“I’m so sorry, but I may have to leave you,” she said, looking at her sad, small pile of folded bedding compared to Catherine’s towering stack.
Catherine stopped one of her tales mid-sentence and looked up. “Goodness, you look a might pale. Have you eaten today?”
“I had breakfast,” Fay said, the thought of food making her shudder. “I had a bit of exercise this morning. I probably overexerted myself.”
“Go lie down,” Catherine said, waving her away. “I’m almost done thanks to you.”
She stretched her back as she rubbed her belly. Fay shriveled with shame for abandoning a pregnant woman to hard labor just because she’d done a few too many pushups. But she really did feel shaky and weak. She headed back toward the tower and, when she got to the stairs, she wished Gunther would appear to help her. She actually felt poorly enough that she closed her eyes and wished it.
When she opened them, instead of Gunther, Lord Drayton stood in front of her, clasping her elbow and peering at her with a concerned look in his grass green eyes. She smiled, thinking it was a good step that she’d thought of something to compare his eyes to. He wavered in her vision and she wondered if she’d made it to her room without remembering it, and now she was dreaming about him. That was a good step, too. Dreaming about someone meant you had feelings for them.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Fay? Did you say something about dreams?”
She blinked and shook her head. She was still in front of the stairs, waiting for someone to help her up. Well, it couldn’t be Lord Drayton.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel a bit unwell.”
“You look a bit unwell,” he said.
That was rather uncharitable and she frowned at him, moving away abruptly. Alarmed, he let go of her elbow and she crashed to the floor, her mind finally emptying of all thoughts, the thing she’d been working so hard to achieve.
*
She was dying. She cracked open her eyes to see Sir Walter sitting at her bedside, his face aged ten years with fear and worry. There were tear stains on his weathered cheeks. That’s how she knew she was dying. She would have cried herself except she was too weak. He reached for her hand and she tried to squeeze, but nothing happened. Her hand refused to do what her mind told it.
“Sweet Fay,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can’t lose you. You must fight, do you hear me?”
She nodded, or she hoped she did. She couldn’t feel anything right now, which was a relief from the spine twisting pain she’d been feeling for … she wasn’t sure how long. Long enough.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispered. She heard a sob from the far side of the room and managed to turn her head enough to see Batty standing in the corner with her head in her hands. “Where’s Anne?”
“Here, dear, right here.”
Another hand reached for her, smoothing her hair away from her face. She could feel it sticking to her cheek. It stung a little as it got peeled away and Anne hissed quietly at having caused her discomfort.
“What happened to her? What caused this? Could it have been poison?” her father asked.
Batty rushed forward. “I was with her at breakfast. We ate the exact same foods.”
Fay tried to point, knowing all of a sudden what had gone wrong. She felt a perverse gladness that her death might end the curse and no one else would end up in her predicament, but wondered if she should find a way to write a final warning in the book, just in case it didn’t work like that.
All in capital letters, with a page full of exclamation points and multiple underlinings. Do. Not. Drink. The. Water. She was going to die from medieval Montezuma’s revenge. So unfair.
The water that was mostly used in the castle came from the river, which flowed for miles, passing through farmland and villages, picking up all and sundry as it ran, including all the waste that fell from their garderobes. Since the water in her pitcher was meant for washing, it might have been sitting in a pot for days, or been recycled from other washing. She knew these things, but had forgotten in her post workout thirst. There was a well that provided the water used to make their ale, and she’d seen people drink from it, but it was done sparingly. Still, they didn’t die, so maybe it was safe for her to drink and rehydrate.
“Batty, send for Edgar at once. He’ll get to the bottom of it,” her father said.
Edgar, the physician. Her great-uncle, according to Catherine’s intel. And she didn’t want him anywhere near her. “I’m fine. I don’t want him,” she said, trying to sit up.
The slight movement made her stomach cramp up and she looked desperately toward her garderobe. It felt like she was wrung inside out and then exploded, and she would have been embarrassed if it hadn’t hurt so much.
“I’m bringing the physician,” her father bellowed, standing up. “No more arguments.”
She prayed he’d leave, prayed he’d stay away. She was in no fit state to be seen. As soon as he was gone, Batty tearfully tried to help her get clean. Anne briskly removed the soiled linens and replaced them, then sat at her side, patting her hand and brushing back her hair.
“I’m going to die,” Fay said, feeling like she was crying, but no tears came out due to her dehydration. “I’m going to die of pooping.”
“Shush,” Anne said, but there was no harshness to her voice. “The physician will be here and you’ll be well.”
“Don’t let him put a leech on me,” she begged. “I’m already dehydrated. I really will die if he does that.”
Anne looked at her intently, and Fay struggled to think through the pain and weakness. There was no proper medicine for this, not even a banana. No good water to replenish her lost fluids. Why had she been so stupid? She was going to die of pooping and stupidity.
“Bring me dry bread,” she said. “And … and apples. Not baked or in a pie. Raw apples. And the weakest ale we have. I’ll get better, I promise. You have to listen to me, Anne. Please. And please bring me some well water.”
She curled up in a ball, a new bout of pain drawing her legs upward. Thankfully, nothing happened that time and, after what felt like an eternity later, she lay panting in a pool of sweat. She closed her eyes, but tried to reach for Anne’s hand. She felt Anne grab it and hang on.
“Please, Anne,” she managed before she slipped into a merciful sleep.
Chapter 14
Tristan stood on the wall of Dernier Keep and looked out at his land. It was harsh here, so far in the north, but he found it beautiful, too. He’d been all over England on various campaigns and seen impressive cities with their vast cathedrals, calm, serene countryside with rolling green hills, and the craggy cliffs of the sea. None of it compared in his mind to the desolate, rocky expanse he called home. There was some good farmland, too, if one knew how to work it.
He squinted east, knowing that’s where the bulk of his tenants were, thinking it odd enough that he had tenants now. They expected to be kept safe and he was determined to see that they were. He’d put down the small, ragged band of men who’d foolishly tried to besiege him while he was away. When it was over, it was decided they were who he’d originally thought they were. Marauders from the north. Men who didn’t answer to the King, who lived by raiding.
But the more he thought about it, considered the weapons they’d had, he wasn’t so sure it was as simple as that. The few who managed to remain alive, galloped away over the Scottish border. If they belonged to a clan, they hadn’t advertised it, and he didn’t want to bring more trouble down on himself by crossing the border, so he let them go.
He was used to protecting his land, the King’s land, from foreign invaders. And, of course, there was the occasional kerfuffle between lords who were normally aligned. But besides the constant threat from the north, things had been peaceful lately.
There’d been trouble when Sir Andrew first died. But now that he’d pledged himself to Sir Walter, everyone knew the land was rightly his and there shouldn’t have been any new attempts to take it from him. That was
what Brom thought, and what he’d thought at first, when they’d easily put down the attackers. He still had a suspicion, just a feeling really, that someone was still angling for his land. And he didn’t like it, so he’d been keeping everyone on full alert since they’d returned.
Tristan saw his squire making his way up the ladder. He strode in the opposite direction to avoid the man. He didn’t want to hear the same things again. That he was being overly cautious, that he should return to Grancourt Castle. Didn’t he miss Lady Fay? It was enough to make him want to punch the impertinent man in the face.
The problem was, he did miss Lady Fay. He worried about her night and day, hoping she’d stay well and that she was thinking of him. Brom had suggested he write a letter to her, but he so feared for her health, he didn’t want to add to the possibility of harming her further by giving her something to read on top of what she already did.
Brom caught up with him. Even the stormy look Tristan gave him didn’t scare him away. So, Tristan stopped.
“This better be serious, Brom,” he said, giving his squire one more chance to escape without getting a knock in the teeth.
“I think it is,” he said. “I lately received a missive from Grancourt Castle stating that Lord Drayton was visiting there. It seems he arrived several days ago. Sir Walter seems open to an alliance.”
“Drayton is already his ally. This does not seem important,” Tristan growled, ready to stalk away to keep from pushing Brom off the wall.
He had an inkling that there was a traitor either in their midst or amongst Sir Andrew’s—now his—alliances. It was of utmost importance that he figure that out before he was attacked again, without gossipy updates about his closest neighbor.
“A family alliance,” Brom said. “About three years ago it was in talks for Drayton to marry Lady Anne. That fell apart and it was supposed he would find a wife elsewhere. But now …”
“Not Lady Fay?” Tristan cut in. He scowled for showing such avid interest, but it was a blow to his pride in two directions. He’d thought Fay had liked him, and he’d thought Sir Walter not only approved of him, but even wanted him for a son-in-law.
He didn’t need the prospect of another possible suitor being at the castle. But now that was the only thing that filled his mind.
“Yes, Lady Fay,” Brom said, clearing his throat. “And that leads me to the message I received today.”
Tristan paced away. “Drayton is a terrible match. He’s dishonest—do you recall the battle for Chevenaux? Of course you do, your arm was broken, wasn’t it? He pledged three hundred men and thirty showed up.” He shook his head in disgust. “And yet I’m sure he was rewarded as if he’d sent the three hundred. All that land he owns is only his through deceit and treachery.”
“Yes, I agree. Lord Drayton is foul. But the message—”
“What is it? Spit it out?”
If Sir Walter wanted that kind of man in his family, then there was little he could do about it. He had his pride, after all. If Fay could forget about him in a mere fortnight or little more, then he would do well to purge his mind and heart of her as well.
“I warned you of Lord Drayton being at Grancourt Castle because I do not know if that will affect your decision to go there now.”
“Why would we go there now?” he asked. Because he had promised to return. He’d said he would be back at her side as soon as he sorted the siege. And while that was technically finished, he still had that bad feeling in his gut that it wasn’t, not really. The person or people behind the ill-planned attack were watching and waiting. Biding their time. “We certainly will not be returning until we know who was behind the siege.”
Brom nodded, pulling out the crumpled message. “Very well,” he said. “It’s only that Lady Fay is dangerously ill. They fear for her life. She’s been—”
“What?” Tristan roared. He grabbed the bit of parchment from him, though it had grown too dark to make out the hasty scrawl. “Do you mean Lady Anne? How could you make such a mistake?” He could tell by the look on his squire’s face that Brom hadn’t made a mistake.
“I’m sorry. It’s Lady Fay. We may already—”
Once again he silenced Brom, shoving past him and making for the ladder. “Ready the horses. We leave at once.”
*
Three days. The priest had come to her room that morning, prayed some words she didn’t understand or was too dazed to hear them properly. By the copious tears that Anne and Batty shed in the background while they prayed along, she had a feeling it might have been last rites.
She was grateful Anne had listened to her pleas and not let their physician uncle leech her, hurrying along the process. As miserable as she was, she still hadn’t given up. As bungled as her life had become by putting on that showstopping wedding dress, it was still her life and she wasn’t ready to stop living it yet. And the pain had mostly subsided, with only a few gut twisting cramps now and then to remind her she actually was still alive. What she was now was weaker than she’d ever been, weaker than she thought a grown person could be.
Anne had to tip liquids slowly from a cup into her mouth and she still managed to drool half of it out, unable to swallow properly she was so wasted from the illness. She forced herself to eat, letting Anne or Batty put tiny bites of bread or the apple pieces she kept demanding on her tongue. She did everything she knew to do to keep from dying of diarrhea, and she sometimes thought she only continued to live because she really, seriously didn’t want to die from pooping. She had her pride, after all.
She faded out after the priest left and when she woke again, Anne was at her side. As soon as she stirred, Anne grabbed her hand and smiled encouragingly.
“Shall I start where we left off?” she asked, flipping open a book.
Fay didn’t remember hearing any of it in the first place and shook her head. Or hoped she did. She was so weak she wasn’t sure her body was doing what she kept trying to instruct it to do.
“How long?” she asked, wishing she could scowl at how tiny her voice came out. But it took way too much energy to scrunch up her brows.
“The priest came at matins, you’ve been asleep since,” she said. “They’ve just rung for supper.”
“You should go,” Fay told her. “You can’t get sick again because of me.”
Anne nodded smugly behind her at the small table laden with food. “Marjorie brought it a moment ago. Do you feel up to a few bites?”
“Yes, please,” she said, giving up on talking for a while. Those few sentences made her feel like she’d run a mile and her heart thudded against her now bony chest. Was it finally going to give out from the dehydration she’d been trying so hard to fight? “Something salty,” she whispered, not sure Anne heard, but unable to repeat it.
“Lord Drayton is leaving tomorrow,” Anne said, placing a bit of stewed ham in Fay’s mouth like a mother bird. “I don’t know if he’ll come to pay his respects before he goes.”
Fay chewed the meat, trying to picture it as medicine that she had to get down. It wouldn’t have tasted that good when she was in full health, she reminded herself. She wanted to shake her head strenuously, to let Anne know how much she did not want Lord Drayton to come up and pay his respects.
He’d come the first day, after she’d fainted and he carried her to her chamber. She barely remembered it and the horrid cramps had started soon after he left. So, if she’d thought it gentlemanly and romantic at the time, it was quickly flushed out of her. Since then, she hadn’t seen a hair of him, which she had mixed feelings about. If he was supposed to be her suitor, and Anne had been pretty adamant that’s why he’d come to visit, then shouldn’t he have been more concerned? On the other hand, she felt terrible and looked and smelled worse, so she was glad he hadn’t seen her like that.
Other than still needing him in the running to help her break the curse, she hadn’t given Lord Drayton a thought since she’d fainted in front of him. She’d been too miserable to think. Well, that wasn’t
strictly true, because in the few moments she wasn’t being violently ill, she had thought about Tristan. He kept popping into her head. The memories of his smile, his blue eyes, his kisses, had been the only bright spots. Then she’d wonder why he hadn’t returned and she’d feel miserable all over again.
After a few more bites and having a bit of weak ale with honey poured down her throat, she felt revitalized enough to try a few more sentences.
“How long have I been ill?” she asked, having meant that earlier, but Anne had thought she’d meant how long she’d been asleep that day. It must have been longer than she thought if Lord Drayton was leaving already.
“This is the fourth day,” she said, shaking her head.
Only four days? It felt like four months, at least. She was certain Lord Drayton was meant to stay longer than that. After all, he couldn’t shut up about how long it took him and all his men to make their way out to Sir Walter’s godforsaken neck of the woods. She thought he’d stay a fortnight at least. Why did every man she was trying to fall in love with keep cutting their visits short? She was going to start taking it personally.
“Why so soon?” she asked. “I’ll be up and about in a day or two.” She paused to catch her breath, motioning for more ale and giving lie to her statement. “You said he was here to try and propose an alliance. I thought that meant he might want to marry me.”
Anne looked taken aback. “I don’t know why he’s leaving so soon. I admit I thought he’d stay longer as well. I was probably wrong about the proposal, that’s all.”
“You’re never wrong,” Fay insisted, getting more and more upset. Surprisingly, it gave her enough energy to sit up a little. Anne hurried to adjust her pillows for her. “I think he’s weaseling out of it because I’m sick. But I’m getting better, I can feel it.”
Anne peered at her seriously. “I think you may seem a little less pale.”
Endearing (Knight Everlasting Book 1) Page 12
