by Anita Mills
“Aye.” He stopped untying a horse and turned to her sympathetically. “God’s mercy on your man.”
“Nay, he lives.”
“Then I’d not have the priest—’tis a monk you need.”
“Where?”
He turned and pointed vaguely toward the south. “But ’tis a league and more.”
“Jesu. I’d have the priest, then—where is he?”
For answer, the ostler drew the streets around them with a stick, scratching in the hardened earth and then gesturing toward the town itself. Without waiting to thank him, Gilliane picked up her skirts and ran through the narrow, cramped streets, trying to remember the direction. She was rewarded when the unassuming spire of a small church loomed before her.
Breathless, she pounded on the door until the iron ring reverberated against the thick carved wood. When she stopped, she could hear muffled voices within and then the scraping of shoes against the hard floor. The door cracked slightly, letting out warm air that turned white when it mingled with the cold, and a short, rotund priest peered out.
“Ho, now—what’s this?” he demanded, opening the door wider at the sight of the slender girl shivering on the stoop. “Child, ’tis too cold for you to be out like this.”
The kindness in his voice caused her to burst into tears, and for a time she could only stand there. “Hugh, get the child some mulled wine to warm her,” the priest in the doorway ordered. Reaching out to her, he caught her elbow and drew her inside. “Nay, daughter, but there’s naught that God cannot mend if we trust Him,” he consoled her.
Almost immediately a cup of steaming wine was thrust into her hands by a thin-faced man wearing the cassock of a monk. His tonsured head gleamed beneath the smoking torch that hung in the rung above him as he hovered solicitously over her. Gilliane wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her free hand and took a sip of the hot liquid. It burned, warming her as it slid down her throat. The priest behind him waited until she’d calmed down. She swallowed more of the wine and then met his eyes.
“I am Gilliane de Lacey, good father,” she began. “I . . . that is, I am mistress to Beaumaule, a small keep in England,” she hastened to add, fearful that he would not believe what she would tell him. “And I seek aid for the son of Rivaux.”
The priest’s eyes widened perceptibly, but it was the monk who turned to ask, “The son of Rivaux, you say? By the Holy Mother, where is he?”
When the words came, they spilled out, one on top of the other, until she’d poured out the whole story so quickly that it was unlikely it could be followed, but neither man questioned her until she reached the point that she’d left Richard of Rivaux unattended in the cold and drafty loft of a waterfront inn. Then the brother called Hugh cut in, “He is there yet? Nay, but ‘tis not safe, Demoiselle.”
“I could not move him, Father, and he is too weak to walk himself.”
“Aye—of course you could not,” the priest said soothingly. “But if he is indeed Count Guy’s son, ’tis most important that we attend him as quickly as ’tis possible. I’d not have it said that I failed to aid Guy of Rivaux’s son.”
Almost immediately word was sent to the Cistercian abbey nearby to prepare to receive Richard of Rivaux, and three menservants with a litter were dispatched to the inn. The monk went with Gilliane, ready to do battle with the lecherous innkeeper if the need arose. While Gilliane sought to explain the extent of Richard’s wounds, the fellow listened, his thin face grave, and then when she paused to catch her breath, he explained that he had some skill in tending the sick.
“Indeed, ’tis the reason I was with Father Herve—his joints pain him in the cold.”
They found Richard lying naked, robbed of every shred of his clothing, and freezing in the loft where he’d been left to die. Brother Hugh looked around him in contempt and then rounded so furiously on the innkeeper, who hovered nervously behind them, telling him that Guy of Rivaux himself would seek vengeance for the insult offered his son.
“Rivaux’s son? Nay, but the wench did not tell me! I swear she did not—I swear it!” the man protested piteously, his hands outstretched to the monk. “Nay, but—”
“I am not Count Guy,” Brother Hugh muttered tersely. “Nay, save your pleas for him.”
“Tell him, I beg you . . . tell him—”
“That you would rob his only son? That you would have let him die?”
“But I knew not who he was!”
The monk turned away in disgust, leaving the man to quake at the thought of Guy of Rivaux’s vengeance. While they waited for the men to wrap and bundle Richard’s nearly dead weight into the litter, the innkeeper’s wife miraculously produced his cloak and clothing. “My s-sword,” Richard protested feebly, showing he was still conscious. Ignoring her husband’s protests that he’d never seen it, the woman left silently and returned carrying sword belt and scabbard. Gilliane received it curiously, remembering that Richard had said it would be recognized by Warenne. Aside from the fact that it felt heavier than those of her brothers, she could see no difference in the hilt. In fact, it was plain in comparison to some she’d seen. She withdrew it partially from the scabbard, sliding her fingers beneath the quillon, and as the gleaming blade came into view, she could see how Warenne would not be fooled. Along either side of the polished metal were strange engravings, neither Latin nor French, but rather some peculiar symbols. The monk looked over her shoulder and nodded.
“Viking runes,” he offered in explanation. “I have heard of this sword—’twas taken from Count Robert of Belesme.”
She nearly dropped it then, recoiling from the cold metal in her hand. “God aid me,” she gasped involuntarily, shuddering at the thought that she held that which had once been held by someone like Belesme. Then, noting the monk’s faintly amused expression, she hastily sheathed the sword, laying it aside as gingerly as if it had been made of eggshells. Averting her head, she surreptitiously signed the Cross over her breast against any curse Belesme might have given it. “ ’Tis heavy,” she offered lamely, repelled by it.
“Aye.” With the barest hint of a smile, the monk reached to take the sword and scabbard. Balancing the weight of it with the air of a man who knew of such things, he nodded. “The bards call it Hellbringer, but ’tis naught but well-fired steel. When it met Roger de Brione’s Avenger or Guy of Rivaux’s Doomslayer, its spell was broken.”
She eyed it doubtfully, still unwilling to touch it again. To her relief, they were ready to leave. Brother Hugh tucked it beneath his arm and carried it after the litter bearing Richard. She pulled her cloak closer as the cold wind hit her again in the courtyard.
“Will he … ? Can you . . . ?” She walked quickly beside the monk and attempted to put her fears into words.
“I have tended worse, Demoiselle.”
“But his fever—”
“I’d not let it be said I let Guy of Rivaux’s son die,” he responded simply, bending against the wind. “If God will direct these hands, he will live.”
The distance was greater than that which she’d run earlier, and the cold gnawed at her bones. She feared that Richard of Rivaux would not be able to stand it. “Please—I pray you—please hurry,” she urged the men who carried him.
By the time they’d reached the abbey, Gilliane had lost the feeling in her face and her feet. Numbly she stepped through the doorway of the abbey house and looked gratefully to the fire that burned in the abbot’s center brazier.
“ ’Tis indeed his son?” he asked without preamble.
“Aye.”
“Then we’d best send to him—I’d not have it said that aught ill befell his heir here.”
“Nay!” Richard croaked, rousing again from a near-stupor.
“I have al-already s-sent for him,” Gilliane managed through chattering teeth. “G-Garth went.”
The abbot turned curious eyes on her, suddenly realizing her presence. “And who is this?” he inquired to the monk.
“Warm yourself, child, ere you sicken also.” The brother who’d accompanied her set aside Richard’s sword and turned to his patient. Another monk handed her a steaming cup of spiced wine, one even hotter than that she’d had of the priest, while asking him, “How fares he?”
Gilliane held her breath for his answer and was rewarded when Brother Hugh answered, “If he takes no harm from being robbed of his clothes in this weather, he will mend, I think. The wound is deep from what I have seen of it, but the arrow struck neither bone nor sinew. Nay, but if ’tis cauterized and packed, ’twill heal.” For a moment Brother Hugh’s eyes met Gilliane’s. “Brother Lymas will aid me, Demoiselle, and you may wait with our abbot, Brother Strigall.”
Gillian looked to where the abbot stood studying Richard, and shook her head. “Nay—I fear not for what I cannot feel.”
Abbot Strigall appeared not to hear her as he stared down at Rivaux’s dark hair and his closed eyes. “Aye, he has the look of his blood to him, does he not? There is much of his father in his face.”
Brother Lymas followed his gaze and sighed. “Aye, none could deny he is Rivaux—I fear our poor rooms will be mean to one such as he.”
“Not so poor as your own cell,” Brother Hugh reminded him. “Nay, but life will seem sweet wherever he is when he wakes.” Turning again to Gilliane, he asked gently, “What is my lord of Rivaux to you, child?”
She colored, wondering what he would think no matter how she answered, but she managed to meet his gaze over the steaming cup. “I am his ward.”
“Aye,” was all he said.
“You may put him in the bed prepared for him,” Brother Lymas instructed the litter-bearers. “Or would you tend his wound first, Hugh? I’d not have a feather mattress burned with the iron.”
“I’d lay him on the trestle table.”
They lifted Richard again and carried him into the narrow passage between the abbot’s room and the kitchens. Gilliane started to follow them, but another monk barred her way. “Warm yourself, Demoiselle, that you may tend him later. What we do is not for your sight.”
Dispirited, she let the one called Lymas refill her cup and she carried it to the brazier. Huddling on a small bench before the fire, she could hear low voices and the scraping of feet against the hard floor in another room. It seemed like an eternity as she waited, her hands clasped around the warmth of the cup. He must’ve wakened, she decided, for she could hear his croaked protest, and then he cried out. She knocked over the bench as she rose anxiously and strode to the hall where they held Richard of Rivaux down.
None of them noted her, so intent were they on keeping him still as Brother Hugh lifted the heated poker yet again. This time Richard did not cry out, but Gilliane could see his body jump on the table. The sickening smell of burning flesh brought back the hideous memories of how Aubery had died. For a moment she clutched the doorway and tried to fight the waves of nausea that swept over her. A long, low moan emanated from Richard of Rivaux, drawing her from her own agony. She forced herself to walk to where he lay.
This time no one stopped her. Two men held his feet and one leaned his weight to hold the wounded shoulder against the hard table. The monk heated the iron again. Gilliane could see the beads of sweat on Richard of Rivaux’s head and she wondered if his fever had broken or if they came from the pain. Blood trickled from a puncture wound where he’d bitten his lip. Without thinking, she reached to touch the dampness, smoothing the black hair over his wet brow. He appeared to have swooned, but when the monk brought the poker back and touched the edge of the ugly, gaping hole, his body went rigid. The flesh sizzled much like meat on a kitchen spit. Gilliane’s hand convulsed in his hair, gripping it tightly for a moment, and then relaxed with relief when the poker was withdrawn.
She began stroking the damp black fringe ceaselessly, as though somehow it might ease him as the process of cauterizing the wound was repeated several times. The edges of flesh where the arrow tip had been removed were smoothed and shiny now, bearing the seal of a burn just above the swell of a chest muscle. The thought crossed her mind that he would bear the scars forever.
Rivaux lifted his hand weakly, as though he would brush her fingers away, and then let it drop. His eyes were still closed, but his breath was easier as he whispered through cracked and parched lips, “I’d not have you leave me, Gilliane.”
Relief flooded her, descending like a torrent of emotion that threatened her composure. Tears welled in her eyes and were brushed away before she reached to stroke his hand also.
Another monk approached and pressed a thick, smelly poultice over the hole in Richard’s shoulder. Then Brother Hugh bound Richard’s arm to his side and wrapped shoulder and chest with strips of linen over it. Stepping back to admire his work, he exhaled deeply and nodded his satisfaction. “Aye, he will mend, but I’d have him watched this night. On the morrow, I will gather cobwebs to pack the wound better.”
“I will watch him,” Gilliane heard herself say.
“Nay—’tis not seemly, Demoiselle,” Brother Lymas protested. “Art a maid, and—”
“And will be a maid on the morrow still,” she interrupted him.
“E’en so—”
“Let her stay—she will have a gentler hand than yours or mine.” Brother Hugh eyed Gilliane with a greater respect now. “Art a strong maid to watch this, Demoiselle.”
“Gilliane?”
Richard whispered so low that she had to bend close to hear him. Her fingers tightened on his as she put her ear almost to his mouth. “Aye, my lord?”
“I thought you had left me to die.”
“Sweet Mary—nay,” she whispered back. “I did but seek aid for you.”
“Aye.” His eyes moved beneath purplish lids and then fluttered open, focusing with an effort on her. The black pupils were circled with gold flecks that seemed to mirror pain. “I can never repay you for this day.”
“Follow us, Demoiselle.” Brother Hugh laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and nodded to those who’d carried him before. “ ’Tis rest that will restore him.”
She released his hands and stepped back to allow them to lift him. His eyes met hers in silent appeal, as though he’d not be left again. He winced visibly when they struggled to take him from the table, bringing tears that stung and overflowed onto her face as she felt for him.
They carried him down the long, arched corridor past the dormitories of the monks and to the rooms kept for travelers, sparse rooms with naught but cots and mattresses beneath carved crucifixes showing the Lord’s final agony. Laying him upon the cot with as much care as three men could manage, they murmured hopes for his recovery and withdrew. Brother Hugh brought her a small bench.
A timid fire burned in a low brazier, the only source of heat in the room. A draft blew from the high, shuttered window near the ceiling, bending the tentative flames that licked at the logs. One of the monks reached a pole hook to push the shutters tighter, and then they left her alone with Richard. She drew the bench close to the cot and prepared for a solitary vigil.
Only once was she interrupted by someone bringing him a cup of bitter herbs for his pain, something that sent him into a deep sleep. Otherwise, she spent much of the night listening—listening to the low chants of monks at compline, listening to the sound of a man’s breathing, sometimes heavy, sometimes almost silent. It was the latter that frightened her, and often she would stir from her own thoughts to lay her head against his bandaged breast to reassure herself that he still lived.
The night passed slowly, creeping like a thief amongst the vigilant, until she thought she could stay awake no longer. She moved closer to the wall, scraping the bench on the cold floor, and leaned her head against the hard stones.
“Gilliane?” he murmured somewhere in her dreams. She snapped awake, nearly losing her balance, and bent over him.
“Aye, my lord?” she asked anxio
usly.
“You have beautiful hair.”
Clearly, his mind wandered. She touched the blunted ends of what had once been her greatest source of pride, and felt a renewed sense of loss. In his confusion, he’d dreamed of someone else. She smoothed back the thick black fringe from his dry, warm forehead soothingly, not daring to speak.
“ ’Twas like a mass of copper at my breast,” he murmured again. “Amid the stinking of the ship’s hold, even the scant light made it shine.”
“ ’Tis all but gone, my lord,” she managed sorrowfully.
“Nay—’twill grow.” He half-turned his head to look at her, and his free arm lifted to allow his fingers to brush at the hair against her temple. “ ’Twill be even more beautiful—I mean to see it then.”
“ ’Tis the herbs,” she decided aloud, unwilling to admit that this great lord could find any beauty in her.
“Nay.” He dropped his hand heavily and sighed. “My protection must seem worthless to you.”
“You saved my life at Beaumaule, my lord—how could I think it worthless?”
“And then you saved mine.” He lifted his hand again and gestured to the ewer beside the bed. “I thirst yet.” He tried to rise on an elbow and fell back, muttering, “Jesu, but I am as helpless as a babe in swaddling.”
She poured a cup of the now-cooled wine from the ewer and lifted his head, holding the cup to his lips. He drank thirstily before leaning back. Having no cloth, she wiped his mouth with her palm, and then dried her hand on the skirt of her gown. When she turned back again, he appeared to have slipped back into sleep, and it was almost as though she’d dreamed he’d spoken to her, as though her mind tricked her. And then he whispered again, “You deserve a husband to value you, Gilliane.”
“Nay, I—”
“I’d find one for you.”
“But I—” She bit back a protest, telling herself that he could not understand that she had no wish to go a beggar into some knight’s keeping, that she had no wish to bear sons with no chance of advancement. Instead, she returned to her bench and drew up her knees, hugging them for warmth and comfort, and hoped he would speak no more on the matter. He too fell silent, and then eventually slept again. She leaned her head forward to rest it on her knees, and when she reached that strange netherworld between wakefulness and sleep, the last thought that crossed her conscious mind was that he’d liked her hair.