Angela cradled Edward, who wanted to be put down. “He is a baby,” she said angrily. “He has only seen two years.”
Manducor snorted. “If you do not spank that child, and spank him frequently, you will create a man who knows no discipline,” he warned. “When he misbehaves, swat him. You must do this.”
Angela was deeply upset. “I think you are horrid,” she snapped. “A horrid, smelly man.”
Manducor turned back to his wine. “Mayhap,” he said, unconcerned. “But at least I am not raising a son who will be a terror. Men will kill him before he is fully grown if you do not do something about him.”
Weeping, Angela fled with her screaming son. Eiselle, Keeva, and Zara watched her go before Eiselle turned to Keeva.
“I should feel pity for the woman,” she said. “She has a child and no idea how to properly raise him, yet she cannot see it.”
Keeva shook her head, irritated with Angela’s terrible son. “Mylo is a decent man,” she said. “I do not understand why he allows his son to be raised by a woman with no courage.”
“She is not doing the lad any favors,” Manducor said, shoving more bread in his mouth. “I have seen enough disobedient boys to know that.”
Eiselle looked at him. “Oh?” she said. “Do you deal with children as part of your duties at the priory?”
Manducor shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered. Then, after a moment: “I had boys of my own, once.”
Eiselle sensed something sorrowful in that soft statement. “You had children?”
“Aye.”
“Then you were married?”
He nodded, but his entire manner seemed to slow. His eyes took on a faraway look, as if divining into a past with too many memories for the weary-hearted.
“Long ago,” he said after a moment. “I married young. My wife and children died young.”
There was a tragic tale in the making and Eiselle naturally felt pity for him. “I am sorry for you,” she said. “Is that why you became a priest? Because your family died?”
He looked at her. Manducor was an older man, perhaps in his fiftieth year or more, with bright blue eyes and shaggy, dark hair. In truth, he wasn’t unhandsome, but he was so smelly and unkempt, one would have never noticed his looks. The mention of a long-dead family seemed to bring his eating to a halt and he set his cup down, perhaps mulling over Eiselle’s question.
“I became a priest because the priests at St. Margaret’s helped me when I needed help,” he said, with some regret. “They found me in the gutter, drunk, near death, and nursed me back to health. I could not function, mind you. The death of my family took everything from me. They kept me at St. Margaret’s, gave me work and, in time, I took my vows. But I took my vows for my own reasons. I am forever searching for the reasons behind the death of my family. I thought that someday, God might tell me why.”
Both Eiselle and Keeva were gazing at him with some sympathy. “Has He spoken to you yet?” Keeva wanted to know.
For the first time since they’d known the slovenly priest, he actually appeared subdued and downtrodden. The transformation in his expression was astonishing, from a hardened drunk to a man who appeared somewhat resigned to what life had brought him.
“Nay,” he said quietly. “He does not speak to me. I hope He will someday, but thus far, He has not. Does He speak to you, Lady de Winter?”
Keeva cocked her head curiously. “About what?”
“About your lack of children. I saw it in your face when the mother of the monster mentioned that you have none. You wish God would speak to you, too.”
Keeva had to steel herself against an avalanche of sorrow that threatened with the catalyst of his words. It was such a painful subject, but after fourteen years of marriage, she tried not to think of it. She came from a large family of eleven children and had always hoped to have many herself.
When she married Daveigh, and fell in love with the man, she wanted nothing more than to give him a son. But after several miscarriages in the early years of their marriage, and no more pregnancies in the past six years, she was resigned to the fact that she and Daveigh would never have a son, and it ate at her if she let it.
She tried not to let it.
“It is possible,” she said after a moment. “But I have stopped asking Him why women like Angela can bear a child and I’ve not yet had the honor. It is clear He does not wish for me to have children.”
Manducor propped his elbows on the table, folding his hands. “It may be that your life will have other meaning, Lady de Winter,” he said. “I have seen enough in my life to know that simply because we do not get what we want, it does not mean we are not needed elsewhere. I was needed at St. Margaret’s. Mayhap you will find your needful place, in time.”
The words were encouraging, coming from an unexpected source. Eiselle turned to Keeva and smiled, which brought a weak grin to Keeva’s lips. Her lack of children wasn’t something she openly spoke of, ever, so for it to become the topic of conversation with a priest she didn’t have a good impression of, or at least hadn’t until this point, was something unique. Oddly enough, his words brought some comfort to an old and sometimes raw wound.
“Mayhap,” she said quietly.
Eiselle put her hand over Keeva’s and squeezed, and Keeva appreciated the support. But before they could continue the conversation, soldiers at the great hall entry raised a commotion. When Keeva and the rest of the table turned to see what was happening, one of the men ran into the smoky hall, straight for Keeva.
“Lady de Winter.” The man sounded breathless. “The army approaches, my lady. We are told to expect many wounded.”
Most everyone in the hall heard it. Keeva and Eiselle were on their feet, now with a feeling of panic filling the hall.
“My husband?” Keeva demanded. “Is he among the wounded?”
The soldier shook his head. “Unknown, my lady,” he said. “Men were sent ahead of the army to tell us to prepare for wounded. That is all we have been told.”
With that, he fled, rushing out into the night beyond. Keeva turned to Eiselle, who had a rather wide-eyed expression.
“We must prepare the hall,” she said, surprisingly calm. “We will put the wounded here. Zara, go to the kitchens and ensure they have enough hot water to clean wounds and boil bandages. Then you will find Angela and tell her she is needed. And tell her to bring her sewing kit.”
Zara rushed away, leaving Eiselle still standing next to Keeva. “And me?” Eiselle asked, fighting off the fear in her breast. “What would you have me do, my lady?”
It was then that Keeva noticed the apprehension in Eiselle’s expression. It occurred to her that Eiselle must not have ever faced anything like this, taking care of the wounded after a battle. The young woman had lived a rather placid life at a manor home in the country, or at her father’s stall, so battle and blood and death weren’t things she’d been exposed to.
She was about to have a fierce indoctrination into such things.
“You will have the servants move these tables against the walls,” she said steadily, keeping her manner calm so that Eiselle would remain calm. “This floor must be cleaned. Have it swept up as much as you can and the rushes burned. Keep the fires blazing; it must be warm in here. You will also have the servants bring every blanket and coverlet they can find in here. Men will need to lay upon something other than the cold floor. Can you do this?”
Eiselle nodded bravely. She wasn’t a coward by nature, even if a hall full of wounded did sound like a frightening thing. And Bric? Was he part of the wounded? She couldn’t let herself think about that now.
She had a job to do.
“Aye,” she said swiftly. “It shall be done.”
Keeva patted her hand, seeing that she was trying not to appear as frightened as she perhaps felt. “Not to worry,” she said. “You will do a fine job of it. We must make sure the wounded are comfortable. Have… have you tended injured men before?”
Eiselle shoo
k her head. “Never, my lady,” she said. She really didn’t even know what to expect, and that frightened her a good deal. “But… but I shall do what you tell me to do. I will learn quickly.”
Keeva patted her hand one last time and turned away. “Be strong, lass,” she said as she turned for the entry. “Remember that they are depending on you, and they need your help. I know you will not fail them.”
“Nay, Lady de Winter, I will not.”
“Prepare the hall, then. I shall return.”
As Keeva rushed out to meet the incoming army, Eiselle took a moment to take a deep breath and prioritize what needed to be done. Keeva said clear the floor, so she would. But she also needed blankets, so Eiselle caught the attention of a few serving women, huddling fearfully near the door that led out into the kitchen yard.
“You,” she said, catching their attention. “Lady de Winter wishes for you to find every blanket and coverlet you can and bring them to the hall. Go into every chamber and strip the beds. Bring it all down here immediately. And hurry!”
As the women rushed off, there were still several soldiers lingering at the other feasting table in the room, having heard the announcement of the incoming wounded. Eiselle turned in their direction, issuing orders like a master sergeant.
“You heard Lady de Winter,” she said. “Move these tables to the edges of the room and then we must clear this floor. Find brooms, or use your hands. Do whatever you must to clear this floor. And someone get the dogs out of here!”
The tone of her voice had men moving. She wasn’t shouting, but she was firm and loud, and men were more than willing to do her bidding. As the entire room of men began to move and the huge feasting tables began to shift, Eiselle stood back and out of the way, supervising the work. As she did, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye, turning to see Manducor walking up beside her. In Daveigh’s borrowed clothes, he at least smelled better than he had when he’d first come to Narborough. When their eyes met, he smiled thinly.
“You will need help when the wounded come,” he said. “I can give you such assistance.”
She lifted an eyebrow, an almost wary gesture. “You can?” she said. “Do you know much about tending wounded men?”
He sighed faintly, watching the soldiers move the heavy tables. “I told you that I became a priest after my family perished,” he said. “Before that, I was a knight for the Earl of Leicester. I have tended many battle wounds, my lady.”
Eiselle was quite surprised to hear it. “Then your presence is most welcome.”
He grunted. “I thought it would be,” he said. Then, he eyed her. “The reason I did not wish to return to my parish right away was not because of a food shortage, as I said. It was because the de Winter army had headed to battle, and I knew you would need help when they returned.”
“That is most generous,” she said. “But why did you not simply tell us why you had remained? Lady de Winter would have allowed you to stay, so there was no reason to create stories.”
He shook his head. “To tell you truthfully why I remained would have forced me to tell you about my past, and that was not something I was willing to speak of.” When he saw the glint of humor in her eye, he smiled a crooked smile. “That has since changed, of course. But the night the army left for the battle, I felt strongly that I had to stay and await their return.”
“But why?”
“Because I’ve not felt useful in a very long time, Lady MacRohan. Something told me to remain here.”
“Do you think God was speaking to you?”
He smiled, lopsided. “It is entirely possible,” he said. “He’s never spoken to me about anything else, so it would be ironic if this was the moment He decided to speak. But beyond that, I cannot tell you more.”
There was a hint of hope in his voice as he spoke and Eiselle didn’t push him. She simply nodded. The drunken, smelly priest was, perhaps, finding a purpose, small as it was. He wanted to feel useful, and he would be badly needed if there were a great deal of wounded. After the conversation they’d shared that night, Eiselle felt as if she were coming to know the odd man, just a little.
“May I ask you another question?”
“You may.”
“Is your name really Manducor?”
He chuckled. “If I told you what my name was, you would not believe me, so simply call me Manducor. It is easier that way.”
A former knight who was now a priest didn’t want to reveal his name. Eiselle thought it was all quite mysterious, but she didn’t linger on it. The tables had been moved and now servants were quickly trying to sweep up the floors, and the blankets were beginning to arrive. She had a job to do and she jumped to it with determination.
Not fifteen minutes later, the wounded began to arrive.
CHAPTER TEN
Dashiell was standing in the hall.
When Eiselle looked up from a pallet she was fixing for the wounded, she saw Dashiell just inside the door and it appeared he was looking for something. Or someone. Curious, Eiselle stood up and started heading in his direction. When he caught sight of her, very quickly, he headed in her direction.
“Dash,” Eiselle said as she rushed to him. “Are you well?”
Dashiell was exhausted. Every line, every emotion, was showing on his sweaty, grimy face as he looked at Eiselle. Without answering her, he took her by the arm and pulled her away from the servants and the bustle of the great hall.
“Come with me,” he said. “I must speak to you.”
Eiselle was hesitant. “I cannot leave,” she said. “Lady de Winter has put me in charge of the hall. We are to expect many wounded. Was the battle terrible?”
Dashiell couldn’t stand it; the woman had no idea of what she was about to face and his heart was breaking into a million pieces for her. What had he told her? That Bric MacRohan always returns from a battle? He’d sworn that to her, and she believed him. It was true that Bric was returning, but not in the same condition as when he left.
God, he felt so very guilty.
“Terrible enough,” he said, pulling her along even though she was reluctant. “Selly, Lady de Winter has sent me to you. Bric has been wounded.”
Eiselle stared at him a moment as if she didn’t quite understand what he was saying. But as she gazed into his eyes and saw the despondency in the depths, it began to occur to her that something was amiss. Something terrible had happened.
To Bric? Was it really true? That which she’d been promised wouldn’t happen had apparently happened. Bric had been wounded.
But… it wasn’t possible! Hadn’t she been given assurances? Hadn’t Bric himself promised her that nothing would happen to him and that he would return? Nay… it simply wasn’t possible.
… was it?
As Eiselle’s knees locked up and her breath caught in her throat, she could only think to ask one thing.
“How badly?”
It was a question Dashiell didn’t want to answer. He blinked once, twice, and then tears began to pool in his eyes, tears that he quickly flicked away.
“Badly enough,” he said huskily. “Selly, you must listen to what I am to tell you. That will give you an indication of what you are about to face.”
That sounded as if he were about to tell her something horrible, indeed, and her composure took a hit. The room began to sway. Eiselle whimpered as she gripped Dashiell with both hands because her legs couldn’t seem to support her.
“God, no,” she gasped. “What happened? Where is he?”
Dashiell held on to her, fearful of what would happen if he let her go. “He is being brought in from one of the wagons,” he said. “Is there somewhere else to put him other than the great hall? He will need peace and quiet if… if…”
“If what?” Eiselle practically cried.
Dashiell knew he wasn’t doing a very good job of telling Eiselle what had happened, but he was handicapped with his own grief and guilt. He felt as if all of this was his fault; he’d been the one to p
ropose the marriage. He’d been the one to summon the de Winter army for Holdingham. Now, Bric was badly wounded. Mortally, Dashiell thought.
It was a struggle to overcome the remorse he was feeling.
“Listen to me,” he said, grasping her by the arms and forcing her to look at him. “I must tell you what happened. Bric was hit by an arrow in the chest. The surgeon managed to remove the arrow and the arrowhead, but what it left in its wake is a sucking chest wound. This happened two days ago and since then, Bric has been in a very bad condition. The surgeon did what he could to pack the wound and sew it up but, earlier today, Bric started showing signs of a fever. If there is poison in his chest, his chances of survival are not good. Sweetheart, you married a warrior and I am so very sorry that this had to happen. Bric MacRohan has never been injured on the field of battle, so for this to happen… everyone is deeply shocked.”
Eiselle stared at him and as he watched, the tears began to pop out of her eyes and her face crumpled. Bric MacRohan has never been injured on the field of battle, he said. But at Holdingham, he was. It suddenly occurred to Eiselle why.
The talisman!
Bric had given her his talisman, and the one time he’d been without it, an arrow had found its mark. When Eiselle realized that she had been the cause, she couldn’t control her anguish. To ease her fear of battle, Bric had given up the one thing that he believed in and the very thing that protected him over all.
Now, she knew what had happened.
She’d left him vulnerable.
“I know why,” she whispered. “God help me, I know why. Dash, take me to him. Take me now!”
Dashiell didn’t think it was a good idea. “Your hysteria will not help him,” he said. “Selly, I know this is difficult for you, but you must not be hysterical. If Bric sees that, it will crush him. You must be strong for him, do you hear? Stronger than you have ever been in your life. I know you are capable of it. You must be capable of it. For Bric’s sake, you must try.”
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