by Lynn Kurland
“Hello, Gilbert,” she said, trying to be pleasant.
He looked as startled as if she’d just up and mooned him. He crossed himself and backed up against the wall.
Jessica shook her head. This one just wasn’t all there. It was no wonder Richard was having such a hard time with him. She smiled dryly.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Cat got your tongue?”
He gasped and clutched his throat. “Don’t take it,” he said.
She frowned. The kid looked like he was on the verge of a serious freak-out. Jessica started to move toward the door. It meant moving closer to him, but there was nothing she could do about that. “What would I take?” she asked, hoping to distract him long enough to get out of the room.
He looked even more horrified. “Wicked faery!”
Faery? The kid was certifiable. Well, there was certainly no sense in hanging around any longer. She made a dash for the door.
Gilbert screeched. Then, without warning, he lunged forward and thrust his arm at her. Only instinct made her dodge. She felt a razor-sharp pain along her side over her ribs. Gilbert pulled his hand back and with it came a bloody knife. He cursed and took up a fighting stance.
“Don’t,” she gasped. “You’ve already killed me!”
“Aye, I must,” he said as he stretched out his hand again.
The twang of a bowstring sounded in the chamber and Gilbert squealed. Jessica saw the arrow shaft going in one side of his wrist and coming out the other. She looked up to see Sir Godwin standing at the door, a crossbow loose in his hand. She was tempted to take the time to be impressed by his aim, but the pain in her side was far too distracting. She staggered back until she collapsed against the wall. She clutched her ribs and found that her tunic was damp.
She looked down and started to scream.
25
The scream cut through the noise of the bailey and set Richard’s hair on end. He turned and ran toward his tower. It had to have been Jessica and it had to have been something dreadful. Nobody made that kind of noise without good reason.
He heard the shouts of men before he managed to gain the gathering hall. He pushed through the crowd and came to a teetering halt before the table.
Jessica stood with her back pressed against the wall next to the fireplace. She clutched her side and panted.
Richard blanched at the sight of blood dripping over her fingers.
He looked to his left to find out who was responsible. Godwin held Gilbert. Richard could hardly credit his squire with the deed, but then he saw the blood on Gilbert’s hand.
“Hold him,” Richard snarled at Godwin. “And while you’re holding him, entertain him with a few of your previous exploits.” Godwin hadn’t been the Count of Navarre’s most valued torturer without good reason.
“She’s a faery,” Gilbert said, fair frothing at the mouth. “She was going to steal my voice!”
“It would have been a small loss,” Richard snapped, pushing past his squire. He vaulted over the table and lifted Jessica up into his arms.
“I’m going to die,” she gasped. “Oh, Richard, I’m going to die!”
“Of course you aren’t,” he said, trying to sound brisk. In truth, his heart was hammering against his ribs so hard, he could hardly breathe.
She clutched at his tunic with bloody fingers. “I love you,” she said fervently. “I do. I wish I’d lived long enough to do something about it.”
“Saints, Jessica, will you be silent?” he demanded. “You’ll sooner talk yourself to death than bleed there. John,” he threw over his shoulder.
“Aye, milord.”
“Ready the chamber. For both possibilities,” he added, hoping Jessica wouldn’t ask any questions.
“Death or death,” she hiccuped.
Nay, stitching or searing, he thought to himself, neither of which he felt up to doing at present. The thought of taking a needle to her flesh made him wince. The thought of burning it with a hot knife to seal the wound made him want to retch.
“Bury me on the beach, will you? No, maybe beneath the hall. That would be better. Bury me beneath the hall, where I’ll be able to get a good look at the windows—”
“Be silent!” he roared.
Jessica was silent.
He carried her into his bedchamber and laid her down on the bed. It took him less than a breath to rip her tunic down the front and pull it off her. He pushed her arm forward so he could look at her side. The gash started under her breast and continued to her back. He went white at the sight of it. If she hadn’t jerked aside, Gilbert’s blade would have gone straight into her heart. The rage that swept over him left him shaking. Damn the little whoreson!
A wet cloth was thrust into his hands. Richard wiped away the blood. It was immediately replaced by fresh.
“She’s bleeding too fast for stitches,” John said grimly from beside him. “It’ll have to be the other.”
“The other?” Jessica said weakly. “A quick death?”
“Nay,” Richard said, exasperated, “we sew your lips together so I’ll have peace to think. Woman, cease with your babbling!”
He heard the knife be thrust into the fire and winced again. He pressed cloth against the wound to try at least to slow the flow of blood. He forced himself to think of nothing but what he would have to do. He would have John hold the edges of the wound together, then he would press the hot blade over them and join them. That would stop the flow of blood immediately. The scar would be large and dark, but life was a small concession to her vanity. Richard knew Jessica would prefer life.
But she would scream and he would be the cause of that screaming. He’d had an axe wound in his leg scorched during a battle; only Kendrick’s repeated slapping had kept him from fainting from the agony. His face had later hurt worse from the blows than his leg. He wasn’t about to slap Jessica. The sooner she fainted, the better he would like it. He would only have to hear her scream a time or two. He could endure that.
And once she was done, he would hie himself to the garderobe and vomit until the memory of her screams faded.
He looked behind him to see who was about to help. He caught his brother’s eye.
“Warren,” he said quietly, “your task will be to hold her shoulders. If she moves, you’ll pay the price.” He knew he sounded harsh, but so be it. He wanted Warren to have no illusions about the punishment for failure. Warren sat down at her head and nodded to Richard.
Now all that was left to do was wait for the knife to become bloodred, then press it against Jessica’s tender flesh.
John handed him the thickly wrapped hilt sooner than Richard would have liked. Even through the cloth and leather, he could feel the heat.
“Jessica,” Richard said, ignoring the crack in his voice, “I’m going to see to the wound now. ’Tisn’t serious, but it bleeds too quickly for stitches.”
“Good,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I hate needles.”
Richard was unnerved by the coherence he heard in her voice. Would that he’d had time to pour a bottle of something very strong down her throat first! She wouldn’t faint. She would scream through the whole bloody thing.
“Just a little sting, love,” Richard lied, “then it will be over.” He looked at his brother. “Hold her tightly, Warren.”
Warren nodded, his visage as pale as Jessica’s.
Then he turned his attentions back to what he had to do. Jessica was staring up at him, her gaze locked upon him.
He promised himself a good sob later, after he’d puked up his fear and after Jessica was asleep. Now what served him best was ignoring her. He bent to his work and pressed the knife against her flesh.
“Richard!”
He jerked the knife back. The thin line he’d burned wouldn’t hold the wound together.
“Be bold,” John commanded in a whisper. “She’ll bleed to death else. The pain won’t last long.”
“T-talk t-to me,” Jessica gasped.
“Ab
out what?” he asked helplessly.
“My lord! My lord!”
Richard almost went sprawling at the abrupt intrusion of that warbling voice. Then he almost pitched forward in truth at the sudden weight of his priest falling against his back. ’Twas nothing short of a miracle that Richard didn’t burn the handful of people clustered about him whilst trying to catch his balance. He straightened, turned, and fixed his fledgling friar with a steely glance.
“Aye?” he snarled.
“Extreme unction,” the priest said, panting. “I heard the scream and came right away. You’ll want that done ’afore she goes—”
John clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth before he could say anything else.
“Last rites?” Jessica echoed. “I need last rites?”
Richard looked at her. She had become, if possible, even paler than before.
“Of course you don’t,” he assured her. “’Tis but a scratch.”
“I’m familiar with your scratches,” she said, gulping and gasping. “Maybe you should just do me in now—”
Richard glared at her, then looked at his priest. “We’ve no need of such rites here. Perhaps you might distract us with something more pleasant.” Perhaps your absence, he thought, but refrained from saying as much. He might need the boy’s prayers later. He turned his attention back to his task and prayed he would keep his wits through the finishing of it.
“What about a betrothal ceremony?” Sir Hamlet asked. “Always found that to be cheerful enough.”
Richard was unsurprised.
“Aye,” Warren agreed. “’Tis past time my brother was wed. Let’s have that while we’re waiting.”
Richard took a deep breath and firmer grip on the knife. It fair burned his hand, but he ignored the pain of it. It was a small thing compared to what Jessica would feel this time.
And from that moment on, he suffered more than he ever thought possible. He caught snatches of words being thrown about him, he thought he might have repeated a few himself, but over everything and in spite of everything else, all he could truly hear were Jessica’s screams and all he could see was her flesh burning.
“Is there a ring of sorts?” the friar asked. “I think there must needs be a ring of sorts.”
One thing Richard did know: if he had to listen to that quavering priestly voice for the rest of his days, he would go truly mad. Perhaps he would send the little lad back to Robin with a note attached thanking his foster father for the gift but finding himself, regretfully, unneeding of such ministrations.
“I h-have the r-ring,” Jessica said hoarsely. “See?”
Richard tried to find her hand. It was too covered in blood for him to note if his ring indeed sat upon her finger or not.
The stench of burning flesh brought bile to his throat. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes and looked at the last bit of raw flesh before him. With a final touch, he sealed the end of the long slash—or so he hoped. He couldn’t see for the tears that blinded him.
“John?” he rasped.
“’Tis finished,” John said briskly.
Richard felt the knife taken away. He dragged his sleeve across his face again, then forced himself to bend down and look at the angry wound.
“Bring me the salve,” he demanded. “And clean cloths. Be quick about it!”
He applied the soothing salve he’d learned to make in Italy, then forced Jessica to sit while he wrapped a bandage around her ribs. He settled her, then stood beside the bed, unable to do anything else. The only person he’d never wanted to wound had been the one he’d wounded the most gravely, albeit unwillingly.
A sigh sounded behind him loudly enough to fair knock him over.
“No last rites.”
Richard turned and growled at his priest. The boy, wisely, fled for the door. Richard turned and followed him, clearing his men before him from the chamber. He herded them out onto the landing. He closed the door behind him softly.
“She’s never to be left alone again. Is that understood?”
There was silence and many grim expressions. Richard knew his message had been received. He looked about him for the guardsman he would need the least. Godwin’s younger brother, Stephen, stood there, looking hopeful. Stephen was a peerless scout, but less handy with a blade than Richard might have liked. Richard generally left the lad behind when he traveled. It was safer that way. Perhaps if he left Stephen a few extra guardsmen, the lad would manage well enough.
“Sir Stephen, stand guard at this door. If a hair on her head is harmed while I’m away, it will take you years to die from my methods.”
“Aye, milord!” Stephen said, drawing his blade and causing a handful of men to duck to avoid losing their heads.
Richard looked at the handful of men slowly straightening, then knew that they would see to what Stephen could not. He left them and descended the steps to the gathering hall. He paused at the entrance.
He could hardly believe that such an act had come from his squire. He had no cause to believe Gilbert was overly happy with his straits, but he was a lad and lads were prone to complaining.
But murder?
He never would have thought it.
Gilbert was sitting in a chair, surrounded by half a dozen of Richard’s grimmest garrison knights. Sir Godwin stood behind Gilbert with a smile on his face.
Richard almost felt sorry for the lad. He had no doubt Godwin had been telling tales again. He took such enjoyment in it and the more gruesome, the better.
Richard came to stand in front of his squire and looked down at the arrow still in the lad’s wrist. Then he met Gilbert’s eyes.
“Killing you would be too merciful,” he said calmly.
Gilbert paled.
“Sir Godwin,” Richard barked.
Godwin stepped forward. He flexed his hands immediately before Gilbert’s face.
“Command me, my lord.”
The chill in Godwin’s voice almost sent tingles down Richard’s spine. He’d never been on the receiving end of Godwin’s ministrations, but he’d met a few who had been. They were broken men. Aye, this was the proper man to see to Gilbert’s keeping. Richard met Godwin’s black, merciless eyes and put on the most pleasant expression he could muster.
“I would like you to look after the lad personally.”
“With pleasure, my lord.”
“I’ll send someone to fetch Gilbert’s sire.”
“Aye,” Godwin said. “But tell him to hurry, my lord, lest my patience run thin.”
Richard nodded solemnly. “The saints forbid.”
“The lad will be intact for the next fortnight,” Godwin continued, as if he truly pondered some grueling schedule. “After that, I can’t say what will be left of him.”
Gilbert began to weep.
“A fortnight,” Richard agreed. “Assuming the weather holds. If it doesn’t . . .”
“The boy loses a bit of himself for every hour his sire is late,” Godwin said, shaking his head regretfully. “Please don’t forget that.” He cracked his knuckles and the sound ricocheted off the walls.
If Richard hadn’t been so angry, he might have laughed out loud. He took great pleasure in the fierceness of his lads. A pity all this enjoyment had come at Jessica’s expense.
Without giving it much thought at all, he leaned over and jerked the arrow out of Gilbert’s wrist.
Haft first.
The head of the arrow had likely shredded the lad’s wrist but Richard didn’t care. The scream of agony almost made up for the smell of burned flesh he still couldn’t rid from his nostrils. He grasped Gilbert’s chin and forced his face up.
“Stop blubbering,” he snarled. “You’re going to live a long life, a very long and lucid life and every moment of every day you’ll remember the pain in your wrist and that will remind you of what you did to earn it. You’re a bloody coward, Gilbert, and I’ll take great pleasure in knowing you’ll have to live with that knowledge for the rest of your lengthy life.”
Richard brushed aside the lad’s words. “Someone bind the little bugger’s wrist. I don’t want him bleeding to death. Godwin, you do it. Someone come hold the boy down. I have the feeling Godwin’s going to want to feel inside the wound for splinters. Gag him so his screams don’t disturb my lady.”
“Nay,” Gilbert howled. “The man . . . he said . . .”
Richard turned away. “Where is the drink?”
John put a hand out. “Don’t—”
“It isn’t for me, you fool,” Richard snapped. “’Tis for Jessica.”
“Oh,” John said, smiling faintly. “I see.”
Gilbert continued to squeal. “Faery . . . steal my voice.”
“By the saints,” Richard said, whirling on him, “would you just be silent!”
Gilbert’s eyes widened in horror. “You want my voice, too. She’s . . . bespelled you!”
Richard started to tell him to be silent yet again, but found himself pausing. The words were too foolish to waste breath on, but there was something about the way Gilbert was saying them.
“Who’s bespelled me?” he demanded.
“The faery,” Gilbert said, both his eyes and his nose leaking prodigiously. “Had to kill her.”
“Who told you to do that?” Richard asked. Gilbert didn’t have the wits to think up such a thing on his own.
“The man outside the gate.”
Richard frowned. If there was indeed someone outside the gates with evil intent, it bore investigating. He looked at John.
“Have the whole tale from him, then see if such a man exists. I’ll be above.”
John nodded. “If aught is found, I’ll send word.”
Richard started from the chamber, then stopped next to his captain. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
John waved aside his words. “It was nothing.”
“I don’t know that I could have done that alone—”