Redemption (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  “Nowt to be afraid of, Sister. ‘E’s in no fit state to do thee any ‘arm.”

  She reddened, feeling foolish. Thomas was right. What was there to be afraid of? If the wounded man wasn’t lying here half dead, she would be terrified of him. He was big and likely intimidating to behold. But he was hurt, and his life was in her hands now. She was in control. It was an welcome feeling and blood rushed to her head.

  Don’t swoon, don’t swoon.

  Pulling herself together, she placed her palm on his forehead, then pressed the backs of her fingers to his neck. Heat from his skin warmed her frigid hand. “He’s alive,” she said quietly.

  And in need of soap and water.

  The nervous gelding backed away.

  “Reckon ‘is ‘oss ‘as the stench o’ dead ‘orseflesh in ‘is nostrils.”

  The warrior’s iron helmet was badly dented and she suspected a blow to the head had taken his wits. A livid gash snaked from his right temple down to his chin. It had bled, but wasn’t deep and the blade had missed his eye. The purple bruising made it look worse than it probably was. She couldn’t tell if any bones were broken beneath his heavy, blood-stained hauberk. The worst injury seemed to be a deep, angry wound to the front of his right thigh. It still oozed blood through the slashed leggings.

  She held out her hand and Thomas helped her to rise. “I can’t do much in the field. He’s obviously a knight. We must get him back to the infirmary. Carry him over to the haywain. Can you pry his hand from his sword? It might take three of you to lift him. He’s not a small man.”

  There was something vaguely familiar about him. An acquaintance of her father’s maybe? Perhaps this one was worth saving? She hoisted her habit, slogged her way back across the field, and climbed into the oxcart.

  “Lay him with his head on my lap,” she instructed, pulling what little clean strips of linen she had left from her pocket.

  It would be uncomfortable, sitting on the rough planking of the haywain with the knight’s heavy weight on her. The villagers, already exhausted by the difficult expedition across the field, struggled to lift the warrior. When his helmet fell to the ground, Thomas, breathing hard, stooped to retrieve it, then tethered the reins of the warrior’s horse to one of the rough-hewn wooden slats. The animal was further alarmed by the proximity of the oxen, and pulled away, jolting the cart and causing Agneta’s hands to fly to her mouth.

  The warrior filled the two-wheeled cart. Pinned against the side by his malodorous body, she felt overwhelmed by his size. She pushed against the rough wood, trying to shift her weight, her bottom already feeling numb. A splinter pierced her hand. She’d have to deal with it later. “Gilbert, please tell Mother Superior we’re taking a casualty back to the infirmary. Go, Thomas. Quickly.”

  Thomas led the beasts along the rutted track at what seemed like an interminably slow pace. The lumbering dragons snorted frozen breaths on the frigid air. Agneta peeled off the hood of the knight’s hauberk. His long black hair was plastered to his head. There was no blood, but she located a large swelling on the back of his head.

  “He has the look of a Norman, though his hair is too long,” she mused, brushing back a strand from across his face. She was calmer now, more in control. Detachment, mantra of the nuns, took over. She assessed the man’s pallor. Careful to keep his head cradled on her lap, she used her other hand to press the linen strips from the infirmary against his wounded thigh, trying to stem the blood. She shivered as the cold November wind gusted around them, glad of the warmth of the warrior’s head on her thighs. “Looks like rain,” she suddenly shouted to Thomas, who peered at the sky, coughed, spat and grunted.

  A deep groan emanated from the man’s throat, reverberating through her, destroying her fledgling confidence and making her sweat despite the cold. Sixteen when she was brought to the nunnery, she had no knowledge of men, except for her darling brothers, brutally slaughtered by the likes of this warrior. She looked down at him and noticed his lips were parched. She licked her own. She had to get his weight off her—soon.

  When they arrived at the community, monks and laymen hurried out to assist in carrying the man to the recently constructed infirmary. She breathed a sigh of relief as the weight was lifted from her, but missed the warmth on her legs as the cold trickled back into his sweat on her habit.

  Agneta found a measure of peace in her work in the infirmary and Mother Superior had told her she had a gift for healing. It had saved her from madness, given her a purpose. Others recognized her talent and acceded to her.

  Inside, they laid him on a raised pallet.

  “We must get his hauberk off to see the extent of his injuries. Take care. I believe his ribs are broken.” She was surprised at the note of urgency in her voice.

  Remember, a nun must remain detached.

  The idea of detachment appealed to Agneta. If she could ever achieve it, never again would feelings almost destroy her.

  Two monks helped raise the man’s upper body, and two others dragged the bloodstained and muddied hauberk over his head. Agneta and another novice cut away the sweat soaked padded clothing beneath it. Mayda wrinkled her nose.

  “I know it’s not pleasant,” Agneta said with a wry smile. “We must be grateful to God it’s the healthy odor of male sweat, and not putrefaction.”

  The knight’s broad chest and well-muscled arms were covered in livid bruises, but no wounds. His skin was hot to the touch when she gingerly felt to confirm broken ribs. She’d put her hands on other men’s bodies, but touching this warrior felt too intimate. Fortunately, she could find no other major bones broken. They unlaced his boots and eased them off, then two monks stripped off his mailed leggings. Agneta looked away, admonishing them needlessly to be careful not to inflict further damage to his thigh wound.

  The monks set to work bathing him. Agneta kept her eyes on his face, and applied salve to the gash, judging it wasn’t deep enough to stitch.

  “Cover him as soon as you can,” she said over her shoulder to one of the lay helpers. “We mustn’t let him get chilled. But leave the thigh wound uncovered. I’ll stitch it once we’ve bound his ribs and set poultices on the bruises.”

  The wound still bled, and required pressure. She felt the sticky warmth of his blood on her hands, and hastily wiped them, one at a time, on her habit. The sight of blood had never bothered her, except when—no, she would not resurrect that buried memory. Once the bleeding stopped, she sewed up the gash with the smallest silken stitches she could contrive given that her hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Then she bound the wound with the help of a monk.

  “It’s fortunate he’s still in a stupor, Brother Manton,” she remarked, trying to sound calm.

  For me as much as for him.

  “His fever worries me. He lay for hours in the wet mud. I hope the metal of the hauberk may have protected him from the damp.”

  Despite being naked and injured, the warrior embodied masculinity and power, and she found working on him exhausting. She’d tended other men in the infirmary, farmers with broken bones, old men with rheumatism, boys with scrapes and bruises, serfs with the ague or the bloody flux. She’d done it all dispassionately, devoid of feeling since the massacre of her family and her mother’s betrayal. Why did this patient bother her? He was a man of violence. Perhaps that was the reason? Or had the horror of the battlefield she’d walked through worn her out?

  She wanted to get nourishing liquids into him.

  Brother Manton crooked his arm under the man’s head and she poured cold vegetable broth into his mouth. He had difficulty swallowing and started to cough. “He’ll do more damage to his ribs,” the monk remarked quietly.

  Agneta longed to sleep, but sat by the warrior’s side for a few hours, trying once in a while to drip broth into his mouth. Eventually, she had to leave him in the care of another novice and seek her bed. She was to be called if he worsened.

  In her cramped dormitory cubicle, she kicked off her boots, untied the cord at her waist, a
nd removed the rosary and cross, kissing them reverently and placing them carefully in her tiny dresser. She peeled the soiled scapular over her head, barely able to lift her arms. The black wimple came off next, and then she breathed a sigh of relief as she dragged the starched coif off her head, releasing the pressure on her neck and cheeks. She rolled her head back and forth. The tunic followed quickly, and lastly the stiff black underskirts. The nuns had cropped her brown hair when she’d entered the novitiate. She hadn’t cared. Nothing mattered. Each month, one of the older sisters sheared the hair of the novices.

  Once she’d freed her tresses from the coif and wimple, the candlelight reflected on the golden highlights of what remained. Mother Superior often lectured her charges on the sin of pride, but Agneta couldn’t deny the guilty pleasure she felt as she ran her fingers through her loosened hair, and smoothed her hands along the developing curves of her body. Her breasts, concealed when she wore the habit, had grown to be firm and round. The cold air teased her nipples to tautness. She was thin at the waist. Her mother had been fond of telling her she had beautiful eyes that were neither brown nor green, but a combination of the two.

  Memories of her mother conjured a vision of the ornate steel blade of the Danish dagger. The weapon reposed in a place of safekeeping known only to Mother Superior. Agneta had wanted to hurl it into the depths of hell. She stretched to rid her body of the tension of the last few harrowing hours, then washed with a cloth and water from the ewer, anxious to be rid of the lingering smell of death. The cold water raised goosebumps on her skin. Teeth chattering, she slipped on the simple linen chemise. She succeeded in wiping most of the mud from her only habit, but wasn’t sure how to remove the bloodstains.

  Warrior’s blood. Always so much blood.

  Climbing onto her pallet, she tugged the rough woolen blanket over her to ward off the chill night air. The stricken knight occupied her thoughts. She’d allowed herself to care about another human being. She would have to be sterner. If he lived, he would probably kill again, for she had no doubt this warrior had killed. Then she wondered if he had a family, perhaps a wife. Would someone be grieving for him as she’d grieved?

  “Dear Lord, give me the knowledge I need to heal this wounded man and help me overcome my hatred of the Scots. Forgive me if I pray he’s not a Scot.”

  Exhaustion soon claimed her.

  “Agneta, Agneta,” murmured the novice she’d left with the knight.

  Had she slept?

  She sat up slowly, her body stiff.

  “What is it, Beatrix?” she whispered, rubbing her eyes, trying not to wake the other softly-snoring novices who would have to rise soon enough for Lauds after little sleep.

  “The knight. The fever has him in its grip. He needs to be cooled, but—”

  Dread churned in Agneta’s belly. “I’ll be there in a few moments.”

  She dressed quickly in the still damp habit, shoved her feet into her boots, and picked her way in the dark through the partially built cloisters, trying unsuccessfully not to make noise. She went as fast as rules allowed, her hands tucked into her sleeves, hugging her body against the chill. She was frozen to the bone by the time she reached the beleaguered knight who thrashed about, moaning.

  She blew on her fingers, rubbed her hands together and instructed Beatrix. “We’ll need to bind his hands to the pallet. Bring the linen strips.”

  She couldn’t get her fingers to thaw and it was a difficult task to bind him. “It will make it hard to change the linens, but he’ll be safer.”

  As she surveyed their handiwork, regret engulfed her. Such a man should not be bound.

  Agneta nursed the stricken knight for two long days and nights while his fever raged, trying to get ale or broth between his lips, cooling his body with wet cloths, tending the thigh wound, now left unbound to benefit from the healing properties of the winter air.

  She couldn’t understand why she was compelled to stay with him. Was it a holy obligation she felt? Offers of assistance from others were politely declined. She gazed at him for uncounted minutes, listening to his breathing, trying to make sense of his ramblings. To her surprise, she found herself willing him to live.

  Heat assailed her whenever she cleansed him. Thank goodness most of his chest was covered by the bindings. She was petrified the linens covering his torso would slip and she would glimpse the one area of his care she willingly left to the monks. She’d seen her brothers naked, but feared this would be—different.

  “You’re far too attached to your patient,” Mother Superior scolded. “You must give more of his care over to the others. Remember, detachment.”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother,” she replied, her head bowed, only too guiltily aware she was consumed with his wellbeing, but unable to conceive of trusting anyone else with it. “The gash in his thigh and the cut on his face are healing, which is a good sign, but still the fever ravages him, and I can’t understand why.”

  On the third day, in the evening, Agneta dozed fitfully by the knight’s pallet, her head nodding. Something caused her to wake. A pulse thudded in her ears. He was staring at her, a trace of a smile on his face. Was she awake or dreaming? His blue eyes, soft as bluebells, pierced her heart. Her throat constricted. She leapt to her feet and nervously touched her hand to his brow.

  Who Are You?

  The stricken warrior judged he must be in hell. Some sharp-toothed creature gnawed at his thigh and he was being stretched on a rack, his wrists bound. Yet, an angel dozed beside him. Perhaps purgatory then? He stared at the angelic face haloed by the flickering flames of distant candles. He must be in heaven and this was his beautiful Madonna.

  Then the angel stirred and opened her eyes. She touched his forehead, but it felt like the caress of a woman.

  “Are you an angel?” he whispered, casting his eyes into the gloom around them.

  “I’m Agneta,” she replied, the words catching in her throat. “And you?”

  He closed his eyes, confused, and a little afraid. The vision was still there when he opened his eyes again. “Why are my hands tied, Agneta?”

  He saw the beginnings of a smile, but then her eyes widened and a frown creased her brow. Had he said something to condemn himself?

  “You have broken ribs, and other injuries, including a blow to the head. You were feverish, thrashing about, and we were afraid you might fall from the pallet.”

  She was nervous, evidently wrestling with some indecision and he wanted to ask for more candles to be lit so he could see her eyes more clearly.

  “I can untie you now.”

  He nodded, and watched as she untied the knots with some difficulty.

  “My hands are cold,” she murmured.

  He had an urge to take hold of the slender fingers and warm them with his breath. Her voice was cold too. What could he do to warm that? Why wouldn’t she look at him?

  Once the knots were undone, he raised each of his hands slightly then looked back at her. Pain snaked through his chest with the movement and he hoped his face hadn’t betrayed him.

  She flushed, and a wave of heat rolled over him.

  The moans, movements and shadows convinced him he wasn’t dead. His angel was a woman. Her hair was completely covered, her body concealed by what he now saw was a grey habit, stained with what he hoped wasn’t his blood. Why could he not take his eyes off her? His twitching fingers itched to reach up and remove her wimple. Was her hair brown or blonde? A nun. He was excited by a nun. He felt ashamed.

  Forgive me, Lord.

  But she’d said her name was Agneta, not Sister Agneta. He’d somehow been delivered into the care of a woman whose face alone drew him like a lodestone. But she’d spoken of a blow to the head. Perhaps that was his problem. He licked his lips and she scurried off, returning a few moments later, a tankard clasped in her delicate hands.

  She steadied his head, and held the tankard to his lips. “Drink. Your body needs liquid.” Her hand on the back of his neck was indeed cold and he sh
ivered. He drank, tentatively at first then greedily when he tasted ale.

  The effort exhausted him, but she was the one shaking. He looked over the lip of the tankard to catch a glimpse of her eyes. They were downcast, but definitely green, or perhaps brown?

  “Thank you, Agneta,” he rasped, wiping his hand carefully across his mouth. “That was good—Sister.”

  She lowered his head and he closed his eyes.

  Agneta wasn’t sure if she should have untied the warrior, but he seemed calmer.

  His voice sounded like the deep, low drumming of a moorland grouse, calling its mate. But her attraction fled quickly when she detected the brogue of the barbaric Scots.

  “Who are you?” she whispered again, flustered when he kept his eyes closed.

  She rubbed her fingertips together, remembering the silky feel of his hair; her cold fingers had shocked him.

  She looked around furtively to make sure none of the lay workers were still in the infirmary, uncertain how they would react if he proved to be a Scot. How would she react? Would she still want to heal him? The nuns taught that God loves every sinner. Could she feel love and compassion for a Scot? Guiltily aware of the answer, she hunched her shoulders.

  She’d asked him a simple question, why didn’t he answer?

  She stopped breathing when he opened his eyes and reached up to his forehead, as if to find his name there. He touched the newly forming scar at his temple.

  She reached to stay his hand and explained in a whisper that he had a wound. “It’s healing, but you’ll open it if you rub it.”

  Touching him sent a wave of heat surging through her and she snatched her hand away.

  The blanket tented near his groin, and she averted her eyes quickly, but not before his face reddened as his hands went to the bulge in the blanket.

  She retreated back to the stool, knocking it over.