by Nina Merrill
From the room came Napier’s voice, low and rasping. “I say to you it is a fault, Tibald, a fault near to oath-breaking. You think too much on her. A man so distracted is naught but fodder on the battle field.”
Napier’s accusatory tone didn’t fool Jennie. Beneath it she heard true concern and regret, a ripple of emotion that startled her coming from the sarcastic knight.
“We battle more in the court of the king these days than we do on the fields of faith.”
“You aren’t listening. I tell you it is a fault, and must be corrected.”
“She is like the sun, Alain—it burns me to be near, but it destroys me to be far. I cannot help myself.”
“Calf-love. Naught but foolishness. The trick of a sorceress.”
Jennie sensed Boudin’s nervousness at overhearing this conversation, so intimate in its way, and so incriminating to Tibald and herself. She could almost hear Boudin’s hero-worship of Tibald clattering to the floor like so much broken crockery. The warden of a commandery should be beyond reproach, honorable and true, a pillar of strength, able to counsel others against submitting to the sins of the body.
For her own part, the words thrilled her and frightened her at the same time. They had shared so much intimacy in their nighttime chats and the soul-stealing kisses when Tibald caught her rummaging through the commandery’s library. Yet in the most basic of ways they knew nothing about each other. Centuries of time and change separated them.
Boudin shuffled his feet on the stone flags and spoke. “Sirs—the lady would come to assure herself the wound is being properly tended.”
Jennie peered over Boudin’s shoulder to where Tibald sat on a high bench, his arm lifted from his injured side and gripping the stone wall at his back. Napier was bent before him, dabbing with a cloth at Tibald’s ribs. She had eyes only for Tibald, moving steadily past Boudin, though he reached out to stop her.
“I’m so sorry. Tibald, I beg your pardon! Is the wound very deep?”
Napier straightened and turned to stare at her, and in an instant everything she had ever thought about him changed. In the dark, tormented gaze of his eyes was the same horror she herself felt at the sight of Tibald’s blood. A horror born of deep affection and grief at harming someone beloved. Her heart wrenched for the slim, dark-haired man. Together Jennie and Napier had wounded Tibald.
“Get out,” hissed Napier. “you're the cause of this. Had Tibald not seen you, he would easily have parried my thrust.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” The words were simple and plain, and they sapped the heat from Napier’s gaze. “Please, let me help.”
“I will care for my companion.” Napier’s voice nearly broke on the last word, but it seemed only Jennie was sensitive enough to hear it. Tibald gave an exaggerated sigh.
“Let her observe. What can it hurt? Her words about healing where she comes from have merit.”
Napier’s lips folded tight on whatever he might have said and he turned back to his task. Jennie moved to stand beside him, quizzing unrepentantly.
“Has this water been boiled? Is the rag a clean one?”
“I don’t know.” Napier dabbed at the bloody wound, which was already slowing to an ooze. “The rag seemed clean enough. There are more just there.” His head tilted toward a wicker basket in the corner. Jennie bent to examine them. Satisfied, she turned to Boudin, still standing uneasily in the doorway.
“Go and fetch wine. Strong wine. Brandy would be better.”
“Lady—”
“All is well,” interrupted Tibald. “Do as Jeanne bids you. See if the cellarer will part with a little brandy.”
“There’s a cellarer here?” Jennie heard herself asking. “Of course there must be, a preceptory this large, and in France…” She peered at the wound and saw that while the skin was parted and gaping, the muscle sheath beneath appeared intact. It took everything she had not to turn away in shock.
I will not be sick. I will not be sick. I can handle this. They need me to handle this.
Chapter 14
She reached for the wound, her first impulse to soothe, to comfort. But she remembered she hadn't washed her hands and drew back. There was a basin and ewer on a nearby table and she washed as best she could without soap, sighing for its lack. She was not a moment too soon, for immediately afterward Napier plunged the bloody rag into the basin to rinse it. Jennie stared in horror, realizing he had every intention of reapplying the rag to the wound. She snatched it out of his hand.
“Use a clean one, for the love of God!”
Both men stared at her and she knew she’d offended them with her volume and near-blasphemy. Mumbling her apologies, she tried to explain about infectious bacteria, only to falter into silence as they continued to stare at her in confusion.
Get a grip, Jen. This is where all the books in the world won’t help you.
She carried the basin down the hallway to the outer door, where she pitched the pink water onto the grass before returning and refilling the basin.
Boudin panted into the room, holding a dark brown bottle out to her. Jennie worked the cork loose and took a sniff. The pungent scent of fermented apricots made her nod.
Tibald reached out for the bottle, obviously intending to take a swig. Jennie shook her head.
“For the wound.”
“Fie,” said Napier. He snatched the bottle from her and handed it to his companion. “I must stitch this. He’ll need the dulling.”
Jennie could not look away as the muscles of Tibald’s throat worked. Several swallows went down before he drew in a gasping breath and bared his teeth in satisfaction. Napier took the bottle and lifted it to his own lips, but Jennie stopped him. “Indulge me for once, Napier. Your hand will be steadier if you’re not half drunk. And Tibald will be all the better for the cut having a splash of brandy, too.”
Napier stared at her yet again, this time in anger. “You dare speak so to me?”
“I do!” She stood as tall as she was able, her hands on her hips, glaring. “These ideas of cleanliness and proper medical care are ridiculous. No wonder so many people die from the complications of simple wounds. No, Napier—you’ll do as I say this time, and Tibald will be well and heal as he should.”
The two men exchanged glances. Tibald shrugged. Napier let out a gusting breath of pure aggravation. Boudin shuffled his feet nervously, which broke their silence at last.
“Go and find her head covering, Boudin,” said Tibald. “She cannot roam about like this for long.”
“Sirs—”
“Go!” Napier added his voice to the command.
Reluctantly the youth obeyed, and the three remaining shared another look. Tibald’s gaze locked with Jennie’s, and he groped for the brandy in Napier’s hand once again. More long swallows, his cheekbones reddening with the heat of the liquor, before he thrust the bottle at her. “Do what you must,” he told her.
“Lie back then. It will be easier if I can pour directly onto the cut.” She looked at Napier. “This will sting. Hold him down.”
“I do not need to be restrained like a calf being castrated.”
Jennie rolled her eyes. “I have never seen so much machismo in one place,” she muttered to herself in English. To the knights, she said, “As you will.”
Tibald lay down, and Jennie fetched another cloth from the basket, tucking it under his ribs and back where it would catch most of the drips. She wanted to be sparing with the brandy, especially after Tibald had been so profligate with the bottle’s contents, for she planned to use it again after the wound was stitched. Her stomach churned. She swallowed hard and put a hand on Tibald’s bare, muscular belly to stabilize both him and her. His stomach was warm beneath her palm, and his skin twitched at her touch like a ticklish horse. Behind her, Napier exhaled noisily again. Judge me all you like, sir knight.
Jennie tried to ignore the dark-haired Templar and moved closer to the bench. She fixed Tibald with a serious look, only to find that his eyes were alr
eady focused on hers. His gray-eyed gaze made her stomach flip again, this time with emotion. Unconsciously she stroked her left hand over his belly, keeping away from the wound, thinking only of soothing him before she poured the alcohol over the cut.
It was the wrong thing to do. There was an unmistakable movement from the crotch of his breeches. Tibald flushed wildly, the redness spreading from his hairline to his neck and chest. She watched with something like fascination until she noted the rapidly rising bulge at the top of his thighs.
Napier will certainly have something to say about that. Jennie lifted the bottle over the wound and poured. In her nervousness over Tibald’s burgeoning erection, she splashed more brandy than she intended. He hissed through his teeth and reached to stay her hand. The pain had an immediate quelling effect on his arousal, much to her relief.
“Lie still a moment,” she told him quietly. “Let the brandy do its work.”
“I am not near drunk enough for this.”
“The wound must be stitched.”
“I can manage stitches. This burns like fire!”
“That means it’s doing its work.” She leaned across him, pouring the brandy in the thinnest stream she was able, watching as it rinsed more blood down his side. At last she stopped, satisfied for the moment. “I’m sorry it hurts you, Tibald. Truly. As I am truly sorry to have been the cause of your wound.”
“The fault is partly mine.”
Napier grunted in disgust. “While you doves coo, I’ll find needle and thread. We must close the skin. The cut isn’t deep, but it won’t heal properly if left open like this.”
Jennie ignored him as he left. She set down the bottle of brandy and moved where she could look into Tibald’s face. “Truly, I am sorry.”
He met her gaze again, dark pupils expanding. His hand lifted and unconsciously she took it, folding it between her breasts as she moved closer. He pitched his voice very low when he spoke. “I can still taste you in my mouth. It has been four days, and still I taste you.”
Now it was Jennie’s turn to flush. Heat swarmed over her skin like a cloud of stinging bees, but she didn’t look away. Her hand clenched convulsively on Tibald’s. She, too, was haunted by their embrace in the commander’s quarters. Even now, though he was wounded, she was perversely pleased by the effect she had upon his flesh. She was tempted to stroke the sweaty hair back from his brow and brush a kiss on his compressed mouth, but she knew Napier would return any moment. It was all she could do not to grit her teeth at the thought.
She tried not to hate Napier, but it was difficult. He was so adamant in his opposition to her presence or her suggestions. She knew his words carried weight with Tibald.
I can still taste you in my mouth. The words fizzed through her brain like champagne. It has been four days and still I taste you. Jennie was still mesmerized when Napier returned, bearing coarse thread and a needle so large it gave her pause. The thought of the thing tugging what amounted to string through Tibald’s flesh made her physically flinch, and redirected her thoughts to the task at hand.
“Let’s soak the thread and needle in the brandy as well.” She splashed a small amount in the basin and held out her hand. Napier’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline, but he handed over the supplies after a nod from Tibald.
“I suppose you are also a surgeon?” Napier drawled, leaning hipshot against the bench where Tibald craned his neck to watch Jennie.
“No. Just a…I suppose you might consider me something of a wise woman.”
“I believe my word was witch.”
Oh, such vicious spite. Jennie turned back from the basin, stifling a brilliant flare of fury. “I don’t know why I keep hoping for better treatment from you, Napier, but I do. I respect Tibald’s good opinion of you, even if I don’t share it. Is it possible you could do as much for me? Could we have a truce, just this once, while we tend a hurt friend?”
Her words were quiet and as controlled as she could make them, but still a dark flush rose on Napier’s face at her rebuke. He was silent, looking from Tibald to Jennie and back again. Her heart pounded a little. Can medieval women speak their minds this way? Is the basic relationship between men and women still the same, even centuries later? Do I risk a blow for my impertinence?
At last Napier bowed stiffly from the waist. “Then with your permission, madame, I will stitch my companion’s wound.”
“Yes,” said Tibald. “And Jeanne will tell me more stories of the wonders of her land while you do so.”
She heard a faint slurring in his voice that told her the large quantity of brandy was taking effect. It had lowered his inhibitions as well, for Tibald stretched out a hand to her.
Without looking at Napier, but still feeling his stare as if it were his dagger in her back, she took Tibald’s hand between both of hers. His fingers folded warmly over the back of her palm and gripped strongly. “Squeeze as hard as you must,” she told him. “I won’t mind.”
In the end, Napier had to pull the bench away from the wall so they could stand one on either side. Napier stitched and knotted, sweating and gritting his teeth, and Jennie used Napier’s wicked little rat-killing dagger—dipped in the brandy to his annoyance—to snip the thread. From time to time she paused in her stories of the fat Labrador retriever puppy of her childhood to hold Tibald down when Napier’s work hurt him. She tried not to look when the thread dragged roughly through his skin, and most particularly not as Napier pierced with the needle, but she had to look when she cut the thread. She swallowed hard more than once, glad breakfast had been hours ago.
When the stitches were done, tidy but harsh-looking where they punctured the lips of the cut, Jennie poured more brandy over Tibald’s wound, pressing him down with her left hand when he hissed in renewed pain. Her hand lifted the bottle clear of his body and Napier snatched it, downing the last of the brandy himself. His dark eyes dared her to challenge him.
Jennie said simply, “You do good work, Napier,” as she helped Tibald to sit so she could press a pad of rags to his side and strap it in place with strips of cloth. Napier narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing, watching her finish the work of dressing the wound. “I couldn't have stomached stitching him up myself.”
Napier shrugged, lowering the bottle. “I do what I must. he's my companion.”
“Why were you not fighting with staves, like the rest of the men?”
The two of them looked at her as if she had lost her mind. Napier spoke first, his words a low murmur, careful of who might be listening. “With a traitor in our midst, you would have us deliberately weaken ourselves?” He turned a wondering gaze to Tibald, who curled his lip and scoffed at her as well.
“Staves are for learning. Swords are for fighting. All the practice in the world does no good if you cannot wield your blade when battle calls.” He leaned forward and looped his arm drunkenly around Napier’s neck, jerking him close. Tibald pressed his forehead to Napier’s, looking him in the eye. “Thank you, my brother.”
Napier stiffened and glanced her way. She couldn’t tell if his look was one of triumph or one of acute embarrassment, but his voice was rough when he spoke. “I regret you came to grief at my hands.”
“Bah. Nothing!” Tibald slid off the bench and gave an experimental stretch. Jennie and Napier made abortive motions to stop him, but he grinned and shrugged. “I will mend, thanks to you both and that fine brandy. Now, where is that benighted apprentice with Jeanne’s head covering?”
Chapter 15
After the accident, Jennie didn’t see Tibald for six days. Napier and Boudin split the watches between them, Napier taking the nights and Boudin the days. No one else came near, and questioning Napier only got a mocking laugh for her trouble, except for the comment Tibald seemed to be healing. She was grateful Napier granted her that much grace, but the boredom of her incarceration began to wear on her. She spent her days dicing on the landing with Boudin when he would permit it, and making useless tiny scratches on the vellum when he would
not.
It was from Boudin she learned Tibald had left Paris on a journey with Commander de Payraud. Boudin seemed to know nothing more about it, not even when bribed with half her meals for two days. He ate with a will and a grin, and let her play dice, but admitted to knowing nothing more.
One afternoon they were dicing—Jennie’s score lagging, and Boudin laughing—when he suddenly cocked his head toward the stairs. Jennie listened too, her heart racing excitedly. Could it be Tibald, back from his journey? She got to her feet, as did Boudin, but the hand he extended toward her was cautionary.
“Go in and close the door. They haven’t given the sign.” His voice was very low indeed, and Jennie whispered in return.
“But—”
“Do as I say.” He drew his sword slowly, stifling its noise with his hand. Alarm crested inside her. It isn’t October thirteenth yet. But what if all the history books didn’t tell the whole story? Or what if I’ve actually altered history myself by being here…
“Go within!” This time there was no sign of the pimply, gawky youth Boudin had always seemed. Jennie saw the birth of a warrior in his stance and the determined set of his mouth. She obeyed, pressing the door nearly closed, leaving just a gap through which to peer and listen as Boudin eased silently down the staircase. Once he was out of sight, she had only her ears to report what was happening.
The sound of a scuffle rose up the echoing staircase, a brief clang of metal, and Boudin’s voice shouting, “Beware!”
Then there was a meaty thud and silence. Jennie shoved the door closed with her heart in her throat.
Not Tibald then. The king’s man, the traitor? She groped uselessly for a way to lock or latch the door, but the mechanism was on the other side, meant to keep her in, not to keep someone out. Panting in fright she hastened to the table and dragged it across the floor, tipping it over and turning it on end, crockery shattering on the floor. She angled the edge of the table top against the metalwork of the door and wedged the other end against the raised lip of one of the flagstones, the way she might prop a chair under a hotel room door.
