by Cathy MacRae
’Tis not like Andrew! ’Tis not! But the stench of blood filled the air, and the man on the bed did not move.
Something warm shoved against her hand and she jumped, nearly knocking the mug that Walter held out to her to the floor.
“Here, Milady,” he said. “’Twill help warm you.”
“No, thank ye, Sir Walter,” she said, waving her hand in frustration. “Not now.”
He hovered near and Marsaili gave her attention to the knight. His eyes, dark with worry, tugged at her heart, and she placed a hand on his forearm. He glanced down at her touch, then met her gaze. ’Twas easy to see the concern in his face, and Marsaili had to appreciate his thoughtfulness at such a time.
She offered a slight smile. “Thank ye. I will hold it to warm my hands, but I truly couldnae keep anything in my stomach, I’m that nervous.”
A corner of Walter’s mouth turned up in a wry grin and he gave a short nod. “I am no good at this sort of thing. I’d rather face an army of cursed Scots than the pain of a wounded friend.”
Marsaili knew the exact moment Walter caught the error of his words. His eyes rounded and his lips parted in a small ‘o’. “I’m sorry, Milady. I spoke without thinking. I beg your pardon.”
This time her smile was genuine as she sought to put the knight at ease. “Dinnae fash, Sir Walter. I’m not easy in a sickroom, either, and would rather face a horde of armored knights and their men-at-arms than be forced to attend a cirurgian.”
Bloody linens landed on the floor near her feet with a sickening splat. Marsaili averted her head and swallowed hard.
“You do not have to remain here, Milady,” Walter said. “It would not do to require the cirurgian to attend you next.”
Marsaili spared him a grimace, thankful to not embarrass herself by fainting or losing what little remained on her stomach after their meager meal hours earlier. But the thought of leaving Lord de Wylde at such a time filled her with a sense of panic.
“Thank ye, but I will remain. I dinnae want to . . . .” Her voice trailed off, uncertain why she felt her presence ensured a good outcome for Lord de Wylde. It didn’t make sense, but she simply knew she could not wait in the hall below for news of his progress.
Walter nodded. “I understand. He must have friends around in case . . . .” He, too, left his sentence unfinished, not voicing the unthinkable. He grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and set it beside her. “Here. At least be as comfortable as you can. I will wait with you.”
Marsaili settled stiffly into the cushioned comfort, surprised at how tense her muscles were as they slowly relaxed. “Thank you, Sir Walter. Ye have always had an eye out for me. I owe ye my life, ye know.”
Walter shifted his feet. “’Twas not I, but The Saint who brought you back to life,” he demurred.
“Nae,” she argued. “If ye hadnae found me and carried me inside, I would have frozen to death in that barn.” She touched his hand. “Ye mustn’t think ye cannae cope with people who are injured. Even if ye only considered it yer duty to assist me, ye dinnae shirk what ye knew was right.”
“’Tis afterward I feel as I do,” he admitted. “In the midst of battle, I do not see or feel what is happening around me. I perform as I have been taught. ’Tis my vocation and I am a superior swordsman.”
Marsaili gave his hand a squeeze. It was clear the man merely spoke the truth, simply and without a hint of arrogance. “And ’tis easy to see ye are a loyal friend as well.”
“Here,” he said, motioning to those who assisted the healer, “I am as helpless as a babe.”
“He’ll come through this,” she assured him with more confidence than she felt. For she did not know which was worse—a man who screamed beneath the knife of a cirurgian, or one who remained as silent as death.
* * *
Marsaili startled awake at the touch to her shoulder. Walter stared down at her, his face half-hidden in shadows. Simon appeared next to him and dread swamped Marsaili’s stomach.
“The break loosened the metal embedded against the bone in his leg and the cirurgian was able to remove it. With God’s mercy, The Saint will soon recover.” Walter smiled, relief evident on his face.
“Lord de Wylde is fortunate to have our old cirurgian attend him. He had been captured by Mamluks during Crusade,” Simon added. “As a prisoner, he served under an Arab physician, where he learned many unusual skills. It was not known he had been released and returned from the Holy Land, but his arrival here scarcely a week ago was quite fortuitous.”
Marsaili blinked heavily, their words failing to register fully as she struggled with lingering fatigue and despondency. Suddenly, understanding dawned. Her gaze darted immediately to the figure on the bed where Lord de Wylde lay motionless beneath the drape of blankets. Simon gave her a reassuring nod as he helped her to her feet.
“He sleeps. The healer made a potion for him and he was able to drink it an hour or so ago after he awoke briefly. He needs to be out of pain and resting, not arguing with the rest of us about staying abed.”
A tired smile played about Marsaili’s lips. “He willnae thank ye for drugging him.”
Simon winked at her. “We will worry about that later.”
Marsaili scrubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I must have slept hard to have missed everything.”
“Like a log,” Walter murmured, unable to stop smiling. “Come. I’ll escort you to a room where you can refresh yourself. Simon will take this watch.”
Walter’s light grip on her elbow was welcome as he guided Marsaili to a room at the end of the hallway. The door opened silently on its leather hinges.
“You will be comfortable here, Milady. These were Lady de Wylde’s rooms. The Saint’s mother. She passed a few months ago. The steward has offered you your choice of clothing from the chests, and water will be up for your bath in a few moments.”
“’Twill need to be quick to catch me before I fall asleep again,” she sighed, eyeing the large bed in the center of the room with longing. “Please give him my thanks. This is most kind of him.”
“I believe he said he was honored to see to the comfort of Lord de Wylde’s lady.”
Marsaili’s gaze cut to Walter, but his face remained impassive—except for a slight crinkle at the outer corner of his eyes.
“Hmmph. Lord de Wylde’s guest,” she corrected. Not waiting for Walter’s response, she slipped inside the room and closed the door.
She regarded the spacious room, noting the wall-hangings that warmed the room, and the plush tapestry spread at her feet. ’Twas a most unusual spot for such handiwork, but a bedpost pinned it to the floor, indicating it had been placed there on purpose and had not simply fallen from the wall. Marsaili hiked up her skirts to remove her boots and stockings and stepped onto the fabric. The cool texture of the threads warmed quickly beneath her feet.
Not something to have in the hall where muddy feet would ruin such a beautiful piece of work, but I like it in the bedroom. She spied a thick lambswool fleece beside the bed—exactly where her feet would touch the floor when she rose from her nap. Grinning, she scurried over and stood atop the fluffy pelt, delighting in the softness enveloping her feet.
Realizing someone would soon arrive with water for her bath, she strode to one of the two chests along the wall and opened the lid. An array of soft linens and silks met her gaze. She gently pushed the light fabrics aside, her fingers encountering the plush nap of velvet deeper inside. Lifting the folded cloth, she withdrew a surcoat of rich rust hue, trimmed in gold braid with sparkling topaz crystals sewn in a double row at the neck.
Rising, she draped the gown over the foot of the bed, adding a creamy bliaud of such soft wool she could scarcely keep her fingers from caressing the nap. Setting a silk under-gown atop her finds, she responded to a knock at the door.
A ferocious, high-pitched barking erupted, and a small dog charged into the room from a doorway Marsaili hadn’t noticed before. The little red dog, ears pricked excitedly,
leapt forward, biting at the base of the panel, bouncing back as the door opened. Back and forth the creature darted, tiny feet scarcely meeting the floor as a red-faced woman bustled inside, a stream of lads carrying buckets of steaming water at her heels.
“Beatrice!” She rapped out the name like a military commander, but the little dog only added a comical wiggle to its antics as she danced excitedly before the woman. Marsaili laughed. Instantly, the dog whirled, bristling. In an instant, Beatrice was at Marsaili’s feet, sniffing, barking, sniffing, barking.
“Cease!” the other woman bellowed. Beatrice shot her a wounded look and slipped behind Marsaili’s skirts, peering around them cautiously. The woman glared a warning at the dog and, motioning the lads through the doorway the dog had entered, gave Marsaili an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, Milady. Beatrice is a handful, but means well. She was the dowager’s pet and has been pining in her rooms these past months. She is always happy to see me, but cannot be persuaded to leave her late mistress’s quarters.”
Marsaili glanced at the wee dog who was quietly sniffing the muddy hem of her skirt. “Does she bite?”
“Oh, no, Milady, though she won’t get close enough for petting if she doesn’t like you. She never left Lady de Wylde’s side through her illness—old age, really. And here she stays.”
Beatrice glanced up, her short muzzle and prominent chin giving her a cheeky appearance, her large, wide-set eyes brimming with intelligence. Wiry hair stood out all over her face like a man in desperate need of a shave, her prick ears scarcely visible above the unruly spikes
Sinking slowly into a crouch, Marsaili held out her hand. “Come here, Beatrice. I willnae hurt ye.”
The dog cocked her head to the side but did not approach. She wagged her stumpy tail and turned her attention to the lads who quietly exited the room, empty buckets in hand.
“Give her time, Milady. Once she decides you are a friend, you won’t be able to take a step without her.” Her hands flew upward. “Oh! What am I thinking? You need out of those stained clothes and into a nice warm bath. I am Margery de Langton, chatelaine here at Belwyck. Please call me Margery. My husband is the steward. I am the person you ask for if you need anything at all.”
She bustled forward, turning Marsaili about as she chattered, unlacing her gown with quick fingers. Tossing Marsaili’s clothing to the floor, Margery guided her into the next room with a hand between her shoulder blades. A tub filled with steaming water greeted her and Marsaili’s knees weakened at the blissful sight.
Margery rummaged on a shelf and poured a measure of dried herbs from a wooden box into the tub. Aromas of lavender and a hint of mint wafted in the air. Marsaili climbed into the fragrant water, sinking into the heated depths.
Hands splayed on her ample hips, Margery continued. “Do you need assistance? I have time to wash your hair if you’d like. Tomorrow I will find a maid for you, but you’ll have to do for yourself this evening.”
“I dinnae need a maid, Margery, but if ye have time to help with my hair, it would be welcome.”
“Of course you need a maid,” the woman replied briskly, pouring a pitcher of water over Marsaili’s head. “A lady needs someone to care for her clothes and tend her needs.” She scooped a handful of scented soap from another box and lathered Marsaili’s hair.
Marsaili sighed as Margery’s fingertips massaged her scalp. “Mayhap, but I am only staying until Lord de Wylde is back on his feet and able to arrange for the rest of my journey home.”
Margery’s fingers stilled and she leaned to the side, drawing even with Marsaili’s shoulder. “But, you can’t be leaving.”
Marsaili blinked. “Why not?”
“Because Lord de Wylde has said you’re staying.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The edge of the tub, though thoughtfully covered with a rolled section of linen to cushion the narrow lip, grew more uncomfortable by the minute. Marsaili sighed.
And the water’s cooled off as well. She eyed her wrinkled fingers with a rueful twist of her lips. I suppose ’tis time to climb out and get to bed.
She hauled herself stiffly to her feet, grateful for the small brazier nearby that glowed merrily, heating the small room. Reaching for a square of linen to dry herself with, she spied the little dog a few feet away, head on her paws, mournful eyes staring at her.
“Hello, wee one,” she murmured, not wanting to frighten the animal away. “Beatrice, isn’t it?” When the dog didn’t move, Marsaili ventured a step out of the tub. The little terrier lifted its head from its paws and watched as Marsaili dried off, her motions smooth and slow, calculated to not alarm the dog.
“Ye miss Lady de Wylde, aye? Well, I’m not planning on taking her place, but ’twould be nice to be friends whilst I am here.”
Beatrice cocked her head to one side and Marsaili decided the dog liked her voice. And she certainly enjoyed the dog’s company. “Dinnae listen to Margery—or Lord de Wylde, for that matter,” she confided. “I will have a talk with him as soon as he’s feeling better. ’Tis likely he simply meant for the steward to accord me a room as a guest and not to turn me out. I would imagine his lordship is finding it difficult to express himself properly around the numbing herbs the healer is dosing him with.”
The little terrier sneezed, giving a comical jerk of her head as her nose tapped the floor with the strength of her snort.
“Och! Be careful, lass! ’Tis a hard floor beneath ye.”
Beatrice wiggled her stumpy tail, her whole rump joining in. Marsaili laughed and grabbed her clothing.
Settling the silk under gown on her shoulders, Marsaili smoothed it over her hips then reached for the soft bliaud. “I’ll just lay down for a wee bit and be on my feet again by the evening meal.” She lifted a heavy wool blanket from the seat of a chair as she entered the bedroom. Climbing atop the massive bed, she dragged the cover to her shoulders and burrowed into the soft mattress with a sigh.
Light taps across the blanket announced Beatrice’s presence on the bed. Marsaili smiled as the little dog circled thrice, bunching up a bit of the cover beneath her feet. She collapsed onto the spot and curled against Marsaili’s leg, tucking her nose to her side. Within moments, Beatrice was sound asleep, and Marsaili drifted off into a deep slumber.
* * *
Geoffrey gritted his teeth against the pain. “Get that vile potion away from me,” he growled, stoutly refusing the noxious liquid the healer shoved under his nose. “Find someone who needs it.”
“You will regret your decision, milord,” Simon vowed cheerfully as he strode into the room, dismissing the healer with a wave of his hand. The woman snatched up her accoutrements and hurried away.
“Regret letting my mind clear for the first time in three days?” Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. “I suppose you and Walter thought it in my best interest for me to languish here in a fog? Damn it, I’ve dealt with my injury for nearly a year. I can manage.”
Simon collapsed comfortably into the chair next to the bed.
Geoffrey scowled, finding fault yet again. “And put the furniture back as it was. It looks like a sickroom in here.”
With a laugh, Simon ignored his liege. “It has been a sickroom for the past few days, and will remain so a bit longer. Someone has sat with you continually for the past three days. Lady Marsaili would not leave your side except when Walter or I forced her to and promised to remain in her place.”
Geoffrey ignored Simon’s sidelong glance. With a shrug, the knight continued. “The healer is not responsible for your good fortune—”
“Good fortune?” Geoffrey exploded, motioning to the bed. “You call this good fortune?”
Simon’s patient gaze and pitying smile nearly drove Geoffrey to madness.
“Milord, I would be happy to tell you the how of it if you could promise to limit your outbursts during the tale.”
Inhaling a deep, steadying breath, Geoffrey settled against the pile of cushions at his back. He waved a han
d benevolently in the air. “Proceed.”
“When you fell on the ice, you broke your leg.”
Geoffrey opened his mouth, but clamped it shut again at Simon’s lifted brow.
“The break loosened the metal piece against the bone.” Simon waved Geoffrey’s burgeoning protest aside. “Here is the best part. Our cirurgian, captured several years ago in the Holy Land whilst on Crusade, has returned. Not only has he honed his skills on a very fertile battlefield, but learned some interesting procedures from an Arab physician whilst a prisoner.”
Geoffrey stilled, listening intently, almost afraid to ask what had been done. His head still felt as though it was packed with lint, but a sharp note of warning chased it away, bringing clarity and the recognition Simon could be right. He may soon regret turning the healer’s potion away.
Simon stood and flipped back the light wool covering from Geoffrey’s leg. To his relief, Geoffrey saw both legs, though one was encased between two stout planks of wood and bound with strips of linen.
“He felt the crossbow tip beneath his fingers as he assessed the break,” Simon continued. “After some discussion, he took the liberty of divesting you of that pesky reminder of Godfrey’s poor marksmanship.” He pulled the blanket back into place and reached for a small bowl on the table next to the bed. Plucking a twisted piece of metal from the container, he held it up for Geoffrey’s inspection.
“I don’t suppose you want to keep this, but I wished to show it to you.”
“He cut open my leg?” Geoffrey asked, his voice surprisingly hoarse. It was largely unheard of, though he’d known of battlefield cirurgians taking immense gambles with treatment of horrific injuries. Most did little to prolong the life of the victim.
Simon nodded. “Aye. A bit of surgery he seemed quite adept with. ’Tis a small hole, really. Not much larger than this.” He turned the tip back and forth in the sun’s glow, but the dull black surface simply absorbed the light.
