He sucked then shook his head just a touch as pain crossed his face. He opened his eyes and looked at her. His mouth worked, and his breathing made a harsh noise in his throat. She leaned closer, trying to understand. His voice was a rasp over injured flesh, less than a whisper in the quiet room. “Don’t try to talk,” she murmured, more to herself than to the wounded man.
He plucked at the blanket. This time the look in his eyes was so desperate it caught her attention despite her wish to turn away. He motioned weakly with one finger, as his lips worked. She bent her head to his mouth as he gasped out two syllables with an intensity that surprised her.
Who—or where—in the world was “Lucy”?
CHAPTER 4
The pain ebbed and flowed like a tide, sometimes diminishing, sometimes intensifying, always present. The voices that filtered through Richard’s fogged brain said nothing he could understand, although sometimes he picked up a cadence or two that sounded familiar. It was as if he had fallen from the ruined tower into a looking-glass world like Alice’s where nothing made sense.
He must be out of his mind with pain, he thought, or hallucinating from the drugs they were giving him—that didn’t seem to be working all that well. The woman who resembled Lucy came and went with predictable frequency, replaced or sometimes joined by an older woman dressed like a nun. Lucy herself, if that’s who she was, was dressed like a nun, too, he noticed, when the pain dulled enough to allow him to notice such things.
He continued puzzled by the lack of drugs and intravenous equipment, the rudeness of his surroundings. He was fed things that tasted like broth and wine and herbal tea of some sort, his bandages changed, his body bathed. But for the most part, he drifted in and out of consciousness, incapable of wondering about anything for very long.
More than a week had passed since Richard had been carried back to the keep. Eleanor marveled at the tenacity with which he clung to life, although he was either asleep or unconscious much of the time. Sometimes he raved, muttering in a language she could not understand, but assumed was some obscure Arab tongue learned in the years when he had been on Crusade in the Holy land with the Lion Heart.
Once in a while he woke, and his eyes followed her, staring at her with such intensity it made her shiver. Did he remember that she had tried to kill him? If he did, it was not something he was likely to forget. Or forgive.
On a cool morning when Eleanor was sorting clean bandages beside the bedroom hearth, Ursula knocked on the door and entered with Geoffrey de Courville at her heels.
“What’s wrong?” She knew de Courville would never have invaded the sickroom unless the matter was urgent.
“You’d better come, my lady,” Ursula began, twisting her hands in the fabric of her gown.
“Giscard Fitzwilliam is in the hall, my lady.” Geoffrey cut Ursula off brusquely. He wore a leather jerkn over his tunic and hose, his face runneled with sweat. She realized he had come from the courtyard where the men-at-arms were in the midst of their morning drills.
The bandages tumbled from her lap as Eleanor got to her feet. “I’ll come at once. Ursula, see that our neighbor has some refreshments after his journey.” Ursula opened her mouth to protest, but the look on Eleanor’s face stopped her. “Will you come with me, Sir Geoffrey?”
The knight glanced once at the man on the bed, and grimly offered Eleanor his arm. Ursula hastened down the steps with a reproachful glance. On the steps, still out of sight of the main Hall, Eleanor paused. “Sir Geoffrey?” She glanced up. She didn’t think him worthy of the title—he wasn’t so much a man as a fighting machine with the same enormous appetites for food and women and wine as Richard.
“My lady?” The knight’s voice was impassive. His dark eyes were hooded, his forehead beaded with sweat. His cheeks and neck were flushed with his morning exertions, and the muscles of his heavy arms and chest strained against the ragged tunic he wore for the drills. His expression was, as always, unreadable.
Eleanor shivered and reminded herself that whatever he was or was not, his life was sworn to Richard—that in matters pertaining to the defense of the demesnes, she could trust him implicitly. “We must not let Fitzwilliam know how serious my lord’s condition is. If he were to believe that Richard might die…please, follow my direction when it comes to a discussion of my lord’s health.”
“I understand, my lady.” De Courville was only slightly less brusque with her than he usually was.
“Thank you.” Eleanor raised her chin and picked up her faded skirts, painfully aware that Fitzwilliam was not likely to overlook the shabbiness of her dress, and the general neglect of the manor.
In the hall, Giscard lounged by the fire, munching the oatcakes set before him. He was holding his goblet up as Ursula poured wine from a heavy skin.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened involuntarily, then she deliberately arranged her face in what she hoped was a smile of restrained welcome. “My lord.” She bowed, just the slightest dip. “We are honored.”
Giscard smiled as he swallowed. “Indeed, my Lady de Lambert, the honor is mine.”
Eleanor doubted he had any honor at all. Giscard Fitzwilliam was some twenty years older than her husband, and despite his name and his lineage, looked more Saxon than Norman. His thinning hair was blond, and his face was broad and would have been fair skinned had years of hard living and constant exposure to the elements not reddened it. His little eyes darted up and down her body in a glance that made her want to cross her arms over her breasts. He took another oatcake, and munched as he gestured for her to join him.
Deliberately Eleanor seated herself on another bench and waited.
“Come to bring you some news,” he said with a mouth full of food. “Old Prince Rhawn is dead—died of apoplexy they say, when he heard your lord’s latest work, and his heir, Llewellis, has sworn revenge. But now I understand he may have already accomplished his goal.”
“Oh, my lord?” asked Eleanor. “And just how do you understand that?”
Giscard snorted, and waved at de Courville, who stood glowering just behind Eleanor. “Heel your hound, lady. It’s no secret your lord lies close to death. I come to bring you a warning, to guard your walls and your fields—that fine crop of yours is not yet in.”
“Indeed, we must alert our men.” Hugh’s young voice rang down the length of the hall. “They were lax enough to let you in.”
Eleanor flinched. Although she understood the reason, Hugh’s blatant antagonism was unwise.
Giscard quaffed the whole goblet of wine, and set it down with a thud. “Still haven’t been forced out of the den, puppy? Never mind.” He smiled at Eleanor. “If de Lambert should die, I’m sure His Grace will hear my petition to wed his widow.” He stood up, and leaned down over Eleanor as though to kiss her cheek. Instead his hot breath burned her ear. “I mean to have you, my lady. I won’t be thwarted next time. I mean to make all of this mine.”
“My sister won’t have you.” Hugh had come to stand beside Geoffrey.
Giscard reached over and patted Hugh’s cheek. “It’s not a choice that will be hers to make.”
Hugh opened his mouth, even as Geoffrey wrapped one arm around the boy’s mouth and the other around his shoulders and lifted Hugh off his feet. “We shall certainly take all care, my lord, to ensure the safety of Lady Eleanor while Lord Richard heals.”
“My husband mends quickly,” said Eleanor.
“I’m on my way to join the King…I shall be sure to mention Lord Richard’s unfortunate state
of health, as well as your precarious position. I might even ask him for a few men at arms to reinforce my lands…no telling what hornet’s nest is now stirred up. Good day, my lady. Sir knight.” He gave them all a brief bow and stalked away with such a self-satisfied expression Eleanor wished she could kick him in the backside.
When the heavy doors slammed behind him, Eleanor turned to Hugh. “Are you mad? Are you trying to provoke him? He’s one of the king’s favorites—didn’t
you hear him? A few of the king’s own men at arms to reinforce his men? That’s a threat, Hugh…he’s as likely to turn those men on us as on the Welsh.”
“Do you fancy yourself wedded to him?” Hugh spat back. “Why not give him Barland now—why wait for de Lambert to die?” Hugh would have said more, but de Courville picked him up by the scruff of his collar and shook him as though he were an ill-behaved puppy.
“You’ve the manners of a stable boy.” De Courville looked at Eleanor. “By your leave, my lady, it’s time this brat exercised more than his jaw.” He gave Hugh a little shake, and dragged him off without a backward look, Hugh kicking and shouting in protest.
Eleanor watched them go. She knew that Hugh only wanted to watch out for what he perceived to be her best interests, and that of the estate, but he was much too impetuous. It was not only foolish to antagonize Fitzwilliam, it was dangerous as well. He was too close to the King. Even a dozen extra men-at-arms would give him an advantage over the ones Barland could muster, especially since those royal men-at-arms were outfitted and trained by the King.
She shivered. Unless the Marshal could be induced to intervene, it was even possible that John could command her favors, then pass her along to Fitzwilliam, like an unwanted bratchet hound.
Slowly she made her way back to the bedroom, where Ursula was brewing a batch of willow-bark tea. She sank down in the chair beside the bed and watched as Ursula worked. Perhaps the abbey in Rouen was the answer. What sort of life could she hope to have here between the Welsh and Fitzwilliam and de Lambert?
It was time to put aside all those girlhood dreams and fancies and hopes and wishes. They were silly, and innocent as the child she’d been. Let them be as fleeting as the years she’d spent within the convent walls. Time to put fantasies aside and deal with reality. No knight in shining chain mail was coming to save her. Better a life as a bride of Christ than the bride of a devil in the guise of a man.
She sank into the chair, and picked up a pair of hose that needed mending. Perhaps she would write to her aunt tonight.
The snap and hiss of the fire roused Richard from sleep. He opened his eyes. Afternoon sun streamed through the one narrow window, and a strong wind wailed outside the walls. For the first time in what seemed like a long time, his mind was clear and unclouded by pain. He felt the coarse linen bedclothes beneath his hands, and tried to speak. His voice was a rasp, and pain flooded his throat. He touched his neck, and was amazed to feel a thick wad of bandages.
Instantly a woman was by his side. In the clear light of day, he stared at the face bending over him. It was not much different from Lucy’s face—the same heart shape, wide across the high cheekbones, narrowing into a little pointed chin. Her eyes were nearly that same shade of blue he clung to in memory, her mouth the same delicate pink bow.
But her hair was covered by some sort of scarf that fell over her shoulders, and her gown—Richard blinked and shook his head. So he hadn’t been dreaming. She was dressed like a nun—and a poor one at that. Her skirt bore evidence of many mends, and her patched apron was a uniform shade of pale yellowish gray, as though the detergent she used wasn’t very effective. “Lucy?” It came out as “Oo-sie.”
“Sh, mon sire. Paroles pas.”
He frowned. That almost sounded French. Why wasn’t she speaking English? Or was his brain damaged in some way? Was he going to have to learn to talk all over again?
Carefully she raised his head with one arm, and held a cup to his lips—a clay cup that looked as if it had been shaped on a most uneven wheel. The now-familiar, bitter taste of the herbal tea made him gag. That hadn’t been a dream, either. This was all real—more real than his fevered mind had wanted to believe.
The older woman he’d come to recognize peered over Lucy’s shoulder, and said something to her. Richard listened closely as Lucy replied in the same tongue. There—that word—wasn’t that the old French word for “you”?
He made as if to raise himself on one elbow and winced as the pain in his side flared again. The woman stood back, as though afraid. “Help me?” He tried to speak as clearly as he could, but the injury to his throat mangled the words beyond recognition even to his own ears.
They looked at each other and Richard saw fear in their eyes and complete confusion. Biting back a curse, he pushed the sheets out of the way, and rolled over onto his good side, pushing himself up to a half-sitting position. He stared down at the length of the naked body now fully exposed, shocked beyond words.
This was not the body he’d known, the body of an aging American grown soft with long hours sitting behind a desk, and too much food too well cooked. This was the body of a man in the very prime of his life—surely no more than thirty—in the very peak of physical condition. Even in his twenties, Richard didn’t think he’d ever looked like this.
Now his pale, almost white skin puckered with red scars was covered with a thick pelt of dark hair. He was heavily muscled across the chest, his legs long as young trees. In the nest of pubic hair beneath his flat ribbed belly, nestled his uncircumsized penis. Uncircumsized. Richard blinked. How was that possible?
In front of the women he resisted the urge to touch himself, and continued his overall assessment. Long bandages ran around his midsection, another over his right shoulder and around his chest. He brought his hand up to his face, and stared. This hand was not the hand of an attorney who had spent most of the last twenty-five years writing briefs and poring over law books. The back of this hand was covered with more of the coarsely curling black hair, the skin hard with calluses and disfigured with scars. The littlest finger was misshapen, and the very tip looked as though it had been hacked off long ago. He touched his face, feeling the rough growth of many days’ beard.
He gazed around the room, seeing for the first time the bed on which he lay. The posts were squared, there was a red and blue canopy above his head, and at the sides, heavy curtains of wool were looped back by thickly woven braids of what looked like yarn. The walls of the room were whitewashed, the floor covered with what looked to be some sort of long leaves.
He looked over his shoulder at the two women who stared at him with what could only be fear. He tried to say something, but his throat flared with pain. The older woman patted the younger on the arm, and leaned toward him, beckoning as she spoke. Although the words eluded him, he understood she wanted him to lie back flat. Slowly he complied, and the younger woman—Lucy—looked over her shoulder.
“Ursula, tais. Nel dire.”
This time he understood the name and the general sense of what was being said. Ursula. The older woman’s name was Ursula. And Lucy—or whatever her name was—wanted her to be quiet. But they were not speaking any language Richard recognized.
The women conversed, just a few short exchanges, and again he had a feeling of the general sense of what they were saying, although the individual words escaped him. It was like his body understood the words, but his mind didn’t. He fell back against the pillows and they moved as one to cover him.
Richard closed his eyes. This was a hallucination, he decided, brought on by the combination of drugs and his injuries. Somewhere it was really the 21st century, not the 11th or the 12th or whenever the hell this placed looked like it was. Somewhere. He opened his eyes and stared directly into the scene above his head, woven into the fabric. As he looked at it, he realized it was a scene that depicted an angel blowing a trumpet over a pair of open gates. Judgement Day, thought Richard. It occurred to him suddenly that maybe he really was dead, and this was some weird kind of purgatory.
In front of the fireplace, the women stood with their eyes closed. They seemed to be reciting prayers as the younger one stirred something into a steaming pot.
Richard racked his brain, and then astonishingly, something clicked. The language they were speaking was the languge in which Lucy used to read some of her favorite poetry, sing some of her favorite songs. He strained to listen more closely to their muttered conversation, and finally ca
ught a word he knew. “Tei.” “Tei” which, in medieval French, meant “you.”
He decided to try it. He eased up one elbow on his uninjured side. “Tei,” he rasped.
The effect on the women was electric. Both of them jumped, and the one who resembled Lucy looked at him with that obvious fear. She asked him something in a tone that made him realize she really was afraid of him, and he shook his head and lowered his eyes as he collapsed once more on the pillow. He stared up at the impassive face of the trumpet wielding angel. He had no idea hallucinations could be so detailed. But how could he have hallucinated this? There were objects in the room he had no names for, objects he didn’t know existed and had no idea what they might be used for beyond an educated guess. How could a hallucination include things like that?
And his uncircumsized penis? What strange iteration of his mind would’ve restored that long-lost foreskin? Then he remembered Lucy’s refusal to circumsize their sons, claiming that in Europe it was never a common practice unless done for religious reasons. Richard forced himself to take slow deep breaths, even as his hands clutched the coarse fabric, clung to it, as if to reality itself.
The women were speaking the same language as Lucy’s poetry, he was sure of it now. The more he listened, the more he intuitively understood, although the actual meaning of every word continued to elude him. But at least he could recognize it as medieval French.
The older woman, Ursula, approached with steaming goblet in her hand, and a clean cloth on her arm. She spoke, and this time he caught the words “Sire de Lambert.” Not “Lamb-bert,” the modern pronunciation. But “duh Lom-bear.” Medieval French again. Where the hell was he?
He pushed her arm away gently, and rolled over once more onto his uninjured side. He pulled the sheet across the bed and awkwardly wrapped it around his lower body, all the while ignoring the older woman’s squawks.
[1997] Once and Future Love Page 4
