Bound to the Warrior (Love Inspired Historical)

by Barbara Phinney

  “Easy, boy.” Adrien examined his stinging leg. He, too, would like nothing better than to press into the wood and finish off his attacker, but at least the man would not be doing anything tonight except tending his wounds. It was likely that his horse’s hooves had cracked some ribs and, if not treated, they could become a death sentence for the man.

  Nay, enough for now. Though odd, Adrien thought. The taste of battle was no longer the sweetness it had been. He urged the horse back along the main road again toward Little Dunmow, giving it the lead and allowing it to gallop to burn off some pent-up energy.

  As he broke free of the forest, he saw a young boy, a tenant’s son, playing at the edge of the village and called to him to fetch his sergeant and Harry. Harry would see to the horse, though the beast may give the boy some trouble. The sergeant would take some soldiers and find his attacker, be the man dead or alive.

  Then Adrien would see to his wound.

  With the child bounding toward the bailey, Adrien walked the horse toward the midwife’s hut. She’d have poultices and bandages suitable for his wound, and once bound and stitched if necessary, ’twould be hidden from Ediva. If he could get by without too much limping and manage to change his hose before she noticed it, ’twould be all the easier.

  He didn’t want her worried. The battle they would surely face at Ely was worry enough. Unbidden, a smile grew on his face. She’d worry, and the idea that she cared warmed him.

  The midwife’s house was deserted. He called out to her but received no reply. Not willing to wait, he eased from the saddle with a grimace of pain. After tying the reins to the fence post, he knocked on the midwife’s short plank door.

  No one answered. Behind him, he heard pounding feet as Harry raced around the hut to skid to a stop. The horse took exception to the sudden movement and reared, snapping the wood that held his reins. Harry tried to catch the dangling leather but looked more like he believed the beast would trample him.

  Adrien limped over, grabbed the reins and held them tight, soothing the horse with calm words. But ’twould not last. His mount smelled blood and wanted battle.

  “Take him away, and keep a good grip on him, boy. I don’t want him bolting out.”

  “What happened, my lord?”

  “Never mind. Be gone.” His leg stinging, he thrust the reins at Harry and sent the boy on his way. To his credit, and having spent all summer with the big mount, Harry was able to lead the anxious beast away.

  His sergeant appeared then, letting out a gasp as he stared down at Adrien’s leg. “My lord! Let’s get you inside.” He pounded on the midwife’s door, but as with Adrien, received no answer.

  Not giving up, the young sergeant charged inside, calling for the woman to come immediately. When she didn’t, he held the door open for Adrien, who eased in and onto a chair at a nearby table.

  “Get me a cloth to sop up the blood,” he told the sergeant. The man found one hanging by the fire pit and Adrien pressed it against his leg. It stung like vinegar in a cut.

  Where was that woman? He stood and limped to the tiny room beyond. The midwife was one of the fortunate few to have a hut with a bedchamber behind the hearth, likely because of her son’s position.

  Adrien drew back the hide curtain to peer in.

  The old woman lay on her pallet, her mouth open and her wide eyes directed heavenward.

  She was quite dead.

  * * *

  Ediva nearly collided with Adrien as he limped into the bailey. He’d refused to allow the sergeant to bring down a cart for him, not wanting word to reach his wife. Clearly the effort had been wasted. Harry’s wagging tongue was starting to grate on him.

  “I just heard! What happened?”

  “’Tis only a cut, Ediva. There is no need for a fuss.”

  She led him into the keep and into his private chamber, but hovered at the door. “You should come up to my solar. ’Tis far more comfortable.”

  “Not unless you’re willing to carry me there,” he grunted as he collapsed onto his pallet. He didn’t want her to fuss over him, but frankly, his leg throbbed. The cut was deep and whatever had been on that rag still stung.

  Ediva called out into the corridor and ordered boiled water, clean cloths and honey to seal the wound, along with herbs for the pain. Then, instead of waiting with wringing hands, she carefully removed the torn hose and covered him with a warm fur to ward off the chill that may follow.

  “Water is no good to clean wounds, Ediva,” Adrien gritted out.

  “Not usually, but this water is. It’s from the spring that feeds the river past the rock where we kis—we ate. The cook said ’twould be good for fevers like I had and has ordered it be brought up daily and boiled. Once sealed in a keg, it never goes stale.”

  He leaned back against the wall at the head of his bed and shut his eyes. Bad water had caused many a soldier’s wounds to fester. The choice for cleaning them was often wine or spirits. But at least he didn’t have to deal with their sting.

  Peeking at the wound, she paled. “We need the midwife. She’s healed many wounds.”

  Adrien caught her arm. “Nay.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because the midwife is dead.”

  She gasped. “Dead? When?”

  “’Twould seem sometime last night. We found her lying on her bed.”

  “We?”

  “I went straight there upon returning, so she could tend my wound. My sergeant found me there.”

  Ediva paled further. “After returning from the new road? Adrien, this wound looks like a sword cut—’tis so clean. Who attacked you?”

  “Whoever was watching me.”

  “So you confronted him? Look what he did to you!”

  Adrien leaned back and smiled grimly. “Aye, but you should see how injured he is.” He winced. “My courser is a good fighter. He kicked him and sent him flying into the woods. The man has broken ribs.”

  She shook her head. “Broken ribs make it hard to breathe. He’ll die.”

  “I’ve been in battle, woman. I know the usual outcome.”

  The supplies arrived, with the sergeant carrying many of them. The cook helped prepare the honey poultice and the herb tea, saying she’d picked the willow bark herself a fortnight ago. ’Twould do well to ease the pain.

  “Sergeant,” Adrien ordered, the strength in his voice softened by the pain. “Send some men into the wood, up the new road to the bend. Search the wood until you find the man who attacked me. I want him here.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The man disappeared, but not before ordering most of the staff who’d bustled in to leave the chamber.

  Adrien watched his wife wet the cloths. He hadn’t wanted her to know about the midwife so soon. “I’m sorry about the midwife, Ediva. I know ’tis hard for you to lose one of your tenants.”

  She didn’t look at him. “Aye, ’tis a shock. How do you think she died?”

  “We found her on her pallet, still in her night shift.” Seeing her pained expression, he caught her arm and squeezed it. The veil she’d donned after the ride smelled of lavender and sunshine, and he inhaled it deeply. “She died quietly. A good way to go for an old woman.”

  Ediva gave the barest shake of her head. She’d bit her lip, then swallowed before saying, “Mayhap she had the fever also.”

  “She looked neither flushed nor fevered.”

  Still, Ediva didn’t look at him. “Something terrible is happening, Adrien. You were attacked, she was—”

  “She was old, Ediva.” His voice was firmer than he expected. “I’d heard it said that she’d seen King Edmund rule and how long ago was that? She died of old age.”

  Ediva bit her lip and blinked. Did she think differently? But thankfully, she said nothing else. The sergeant returned as she began to cleanse the wound.

  “It needs to be sewn up, milady,” the sergeant said quietly. “I can do it. I’ve done it many times after battle.”

  She shot the man a worried e
xpression. Her hand was shaking. “Will it be dangerous?”

  “Nay. ’Tis a simple wound, really.”

  She stole a quick glance at Adrien. He tightened his jaw and nodded, knowing what was needed. She swallowed again, and Adrien watched her go pale.

  * * *

  The room spun as she watched the gruesome task. Bile rose in her and she felt as light as air. Adrien tightened up, his grip so hard on his pallet that she was thankful he wasn’t holding her hand. She’d have broken fingers for sure.

  She stole another glance at him and found his pained expression drilling into her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Nay, I’m sorry, Ediva,” he gritted out.

  “You? Why?”

  “For making you look like you’re ready to faint.”

  She laughed, but it sounded wobbly to her ears. “I don’t understand this. I’ve seen babes born, cuts and broken bones, but this...”

  “’Tis done, milady,” the sergeant said quietly. “The honey poultice will keep the wound sealed. We’ll give him some more of the draught the cook prepared.”

  Ediva helped Adrien take the drink. Soon, it became obvious that the draught was helping with the pain. Adrien also accepted a small dose of spirits the sergeant urged him to take.

  Satisfied that there was nothing more they could do, the sergeant ordered the cook out, but he stayed at the door. Ediva pulled the chair close and sat, thankful she hadn’t retched. With eyes closed, Adrien spoke. “You’re upset with me, aren’t you?”

  “You went to the midwife because you didn’t want me to see the wound,” Ediva said quietly.

  He opened his eyes briefly. “Aye,” he slurred.

  She glanced over her shoulder to sergeant, then turned back to her husband. “Adrien, I need to tell you something. I know ’tis a bad time, but you should know this.”

  He didn’t answer. The draught and the spirits were taking their toll. All she could do was watch him fall asleep.

  With a concerned look to the sergeant, Ediva asked, “’Twas just a sleeping draught?”

  The man looked grim but satisfied. “Aye. He needs to rest to heal well.”

  “How do you think he got this wound?”

  “This one was caused by a sword. I’ve seen enough of these.”

  She shuddered. “The forests are deadly.”

  “Aye, milady. There are many Saxons who now live in the forests in defiance of the curfew laws. They prey on Normans.”

  She sat back and watched her husband, chilled as she realized how close he’d come to dying. “So you were with him when he went searching for the midwife?”

  “Nay. I found him at the midwife’s hut. When she didn’t answer her door, we went inside. She was on her pallet, dead.”

  Ediva swallowed, her attacker’s threats returning to her. “Did she really die in her sleep?”

  The sergeant hesitated.

  She frowned, waiting. In the quiet of the room, she could hear her own heart pounding. “Sergeant?”

  “Nay,” the man finally said quietly. “She did not die in her sleep.”

  “Then how?”

  “She was smothered, milady.”

  Her heart stalled. “Smothered?”

  He leaned forward, his dark eyes serious. “Whilst I was in Normandy, I was sent to escort some guests of Duke William’s from their chambers back to their estate. They’d fallen from the royal court’s favor. But the man and his wife had died in their bed. They looked like that midwife.”

  “How do you know they were smothered?”

  “The physician who attended the death pointed out the blue lips and noses and marks about the throats and cheeks. He said ’twas death by smothering and warned me to say nothing for my own safety. The midwife had the same bruising around her face and neck.”

  Ediva’s hand found her own throat. “That means...”

  “I detected no odor about her that suggested a poison. Losing one’s breath to an herb can happen, but ’twas not the case here. Her lips were blue and her throat was marked. What else could it be?”

  Ediva shuddered. “Tell Lord Adrien none of this, Sergeant. We need to allow him to heal without worry.”

  “Aye, milady.”

  Ediva spent the next day tending Adrien. She tried to keep him sleeping all of the first day, but when he declined the draught she’d prepared for his afternoon rest, she soon realized that trying to keep him abed was fruitless.

  She was successful in keeping him in his chamber by bringing him in food and berry juices. The cook said those fruits would help him heal faster. She’d picked the berries herself, then crushed and juiced them, adding only boiled water to help him swallow the tangy drink—the tangier, the better it was for healing. But by the late afternoon, whilst sitting with him, Ediva knew his time lying there was short.

  It added to her worry. Death lingered on her threefold, a fulfillment of a warning whispered in her ear should she refuse to kill her husband. Someone had smothered the midwife.

  Second, the death echoed eerily in her recent illness. She’d been poisoned. ’Twas obvious that Adrien suspected the same, for why else had he ordered for her only bland food with no seasonings, prepared only by trustworthy servants?

  She rose from her place by Adrien’s side and paced the small chamber. This third attack hit her the hardest. It pointed to the danger against Adrien whether or not she acted. He had fought against the assailant but not without injury. Would he be so fortunate next time?

  “Ediva?”

  She hurried to his side. “Are you in pain?”

  “Nay. Ediva, I fear you have filled me so full of willow bark tea, I shall not feel pain for a year.”

  “I didn’t want you to suffer.”

  “I’m a soldier. I can take a bloody nose.”

  She stiffened. “’Twas not a bloody nose you suffered, sir!”

  He threw off the fur she’d covered over him and sat up. His attention immediately went to his wound. Ediva had carefully reapplied the honey salve enough to know that it was healing nicely.

  “Will you remove my stitches when it is time?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “I shall try.”

  “Until you faint?”

  “I didn’t faint before,” she sniffed. “I was shocked by your wound, ’tis all.”

  With a soft chuckle, he swung the leg over, sat on the edge of his pallet and looked down. During his time unconscious, she’d ordered a bed spring made and his men had lifted the pallet onto it. “I see I have a new bed.”

  “Aye. The bending down was torture on my back.” She reached for him suddenly. “Nay, don’t stand!”

  “I’ve been abed long enough. I’ll be fine. See, the wound is still sealed and I have weight on that leg.”

  She tugged on his tunic to cover his bare legs. Shaking her head, she added, “Very well. But we need to keep the wound tightly wrapped if you are going to march around the bailey like nothing’s wrong with you.”

  “Nothing is wrong with me, and I need to show the men here that a small cut can’t best me.”

  She crossed her arms, disliking the way her heart thumped hard in her chest at the thought of her husband’s valor. “Since I can’t change your mind, I should leave you alone to get dressed and be about the bailey.”

  * * *

  Adrien, fully clothed and outside a short time later, turned to find Ediva at his side. He’d sent her to her solar, but he’d no sooner spoken to a few soldiers, than she reappeared.

  “I can’t rest,” she explained when he looked pointedly at her. “I have rested too well these past few days.”

  “Liar,” he admonished softly. “Very well. Where’s Geoffrey? We should offer our condolences.”

  “He’s in his mother’s hut. I’ve given him leave, and he agreed to postpone her funeral until you were up.” She paused and seemed about to speak again but stopped.

  “Is there something more?” he asked, trying out the sloping land beyond the bailey gate. H
e’d already managed the motte steps well enough.

  “What I have to say can wait, but, Adrien, we will need to talk as soon as possible.”

  Probably about the attack in the forest, he thought. All that was needed now, though, was to bury the midwife and send a message to his brother that he needed the men back for the harvest.

  They reached the midwife’s house shortly, and Adrien hesitated at the garden gate. Herbs grew wildly about, so many varieties in strange pots or tucked under trees. One even grew in a shallow pan of water.

  “Such a shame,” Ediva whispered. “The garden was perfect for her. She knew exactly what each herb needed to grow strong.”

  A shame, indeed. The midwife had been murdered. He’d noticed that at the same time his sergeant had, although the man had said nothing. Her neck had been marked with bruises. They weren’t harsh enough to stand out, but her eyes had popped open and her lips had been blue. ’Twas not a natural death. He needed to see his sergeant and order him not to mention it to Ediva. She may connect the midwife’s murder with her illness.

  Had someone stolen some foul herbs and given them to Ediva, then murdered the midwife when she discovered her loss? Had she confronted whoever it was who’d been in her garden? Anyone could have slipped in and taken anything, for the garden was not fenced in.

  Adrien took Ediva’s arm and knocked on the jamb of the open door. They found Geoffrey gathering things in the kitchen, between the cold hearth and the small casket.

  Ediva was the first to offer condolences. He nodded. Then Adrien did the same, but Geoffrey gave him only the barest nod. “I will bring the herbs she’d already dried to the larder,” he said. “The cook will be able to dispense most of them. Several of the tenants have offered to help me bury her.”

  “Take whoever you think is best,” Ediva said softly. “Mayhap the soldiers can help.”

  “Nay, milady. We Saxons bury our own, and her neighbor has been very helpful.”

  Adrien nodded. The man next door was one of the few landowners in the village and had sat in the hasty jury Adrien had assembled for Olin’s case. Older, with a constant sour expression but a steadfast reliability, the man would be valuable to Geoffrey.