Philip lowered his head. “In his quarters, my lady. Knape was already far into his cups when the dancing began. I sent him away shortly before the alarm sounded.”
“Did no one summon him?” Isabella was now bellowing, her usual composure snapped.
“He could not be roused, my lady.”
Isabella huffed and began pacing, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Did the guards locate no one? No one to blame for this attempted . . .” The duchess glanced over at Eva before tempering her words. “. . . abduction?”
Philip shrugged, which enraged Isabella further. He spoke slowly, as if speaking to a child. “The castle is filled with folk during the festival, dear Wife. We questioned the guards, but they noticed no one unseemly leaving through the gatehouse. Only the peasants from the village, most so drunk they could barely walk.”
The duchess stared at him for a long, tense moment. Then she threw her hands into the air. “It seems the only thing that saved the poor girl’s virtue was drink. Sir Keegan said the man staggered before he dropped her and ran.” She pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers and sank back onto the stool at Eva’s side.
Isabella laid a hand on the young woman’s cheek. “If, in fact, she can be saved at all.” Her tears spilled over.
*
After Keegan carefully lifted Eva’s limp form and strode off toward the keep, Mathieu remained, searching the ground. The memory of the maiden lying helpless in the dirt, her head bleeding, tore at his heart. He hovered the torch over the hard-packed earth where a rivulet of blood trickled. When he reached its source, he moaned.
A stone jutted up through the ground. ’Twas a granite stone, the part above the surface about the size of his hand. He could remember tripping on the damned thing more than once. It didn’t protrude far, but what did was a sharp-edged wedge – sharp enough to cut her scalp, mayhap fracture her skull.
Of all the places where Eva’s head might have broken her fall, this was the worst spot by far.
He’d watched Sir Keegan carry her off, unconscious still, to where he did not know. Worry consumed him, along with a feeling of helplessness he found maddening.
Should he inquire as to her condition? Ask to see her? Would she even consent to see him—or be asking instead for her knight?
And why, even, should anyone honor his requests?
After all, he was merely the ostler.
Chapter Eighteen
Mathieu paced through the night, tracing and retracing his own steps through the stables, across the bailey toward the knights’ camp, and back again. No news had come out of the castle since Eva disappeared into the keep in Keegan’s arms. The big knight hailed Mathieu a few times as he neared the encampment, asking if he knew of her condition.
The night was clear and cool, the sky an inverted, inky bowl pierced with pinpoints of light. The moon, just a day past full, glowered down at the ostler like a giant, knowing eye.
But not one willing to tell its secrets.
The cocks had just begun their pre-dawn serenade when the doors to the keep creaked open, and a hefty woman waddled down the stone steps. The healer. Mathieu spotted her and ran to catch her before she reached the gatehouse.
“Milady, please,” he began, breathless, “how is the maiden? Does she live?”
Gillette stopped, shifting her basket of remedies up on her arm. Her face was grim. “Aye. She lives. But ’tis naught more I can do for her.”
She started to move away, and Mathieu stayed her with a hand on her arm. “Please, healer. Can you tell me no more?”
At that moment the ostler heard his name called from the doorway. ’Twas the admiral, La Laing, his manner urgent.
“Mathieu, you must ride to Brussels. Take my charger—he is fast, and strong enough to carry you both back. We need the surgeon, Egbert van Bel. Right away.”
“The surgeon . . . where do I find him, my lord?”
La Laing descended the steps and laid a hand on the ostler’s shoulder. He looked older than he had just hours earlier, his skin ashen and his eyes dim. “Go to the Huyssen Inn. Ask for him there.”
Mathieu had never saddled a horse faster in his life. He swung into the saddle as the stallion skidded past La Laing in the bailey.
“Hurry, boy. The maid’s strength is fading.”
Brussels was a short ride from Coudenburg. As the glow of dawn splashed color on the horizon, Mathieu leaned over the neck of La Laing’s streamlined red charger and gave the horse his head. As the wind whistled past him, Eva’s face appeared over and over in his mind—her smile, her laugh, her funny uneven gait, her pompous air when she felt threatened or insulted.
She could be taking her last breath even now, he thought.
She cannot die. Please, God, do not take her from me.
The horse danced behind him as he pounded on the door of the Huyssen Inn. Long seconds ticked by, and Mathieu thought he would go mad, break the door down if no one opened it soon. Finally, he heard the bolts snap and the door swung partway open. A face appeared in the crevice.
“Aye, what do you want?” the old man growled. “We are closed, our rooms are full. Go away.”
When he tried to close the door, Mathieu shoved his boot in the opening. “I have come from Coudenburg. The admiral . . . Duke Philip sends me. For the surgeon. There’s been an accident.”
The old man squinted at him as if he didn’t understand a word, then the lines on his face crumpled deeper. “Van Bel has a shop ’round back. Call for him there.” Mathieu staggered back as he slammed the door in his face.
More precious minutes ticked by as the ostler tied the charger to a post and slipped between the buildings. He came upon another door bearing a sign: Egbert van Bel, Barber-Surgeon.
After several minutes of pounding on the door finally wakened van Bel, it took what seemed like forever for the drowsy surgeon to return to the door with a leather-wrapped parcel. He was a small man, slight of build, and balding. Shuffling through the alleyway, van Bel didn’t seem at all hurried as Mathieu led him to the street. The ostler clenched his fists. He wanted to scream.
“The maiden is Philip’s daughter. Be quick, man.”
The surgeon’s eyes grew round. “Why didn’t you say so?” he sputtered as Mathieu helped him aboard the stallion.
La Laing’s charger burst into the bailey at top speed and skidded to a stop in front of the keep. Mathieu swung down and held out a hand to his passenger. But instead of returning to the stables with the horse, Mathieu called to his page, Rogier, who was stumbling sleepily out of his quarters. When van Bel scurried through the keep’s doorway, the ostler was close on his heels.
They climbed the great spiral staircase to the second floor. At the end of the hallway, Mathieu saw the duchess standing, her gown rumpled and her face pale. She was wringing her hands.
“In here, my lord,” she said, pointing to the quarters across the hall from her own.
Van Bel rounded the corner and disappeared into the room. Mathieu found himself face to face with Lady Isabella, who eyed him suspiciously.
He dropped to one knee before her, his head bowed. “I must see her, Your Grace. Please . . . I know I am not her knight, but—” His voice broke.
“Her knight? I don’t believe Eva’s heart belongs to a knight.” Isabella’s hand rested on his head. “But her condition is grave, Mathieu. She will not know you are here.”
The ostler raised his eyes to meet hers. “Mayhap not. Still, I must see her. Please.” His voice broke and he felt no shame in it.
The duchess hesitated only a moment before nodding and stepping out of his way.
The room reeked of tallow and sweat and pungent herbs. ’Twas so small a space there was barely room for a single pallet and half-barrel table, on which the candle flickered. Yet a single, stained glass window was exquisite, taking up nearly the entire outer wall.
In the dim light, Mathieu leaned over the shoulder of the surgeon, who was on his knees beside Eva. He felt Eva’s neck, th
en laid his ear to her chest.
“How did this happen?” the surgeon barked.
“She fell from the height of a man. He dropped her. There’s a rock . . .” Mathieu blurted the explanation, but could not finish, his voice crushed in his throat.
Van Bel held the candle over her, running his fingers over the bruises on her arm. Then he studied the rest of her body, his gaze falling on her twisted ankle.
“An injury here as well,” he mumbled.
“Nay,” Isabella cut in. “She was born that way.”
Grunting, the surgeon nodded as he worked his way back up to Eva’s head, which lay on a thick pad of cloth. Gently, he rolled her head to the side.
Mathieu’s stomach lurched when he saw the massive swelling on the side of her head. A mat of her golden hair was dyed red, the blood already turning brown where it had dried. Van Bel got to work quickly, working to remove clumps of the clotted hair with a sharp rondel. When he leaned back, Mathieu caught sight of the wound, now fully exposed. All the air rushed out of his lungs.
Protruding from Eva’s scalp was a bump the size of a lady’s fist. A small gash in its center was crusted over, but blood leaked out slowly in a pulsating rhythm. To look at her face, so still and grey, one might easily think she was dead.
Van Bel shook his head and made an ominous humming sound. “This is very bad. Very bad, indeed.” He turned to look up at the duchess, who stood next to Mathieu. “I must lance the wound, Your Grace. The scalp must be peeled away to see if there is damage to the bone.” His mouth flattened. “I cannot promise she will survive.”
“Do whatever you can, good sir. We are grateful you have come.”
The next hours dragged on as Mathieu sat in the knights’ encampment next to Keegan. ’Twas barely mid-morning and he’d already drank more ale than he’d ever drunk in a day. The big knight seemed to sense the ostler’s pain, and kept refilling both of their wooden mugs. The camp was strangely quiet this morn, with few other men moving about.
Gaspard nor Knape were anywhere in sight.
Mathieu glanced around. “Where is rest of the guard?”
Keegan snorted. “After feast day, our mighty knights are fit for naught. As for the captain? We won’t see Knape until the evening meal.” He drained his mug and wiped the foam from his bushy mustache. “If I ever catch the devil who did this to her, I’ll kill him with my bare hands,” Keegan growled.
They waited as the sun rose over the castle, each moment lasting a lifetime. Every time a servant emerged from the keep, they both jumped to their feet. The duchess promised she would send word when the surgeon had finished his task. Time and again, they were disappointed when the servant scurried off elsewhere in the bailey.
Finally, as time neared the noon meal, a handmaiden came running across the bailey toward them.
“Lady Duchess calls for the ostler,” she called flatly.
When Mathieu arrived in the doorway, the room smelled even worse than before. Now it brought to mind the stench from the butcher’s stall on a hot summer day, and the thought turned Mathieu’s stomach. There was no mistaking the tang of blood.
The surgeon was still leaning over Eva, wrapping her head with strips of linen.
“Your Grace, these wrappings must be changed at least two times a day. The wound should be dusted with some powder of myrtle, then wrapped in linens soaked in oil of roses and vinegar. This lambskin cap will prevent the dressing from drying, and also keep insects away.” The surgeon rose stiffly and turned toward Mathieu. “Are you the maid’s man?”
Mathieu blinked, stunned. “Nay. I just . . . I simply care for her a great deal.”
The surgeon handed him a bundle of clean linen strips and a bottle of the unction he’d described. “Then you should be the one to tend to the dressings. The wound is not pretty, and ’twill take one with a strong constitution—and who cares a great deal for the girl—to perform this duty properly.”
Mathieu turned to look at the duchess, who placed a hand on his shoulder. “If you wish, Mathieu, you may stay and tend Eva’s wound. We will assign your stable duties to the knights’ squires and pages.”
“I do wish to tend to her. Very much, Your Grace.”
The surgeon rose to leave, and Mathieu voiced the question he was afraid to ask. “My lord . . . will she live?”
The man stared at him for a long moment before replying. “If she does, and regains all her faculties, ’twill be a miracle.” He added, “If the wound festers, however, there will be no saving her.”
Chapter Nineteen
Mathieu sat at Eva’s side all through the afternoon hours. The air in the room grew close and warmer as the sun beat against the keep’s stone wall. Light splattered the space in many colors through the stained-glass window. The ostler wondered absently why such an exquisite window dressed a room so small.
A servant knocked on the door at some point, offering a tray with bread, cheese, and a pitcher of wine. Mathieu motioned for her to leave it at the door. There was no way he could eat anything at all, but sipped only at the tepid wine.
Holding her limp, cool hand in his, Mathieu stared at Eva, afraid she’d slip away at any moment. He watched her breathing, slow and shallow, but unceasing. Yet her skin remained cool. No fever yet. For that the ostler thanked the heavens.
As the light faded, a kitchen maid came again, this time bearing a basin and a small cup filled with a greenish powder. The powder of myrtle. Mathieu swallowed. It was time to change the dressing.
On his knees, the ostler poured some of the unction the surgeon left into the basin and ribboned in two strips of linen. While they soaked up the concoction, he rolled up his sleeves and relit the tallow candle. He drew in a deep breath.
The lambskin cap slid off the oily cloths easily, and Mathieu began unwinding the bandage from around Eva’s head. He did his best to jostle her as little as possible, though she did not stir at all. When the last layer of linen came free, he stifled a gasp.
The wound was no longer a small gash. It was now an L-shaped flap, as long his thumb on each side. It was sewn back into place with haphazard stitches. The surgeon said he would lance the wound, but Mathieu hadn’t expected the treatment would be this severe.
Using a wad of linen, Mathieu dabbed the myrtle powder on the incision. He noticed the swelling had lessened, and the bleeding ceased. The wound did not appear angry or soured. A glimmer of hope flickered.
As he worked, Mathieu swore under his breath. He was clumsy, and his fingers were too big. The linen strips caught on his calloused skin. It did not help that he was trembling all over. He wondered . . . was he truly was the best choice to tend Eva’s wound?
By the time the ostler finished his task, his hands were shaking so violently he nearly sloshed unction all over the pallet. Sitting back on his heels, he dropped his head into his hands for a moment, trying to regain calm.
Mathieu jolted out of his reverie when a hand came down on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the duchess, studying him with a sad smile.
“Are you well, ostler?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “The dressing is new. I will change it again before the witching hour.”
“Why don’t you come to the hall? Eat something. Then go get some rest. I will have one of my handmaidens sit with Eva until you return.”
It killed Mathieu to leave her, not knowing if when he returned, the girl would still live. Yet he knew without food, without rest, he would be unable to perform his task adequately. He swiped a hand down his face.
“I should go to the stables first . . . the aviary—”
“It’s all been taken care of, Mathieu. The stock have been fed and bedded down for the night.” The duchess paused, a twinkle lighting her eyes. “I even made sure the squires released Kleine Uil from your quarters. God knows, we can’t have the tiny creature miss an evening of hunting.”
Mathieu sighed, so many emotions swirling within him he dared not try to grasp at any one. His throat felt thick
as he replied, “Many thanks, Lady Duchess. I will come to the hall.”
The hall was already nearly deserted when he arrived, and the servants were busy clearing away the meal’s leavings. Isabella motioned for him to join her on the dais. He felt out of place, since the only time he sat at the head table was when the admiral was present and requested it. Reluctantly, he settled into the seat beside her.
*
Isabella called for food and wine. While waiting for the meal to arrive, she turned toward Mathieu and studied him. Her watchful eye had missed naught over the past days since Eva’s arrival. Something about the ostler had changed and, judging by his emotional response to her injury, those changes held more importance than she’d first thought.
“You have taken to the girl,” she said softly. ’Twas not a question, but a statement of fact.
Mathieu avoided meeting her eye, staring instead at the goblet on the table before him.
“Aye. ’Tis a shame she has her heart set on a knight.” He gripped the stem of the pewter goblet with both hands, a desperate hold. “If she lives.”
The duchess laid a hand on his arm. “The surgeon is skilled and wise, Mathieu. We will do all we can to ensure she lives.”
The servant arrived with a pitcher, and a trencher filled with fragrant, steaming stew. After his goblet had been filled, he drained it by half before tearing off a chunk of bread. Isabella sipped from her own goblet before speaking again.
“The girl is an innocent, Mathieu. Her head is filled with the bards’ tales of chivalrous romance. I think ’tis a sort of armor. I’ve spoken to her at length. She realizes her station.”
The ostler shot her a wry glance. “Aye, I believe you are right. Her temper is her shield.” He speared a chunk of meat with the knife. “She reminds me of the little owl. Flawed, yet a fighter nonetheless.” He raked his hair back from his face. “I hope her strength carries her through this tragedy.”
Isabella blew out a breath. “I, as well. I cannot help but feel responsible, by bringing her here.”
The Warrior and the Wildflower Page 16
