princess. “Concern for me?”
“Malcolm worries you come to feel much for this D’Argent.”
Annoyance flickered through Marguerite. “Now you worry as well for this lady you hardly know and disapprove that I should feel anything other than hatred for a Norman.”
As if her words were a slap, the woman blinked.
They were a slap. And undeserved. “Forgive me, Princess. That was ill spoken. Not only have you shown me much kindness, you did speak on behalf of Sir Theriot.”
Sympathy curved the woman’s lips. “Mayhap more than you know, you feel for him—the same as I did for Malcolm before I yielded up the longing to be of the Church. I do disapprove for the seeming hopelessness of it, though I have no right since did I not just admonish my betrothed for having too little faith in what the Lord can do?” She sighed. “Be assured, I shall increase my prayers for Sir Theriot and you, and when the Lord does with my beseechings as He wills, you may call on me whether the Almighty turns you left or right.”
Marguerite’s throat tightened. She was not without friends. As Malcolm told, her heart was quick to recognize the kindred in others. However, this woman seemed something more. Might this closeness be the sort one feels for a sister?
She smiled. “I thank you, Princess.”
“I am Meg to you.” She kissed Marguerite’s cheek. “Now is there any way I may be of service?”
The future Queen of Scotland of service to me, Marguerite thought and nearly declined. Remembering the cloth, she drew it from around her neck. “I do not know the import of this since Sir Theriot would not say, but he wished it returned.”
The princess took it. “As but one edge is hemmed and two pieces of equal size seamed together, I think it the lower portion of a tunic. And see”—she plucked at the frayed ends—“once these edges were also seamed. Since this does not look to be cut from a lady’s garment, much curiosity over why it is of such sentiment he carried it on his person and wishes it returned.”
“You will see it into his hands?”
“I shall. Indeed, I may deliver it myself.”
Marguerite caught her breath. “Malcolm would not approve, especially for how wrathful Sir Theriot is.”
“Hence, he would have to accompany me.”
“Which he may refuse to do.”
Pretty teeth showing, the lower ones slightly overlapped, Meg said, “Refuse me the opportunity to minister to a man who is hurting and assure him I shall pray for him? I believe I can bring Malcolm around, but if not, the chevalier will have his cloth by way of another.”
“I thank you. Now I shall visit Hendrie and my Saxon escort who is eager to return to Derbyshire.”
The princess put the cloth in her purse. “You are brave, lady who balks at being matched with the physician.”
Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “It does not excite to so soon be returned to Colban’s presence, but it must be done—and perhaps I can dissuade him from pursuing me.”
“If you are certain you prefer another man’s pursuit,” Meg said.
Letting that lie, Marguerite left the princess to the solitude with which she seemed exceedingly comfortable.
As she entered the palace by way of the door Malcolm had used, she lamented, If only I could be as certain as she that I am heard when I bend the knee and spill my heart unto the Lord. And to trust Him when the answer is not what I wish.
Pausing outside the sick room, she beseeched the Lord to straighten the crooked paths of those who traveled them with her and stepped inside.
When she departed a half hour later, she was relieved, fearful, and vexed. Relieved Hendrie was no longer bed-bound and would begin resuming his duties within a sennight, fearful for the Saxon who showed little improvement, and vexed by the physician whose eyes felt like hands upon her.
“He thinks I am to be his,” she muttered as she made her way abovestairs. “I think not.”
It could be no secret he was unable to keep inside what wanted—non, needed—out, that he could not leash it as he had told must be done Edgar and his ambitions. But just as Theriot had been prepared for the guards who entered hours after he raised himself from the corner into which he slammed himself, he was prepared for those who came next.
Likely more than they marveled over his appearance, they marveled over the state of the hut. He had thrown and overturned all that could be made to suffer even a small portion of wh
at he endured, but to avoid being bound while the mess was cleaned, he had set it aright, rearranging all to allow him to negotiate his prison without reaching hands before him and groping walls and edges—and certainly not sweeping a cane as the physician believed would be his fate.
Other than the clay pitcher reduced to pieces, there should be no evidence of brokenness since he had cast all he destroyed atop the fire and it was a half hour since their scent stung his nostrils.
“Sir Theriot,” Malcolm said, “I have with me—”
“Princess Margaret,” he said, having heard the guards outside acknowledge her. “I may be unable to look upon the Aetheling’s sister, but my ears yet serve me well.” He pushed up out of the chair whose creak evidenced his earlier assault on it and straightened the tunic Marguerite had returned to him. Then shifting eyes from the king and down to the right where he was certain the lady stood, he bowed. “Princess.”
“Sir Theriot,” she answered in a voice that should not be so melodious for the offense this chevalier had dealt her brother. “I am gladdened—and surprised—at how well you appear.”
Which he would not had he remained in the ill-fitting, abused garments and not dragged fingers through his hair. “The storm is past,” he said, “and now to discover what can be made of the ship broken on the rocks before its pieces are swept out to sea.”
“That is nearly poetic, Chevalier, and surely a sign your mind heals as well as your body.”
It was good he had given anger its due and it had exhausted him. Otherwise, what was offensive, even if unintentional, would have caused him to sharply inform her his body could not be said to be healing well since its greatest injury was to his eyes.
Shifting them to the king, he said, “I did not expect you to come again—that whatever you wished done with your violent prisoner would be done by order.”
“And you would have been right had not this godly woman made a good argument for delivering what Lady Marguerite said you wished returned.”
Theriot did not have to think far on what that was. Though tempted to tell the princess to leave it on the stool near the door to sooner restore his privacy, he said, “What argument, that?”
