He couldn’t feign that!
He hadn’t so much as moaned when she’d poked him and let him collapse to the floor, either.
Remorse filled her, lending haste to her movements. She returned to his side and checked his bandages. Blood seeped from both the one on his neck and his arm, and must have been doing so for some time. When she slid her hand under him to shift him from the floor to the pallet, she could tell the back of his shirt was soaked with it as well.
She situated him on the low bed and eased the garment over his head. It looked as bad as it had felt—soggy with the blood that now besmirched them both. There was so much of it; how could he not have noticed? ’Twas no wonder he’d collapsed—she was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. She turned him onto his side; a rivulet of red trailed down his back, and a smaller one trickled down his front, pooling in the thick mass of dark blond curls covering his chest and stomach.
So much blood…but bright and newly spilled, from the look of it.
Perhaps when he’d fallen earlier the wounds had opened. And when she’d lain beneath him, he’d propped himself up on his arms, she recalled—that might have added to the problem.
It might explain why he hadn’t been aware of it then, if he’d been as distracted as she had been, but afterward….
Afterward they’d argued.
Julianna unwound the linen strip from around Will’s arm and frowned at the ugly sight. ’Twas swollen and red, oozing blood and worse. She hadn’t stitched the cut, hoping it would mend fine on its own—and if he’d put no pressure on it, mayhap it would have.
Or perhaps not. In truth, she hated to sew, especially if she was sticking her needle into someone’s skin. She did a bad enough job when using a piece of cloth, but to mangle a man’s flesh in that manner was far worse.
If only Mary hadn’t been so far gone in drink that she couldn’t help.
If only she hadn’t been such a coward.
Sighing, she gently pressed the cloth over the arm wound and peeked under the edge of the bandage about his neck. From the look of it, stitches would improve that situation as well.
Now Will would pay the price of her cowardice, for the cuts appeared puffy and felt hot to the touch—’twould be far more painful for him than if she’d done the deed the night before.
She wiped the blood from her fingers and laid one hand on his chest above his heart. Heat radiated from him, though his heart pulsed steady and strong beneath her touch. A fever, too—not unusual in these circumstances, but one more problem to deal with before she could pronounce him healed and decided what to do with him.
Keep him captive?
Send him on his way?
If she could.
’Twould be foolish to try to make sense of what that means, Julianna! she cautioned herself. Shaking her head as though ’twould clear her mind, she returned her attention to Will.
Julianna gave but brief thought to calling for Mary’s help; no doubt the woman still lay on the floor of the barracks. ’Twould not be the first time she’d been useless for several days after going on a drunken binge, nor was it like to be the last.
Lowering her head, she sought for patience out of the frustration that rose within her at the thought. She would have sent Mary on her way long since, if only she hadn’t sworn to her parents that she’d care for everyone who dwelled within her domain.
Perhaps things would be different—of a certainty, her life would be—if she’d been in truth the noble lady those outside Tuck’s Tower believed her to be—
The Bride of the Tower.
She gave a mirthless laugh as she called the foolish legend to mind. It said she was fated to wed a man worthy of Lady Marian’s daughter, to provide for their people and care for them as Julianna’s father—her true father—would have, had he lived.
But the only groom she could foresee in her future was Tuck’s Tower itself. She felt wedded to the place most truly, and could not imagine finding any man who would permit her to be herself, to continue to serve her people in every way she could. What potential suitors she’d had—and there’d not been many she’d met face-to-face—had tended to run fast and far when they’d learned Lady Julianna could wield a sword most competently, shoot a bow with her father’s legendary skill, but knew little and cared less about embroidering, spinning or managing a household.
Most likely the sight of her, armed and armor-clad, unabashedly a warrior, had quelled their passion a mite as well.
To blazes with the lot of them! She could manage on her own.
And she had to admit, Tuck’s Tower made as fine a husband as any. She could dress as she pleased, and she need not worry about arguments, orders or demands for her to abandon her unlady-like ways.
That thought raised her spirits.
They crashed down to earth again when she gazed at the man sprawled before her. A castle made a cold bedmate on the long, lonely nights, nor was it apt to fire her blood and flesh the way her brief contact with Sir William Bowman had done.
Yet for all she knew, he’d a woman or a wife—or both, mayhap—back home among his people, wherever that was. Womanly women, ladies who knew how to dress, to sing, to do all the ladylike activities that had held not the faintest trace of interest for her.
Until now.
Would Will find her attractive if she dragged out the coffer of clothes her mother had sewn for her years ago, before it became obvious Julianna would not wear them? If she draped her body in silks and fine woolens, laced tight about her ribs till she thought she’d not be able to breathe? Tamed the unruly mass of her hair, draped a gauzy veil over it, and learned to move with an angel’s grace? What if she sat silently beside him at table, head bowed demurely, awaiting his pleasure?
Even if he did find that woman to his taste, would Julianna consider him—or a man like him, one who made her yearn to be a woman in every way with him, for him—worth the sacrifices she would have to make?
Will groaned and shifted on the pallet, nudging her from her reverie and returning her attention to more important matters.
Just look at how he’d jumbled her wits, made her forget too many important things—and she knew so little of him, save that he was handsome, could be charming, appeared strong—and he made her feel in a way no man had ever done before.
’Twas not enough, however, to tempt her to change her life, to venture into an uncertain territory where she had no dominion.
Aye, she was a coward indeed.
Julianna thought again of calling for Mary—for anyone—to assist her with her unpleasant task, then shook her head at her own spinelessness. Muttering beneath her breath lest she wake Will, for she’d far rather stitch him up while he wouldn’t move, protest or fight, she retrieved her basket of simples from beside the door and crossed the small chamber to throw wide the heavy shutters for more light.
Whether he would remain silent and motionless once she began the gruesome task could help her judge the severity of his condition.
As she held together the edges of the wound on Will’s arm and sank the needle into his flesh, his skin barely twitched despite the pain.
She, however, felt every awkward stab as keenly as if she were the one being stitched up—a phantom sting, true, but no less painful than if ’twere real.
She lowered her head and rested her brow on her arm for a moment, whispering prayers to calm herself. More pleas to the Virgin might help them both, for ’twas all she could do to keep her hands steady.
Though she lacked a lady’s skill at needlework, the least she could do was attempt to mend his poor torn flesh neatly. Besides, she’d seen more than once the results of a wound ill-mended; thick scars, or crookedly sewn gashes, could interfere with the freedom of movement needed to wield a sword or other weapons.
She could do no less than try to restore this warrior to his former strength.
Julianna closed her eyes for a moment and pictured Will uninjured, free to swing a sword or brandish a knife. ’Twas an im
age to light her spirits! God willing, in time he would be able to do so again.
The thought settled her nerves—though it also made her heart race a bit, she had to admit. Enough, Julianna! Calm yourself, you fool. She shook her head and drew the mantle of warrior about herself. ’Twas another battle to be fought and won, nothing more.
Nerves settled, she applied herself to the task, slow and steady, allowing her thoughts to drift back to their previous path.
To the man before her, and what changes she’d brought upon herself and her people by carrying him through the gates of Tuck’s Tower. No matter the outcome of his time here, or the truth of his purpose in the area, she could already sense the changes within herself brought about from their chance encounter.
She felt bolder, more free, yet more reserved—a wariness of revealing too much of herself, even as she wanted to learn everything she could about him. Nay, not only about Will, but also about the world she’d seldom considered—the world that existed beyond her tiny corner of it.
He made her want to expand her horizons, to experience life in ways she’d never before envisioned.
Seldom had she been overly cautious. Even in those situations where she had hesitated to proceed, more often than not she’d managed to gather up her nerve and venture onward.
Could she do so with this man?
And if she did, would he be worth the risk?
Chapter Seven
Julianna poured the last of the water from the pitcher into the basin, savoring the cool bite of it as she dipped her hands in, then scooped it up to rinse her face. Despite the chill, it did little to wash away the weariness dogging her every move, but at least she felt a bit cleaner and more refreshed.
She’d scarcely left the small room next to hers the last two days, for Will’s fever had become worse after he’d collapsed and she’d sewn him up. Only now that he appeared on the mend—his fever had lessened, and his wounds were beginning to heal properly—did she feel free to quit his chamber and tend to herself and some of the business left undone while he’d been so ill.
Though he’d slept almost constantly through the past two days, it had been clear to her that when he spoke—during the brief times when his eyes had been open—that he’d no idea where he was or what was real. She doubted he’d even noticed her. He’d clearly been out of his senses the entire time.
She didn’t know who he had thought he’d been speaking to, but it must have been someone he knew well and felt comfortable with, for he’d smiled and chuckled often—the low, deep sound raking over her like a touch—and his tone and words had been straightforward and easy…almost intimate.
She refused to consider what that meant. It had sounded as though he spoke with a woman, though not a lover or wife. Still, what would she know of such things? A sister, perhaps? It mattered not who it was, at any rate. His personal life was none of her business. She’d do well to remind herself of that fact, and concentrate upon making him well so he could return to his life and whoever he’d left behind.
Still, as she kept watch by his side, she couldn’t help but notice what he said. He’d enlivened her vigil and kept her awake when all she’d wanted was to curl up on the floor beside his pallet and give in to her weariness. When he’d sounded somewhat clear-minded, he’d captured her curiosity and kept her wits well employed as she sought details of his life from his words. ’Twas a blessing he’d kept her so well entertained, she thought wryly, for she didn’t want to miss what he said.
He certainly had a good imagination. When his discourse had rambled from conversation to delirium, it had provided a welcome distraction from her concern as his fever rose and his injuries festered.
Bits and pieces about dragons and virtuous maids, crazed Irish warriors and a dog large enough for a child to ride upon…each tale sounded more fantastical than the next. If not for the fact of Will’s obvious suffering, she’d have enjoyed trying to cobble together what he was trying to say into some sort of tale. He clearly had a knack for storytelling, and was evidently a bit of a prankster, as well, if she judged by some of the things he’d related.
She’d not taken nearly as much pleasure in his words once his imagination had turned to stories of the infamous outlaws of Sherwood Forest. At first she’d been surprised he knew of them. Though he spoke French the same as she, she could hear a difference in his accent; he was from some other part of England altogether, she’d guess. How, then, had he heard about Tuck, Little John, Will Scarlet and others? She’d no notion the tales—or legends, for the stories had swelled to mythical proportions—had become so widely renowned.
As for the hero and heroine of the legends—’twas clear he’d idolized both Maid Marian FitzWalter and Robin of the Hood. When he’d been a child, perhaps? At times it had sounded as though he’d been playing at outlaws with other children, most often one named Gilles.
Mind still awhirl with questions—but more revived now—she dried her face and hands on a piece of linen, then filled the basin with warm water from the bucket on the hearth. Stripping off her wrinkled clothes, she washed, emptying her mind of thought as she took pleasure in the simple act.
Finally dressed in a fresh shirt and braes, she sat in the sun by the window. She could pretend for a while that she’d nothing more important to do than daydream, to brush her hair and allow her thoughts to roam wherever they chose. The rhythmic motion of the brush might soothe her, untie the knot of tension holding her neck and shoulders within its grip.
Unfinished business, in the form of maidservants asking questions and soldiers needing direction, would interrupt her soon enough. Meanwhile, the light and warmth lured her to savor a quiet moment for herself. She sprawled on the window seat like a cat in a sunbeam and relished the brief respite.
Taking her time, she drew her brush through the mass of her hair, unknotting the tangled strands and allowing her thoughts—as they seemed wont to do—to shift back to Will yet again.
What would he think if he were to discover that Marian FitzWalter and Robin of the Hood were not merely legends, but had been real people?
Her parents.
Would he even believe it?
It was not widely known beyond Sherwood, but ’twas no secret, either. However, he’d no reason to suspect such a startling truth. She bore the name of Lord Roger d’Arcy, the man who’d wed her mother, who had been a father to her in every way save by blood. She’d loved him and respected him, given thanks often that her lady mother had seen fit to accept his offer of his name, his home and heart.
He’d been a dear man. He’d loved her without reservation and taught her everything she’d asked, in spite of the fact that she’d demanded to be shown a son’s duties, not a daughter’s. Perhaps her reason for refusing the suitors who’d wanted to wed the Bride of the Tower had been because she knew she could never find another man so sensible as her father.
What would her life have been like, Julianna wondered as she had so often before, had her mother remained in the forest with her outlaw lover, or hidden herself away in a convent to bear her illegitimate child? Would mother and child have been dead after a hard winter spent in Sherwood, or would they have remained shut away behind cloistered walls in a lifetime of shame and penitence for her parents’ sins?
If her mother had loved Robin more deeply than she’d cared for the man she’d married, it had never been apparent to her daughter, at least. Lady Marian had seldom mentioned her time with Robin, leaving Julianna with the sense that ’twas too painful for her to recall. ’Twas beyond her ken to imagine her gentle mother roaming Sherwood with a band of outlaws and a roguish priest, and she’d never understood what could have prompted her to do so.
Within Julianna’s memory, Lady Marian had never sought adventure; ’twas difficult to imagine. She had been a true lady, a devoted and loyal wife to Lord Roger d’Arcy, and the home they’d created for Julianna had nestled her in a sanctuary of care and security.
Until recent years had brought an end to
it.
The political situation in Nottingham had quieted after the tumultuous time when Robin and his men had been a force in the area. The d’Arcys had kept a distance from their neighbors for many years, occasionally receiving news of the outside world from Lord Phillip d’Arcy, Lord Roger’s elder brother and overlord. Eventually, however, the unrest at the end of King John’s reign had made it impossible for them to disregard what went on outside Tuck’s Tower.
Once the king had died and his young son taken his place, their peace had been forever shattered.
Julianna gazed unseeing into the distance, the rich green of hills and trees a verdant blur as she stared inward at the landscape of her mind. Some neighbors she wished she’d never met, chief among them Sir Richard Belleville. The man seemed petty and power-mad, and he’d not a thought in his head beyond improving his own lot in any way he could. She could not fault him for that, up to a point, but there seemed no limits to what he’d do in order to achieve his goals.
His successes had been minor ones, though more than she’d have expected of a man who as far as she knew, had little influence beyond Birkland, and no property to call his own. Though he liked to pretend he was the lord of Birkland, in truth he was nothing more than a very minor vassal who held the place for a far-away nobleman. Should he displease his distant master, his position could disappear in an instant.
The thought had occurred to Julianna on several occasions to do what she could to bring about such displeasure—and Belleville’s subsequent dismissal. Yet despite her uneasiness about him, she had scant evidence of anything more serious against him than that he possessed an arrogant and obnoxious manner.
She paused in her task, resting her brush on the window ledge and staring out at the bright blue sky. A fine fool she’d look, to try to have a man discharged from his position for possessing the same characteristics as half the men she’d met!
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