by Jill Barnett
Finally he raised his head. She had shifted slightly, enough so he could see the outline of a rounded breast as it caught some strange and flickering amber light that came in the window. It amazed him the way her skin, that incredible white skin, drank in the color of the light around her. He looked past her toward that light. It was a faint glow in the night sky, beyond her profile, golden, red. He realized it was probably from Bonfire Night, when the hills would be filled with bonfires, burning in celebration of the last harvest and to cleanse the fields for the spring crops.
He threw back the coverlet and swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked naked to stand behind her.
“I did not mean to wake you.” Her voice was soft and weak as if it were difficult for her to speak.
He felt her vulnerability, such a rare thing, for she did not show her vulnerable side often.
He slid his arms around her and pulled her back against him, slid his hand inside her robe to cup her breast, to feel the weight of it in his hand. He leaned into her and took in her scent. She smelled like woman, his woman. He pressed his lips to her neck, then pulled his face back. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, but he felt her stiffen.
“Tell me what you are thinking.”
She looked down as if trying to make a decision, then she sighed and crossed her arms over his hands, resting her hands on his hands, her palms chilled from the cold stones.
“Whenever I see bonfires I think of my mother. I can still remember how the villagers burned mourning bonfires for her every evening for months and months. There were times when I thought the skies would never, ever be blue again.” She paused. “Even now, when I smell the smoke from a bonfire I feel myself stiffen. It’s almost as if I am the one who died.” She rested her head back against his shoulder.
He pressed a kiss to her temple.
“I think the scent of those fires must have awakened me.
“Do you want to come back to bed? To try to get some sleep?”
She shook her head. “I am not tired. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Nay. ’Tis not. For I find I do not want to sleep either, at least not without you there. I will stand here, sweet, with you in my arms, until the fires fade and your memories and the pain they cause are gone.”
She closed her eyes and sighed, relaxing easily against his body. Her hands moved in circles over his.
They stood there, just the two of them, a man and his wife, watching, being together, holding each other, until the fires in the hillsides were all gone and the skies dawned gray instead of blue.
Chapter 32
Winter rode in with a blast of ice and snow that year. The hoarfrost started shortly after Bonfire Night, making mornings white and crisp, and the stone floors so cold that on many days you dressed in bed, under the coverlet where your body warmth still lingered.
Icy winds and the cold snapping air continued until December, which came in all white. It snowed at least three times a week right up until Christmas Day and the boar’s head feast attended by many guests and noblemen, including the King and the Queen, who had plans to stay with their friends the earl and his lady for the first five days of Christmas, and then move south to Caernarvon.
The men all rode out of Camrose early that morn, with a hunting party that was gregarious and full of sport, because of the huge numbers that made up a royal hunt. They moved into the woods beyond the road, an enormous Welsh forest filled with wild boar, hart and hare, the kind of hunting grounds that any men of sport would find challenging.
Due to the size, the party split into smaller groups. Some went after boar and others after hart. Tobin was bringing up the rear of Earl Merrick’s party, when he heard something behind him. He reined in and turned, then spotted a huge boar with tusks that would make the most handsome of trophies.
The beast disappeared with a snort.
He wheeled his mount around and beat through the brush until he found a trail, paw marks left by some of the hunt dogs that must have caught the boar’s scent. He rode down into a ravine, where his mount slipped and skidded and almost threw him from his seat.
He reached the bottom. There was an icy brook that trickled through the snow. He looked around him; it was thick with trees and there was little room for trails or his horse. He dismounted, tied his reins to a low branch and followed the dog tracks in the hard-packed snow.
The bushes and trees grew densely here; it was dark and he moved with his sword drawn and ready. He could hear something ahead, not far, a rustling in the bushes, the crunch of a hoof in the snow. He sidled through the trees and moved with quiet and stealth.
He could see the bushes ahead of him shake. He heard the snort of a boar.
Sweet success! He moved in for the kill. Paused near a tall tree, the he leapt into a small clearing.
A huge dark-skinned boar with tusks over a foot long lay on its side, snorting, downed already.
Tobin saw his mistake.
No dogs here.
Instead, he looked into the reddish gold eyes of a vicious wolfpack. The wolves stood like men-at-arms around the whole clearing, their teeth long and bared from the taste of blood. Their eyes flicked nervously from the boar to Tobin.
He froze. Dared not move.
One of the wolves growled, low and mean.
A second later they turned away from the boar and attacked.
Sofia and Clio spent the morning hours in the kitchens adjacent to the gardens, where they were molding clay boxes for St. Stephen’s Day. ’Twas an important part of the Twelve Days of Christmas, for this was the specific day when the lord and lady gave gifts of money and cloth, white flour and blocks of Cyprus sugar to the villeins and servants of Camrose and all of the surrounding villages.
The work had been going on for days, by Clio, Sofia and some of the other noblewomen, even Eleanor and the Poleaxes were among those who had given a hand, for it would never do that the servants made their own hard boxes, which were meant to be broken open at the perfect moment—the celebration that night, after which they would choose the Lord of Misrule.
Sofia finished with the last clay box and washed and dried her hands on one of the cook’s aprons. She left the hall with Clio’s blessing and ran through the hallways and out into the bailey on her way to her chamber, so she could bathe and get ready for that evening.
’Twas one of Sofia’s favorite times of the year. She found that now, she even liked the snow. She picked up a handful of it and packed it into a snowball, tossing it lightly and trying to decide what she would use for a target.
The huntsmen’s horn sounded over and over, loud and shrill at the gates. She turned and frowned, for the men were back early and the horn was still blaring. Suddenly the guards on the walls were running and shouting. Servants came out from buildings and the thunder of horses’ hooves clattered over the drawbridge and into the bailey.
Sofia moved back and stood there, trying to see through a hundred or more riders.
Earl Merrick was shouting orders.
Someone was hurt.
Sofia stepped up another step and tried to see, but could see nothing but a sea of riders.
With a clatter Clio burst from the kitchens and stood there talking with a squire. ’Twas one of the twins, Thud or Thwack, she could not tell. Clio turned and looked at Sofia with the oddest expression.
Sofia’s belly sank. She turned toward the men.
Merrick broke through the other riders, pulling the reins of another mount, one with a man slumped over the saddle, his back and arm so covered with blood that you could not see the cloth or his skin.
For just the shock of the moment, Sofia was unable to recognize what she was seeing, then she screamed her husband’s name.
Sofia stood near the bed, feeling helpless and out of place because there were so many people still inside their bedchamber. She cast a quick glance at the calibrated candle in the stanchion. She’d felt this way for almost two hours, because that was how long ago Me
rrick, along with Tobin’s man, Parcin, had carried him inside, laid him on a trestle table in the hall belowstairs, and began to wash and tend his wounds.
Merrick told her Tobin was attacked by a pack of wolves, hungry from the hard and early winter they were having.
His body looked simply horrid, as if there were nothing on his right side that was not torn and bleeding. Even his face had deep scratches and was streaked with so much dried blood she could not tell for certain if he had wounds there or not.
She knew her hands were shaking, so she clutched them tightly, as if she were praying, her fingers threaded together. But that only served to remind her of how Tobin always threaded his hand with hers, ever since their wedding day. And every time he had her heart had picked up a beat.
So she stood there, wondering if he would ever hold her hand again, watching and waiting, trying to look, but hating what she saw.
She had to take slow, deep breaths to keep her head from turning light and her eyes from blacking out. Clio handed her some wine and made her drink, then stood with her, her arm around her, consoling her until Sofia was able to move close enough to see his face.
Even then, all Sofia could do was stand beside his dark head, her hand on his brow. She hoped he knew she was there with him. His right arm, his sword arm, was full of puncture wounds and rips in his skin and flesh. At one spot, near the elbow, the bone showed through, until they washed it with witch hazel and vinegar and sewed the wound closed.
Tobin had tossed and turned and she knew he was in deep pain, but finally they had used a sponge soaked in juice from foxglove and poppy, a remedy that was supposed to make him sleep and not feel the pain as terribly. She watched and saw that Tobin had slept after they moistened the sponge and placed it over his nose and mouth.
Now they were all in the bedchamber and her husband lay on the coverlet, bandaged and washed and still sleeping. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him to awaken.
Finally Merrick and Edward escorted everyone out of the room, even Eleanor and the Poleaxes, who had stitched Tobin’s wounds.
Merrick crossed over to her. He slipped his arm around her. “He will be fine, Sofia. It looks much worse than I think it is.”
“Aye, Cousin!” Edward said. “I have seen men on the battlefield lose their arms and half their legs and live.”
Sofia winced and stared at her cousin. That was supposed to make her feel better?
“We shall bid you goodnight, Sofia,” Merrick said tactfully. “Tobin will sleep for most of the night. Should he awake or need anything, there will be a servant outside the door. Just let him know.”
“Thank you, milord.” Sofia turned to her cousin and gave a slight curtsey. “Sire.”
“Sofia,” Edward said.
Then both men left her alone.
She sat down next to Tobin on the bed, and watched his breathing. He was all bandages and bruises. She wanted to lie next to him, to hold him, but she was afraid to touch him, so she lay down alongside of him, careful not to touch anything but his left hand. She leaned over and whispered, “I love you, my husband. I love you.”
Then she lay back down and closed her eyes, but just before she feel asleep, she threaded her fingers with his.
Chapter 33
“God save me from you nursemaids!” Tobin bellowed so loudly his voice echoed out of the tower and over the bailey below.
“God save us from you pigheaded warriors,” Lady Jehane barked just as loud. “I swear you are worse than an infant! Now hold still, young man.”
“What are you going to do with that knife, woman?”
Lady Jehane paused, holding the knife over Tobin’s lower body. “I am going to cut off your—”
“Jehane!” Mavis warned in a hiss.
“Bandages!” Jehane said, then she sliced through one of the chest bandages and set the knife down and took a rag soaked in vinegar and warm water. With it, she began to soak the cloth to loosen it from the wound.
“Dammit! That stings!”
Sofia glanced outside and saw people gathered in the bailey below the tower, listening. This battle between Tobin and the Poleaxes had been going on for almost an hour. She was not certain who would win.
“Ouch! That hurts,” he said more quietly, his voice carrying a distinct whine to it.
Sofia saw Jehane look to Mavis and roll her eyes. “’Twill not be much longer. I need to check each of these wounds and the stitches.”
Tobin grumbled something and looked over at Sofia, a pleading look in his eyes.
She had tried to stand well out of the way and as she watched them, she wasn’t certain who she sympathized with more, the Queen’s ladies or her husband.
“Well now, that is finished. All cleaned and bandaged.” Jehane was washing her hands. “In spite of yourself.”
Tobin didn’t say anything. He just sat in the bed, scowling.
Mavis picked up all the supplies, and Jehane the wash bowl. They moved toward the door.
Sofia moved swiftly and opened the chamber door. “Thank you, both for all you’ve done. Truly.”
Jehane eyed Sofia from her head to her toes, then said, “Are you increasing yet?”
Sofia almost choked. She shook her head.
Jehane turned and looked at Tobin.
“What are you looking at?” he shouted.
Jehane started out the door and over her shoulder she said, “You know, Mavis, perhaps we should have bled her that time.”
“You think?” Mavis said thoughtfully, following her out the door. “I do not know. I am thinking maybe we should bleed him!”
Sofia closed the door and set the lock. She walked over to a table and poured a goblet of wine, then brought it to her husband, who was scowling.
“I am sorry you are still hurting,” she said, handing him the wine.
He took it, drank some and handed it back to her. “That’s enough.”
“I was so very frightened, husband. I am so pleased your wounds are healing so swiftly.”
“Swiftly? ’Tis been almost five days!”
“Your wounds were terribly deep.”
He said nothing, just sat there looking angry at the world in general.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“Nay.”
She sighed. “Well, then I suppose you should get some rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Oh. Would you like me to send for Merrick?”
“I do not want company.”
She counted to ten, then she stood. “Then I shall come back later.”
His left hand shot out and grabbed hers. “Do not go.”
There was such a desperate and needy tone to his voice that she sat back down. “What would you like to do?”
He shrugged, then winced.
“We can play draughts,” she suggested, waiting to have him deny that, too.
“Fine.”
She smiled and stood to fetch the game board and pieces. She set the heavy board on the bed. “Which color would you like?”
“Black. No, white.”
“You’re certain?”
“Aye. White.”
She lay out the pieces. “You can have the first move.”
“Wait. What are the stakes?”
“We shall play for fun.”
“Nay. There must be stakes.”
“Fine. What would you like me to wager?”
He grinned. “Your clothes.”
“Tobin!” She began to laugh. “You are terrible.”
“I am serious.”
“And what will you wager?”
“Gold?”
She shook her head.
“Jewels?”
“Nay.”
“I have no clothes on. What do you want?”
She chewed on her lip. “A child.”
And her husband laughed loud and hard for the first time in days.
By the end of that week, Tobin was up, dressed in mail and was in the icy fields
outside Camrose with the other knights, working to regain his strength. Every time he raised his sword, his chest felt as if it were going to explode.
He hid it.
He rode his mount up and down the field. Every hoofbeat jarred his shoulder and the bone in his elbow rang as if it were a church bell.
He dismounted without a flinch.
But when he decided to take a turn at the quintain and tilt, Merrick stepped in and grabbed his lance. “Stop this.”
“What?”
“You think I cannot see that you are hurting?”
“I hurt.” Tobin shrugged. “’Tis not the end of the world. I will heal and in the meanwhile I shall not lose any strength if I practice every day.”
“You are going to kill yourself, lad.”
“The only thing that will kill me is dire boredom. God in heaven, Merrick! If I have to stay in that bloody bedchamber one more day I will go mad.”
“You do not have to practice on the field.”
“I want to.”
“You are the most hardheaded fool.”
“Aye,” Tobin grinned. “You trained me well. Just ask your Lady Clio.”
Merrick barked something and walked away mumbling.
But for all his jesting and stubbornness, Tobin knew Merrick had a point. He was trying too hard. He hurt like hell and it was all he could do to stay atop his horse.
He sheathed his sword and moved off the training field. He led his horse to the stables and handed him to a groom, then rolled his shoulders and winced. He moved to a water barrel nearby, removed a ladle from a hook and took a drink.
A voice came from a nearby stall around the corner, where two varlets were mucking it out. “Ye know, me Bess, she were the one who told me that he paid ‘em gold guineas to shame the lady.”
Tobin froze.
“Gold guineas! We be saving for a farm outside Winton.”
“Why did he want to shame a lady?”
“She wouldn’t have him or some such rot.”
“What lady?”
“Lady Sofia. The black-haired beauty what’s wed to de Clare. He paid Bess and her sister to hang that sheet in the hall.”
Tobin dropped the ladle and rounded the corner in two long strides, his sword up and the point at the throat of the varlet who was talking. “Who?”
