Gart frowned. “Market?” he repeated. “You want me to leave the castle with the possibility of Henry’s army lurking?”
“Aye, I want you to leave the castle with the possibility of Henry’s army lurking,” Juston said, annoyed. “We’ve already had one patrol return and tell us there were no immediate threats. The produce in the vault represents a good deal of money to the people of Bowes and I do not wish to waste it. So take it to town tomorrow and be done with it. Is that clear?”
Gart thought it was a ridiculous order to leave the fortress when they were under alert, but he didn’t say anything more. Where money was concerned, he could somewhat see Juston’s point.
“It is,” he said. “I will make sure it is taken to market.”
“You and Erik and Gillem can ride escort. In fact, take the de Lohr brothers with you. I want the other knights here at the fortress should we need them.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“And send the bloody physic back to me. Nothing he has done for me is working.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Gart left the chamber after that, quietly shutting the door and taking the spiral stairs down to the great hall level. At this time of day, men were in the hall seeking some warmth and shelter from the brisk day and there were several dozen men in the hall, eating warmed over pork and drinking boiled wine. His gaze moved over the smoky room simply to see who was in the hall when his eyes fell upon the physic that traveled with Juston’s army. The man, usually quite competent, had a taste for drink. And in the middle of the day, he now sat in a chair, slumped and asleep.
So much for getting the man’s help. Gart shook his head at the sight, both disgusted and resigned with the physic’s drunken behavior. But that left Juston without any help for his aching head. That was a rather critical issue. But it soon occurred to Gart that there were others who might help Juston, including the ladies of the keep who were down in the vault tending Bowes’ wounded. Surely they might have something to help the man. On a hunch, and with little choice at this point, he continued down the spiral stairs to the vault below.
It was cold down in the lower recesses of the keep. It was also dark, with very little light other than the smoking torches wedged into iron sconces on the walls and a few oil lamps. But it was quiet down here, with men grouped into neat rows and bundled tightly against the cold.
They’d stopped the hot compresses the day before, instead choosing to bundle the men up with warm blankets. They had a rotating stock of them – while some would heat up outside by the massive cooking fire next to the kitchens, they would then bring the heated blankets in and exchange them for cooled blankets. It was an exhausting ritual and one that had kept the servants very busy, but it was necessary. With no direct heat source in the vault, they’d had to be resourceful and, truth be told, it was a rather clever solution.
As Gart’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, the first thing he saw was a small boy. Tristan was seated next to a wounded man, carefully spooning mashed beans into the man’s mouth. He was being very precise about it, spilling nothing, as the hungry man slowly ate. The boy was so dedicated to his duty that he failed to see Gart for several long seconds and only then because Gart cleared his throat. Startled, the boy looked up.
“M-my lord?” he said, a fearful expression instantly on his face. “Am I wanted?”
Gart shook his head. “Not that I am aware of,” he said. He lifted his chin at the lad, to indicate his situation. “What are you doing?”
Tristan looked at the bowl in his hand. “I am feeding this man,” he said. “He cannot eat. He needs help.”
“You like to help.”
“I do, my lord.”
Gart’s gaze lingered on the lad who, the more he looked at him, very much looked like Henry. He had Henry’s eyes. He wondered if anyone else would notice for as far as Gart knew, only Juston, Erik and Gillem and perhaps one or two others knew who the lad really was. Truthfully, the boy had been kept out of sight down in the vault so it was possible no one even really remembered he’d come. But Gart remembered; he remembered everything.
“Where is Lady Emera or Lady de la Roarke?” he asked.
Tristan stood up, looking into the bowels of the vault. “Look over there,” he said, pointing to the far end of this row of men. “There is Lady Emera.”
Gart simply nodded, silently thanking the boy, before proceeding on. He looked at the men as he went, noticing that they seemed, on the whole, much better than they had the last time he saw them. All bundled up with warm blankets, some of them were looking back at him rather suspiciously. Not that he blamed them; he was, essentially, the enemy.
Emera caught sight of Gart as he approached in the darkness. It was rather hard to miss him for the size of the young man. She, too, had been feeding a man so she set the bowl aside, wiping off her hands as she rose to her feet. She faced Gart politely.
“Sir Gart,” she said. “How may I help you?”
Gart’s gaze lingered on her a moment before speaking. She was certainly a beautiful woman with her black hair and pale skin, and he knew that Juston thought so as well. Not in so many words, perhaps, but definitely in his actions. He hadn’t paid so much attention to a woman since Gart had known him. He wasn’t sure how Lady Emera felt about Juston but he hoped she was inclined to help him.
“Lord de Royans is suffering a bout with a blinding headache,” he said. “His physic has provided him with wine and white willow, but it has been two days now and my lord is still not seeing improvement. I have gone to fetch the physic again but the man is drunk. I was wondering if you had anything that could help my lord.”
At the mention of Juston, Emera’s heart did that strange fluttering thing again. She was coming to associate that feeling with Juston in general. But she hadn’t seen the man in two days, ever since he had tried to attack her and then threw her from his chamber. She’d remained down in the vault, wanting to stay clear of his anger with her, but every moment of those two days, she’d thought about Juston to some degree.
As the hours dragged on, and one day turned into another, she was coming to feel some depression about the entire situation. She wasn’t hard pressed to admit that she was attracted to the man. Why? She didn’t really know. He’d tried to force himself on her and he’d been generally rude at times, but there were moments when the man had a kindness to him that touched her. Moreover, there was something in his eyes that begged for her to be kind to him in return, as if he was a man pretending to be a hardened soul but he really wasn’t.
Juston de Royans was a puzzling enigma, indeed.
“I am sorry to hear of his troubles,” she said, genuinely concerned. “I have acquired some knowledge of healing over the years and there are ways to ease an aching head. What has caused it?”
Gart shook his head. “He has suffered from terrible headaches since I have known him,” he said. “Sometimes they are so bad that he must lie still in a darkened room, for even light will hurt his head. They have been most terrible at times.”
Emera pondered that for a moment. Then, she held up her hand as if to beg a moment of patience from Gart and she went back to the corner where she and her sister had their possessions. It was where they had been sleeping for the past two days, when they were fortunate to have the time for sleep. In the satchels that Juston’s men had packed for them with items from their chamber, there was a small bag containing some medicinal things that they had been using on the wounded.
Most of the medicaments they had been using had been in the great hall but she had no idea what had happened to them after Juston’s men had thrown the wounded from the chamber. However, those medicaments were part of a larger collection she and Jessamyn had assembled over the past two years, medicaments from the apothecary in Gainford when they had enough money to purchase such things. The expensive poppy powder to ease the pain of the wounded was nearly gone but there was a tiny amount still in a small leather envelope that they’d hoarded away. There we
re other things in this bag that would help Juston’s head so Emera collected the leather bag and returned to Gart.
“Take me to him,” she told the squire. “I will do what I can.”
Gart was grateful that she seemed so willing. He took her back up the dark spiral stairs to the master’s chamber. Before they entered, Emera stopped him.
“I will need hot water and a cup,” she told him quietly. “I will also need linen rags, clean, if you can get them for me, and a bowl.”
Gart was listening intently. “Aye, my lady.”
“And hurry.”
Gart nodded quickly and pushed the chamber door open, revealing Juston spread out across the bed exactly where Gart had left him. The fire in the hearth was burning low as a result of not being stoked and there was probably more smoke in the room than heat. But for now, the conditions were right for a man whose eyes hurt with light that was any brighter. As Gart went on the hunt for the things she had asked for, Emera set the medicament bag on a table and went straight to the bed.
“My lord?” she said softly. “I understand your head is hurting you. I have come to help.”
Juston had heard the door open and footsteps in the chamber, but he’d assumed they were Gart’s steps. He was startled to see Emera bent over him as he lay flat on his back. His bloodshot eyes gazed up at her.
“It will pass,” he said hoarsely. “Where is the physic?”
“Drunk, I am told,” she said, taking the poultice from his hand and sniffing it to see what was in it. “I realize that I am probably the last person you wish to see, but I believe I can help you if you will let me try.”
Juston nearly sent her away. He wasn’t ready to face her yet but he couldn’t quite bring the words to his lips. Leave! Get out! Nay, the words wouldn’t come. So, he watched her as she walked back to the table where her small bag sat, setting aside the compress he’d had over his eyes while she dug around in her bag. As he watched curiously, she began to pull out small envelopes and at least two glass phials with some kind of liquid in them. He really couldn’t see what it was. He watched her curiously as she sparingly poured one of the liquids onto her hands and, heading back over to the bed, rubbed her hands together.
“Gart is fetching me some things that I need. Meanwhile, I will try to rub the pain away a bit,” she said. “Lay your head down on the bed, once more, please.”
He eyed her. “What are you going to do?”
For a big, powerful man, he sounded mildly frightened of a small woman with oil on her hands. She cocked an impatient eyebrow. “Nothing to cause you pain, I assure you,” she said. “Put your head back down. Do it now.”
She was giving him a command. Frowning, Juston did as he was told, wondering what she was going to do. And what was that liquid she’d put on her hands? Poison, perhaps? Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long to find out – Emera’s hands descended on his head and, almost immediately, Juston fell victim to a gentle massage of his head using lavender oil.
The heady scent overwhelmed him, filling his nostrils as her soft hands began to very gently rub at his forehead and scalp. His suspicion of her motives instantly vanished. God’s Bones… it was heavenly.
Very quickly, he succumbed to her expert touch as she rubbed at his head. Her fingers applied gentle pressure as she smoothed his forehead, tending him more carefully than he’d ever been tended in his life. Was it really true that such gentleness existed in the world? His head hurt, that was true, but her massage was so incredibly relaxing that it transported him into another state of consciousness. There was bliss here, bliss that only Emera was capable of inducing. He was half-asleep almost immediately, for sleep had been somewhat elusive during this painful episode, and the more she rubbed, the more limp and relaxed he became. He didn’t even realize when he fell asleep.
Emera realized it, however. The man began to snore like an old bear and she grinned. She was also quite touched that he had relaxed enough under her attentions that sleep came easily. Perhaps it was indicative of his pain level that he had allowed her to touch him at all.
As she gently rubbed, she found herself admiring his square jaw and the color of his hair, because it was a lovely color if not quite dirty. The man needed a bath. But that was of no matter; being this close to him, gently tending a man who had probably known very little tenderness in his life, brought her a certain kind of peace.
Being with him brought her another kind of peace.
When they weren’t fighting or chasing each other around, there was something about Juston that overwhelmed her. It was difficult to describe. It was as if he filled up the entire room and she could hear nor see anything else but him. She wanted to rub his head; she wanted to give the man peace in a world where there wasn’t any. She didn’t know his history or why he was who he was, but she had a feeling he’d been through much hardship in his life. Something in his manner told her so.
She continued to rub as he continued to snore. Her gaze moved down his body, inspecting his impossibly big arms and hands, his trim torso, and long, muscular legs that hung off the end of the bed. He was easily more than a head taller than she was, for when standing next to him, she barely came to his chest. Juston de Royans was simply a very big man, bred for battle and responsibility in this volatile world they lived in. She had to admit that when he wasn’t trying to force himself on her, she was very curious about him.
Drawn to him.
The minutes ticked away as she continued to rub his head, her thoughts drifting to her future once the wounded didn’t require her any longer. They were getting better by the day and she was coming to think that, soon, she would no longer be needed. She would again ask de Royans for an escort to the charity hospital in Sherburn. But the longer she remained at Bowes and in the presence of de Royans, the more she was starting to question wanting to go to the charity hospital at all. It was foolish and she knew that, but it didn’t stop her from vacillating on the subject now. Perhaps de Royans wouldn’t mind if she remained, after all. Provided he would stop trying to force himself on her.
One of these days, she just might give in.
The thought made her grin; a naughty, giddy grin. She continued to think of that possibility as she massaged him, the scent of lavender filling her nostrils. The oil on her hands was calendula oil that she and Jessamyn had made over the summer when the calendula flowers bloomed. It was an oil used to soothe and soften skin, but adding lavender blossoms to it gave it a strong, heady, lavender scent. It was something her mother had taught her to do with the lavender and with the oil, because the lavender was quite common and it had many medicinal uses, including helping an aching head.
But the oil was eventually absorbed by the skin and she removed her hands from Juston and headed back over to the table to pour more on her hands. Just as she reached the table, however, Gart appeared with a small iron pot of steaming water, a cup, a bowl, and the rags she had requested.
“Put them here,” she said softly. “Thank you for bringing this so promptly.”
Gart sat the pot of water on the table along with the other things, watching Emera curiously as she immediately took the cup, dipped it in the water, and then sprinkled what looked like dried leaves in it. She set that aside to steep as she then took the bowl and also dipped it into the hot water, filling the bowl half-full. Taking one of the phials with liquid, she poured a generous amount into the bowl and the smell of lavender filled the air.
“Is there anything more I can do?” Gart asked.
Emera turned to look at Juston, no longer snoring on the bed although his eyes were still closed. “I am reluctant to wake him,” she said, “but it is important that he drink this tonic. It will help his head tremendously.”
“I am not asleep,” Juston mumbled. “What would you have me drink?”
Emera motioned to Gart to help Juston sit up. Gart went to the bed, pulling the exhausted, sick man up into a sitting position. His dirty hair was askew from Emera having rubbed oil into his
scalp, giving him a bit of a wild-looking appearance. Emera approached the bed with the cup of steaming tea.
“This is a tonic made from dried featherfew leaves,” she told him. “If you do not know what that is, it is a flower that grows wild in many places and the leaves have healing properties. My mother swore by this for an aching head, so drink it down. It should help.”
Juston didn’t even make a fuss. After her soothing lavender massage, he was willing to do anything she told him to do, so he gulped down the hot, bitter tea, making a face as he handed the cup back to her. Emera smiled at his nasty expression.
“I know it does not taste very good, but it should help,” she said.
Juston grunted. “Are you certain you did not just have me drink the water that Gart has washed his dirty hose in?”
Emera laughed as she went back over to the table, setting the cup down and picking up the bowl with the lavender oil in it.
“Nay, I swear to you that I did not.”
“It tasted like it.”
Gart entered the conversation. “How would you know that?”
Juston grunted. “Because that water tasted the way you smell.”
Gart rolled his eyes as Emera brought over the bowl of hot water. She had also brought a few rags with her, clean ones, and she set one on Juston’s lap before putting the bowl on it. He gripped the bowl so it would not spill.
“Now,” she said. “I want you to inhale the lavender steam. Hold your face to it and breathe deeply.”
Juston did. Holding the bowl up to his face, he drew in several long, deep breaths, inhaling the strong lavender scent. He continued to do it until the steam started to fade. By that time, he was a little woozy from having taken so many deep breaths. Emera took the bowl away and set it on the table.
“You may lie back down again,” she told him, watching him fall backwards onto the mattress with his feet still on the floor. “Between the lavender oil and the tea, hopefully you will feel some improvement soon.”
Gart picked up Juston’s legs and swung them onto the bed. “Your efforts are appreciated,” Juston said wearily. “You were kind to leave the wounded to tend to me since my own physic seems to be unreliable. I shall whip the man for not giving me rotten tea and a head massage.”
Fearsome Brides Page 18
