Burning to get home so that he might exact his retribution, Guy urged his war-horse into a fast canter as they rounded a curve in the road. He was so caught up in his angry thoughts that he did not hear the deadly zing of arrows until it was too late. As one struck him in the left thigh, cleanly piercing his chain mail, he roared out through his pain, “Ambush!”
Guy lifted his shield to fend off another barrage of arrows and, grabbing the wooden shaft, yanked it from his flesh. Blood spurted and he cursed, realizing the pointed iron head remained embedded in the wound.
There was nothing to be done about it here, and no time to staunch the bleeding. Drawing his sword, he plunged Griffin into the woods after the retreating attackers, who looked to be Welsh from their short leather jerkins and bare legs. God’s bones, and he had thought they were done with these rebels!
Several quickly disappeared into the dense undergrowth, but Guy caught up with one man who was almost to his horse. With a single swipe from his sword, he decapitated him. Charging on through the gathering gloom, he heard shrill death screams behind him and hoped they weren’t the cries of his own men.
Spying another Welshman already in the saddle and veering his horse hard about, Guy gave chase and easily caught up with him, having the advantage of momentum. Dodging a swinging mace, he struck sideways, and the dark-haired man shrieked horribly, falling from his mount and writhing upon the ground. Guy jumped down from his destrier to deal a death blow, but his sword stopped in midair when he saw his victim’s bearded face. The dying man was no Welshman.
“You!” Guy cried, recognizing Baldwin D’Eyvill. He fell to his knees, wincing at the fiery pain in his thigh, and grabbed the knight’s bloodied jerkin to shake him hard. “By God, man, what mad folly is this?” he demanded, drawing great ragged breaths.
“So … you still live,” Baldwin rasped, his hate-filled eyes glittering deliriously in the twilight. They fell to the crimson stain spreading beneath Guy’s chausses. “But not for long. You will not escape death again as you did in the Holy Land.” He grimaced, his hands futilely gripping his gaping stomach wound. “At last. At last I have avenged … my beloved Christine.”
Cold realization settled upon Guy. “You murdered the Syrian Governor’s messenger.” When Baldwin turned away, groaning, Guy shook him again fiercely, disregarding the knight’s cries of pain. “You bastard! Your foul treachery almost cost me my head!”
He was greeted by a bubbling rattle from Baldwin’s throat, and knew then the man had only moments to live.
“Tell me, damn you! Roger planned this ambush, didn’t he? You and the others were sent to murder me, but you disguised yourselves as marauding Welshmen so the blame could not be traced.”
“Revenge will be sweet … for both of us,” the dying knight whispered cryptically, a macabre grin on his swarthy face. “See you in hell, de Warenne. The arrow … was poison…”
Baldwin jerked, gasping desperately for air as blood oozed from the comer of his mouth, then suddenly he exhaled in a wheezing gasp and fell still. Dead.
Guy released the jerkin, his hands stiff from clutching it so tightly, and looked with horror at the wound in his leg.
A poison arrow. God help him. His own mortality was so glaring at that moment he could almost taste it. He could almost smell the stench of death creeping over him. One burning thought seized him.
He must get home. He must see Leila. If he was destined to die this night, let it be in her arms, the arms of the only woman he had ever loved.
“Langton! Burnell!” he shouted through the trees, rising shakily to his feet. He wiped the cold sweat from his face, knowing true fear for the first time in his life. Was it happening so swiftly?
Feeling strangely weak, he hoisted himself into the saddle as the sound of hooves pounded toward him. Relief flooded him at the sight of Langton and two other knights. They would help him get home.
“My lord!” Henry cried, reining in beside him. “We’ve been searching for you. We managed to cut down four of the rebels, but the rest escaped—”
“Not rebels,” Guy cut him off. “Gervais’s knights, sent to kill me.” He gestured to the dead man lying on the ground, the eyes staring sightlessly at the darkening sky. “Baldwin D’Eyvill.” He leaned upon the pommel, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Get me to Warenne Castle, Henry. Fast. I took an arrow in the leg. Just before he died, D’Eyvill said it was tipped with poison.”
“Can you ride?” Henry asked, his face etched with shock and worry.
“I don’t know …” In the next instant, the knight was taking the reins from Guy’s trembling fingers and jumping up into the saddle in front of him.
“For God’s sake, my lord, hold on to me,” Henry pleaded, wrapping Guy’s arms around his waist and securing them with his free hand. He turned to the other two knights. “Find Montgomery and Burnell and tell them what’s happened. We’ll meet you at the castle.” Then, kicking the war-horse, he shouted, “On with you, Griffin, like the wind. Go!”
As they crashed through the woods to the road, Guy rested his forehead against Henry’s shoulder. The pain in his leg was becoming excruciating, unbearable.
“Leila. I must see her …”
“You will, my lord. We haven’t far to go.”
It was the last thing Guy heard.
Chapter 24
“Oh, my lady, come quick! Something terrible has happened!” Enid cried, rushing into the bedchamber.
Leila whirled from the window, where she had been admiring the tranquil view of the river, and was astonished to see tears streaming down the serving woman’s face. Her heart leaped into her throat, her mind racing. “Nicholas?” He had gone to play in the garden after they closed up the hospital for the day
“No, no, the boy is fine. ‘Tis your husband.”
“Guy?” Now it seemed her heart had stopped, everything growing eerily still around her.
“They’ve taken him to your hospital, my lady. I was near the gatehouse when Sir Henry rode in with him, and he sent me to fetch you. Your husband was wounded in the leg. A poison arrow.” Enid wrung her hands miserably. “They said it was a surprise attack. Some of Lord Gervais’s men.”
Her brother? Horrified, Leila did not wait to hear more. She dashed past the serving woman and down the spiral stairs, one word boring into her brain.
Poison.
She knew from experience that time was of the essence. Perhaps it might already be too late. In all the cases of poisoning she had seen at the Hospital of Nureddine, whether from snakebites, scorpion stings, or a deliberate act of treachery, few sufferers survived unless they were brought in very quickly for treatment.
No, don’t even think it! Leila told herself fiercely, tearing outside the keep. She lifted her skirts and raced across the bailey as fast as she could.
It seemed the entire castle was in an uproar, servants huddled here and there in nervous groups, extra guards manning the castle walls—perhaps fearing another attack by her brother?—and agitated knights pacing in front of the hospital. Yet the men cleared a path for her to the door. Leila entered in a rush, stopping short just beyond the threshold at the sight that greeted her.
She could have sworn she had been transported back in time to the night she first saw Guy in the governor’s prison.
The room was brightly lit by a dozen or more oil lamps and braziers aglow with fresh coals. Guy was sprawled on two beds that had been drawn together to accommodate his size, and he was surrounded by several knights, Henry Langton among them, who worked feverishly to remove the last of his armor and under clothing. Philip was standing with his back to her at the side of the bed, directing the men.
Seeing the priest, Leila was filled with anger, but she knew she must keep her emotions in check. She did not have time to think or feel. She could only react. Guy’s life depended upon it.
“Sir Henry, how long ago did this happen?” she asked in a tone laced with authority, hurrying toward the cupboard where she kep
t all of her supplies. She quickly piled a thin, sharp knife, linen bandages, and a vessel of olive oil in an earthenware bowl.
Henry glanced up, clearly relieved to see her. “A quarter hour, maybe a little more—”
“There is no need to trouble yourself, Lady Leila,” Philip interjected. “I’ve already prepared a herb poultice to soothe my brother’s pain, and St. Rochus, the patron saint of limbs, has been invoked against the vile poison.”
Leila gave him little notice as she moved briskly to the bed, her eyes on Henry. “Sir Henry, it is my understanding that when a lord is indisposed or away at court, the wife takes temporary charge of the estate. So I recall being told by the good priest here during my tour of this castle. Am I correct?”
“Yes.”
She skipped her gaze to Philip. “Then kindly remove Father D’Arcy from my husband’s bedside so I may treat his injury. Unless of course, Father D’Arcy chooses to leave willingly. I believe in prayer, but his particular remedy of invoking the saints to heal my lord’s wound will not be needed.”
Without waiting for a reply from either of them, she sat down on the bed and arranged her supplies in front of her. She noticed her hands were shaking and tried to keep calm despite her unease at the ashen pallor of Guy’s face. Please, please may I not be too late …
That was the last such thought she indulged herself. Ignoring Philip’s loud protests as he was escorted to a far side of the room, she tied a linen tourniquet just above the small, jagged hole in Guy’s lower thigh.
“Hold him down,” she directed the two knights who remained at the bedside as she began to feel gently around the wound. Recalling how Guy had struggled against the scorching irons, she added, “You might want to call a few others to help. The pain of this treatment may be enough to overcome his unconsciousness.”
As three more knights hastened forward from the hushed group standing just inside the door, Leila realized grimly that the arrowhead was still inside the wound, something Philip had obviously missed. She went to the cupboard and fetched wine vinegar to use as an antiseptic and some surgical tools. They weren’t as finely made as the ones she had used in Damascus, but they would have to do.
She knelt by the bed this time, daubed around the swollen area with wine, and set to work. To her relief Guy did not even stir, a good thing because the procedure was delicate. In minutes she had removed the iron head, silently cursing whoever had shot the offending arrow, and tossed it with disgust into the bowl.
“Keep holding him,” Leila ordered, smearing her lips and the inside of her mouth with olive oil to disinfect them. She heard gasps as she began to lance the wound with the razor-sharp knife and vigorously suck out the blood and poison. Probably no one present had ever seen this procedure done before. She immediately spat into the bowl, repeating the process until she judged she had cleansed the wound. Wiping her mouth, she decided to allow the bleeding to continue for a moment to flush the now slightly larger hole. Meanwhile, she would prepare the plaster needed to draw out any remaining poison.
Knowing all eyes were upon her, she worked quickly at the cupboard preparing a paste of sulphur, salt, and citron, the seed of which was known for its extraordinary power against all kinds of poison. After crushing and mixing the ingredients with vinegar and oil, she hurried back to the bed. She cleansed away the blood, then packed the wound with the plaster and covered it with bandages.
Still she was not finished. Guy must take some medicine internally. She prepared another concoction, this time crushing only the inner kernels of citrus seed. Stirring two drams of the powder in a cup of wine, she approached the two knights holding Guy’s arms.
“Lift his shoulders and head. He must drink this medicine.”
“It is blasphemy, I tell you!” Philip cried, able to remain silent no longer. “She’ll only make him worse.”
When the knights hesitated, regarding her doubtfully, Leila began to quake inside. Surely Philip would not sway them! She fought to keep her voice steady as she said with as much sternness as she could muster, “The plaster I applied to his wound will not save him if some of the poison has already spread into his body. Only with this medication will he have a chance.”
“Dammit, you’re wasting time, you fools!” Henry shouted, rushing to the bed and pushing the closest knight out of the way. “I’ll help you, my lady.” He lifted Guy from behind, but his head hung limply. “Hold up his head or you’ll lose yours, I swear it!” he commanded the other knight, who hastily obliged.
Casting Henry a grateful glance, Leila concentrated on opening Guy’s slack mouth and pouring in small amounts of the liquid. To her surprise he groaned, choking slightly, his eyes flickering open and then closing again. He was still far from conscious, but this slight change in his condition helped her give him the rest of the medication.
At last the cup was empty and she began to breathe a bit easier. Yes, now he had a chance.
“Lay him down, Sir Henry … gently.” Leila rested the back of her hand upon Guy’s cheek. He had a fever, but that was to be expected. His body was doing battle with the poison that had invaded him. Covering his nakedness with a blanket, she turned and faced the roomful of observers.
“I’ve done what I can for now,” she said truthfully, looking from one concerned face to the next but avoiding Philip’s eyes. “Only time will tell if any further treatment will be needed. I suggest you all retire to the hall, where I’m sure supper is waiting. There’s nothing you can do here. I’ll let you know at once if his condition improves” —she felt a catch in her throat— “or worsens.”
“I have a better suggestion,” Philip said, glaring at her. “I will be holding a vigil in the chapel for those of you who wish to join me. We shall pray that the lady’s cure”— he spat caustically— “proves more than the eastern devilry I believe it to be. If it does not, she and her accursed brother will both share in the blame for my brother’s death!”
As the knights filed from the hospital after Philip, talking furtively among themselves, Leila sat heavily on the bench Henry had placed for her near the bed. Her stoic facade was crumbling fast, and it took all her remaining self-restraint not to burst into tears at her helplessness. There was nothing else she could do now but wait.
“Is there anything I can get you, my lady?” Henry asked, lightly touching her shoulder.
She offered him a small smile, but shook her head. “I’ll stay here with you if you’d like.”
“No, no, I’d like to be alone with him,” she murmured. “There is something you can do, though.”
“Name it.”
“See to Nicholas. He’s probably frightened and confused about all the commotion. Explain to him what has happened and tell him” —she had to swallow hard against the lump in her throat— “tell him I’m taking very good care of his papa. He’ll believe that, even if no one else does.”
“I believe it, my lady,” Henry said fervently. “You saved Lord de Warenne’s life once. Philip and his herb poultices be damned. I believe that if anyone can save his life now, it is you.”
Touched by his faith in her, Leila turned back to Guy as the knight left the room.
She stared through her blinding tears at the rise and fall of his chest, so shallow it almost appeared that he was not breathing. But he was, and she clung to that knowledge, hoping his superb physical condition would help him again as it had in Damascus. If only it hadn’t been a poison arrow …
No, she didn’t want to think about Roger’s treachery right now, Leila decided numbly, reaching out and clasping Guy’s too warm hand.
She wanted only to think of this man lying so still before her. How she could help him. How she could make him more comfortable.
How much she loved him.
***
A few hours later, Leila was laying a damp cloth on Guy’s feverish forehead when the hospital door creaked open. She glanced over her shoulder and stiffened when she saw Philip.
Now she wished she had not se
nt Henry away. She was in no frame of mind for another unpleasant encounter with the priest, and from his stony expression, she guessed that was exactly what he intended. She faced him as he approached the sickbed.
“How is my brother?” Philip demanded, glancing beyond her to Guy.
“He is breathing more easily, but otherwise he is much the same,” she said honestly, though she hated to admit that her treatment was not acting as well or as quickly as she had hoped. “I’ve changed the plaster twice and just given him another dose of medicine, but I fear it will take a while longer to know—”
“By then he will be dead,” Philip interrupted harshly, his narrowed eyes a volatile gray as he riveted them upon her. “I have no doubt the drugs you use are poisoning his body as much as that arrow, if not more so.”
Leila turned away, offering no comment to such a preposterous statement, and missed his sudden movement. She was stunned when Philip rushed right up to the bed. Before she could stop him, he had flung back the blanket and ripped off the bandages covering the plastered wound. He pointed accusingly at the ugly red swelling radiating from Guy’s knee to his upper thigh.
“You see! It grows worse. You’re killing him!”
Leila tried to re-cover the area, but Philip caught her arm and pulled her back. She winced at his grip, which was astonishingly strong for a man so spare.
“The swelling is normal and would be the same for any such wound, regardless of the poison,” she countered calmly, though she was deeply frightened. “Let me go, Philip.”
He did not. Instead he twisted her arm until she was forced to sit down on the bench.
“I’ve had enough of your views, my lady. Now you will hear mine. It is because of you that my brother is lying here near death, and not just from your supposed cure. At the welcoming feast, I heard much from Guy about the events at King Edward’s coronation—the fight in the abbey, the tournament. I sensed then that Lord Gervais might seek revenge for your marriage, and so he has. Your brother sent out a band of his men disguised as Welsh rebels to accomplish the foul deed.”
Captive Rose Page 33
