by Beleaguered
Holding onto the sides of the tub, she eased one foot into the water. “Oooh, that is cold.” Mayhap she should have heated the water after all. She wavered then, with a sigh, dipped her other foot in. “’Twill only be cold a short time.” She squatted, staring at the door as she lowered her bottom toward the chilly water.
“Merciful Lord.” The door remained unbarred. Even after Geoffrey’s admonition about her safety, she had neglected to bolt it with the heavy crossbar. Anyone could come in and find her…
Alyse clambered out of the wooden tub so fast she almost pitched onto the floor. She scurried to the door, slid the bar home in its cradle, and raced back to the bathtub. Now no one could enter. She glanced down at her naked breasts, bouncing slightly, and stopped her headlong flight. The door lay securely barred. Who was there to see? She could walk as slowly as she wished.
These are wicked thoughts, my lady. Her good sense tried to assert itself.
So? Is it a sin to walk to your bath? The voice of reason sounded soothing in her mind. You could walk as slowly as though in a pavanne, showing yourself off regally, and no one would ever know.
God would know.
Alyse laughed and whirled around in the center of the room, arms outstretched. “God knows everything. Sees everything. So surely he has seen my body before.” She giggled when she tipped over and caught herself on the table. Enough of this fancy. She must get on with her bath.
Once more she stepped into the tub, squealing at the chilly water, but finally sitting cross-legged in it. She leaned her head back against the rim, letting the anxieties of the past few days ease out of her. In only a short time she was luxuriating in water that felt like silk to her skin. She closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.
Alyse came to with a start, her limbs cramped and cold. She had fallen asleep, letting the cool water leech the warmth from her body. Shivering, she arose, gingerly putting weight on her feet as a prickly pain assailed her. How long had she slept? The light and shadows from the window said ’twas afternoon. Had she truly been asleep so long?
She stepped out of the tub, a mucky tendril of hair plastering itself to her face. God’s death. She had not even had the sense to wash her hair. Wearily, she fetched the soap, bent over the tub, and dunked her head into the water, the cold water drawing a hiss from her as it shocked her scalp.
’Twas colder than when she first climbed in the bath. Shaking, she lathered and rinsed her hair then dried it in a sheet. Her trembling increased. Mayhap if she crawled under the covers, they would warm her. She let the wet cloth drop and tottered across the room as it began to spin. She bumped into the bed and sprawled onto the coverlet.
Her shaking increased. It took all her strength to push the blanket aside and crawl under it. Rest. She needed to rest and wait for Geoffrey.
* * * *
Geoffrey took the stairs two at a time, impatience to be with Alyse speeding his feet. His duty to King Edward had been fulfilled as best it could be. All he could do now was hope His Majesty’s ships still lay untouched at harbor in Bordeaux. The gates to the city had been closed to him when he arrived this morning. Great clouds of smoke drifted over the city walls, and it took him some time to find someone to explain.
The pestilence had scourged the townsfolk so thoroughly—more than half the souls of the port town had already died of it—that the mayor’s final recourse had been to burn the ships at dock in hopes of stemming the tide of death. Geoffrey prayed that even in his extremity the mayor had forbidden the firing of the royal ships. But he could do nothing. After securing such meager knowledge as he could, he had set his spur to Saracen and hied himself home.
Quiet prevailed inside the manor house, its coolness a welcome treat after the hour long ride in the blazing sun. A bath would be a treat also. He could use Alyse’s water from the morning; no need to fatigue himself again with carrying heavy buckets. There were more pleasant ways to tire himself out.
He broke into a sprint at the thought of her waiting for him in their bed. His hunger for her would never be sated, he feared, though he would bear that burden cheerfully all his days. How fortunate they had the long afternoon as well as the night to enjoy themselves before setting out in the morning. He would see to it the night was memorable for them both.
“Alyse,” he called as he depressed the latch and pushed the door. It did not move. “It is I, love. I have returned early. Alyse?” He tried the door again, but it would not budge. Had she barred it and then fallen asleep?
“Alyse!” He pounded on the door, his gloved fist making little chips of wood fly with each blow. Had she drowned in that cursed tub? He steeled himself against such thoughts. Discipline and determination were the only weapons he possessed that might aid him in this moment. Fear had no place on the battlefield.
Why she had barred the door was not the immediate question. How to get into the chamber was. A quick inspection of the door assured him ’twould be fruitless to seek entry there. The stout oak was inches thick. Had he a company of men and a battering ram he would make short work of it, but alone he stood no chance. The adjacent walls, however, held more promise.
He tapped one with the hilt of his sword, and the hollow ring brought a grunt of satisfaction. Not solid stone, but a composite of stone and lath covered in a layer of lime. He gripped the blade and swung the hilt at the wall to the left of the door. If he could break through there, mayhap he could pull the bar back and enter.
Crack.
The wall splintered, pulverized plaster flying everywhere. Another blow, and the wooden laths began to show. He redoubled his efforts. Alyse could have slipped getting out of the tub. The image of Mary lying dead on the floor of their chamber arose to taunt him. There was no time to lose. Winding the weapon as far back over his left shoulder as possible, he let fly with all his pent-up fear behind it. Rock and wood shattered, sending up a shower of choking rubble and dust. The hilt lodged between rock and wooden slat. Good. Almost there.
Geoffrey pushed the pommel through, then drew the sword back and stooped to peer through the tiny hole. Nothing. He moved his mouth to the hole. “Alyse! Alyse. Love, are you there?”
No sound. God’s breath. Where was she?
He stood again and resumed battering the wall. A fine white dust settled over his blue tunic, but he cared not. Finally, he had enlarged the hole so he could fit his hand inside. Cheek pressed against the wall and the edge of the door, he felt for the end of the bar. It must be here somewhere. Mayhap a bit higher….
His hand brushed against the solid, square iron bar, and he surged upward, grasping it. He pulled, but his gloved fingers slipped from the bar. “Damnation!” He snatched his hand back through the hole, bit the tips of the fingers, and stripped the glove off. He rammed his hand into the room, found the bar again, squeezed the end, and pulled.
“Ahhhh!” Would the cursed thing never move? Sweat popped out on his brow and slid down into his eyes. He shook his head and tried again. Gripping the bar until his fingers must sink into it, he gave a huge jerk, and finally the iron rod inched toward him. He took hold of it with his whole hand, lifted, and tugged on it. The bar slid as far as the hole would allow, and he inched it back until he judged it had cleared the door.
He jumped up and grabbed for the door handle. The door swung inward easily, and his attention went straight to the bath tub. No one in there, or on the floor beside it. He released the breath he held.
Thank Christ.
He turned to the bed, and there she lay, half under the covers, her hair straggling across the pillow. “Alyse, thank God.” He strode to her, relief pouring through him.
I must pace our love play from now on lest she live perpetually in an exhausted state.
He chuckled and stroked her rosy cheek. The sound died, and his heart sank. His hand burned as though it had been thrust against a pot just taken from a fire. Swiftly, he laid his hand to her forehead, where another fire raged. Her hands were no better. “Oh, Alyse, no!”
&
nbsp; His cry roused her sufficiently to open her sunken eyes and peer at him. “Geoffrey. The bath water was cold, and after I washed, I could not get warm again. Now ’tis like I stand in the snow.” She shivered and tried to grasp the covers. “What is wrong with me?”
“Shhh, love. ’Twill be all right.” He could think of naught else to say to comfort her, yet nothing would ever be right an she died. “Let me fetch soft cloths and a basin of water to cool you.”
“I…am c…cold already.”
“’Tis the fever, Alyse. The coolness will help reduce it.” He gathered the things quickly, loath to leave her side for even a minute. He sponged her face, then neck, then chest and belly even though she protested and continued to shake.
“’Tis the pestilence, is it not?” She drew breath carefully. “You should go, my love.” The words were said with more strength than he would have expected from her. Stubborn to the end.
“And where would you have me go, sweetheart? My place is here with you.” He fought to remain calm when he wanted to rail and curse God. Why must He take the one thing without which he could not live? After having stolen the few weeks of happiness they might have shared ere this.
“You must live, Geoffrey. Let me die knowing that at least you are safe.”
He dropped the cloth back into the basin and wrung out the tepid water. It heated quickly with the warmth Alyse gave off. “There is nowhere to call safe, love. They die by the hundreds in Bordeaux and across the countryside. If I am to be taken by this scourge then I will be taken here by your side.” Grasping her hands, he squeezed them, and stared into her eyes. “I was torn away from you once. Only death will part us again.” He raised her hand and kissed it, though it burned his lips. “Now let me get cooler water. ’Twill help you.”
As he poured the water, he bent over the basin. Pain, sharp and all-consuming, washed over him. Useless. He was useless to her. She would die, and he could do nothing. ’Twould have been better had he succumbed if it meant she lived. Why would God not grant them that one boon?
“Geoffrey?”
“I am here, love.” He straightened and took the cooler water back to the bed.
“You must go.”
He gently shook his head and wiped her hot forehead. “I told you I would not—”
“To a monastery.”
Fever dreams. He had seen his share in the wounded in the aftermath of a battle. Had had one or two himself where he dreamed strange, disconnected things. She could not think he would spend the rest of his days shut away in contemplation when he could end it now and save himself more suffering. “I am certainly not one to follow holy orders, Alyse.”
A smile flitted across her lips. “Nay, that you are not. But know you of a monastery near Loremo? Benedictines, if possible, but any order will do.”
She wanted a last confession. “Hush, love. We were shriven several days ago. I do not believe we have committed a mortal sin since that time. Why need you a priest?”
“They have medical knowledge. My uncle Antoine told me.” She clutched his hand. “I would have you go and find if they possess a treatment or cure for this cursed illness.”
“Go? And leave you alone? Nay, love, I cannot.” What if she died while he was gone? Alone and frightened? How could he return to this room not knowing if he would find her alive?
She closed her eyes and shivered. “It is my only hope, Geoffrey. All the others have died of this.”
Blessed Virgin, what should I do?
There seemed but one true choice.
At last, he sighed. “Aye, there is a monastery. Montclair, the one where I found Brother Augustus, although I know not if ’twas Benedictine. ’Tis almost an hour’s ride from here down the road toward Bordeaux, before taking a road that goes to Montclair. The monastery is on the hill.” He sat on the bed and took her hand. “But Brother Augustus may have left or died. There were precious few clergy remaining when I went there four days ago.”
“Do they have a hospital attached to the monastery?”
“I know not. My order was to bring a priest, and that is what I did.”
Her face contorted, and she shook violently as a chill swept her naked body. Geoffrey tossed the cloth into the basin and drew the covers over her. She continued to shake, so hard the bed quivered. He rushed to the nearest chest and plundered it, searching for more cover. After finding nothing in three of them, he discovered the linen chest and drew out two blankets. He piled them on top of her and waited an eternity until the shivering abated.
His shoulders drooped, and he smoothed her brow and took her hand again. A sudden resolve calmed him. ’Twas always good to have a plan, even in the most desperate of circumstances. A plan suggested hope of victory.
“As you will it, my love, I will leave you for a time, to see if the brothers can give me knowledge enough to save your life. Need you anything ere I go?”
“I am thirsty.”
He leaped up and poured her a cup, and him one as well. ’Twould be a long, hot journey with fear in his heart the whole way forth and back. Best fortify himself as best he could. He held the wine for her to drink, and when she finally shook her head, set the half-full cup on the table next to the bed.
“I will return as soon as I can, love. Please wait for me.”
She nodded then closed her eyes.
He stared at her, committing her beloved face to memory. Then he strode from the chamber, determined to find some miracle at Montclair.
Chapter 13
For the second time that day, Geoffrey found himself in the saddle, racing down the long road toward Bordeaux. He reined Saracen in when he reached the turning, and swung the animal to the left. Not far now. Another ten minutes brought him to a bend of the road. In the middle of a sand and grass clearing sat the ancient monastery. He pulled the horse to a stop before the main gate and jumped down almost before he had halted. He stumbled toward the bell that announced visitors and rang it sharply. Its clanging shattered the stillness of the afternoon, bringing the discordant cawing of crows from a nearby field.
He shifted from foot to foot in the hot sunshine, hoping, praying that someone would answer. Again he pulled the rope—harder this time—and the clanging bell seemed more adamant. He strode to the edge of the structure to peer around the side, searching for any movement at all. Had they all died? The monastery wall went straight back several hundred feet, with no sign of access or egress along the wall. Head drooping, he turned back to the door only to find it open, and Brother Augustus standing half out of the doorway, frowning.
“Ho, Brother Augustus.” Geoffrey ran toward him, and the monk fled back into the dark recesses of the building, shutting the door. “Wait.” He pounded on the door as it closed.
“Nay, my lord,” Brother Augustus called from behind the entry, “I will no longer leave this place while the pestilence rages. We here are sore pressed with the many clergy who have gone to God already. Our numbers now are less than twenty.”
“I do not want your presence, only your knowledge. Please, I beg of you!” He pounded on the door again, his fist making it jump on its hinges. “For the sake of God, open the door!” He rattled the handle. ’Twould not take much to tear it from its fastenings. He grasped the lever and gave a great heave. Nothing.
“’Sblood!” He rained blows on the door, the hollow booming sending up birds from a nearby tree, yet the portal remained in place.
He sank to his knees in the dust, the sun’s heat baking into him. This had been a fool’s errand. Instead of spending what little time remained with Alyse, he had wasted the precious hours fruitlessly. If knowledge of the disease existed, the monks would deny it him.
He sank onto his knees and laid his head on the dusty ground, his stomach retching. Alyse would surely die. He knew it now as well as he knew the names of the saints. And his life would simply stop. He could not go on with a heart broken beyond repair. ’Twould be best to take a last kiss from his love, take her sickness onto himself, an
d die with her.
He must get back to the manor. There was so little time left now.
With great effort, he raised his head and blinked. A vision had appeared before him.
Five figures in dark brown monk’s robes, cowls drawn up around their faces, clustered about him, staring down with varying degrees of interest. Geoffrey lurched back, falling on his backside. The brother in the middle, taller than the rest with a spare frame made more spindly by the looseness of his robe, stepped toward him, and extended a hand.
“Ave, my son. I am Brother Sebastian. Why do you seek us? Are you hurt or ill?”
Geoffrey grasped the proffered hand and rose to his feet. The kindness in this man’s weary voice made him dare hope anew. “Nay, Brother Sebastian. I am Sir Geoffrey Longford, and I have neither hurt nor illness, though I come on behalf of one who is gravely ill.”
“Do they have the great pestilence?” His voice lowered, the compassion in it heart-wrenching.
“Aye.”
Brother Sebastian shook his head and made the sign of the cross. “May God have mercy on their soul.”
“She lives yet, Brother.” Geoffrey fisted his hands at his sides. He would not jeopardize hope of gaining information by laying the man flat. “I have come to see if you or any of your brethren have remedies for this disease? Are there any who you have seen survive? Mayhap if something was done for them it could work for another.” They must know something. They had seen the sick for weeks; surely they had noted differences in the patients?
“Nay, my lord. There is truly naught that may be done for those who suffer this dread disease. Nothing seems to make a difference. We make them as comfortable as possible, but in the end they go to God.” Brother Sebastian crossed himself, as did the other monks.
“Except for Brother Michel.”
Geoffrey stiffened, so stunned he could scarce draw breath.
A different voice had spoken, the last figure on the right. This brother was much smaller than the others, younger, Geoffrey would say. Eager to help, too, so it seemed. “Brother Michel had the sickness several weeks ago, and after two days of fever and chills and the great tumors that filled his body, his fever left him and though he is weak, he lives yet.”
