He swung open the door that led to the entry, and Edlyn wondered briefly how he had opened it in the first place. When one wanted admittance, one knocked and Brother Irving looked through the high, covered peephole. If he liked the explanation given for entering the guest quarters, then he took the key from his belt and unlocked the door.
But Wharton, it seemed, made his own rules. Somehow he’d entered the guest quarters without Brother Irving’s knowledge and found Edlyn’s cell without instruction. Wharton was the resourceful sort.
Through the open door, the sound of Brother Irving’s lusty snoring made a welcome din in Edlyn’s ears. Wharton gestured for her to stay, then slipped inside the small, cold entry room and covered the single candle with his cupped palm. At his signal, she crept inside, her gaze never leaving Brother Irving. He still sat as he had when they stole past the first time—in a tipped-back chair, his chin resting on his shallow chest.
She released her breath in slow increments. Brother Irving hadn’t seen her leave and he hadn’t seen her return.
The guest quarters had been built as a long hallway with the doors of the cells leading onto it and the entry breaking it in half. The women slept in the right hallway, the men in the left hallway. Because of Edlyn’s status as a live-in dependent on the abbey’s charity, her cell was at the end of the right hallway. The candle in the entry never cast its illumination all the way to her door, and when the dusk had settled and she walked the hall alone, she imagined the ghosts of her past walked with her. That always made her run, but she couldn’t do it now. Not with Wharton trailing behind her.
Anyway, if the ghosts were smart, they would be afraid of Wharton.
Putting her hand on the door, she turned to her shadowy escort. “Lord Hugh should be well enough until morning.” Because she knew how sounds echoed along the stone walls, she spoke as softly as possible. “Don’t come to get me again.”
Wharton paid her no heed. Instead he gave the door a push and followed it as it swung in. “I’ll give ye a light.”
“A light?” She scurried in after him. “I don’t have any candles.”
“I do.”
The darkness was less intense inside the room. The window was high and small, just as in the other buildings of the abbey, but except in the coldest weather Edlyn kept it open. She welcomed the moonlight, the starlight, and the light of dawn. She welcomed any kind of light. Earlier when Wharton had leaned over her body to waken her, she had screamed a little—only because he seemed part of a nightmare and only because she couldn’t see his face. But she thought she had successfully masked her discomfort. How he had seen through her pretense and why he moved now to dissipate her fear, she didn’t know.
He struck a spark and as the wick caught, she thought of something else. “Where did you get a candle?”
Laughing coarsely, he placed the light into a pewter holder he pulled from his pocket. Then he looked around the cell. Here he would see the bare truths that governed her life.
He did, too. His gaze had encompassed everything, then he looked at her with pity—the kind of pity that made her soul shrivel.
He placed the candle on the table beside the bed and he left on silent feet.
Tucking her wrap around her, she sat down on the bed and put her shoes on the floor where she could easily reach them in the morning. She slid between the covers, snuggled down, and stared at the yellow flame as hard as she could until she blinked.
Then when she looked around, she saw it all.
The tapestries on the wall. The fine rugs to protect her feet. The constantly burning fire on the hearth. The furs on the bed.
How dare Wharton look at her with such pity? What other lady had such sumptuous riches?
She blinked again. The grand furnishings vanished, leaving only a bare room with stone walls. A narrow rope bed covered with rough wool blankets. A rickety table with a wooden water bowl. And two pallets, folded neatly and stacked in the corner.
She blew out the candle.
“Don’t let him die. Ye can’t let him die.” Wharton’s words skidded out of him, each lurching with panic. “He’s my master.”
“I know.” Edlyn washed Hugh’s hot, wasted body with a cloth dipped in cool water. Her gritty eyes searched for a flicker of improvement, but Hugh remained motionless. For four nights now he’d lain like this, his head resting on a pile of folded rags, while she had tried everything she knew to bring his fever down and relieve his infection. Nothing had worked. Nothing.
Wharton had tried everything he knew, too. He had shouted, threatened, bullied, and prayed. Now he pleaded, wiping at the tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes. “I beg o’ ye, m’ lady, bring him back t’ health. There is no one t’ replace him.”
She looked away from Hugh’s emaciated form and observed Wharton, pale even in the golden light of the oven’s open door. “Go out,” she said compassionately. “Breathe the night air.”
Wharton had reached the breaking point, it seemed, for he took a last look at Hugh and plunged out of the door. She heard his footsteps as he ran, seeking solace away from this house of putrescence, and she was alone. Alone with a man who wouldn’t live until dawn.
She shouldn’t care. He’d caused her no end of trouble. She’d been awakened every night by Wharton sneaking into her room and dragging her down here. She’d lied to the people who sheltered her. She’d been surly with the nuns, barring them from the dispensary and shoving her herbs out the door. She’d spent all her time fixing poultices and decoctions, depleting the last of her stores as she wrestled with death for Hugh’s soul. Yet when she looked at him, she couldn’t give up. She remembered him. He had been part of her youth. The largest part of her girlish dreams had resided in him. And she couldn’t let that end. For herself as well as for him.
“Hugh.” She leaned forward so her mouth touched his ear. “Hugh. Come back to me.”
He didn’t move. He showed no change.
Rising, she walked to the long table against the wall. There in a line stood her boxes, each wooden box marked with the name of the herb within. She pulled them forward and lifted each one. Bitter rue. Piquant savory. Strengthening sage. Pungent thyme.
Common herbs. Herbs used to cure and purify. They didn’t work. They hadn’t worked. She had tried. Turning, she looked at the still, bare body stretched out on the floor behind the oven. Then she put her elbows on the table and cupped her forehead in her hands.
She didn’t know what to do. All the jingles she’d ever heard from all the old wives ran through her head.
Borage leaves chopped fine with yarrow,
Brings the poison forth tomorrow.
That wouldn’t work. She’d tried it.
Lady’s mantle you will pick,
Spread it thick.
She’d tried that, too. Stupid old wives.
Twitch the tail of the dragon,
Pluck it from its lair.
Prick it with a virgin’s nail…
Oh, this was so stupid. Dragon’s blood was just a root. It wasn’t good for anything. And she wasn’t a virgin.
Moonlight and springtime,
Magic of old…
Superstition. Her hands shook. She didn’t even know where to look for the stuff.
Under the sacred oak…
She remembered all of that poem. All of it. She didn’t even know when she’d learned it, but it made her faintly ashamed. Ashamed she remembered. Ashamed she even considered trying it.
Then she heard the silence again. Silence pressed down from behind her. No sound of breath. No sound of movement. No sound of life. Hugh was dead, or would be. What difference would it make if she tried one of the ancient spells?
Whirling, she ran out into the garden. The moon changed the familiar landscape to one of stark shadows and eerie shapes. The oak tree in the corner by the stone wall was thick with darkness. Nothing grew under there. The shade clung to the ground; sunshine couldn’t penetrate. At night, it was positively spooky. If
she believed in fairies, she would be frightened.
Of course, it was a fairy cure she was thinking of trying, so she had better be respectful of the wee folk.
“I hail thee.” Her voice sounded loud in the night and she lowered it to a whisper. “Ancients, I come for dragon’s blood to heal one of your favored ones.” Foolish, to greet an imaginary race in hopes of appeasing them. “You blessed him in the cradle, giving him the gifts of strength, beauty, and wisdom.” She placed one foot just in front of another and moved toward the darkest part of the shade into another world. “Help me cure him now.” Her breath rasped, her hands trembled, and she knelt close to the trunk. She should have brought a trenching tool, but she hadn’t thought of that and she wasn’t about to creep back to the dispensary. She wouldn’t have the nerve to try again if she did. Using her fingers, she dug blindly, searching for the tuberous roots that stained skin bright red and, it was said, shrieked when torn from the ground.
She didn’t hear any shrieking, so she must have done something right. The roots came up easily. She didn’t know how many she needed—after all, her guide was a silly song, not a recipe—but she pulled until she had an apron full. Stupid, fruitless endeavor, but she was desperate.
Standing, she crept back out of the deep shadow. She sighed with relief, then hurried toward the dispensary. After a pause, she turned toward the oak and whispered, “My thanks, wee ones.”
A gust of wind rustled the oak leaves, and she almost tore off the door getting inside.
Ignoring her racing heart, she tumbled the roots onto the cutting board and heard the silence again. “I’m hurrying,” she said. “I’m hurrying.” She picked up the knife and brought the biggest root into cutting position. But when she touched the iron to the plant, she hesitated. The fairies didn’t like iron. But how? She looked at her fingertips, already stained a rusty red, and at her nails, dirt packed into the cuticles, and started tearing into the roots. Long strands clung to her skin, and blood—no, juice—dripped onto the board and sank into the old slashes left by the knife.
“Funny,” she muttered. “I would have thought dragon’s blood was green.”
With the strands gathered, she walked to the oven and threw the pieces into the pot of water she kept steaming there. “I should recite a spell…” But she didn’t have to. A scent filled the air, like strawberries growing in the sun or water lilies in a tranquil pool. She stared at the pot, breathing deeply as the smell cleared her mind and gave her a strength she hadn’t imagined. Then she jumped. She didn’t need the help. Hugh did. Wrapping a cloth around the metal handle, she took the pot off the oven. She set it beside his unconscious body and waved the steam toward his face. “Breathe,” she urged. “Breathe it in.”
Did it help him? She couldn’t tell. The dim light told no tales.
Not knowing exactly what to do with this liquid dragon’s blood, she tipped the pot over the bandages on his side and let it soak in. Then dunking her finger into the fluid, she touched it to her lips. It didn’t taste like anything. It didn’t numb her or make her breath grow short. It just had a thin, tart tang, so she dipped the cloth into the red fluid, then dribbled it between Hugh’s slack lips. He didn’t swallow, and she realized with a panic he would choke on it. Lifting his head, she rubbed his stubbled throat as if he were one of the sick cats that hung around the barn. “Swallow,” she commanded. “Swallow. Hugh, swallow it.”
His Adam’s apple moved, but only because she coaxed it, and she didn’t know how much of the liquid had reached its destination. Still she waited, hoping the dragon’s blood would work its miracle, but he remained motionless. A sudden rush of tears surprised her; she must be tired to put so much faith in a useless herb. Nevertheless, she wrung more liquid into his mouth and again rubbed his throat until he swallowed.
“Hugh, listen.” She spoke urgently, trying to pierce the mists that shrouded him. “You’ve got to come back. It’s warm here. There are people who love you.”
He didn’t move.
“Well, not people, but Wharton.” He gave no indication he heard, but she continued. “He’s dedicated to you. I don’t know what you’ve done to deserve that, but somehow, somewhere you’ve made yourself a hero in his eyes.” Tonight there was only Hugh, and she scooted a little closer to him, bringing his head onto her knees. Leaning down, she spoke into his ear. “I’m sure a large number of women miss you. Nice women. Ladies.”
She’d always thought the promise of women could bring a man back from the dead, but she’d never put it to the test before. She was wrong, it seemed, so she gritted her teeth and did what she had sworn never to do again. She cradled him against her chest.
He needed her now. He had wandered too far into the cold lands, and she wanted to infuse him with a sense of her warmth. In the instinctual act of a mother who had calmed babies with the sound of her heartbeat, she cradled his head so it rested against her chest.
He wasn’t a child. Nothing could make her think that. He weighed too much. His length stretched out too far. Muscles, not baby fat, delineated his body. But as he burned her with the heat of his fever, she felt a tenderness that must have its origins in maternal custody. She stroked his hair away from his forehead, trying to give him comfort, to be as close as possible so he wouldn’t be alone.
“I’m waiting for you here.”
She blinked, then looked around. Who’d said that? It couldn’t have been her. She would never confess such a weakness.
“But why not?” Again the sound of her own voice surprised her. “Who’ll hear me?” She patted Hugh’s cheek, rough with his unshaved beard. “You won’t remember, will you? You scarcely remember me at all.”
A twinge of discomfort impinged on her confidence. He had, after all, known her face even in his first wounded agony. But now he was not just wounded but savagely ill. Dying, unless she could somehow make a difference.
Little wisps of steam rose from the dragon’s blood even as it cooled, and the color darkened to a ruby, glowing as if it shed light. It called to her, and she once again dunked the rag into the dragon’s blood and dribbled the liquid into his mouth. It stained her fingers, and she sucked them dry.
Rambling now, she asked, “Don’t you remember how, when we were young, I used to trail around after you? I adored you. I loved you. You were so tall and strong and so handsome I used to waste time just looking at you when I should have been spinning. Lady Alisoun would scold me. You’re the reason I still can’t spin an even thread.” She chuckled, remembering the joy and agony of that first love. “I always knew you would succeed in your every endeavor. Something about you—the way you strode about, so sure of yourself, the way you rushed to embrace every challenge—made me sure if you would notice me, you’d take me on a journey to the stars.”
Memories spiraled up at her from a hidden place in her mind, and her smile faded. Oblivious to the weight on her arm, she caressed the shell of his ear. “You didn’t notice me. Then one day—do you remember a village woman by the name of Avina?” She laughed without humor. “You ought to remember her, unless you’ve swived so many women she’s lost in the dust of nostalgia. You used to meet her in the barn. I would think you could have hidden a little better, but I suppose everyone knew to stay away. Everyone but me.” Disgusted at the stupid girl she had been, she dipped her fingers into the pot of dragon’s blood. After all, if the dragon’s blood was a restorative, she needed it, too, and she rather liked the taste.
“Want some?” She asked as if he could hear her, then with her fingers stained red she rubbed the juice on his gums, his teeth, his tongue. Over and over she repeated the action. “I noticed you would disappear into the barn every evening, and so I climbed up into the loft with the idea I would drop down on you and surprise you. Only I was the one surprised. You and Avina put on the most amazing performance. She showed you everything you needed to know to make a woman happy. She showed you many things I never knew.”
She pretended to listen to him. “I shouldn�
��t have watched, you say? I should have hid in the back of the loft until you were done? You’re right, of course—you have the look of a man who’s always right. But you see, I couldn’t turn away.” Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes. “You looked so enthralled! You dedicated as much concentration to those lessons as you dedicated to anything that interested you. I watched and watched until…well. I wanted to hate you then. Instead I spent my nights imagining how it would be in your arms. In my mind, I’ve spent years in your arms, and the pleasure you have given me has been…”
A suction on her fingers stopped her ramblings. She froze, not understanding for a brief moment. Then opening her eyes, she looked down. Hugh’s lips were wrapped around her fingers as he sucked vigorously. And his eyes were open.
4
His voice sounded like the bleat of a newborn lamb. “If you touch me again, I’m going to rip your heart out with my bare hands.”
Edlyn swirled in a circle, unaware of the herbs she had scattered in her flurry. Had Hugh spoken? Had last night’s administration of dragon’s blood performed a miracle? Wharton, crouched beside his master and changing his bandage, blocked her view of Hugh’s face, but before she could rush forward, Hugh spoke again.
“What’s wrong with you?” He snarled in a whisper. “You’re getting me all wet.” His tone changed to one of disgust. “Oh, God’s gloves, Wharton, you’re crying!”
“Oh, master,” Wharton stammered, his voice quivering through tears. “Oh, master.”
“You dolt.” Already Hugh’s voice sounded fainter. “I’m going to beat you into dough.”
Wharton crept backward, groveling like a worm in the face of his master’s displeasure, and Edlyn felt the sharp prick of annoyance. Wharton had proved his devotion to Hugh over the last dreadful days, and now Hugh’s first words were nothing but bombastic threats. “Don’t worry, Wharton,” she said. “He can’t beat you into dough. He can’t even lift his arms.” She walked forward and stood over Hugh. “Can you?”
A Knight to Remember: Good Knights #2 Page 4