His French grated with harsh consonants, but Saura could hear the obsequious whimper in Bronnie’s voice. She’d taught him respect with the whiplash of her tongue.
“That’s to say, nay, m’lady.” He groaned under the sharp jab of her elbow. “There’s a palliasse on th’ floor. In this room we prepared just for ye.”
“You call this prison a room?” She placed one hand on one wall and without moving her feet, simply by leaning, she placed her other hand on the other wall. “But a palliasse is better than nothing. Lay my Lord William on it. Gently, you fools!” As she knelt beside the unconscious man, her ear caught the squeak of shoes sneaking out the door. “You cannot leave until you bring me water and bandage material,” she enunciated clearly, and the feet stopped.
“Eh, well, I’ll have to ask th’ lord.”
She rose to her feet in a magnificent fury. “Ask him! Aye, and ask him if he wanted Lord William killed by your stupidity, too. Ask him how he feels about a churl who disobeys the commands of a baron’s daughter. Ask him—”
“I’ll bring th’ water,” Bronnie answered hastily.
“And the bandaging. And something for us to eat, I’m hungry. And extra blankets.”
The large man shuffled out, escaping her authority, while Bronnie bowed and said, “Aye, m’lady. As ye wish, m’lady.”
Then he left, too, shutting the door with a solid thunk and leaving Saura standing alone. As quickly as he disappeared, so did her supporting anger. Her chin dropped, her knees folded. She crouched beside William, her fingers frantically combing his head, seeking the cause of his long unconsciousness. A lump rose there on the back of his neck, and it felt angry and hard, full of blood. A goose egg, her mother had called them, painful but not serious. Surely there was some other injury, but her hands could discover nothing else. As far down as she could run her hands beneath his clothes, there was nothing. The top of his head, his face, nothing.
With a groan, she thumped her head beside William’s. Her hands clutched her middle, her knees tucked close to her chest, and she lay there, unmoving, in the depths of despair, beyond tears. No thoughts crossed her mind, no ideas lightened her darkness.
She was blind. As useless and repulsive as her stepfather had told her. She couldn’t see the attackers for William. She couldn’t scout out their surroundings, couldn’t seek useful weapons, couldn’t do anything of any use to anybody. She couldn’t even force respect from that lowborn churl, couldn’t even get him to bring water and bandaging and food and blankets, all things they would need to survive the night with comfort. She was nothing more than a worm.
Life seemed brightest just before it was snatched away. Those nebulous dreams of hers had led them to the stream, had distracted her when she should have been listening for the whisper of feet in the woods. When she lived in her stepfather’s house, she had always listened. She never slept unless Maud guarded her, she never worked alone, she never walked in the garden or bailey without listening, listening for the scuttling sound of Theobald’s shoes. He wanted to lay his hands on her body, breathe his fetid breath on her face, poke himself at her. She shuddered and rubbed the serpent that twisted her insides. How could a man despise someone as much as Theobald despised her and still want to fornicate with her?
Did she dare think she loved William? She squirmed as Theobald’s jeering echoed through her head. He’d tormented her ceaselessly, and with no effort she could recall every word. She wasn’t worthy of love, he’d said. She couldn’t work on a tapestry, she couldn’t ride a horse by herself: she was worthless. Her face could turn a man into salt, he’d sneered. Her figure reminded him of a couple of fat dumplings on a short stick. What man, he’d asked, would want a stupid woman in his bed, one who couldn’t even see the piss pot if she stepped in it?
She couldn’t even help William. His goose egg rated as nothing more than minor, but she knew the truth, although she didn’t want to admit it to herself. He might never wake up. Head injuries were tricky, her mother had told her. Especially the kind of head injuries that dealt with a previous wound. Whatever brain lurked inside your head conformed to its own rules. A bruise on the body hurt and could be deadly, but a bruise on the head could reduce the brightest toddler to a drooling idiot. A blow in the right area could replace a grown man with a silent block who lived and breathed but slept like the dead until starvation claimed him.
Sometimes, it seemed to her, God must hate her above all creatures. He’d given her enough to live on the fringes of life, but never become a participant. She was capable, never beautiful. She was a sister, never a wife. She was an aunt, never a mother.
One of her hands crept out from beneath her and stroked William’s rough arm. She was a friend, a teacher, a woman: never a lover.
What would she do without William?
Tightly, she clasped his fingers in hers. Each individual muscle and bone and sinew bespoke his strength, yet he lay still in the chilly room, his skin unnaturally cool.
Like a slap in the face, Saura’s mother arose before her. “Lying there wallowing in your pity, Saura, when you have enough to eat, and shelter, and the sun to warm you in summer, and a fire in winter. Pay attention to what goes on around you. If there’s famine, who starves? Not you. If there’s war, who burns? Not you. If there’s sickness, it’s not you who lies in the mud at the side of the road and dies. So what if your eyes don’t work? You have a brain. Get up and use it.”
With unseen power, the echo of her mother’s voice jerked her erect. “Whining about your fate will not cover him with a blanket,” she said aloud, and laughed a little. The voice she heard from her own mouth sounded like her mother’s, ordering the young Saura to deal with the sick because it was the job of the chatelaine to do so.
Her clumsy fingers searched the hard pallet beneath William until she found a rough woolen blanket folded at the foot. She covered him, then changed her mind and slid it off. Putting her hands beneath him, she heaved, trying to get him onto his back, and then heaved again.
He didn’t budge. He was one large, inert block of meat, and she was only a mosquito worrying his flesh. “It’ll be easier…for you…to breathe…my lord,” she punctuated her words with her struggles, “if you’ll roll…onto your back.”
“Nay, m’lady!”
Saura jumped and turned.
“Let me do that. Ye’re too slight a lady t’ do such heavy labor.” Bronnie hurried into the room, dropping things as he came. “I can move t’ lord.”
“Well, be careful with him. That’s a vicious blow you gave him,” she scolded.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I am. But see, he was beatin’ Mort.”
“He’s a blind man. How much damage did you think he could do?”
“Well,” Bronnie drawled the word with the profound doubt of the slow-witted. “He looked like he was doin’ a good job of killin’ him t’ me. Here, you want him on his back?”
She nodded and wrung her hands as she listened to the man move William. God knows what the ham-handed fool did, but she had no choice. William needed to be turned, and she couldn’t do it.
“There ye are, m’lady. He’s on his back now. An’ ye know what? His color looks better t’ me.”
“Does it?” She reached for the blanket and tucked it under his chin, down his body and around his ankles.
“Aye, just look at him. That sick tinge is gone from around his mouth an’….” Bronnie’s chatter faded as she turned her violet eyes on him. “I’m sorry, m’lady, I wasn’t thinkin’. Really, ’tis just ye don’t seem t’ be blind. It took me most o’ this day t’ realize ye didn’t even know where the horse was puttin’ his hooves. Ye move around so well an’ work like a real person.” He nodded, pleased he had cleared that up. “Aye, like a real person, ye are.”
“Did you bring more blankets?” Saura asked, the cold of her tone penetrating even Bronnie’s thick skull, if not the reason for it.
“Aye. Aye, I brought ye blankets, like ye said, m’lady. Lots of them, because ther
e’s no hearth in here an’ it gets cold at night. Even in th’ summer, it is. I’ll put them here, on this table.” The squeaky shoes crept across the room, stopping beside each pile he had dropped and carrying it to the table he spoke of. “I brought bandagin’ material, all torn up into strips. An’ a whole bucket of water. Here, just a minute, I put it outside th’ door. I’ll place it over here, by th’ bed. Just a minute, let me drag a stool over an’ put it up there an’ it’ll be higher for ye. Easier to reach, it will be.” The stool scraped over to the palliasse and he thunked the bucket up on it. “There’s still a stool for you t’ sit on, ye know, over by th’ table. Th’ food’ll be comin’ soon. Not that ’tis ever any good, that cook’s such a slut, but I’ll bring it t’ ye meself.”
He trailed off, distressed with her silence, and she felt a sudden discomfort. Bronnie, she realized, was a puppy dog. A well meaning, idiotic puppy dog who never meant to hurt anyone, certainly not a lord and a lady. He stood before her now, she knew, anxiously waiting to see if she would beat him or praise him, and she couldn’t resist the potent appeal he projected. “You did fine, Bronnie. Thank you.”
Those new shoes hopped for a moment, and he eagerly inquired, “If ye need aught else ye’ll call me, m’lady?”
“No one but you,” she promised. “In fact, you can help me now. The lord needs to have his clothes removed.”
“Removed?” Bronnie gasped. “Why? He hasn’t outgrown them.”
Saura closed her eyes in exasperation. “Nay, but he’s wet and might catch a chill. And I need to check him over for any different wounds that may be hurting him.”
“Check him over? Ye mean, feel him? I’m confused. They said ye weren’t married t’ th’ lord.”
“They are right.”
Bronnie’s voice rose incredulously. “Not married an’ ye want t’ touch him? Are ye un of those wicked women th’ priest talks about?”
The first arrows of amusement attacked Saura’s grief. “That’s why I want you to help me. So you can look at him and see any bruises.”
“Ohh.” Bronnie thought about that. “Ye mean ye want me t’ tell ye if he’s hurt.”
“Exactly.”
“But what if he’s hurt an’ ye have t’ touch him?”
Her amusement deepened, and she could almost have smiled. “I will do it with only pure thoughts in my mind,” she promised.
“Lord William won’t like that.”
“He’ll like less dying of some untreated wound. Now let’s go to work.”
She rolled up her sleeves, preparing for hard labor, but Bronnie said, “Nay. I’ll do it.”
“I can help.”
“I’ll do it,” he insisted. “Ye shouldn’t touch him more than necessary. Ye bein’ a noble lady an’ all.”
Saura nodded, bemused by the code of ethics that allowed for murder and kidnapping but balked at a lady touching a lord outside of the state of wedlock. Was it just Bronnie, or did all these Saxons hold such strange beliefs?
“He’s a big ’un, isn’t he?” Bronnie grunted. “But healthy as far as I can see. Only a few little bruises. Ye goin’ to want him dressed again?”
“If you want to. If you don’t want to leave him naked in here with me.”
“Nay, nay, ’tis awright. ’Tis awright.” Bronnie stood, panting. “Ye’re a lovely lady, ye’ll not be playin’ with him when my back’s turned.”
Saura turned away from him, unable to keep the grin from breaking through. “I’ll endeavor to restrain myself.”
“An’ I’ll bring th’ food soon. An’….”
Saura could hear him squirm.
“I brought ye a comb.”
“A comb?” She reached up and touched her hair. Her veil had gone long ago, the ties of her braids had loosened. She looked, she supposed, like a witch.
“Aye, I thought ye might like t’, well, comb your hair. ’Tis on th’ table. With a bit of ribbon from me girl. If ye like it. ’Tis a pretty blue color.”
“I’m sure it is. Thank you, Bronnie. Thank you very much.” She turned and smiled at him, her gracious-lady smile, and she heard the little jig start again, for just a moment. Then the squeaky shoes backed toward the door.
“I’ll bring th’ food,” he promised.
“I know you will. Thank you.”
“An’ some good wine. An’ aught else ye need.”
“Thank you.”
The door clicked behind him, and Saura chuckled. “Well, I guess I can convince someone of my authority,” she told the unconscious William. “Even if it’s not you.”
But even her authority with Bronnie couldn’t convince him to tell her who the lord of this castle was. The man brought dinner, as promised, and wine, and bread for the morning. He remembered her distress when she’d walked barefoot through the muddy bailey, and carried in another bucket of water for her to wash with and a rough towel. But when she tried to question him, he bumbled about, straightening the table, placing an iron candle stand against the wall. When she insisted he take the candle away, it distressed him. At last, he removed the candle and backed out of the door, and left her to the silence.
And it was silent. This keep wasn’t the main castle for the lord. The bustle of a large company, of knights and attendants, was conspicuously absent. She alone was responsible for her William.
She ate the dinner, which tasted just as appalling as Bronnie promised. She rattled the door. She explored the room, a narrow, bare cell with two arrow loops to the outside. Two stools, a rickety table, one palliasse, and nothing to make weapons with. She checked William’s bandage, covered him with another blanket, and paced. Finally, she sat down on the tiny stool beside the tiny table and took up Bronnie’s comb. With trembling fingers, she took apart her braid and began to comb. Her hair hung down to her thighs, a tangled web of fine, soft distraction. It distracted her from the quiet, from the worry, from the loneliness. The tangles diverted her from thoughts of William, so still on the mat, and as she tamed her hair into sleekness, the rhythm of her motion soothed her.
At last she stopped, dropped her aching arms and folded her hands in her lap. Soon she would crawl onto the palliasse with William and sleep, but for now she just wanted to sit and pray, with a fervor she had never suspected she was capable of.
A sigh from the bed alerted her attention. A sigh, and a groan, and a heave as William turned himself onto his side. Saura flew from her chair to his pallet, touching him with eager fingers until she was satisfied.
He was sleeping. Sleeping! His eyelids twitched when she brushed them, he groaned when she pressed his head, and he snored with the healthy rhythm of a tired man.
Sleeping! Oh, Holy Mary! Her heart filled with thanksgiving as she tried to express to God, to herself, how she felt about this miracle of life. She wasn’t thinking of herself, she wasn’t thinking of how William’s presence filled her and completed her. She only thought about William. He slept, and that meant he would wake, and that meant there was hope! For the first time, Saura felt hope, and she cried. The heavy sobs, the copious tears, cleansed her until she could raise her head and smile once more.
five
Saura had lied to Bronnie.
She hadn’t previously suspected it, but she was the kind of woman the priests warned against. Wicked, immoral, a true daughter of Eve.
As the night crept on and the temperature dropped, the pallet and blankets and William seemed more and more inviting. It was, she told herself, the only logical thing to do. No summer penetrated these stones, no fires dulled the hard indifference of cold. She’d suffer, sitting upright wrapped in one puny blanket all night. It would be no sin to sleep with him. Not like a wife or a whore, but simply to share body heat. Didn’t that make sense?
Of course it did.
Before she changed her mind, she pulled at the lacing of her cotte and cursed her clumsy fingers. She should have let Bronnie bring the night candle and light it, for now she could have warmed her hands by its steady flame. If she didn
’t know better, she would have thought her fumbling resulted from a case of nerves.
She wasn’t nervous. How could she be? Lady Saura was known for her eternal serenity, her calm disposition in the face of trouble, her common sense. No one of any rationality would suspect her of shaking, of clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, unless she was cold. She wasn’t nervous.
Her cotte fell to the floor beneath the weight of its wet hem and she clutched her elbows with her hands. Some lingering modesty made her retain her chainse; because it was linen, she told herself, and because she always slept in it. Actually, she couldn’t bring herself to discard the garment with its long sleeves and drawstring neck that could be pulled tight. For the warmth, of course.
Groping down to William’s side, she sat on the hard pallet and pulled her hair over one shoulder. Dividing it into three parts, she braided it with quick efficiency and tied it with the pretty blue ribbon. Then she could delay no longer. She slipped beneath the covers. She moved hastily, not wanting to release the body heat to the room, and lay on her side, facing him. She tucked her arm beneath her head and wiggled as a slight thaw set in.
William was healthy. He’d been knocked on the head, and now he hibernated like a peasant after a three-day festival. Flopped onto his back once more, he lay with his head turned to one side, snoring with energy and vigor and enthusiasm. Saura thrilled to the sound. No matter that she could never sleep, no matter that his snoring shook the palliasse, the blankets, and her. He was here, he was alive, and if he woke with no memory of the past or a twitch in his left arm, well, they’d deal with that tomorrow.
It would be warmer if she touched him. She took a breath, let it out with a gasp, and grinned at her own cowardice. Then she gathered her nerve and extended one big toe, and touched his leg.
One toe, she told herself, wasn’t a sin. Her feet were cold. They were always cold, even before the roaring fires of the great hall. No matter that frost no longer nipped the ground outside, the stones of the castle projected cold. Here, in this little room where no hearth burned with fire, the night carried a chill that seeped into her bones. It was ridiculous to suffer.
Candle in the Window: Castles #1 Page 9