He was right. God help her, he was right. Eiselle struggled to stop her weeping, to stop the panic and grief that was threatening to explode in all directions. Nodding quickly, unsteadily, she wiped at her tears, brushing them away, and took great gulps of air to steady herself.
“I will try,” she said breathlessly. “I will, I swear it. Dash… please take me to him.”
He still didn’t like the idea. “You are needed much more to prepare a private place for him,” he said, hoping to distract her from demanding to go to him again. “Where can we take him?”
Eiselle’s thoughts and emotions were scattered, but she managed to focus on his question. “His… his chamber is near the entry,” she said, pointing to the door that had been kept closed since the army’s departure. “That is his chamber. We can put him there.”
Dashiell turned her in the direction of the closed door. “Then go,” he said, praying the woman would find the strength he hoped she had. “Go and prepare the bed for him. Clear out the clutter and start a fire so that the chamber warms. They are bringing Bric in now and we will take him right to that chamber where you will be waiting for him. Let your face be the one he sees when he opens his eyes.”
Eiselle nodded, still a bit unsteadily, but at least she was standing on her own. Kissing her on the head, Dashiell rushed from the hall as Eiselle headed towards Bric’s chamber. There was a great deal of commotion in the hall now as some of the walking wounded began coming in through the entry, but she was completely focused on Bric’s chamber, just as Dashiell had asked. She found herself praying to a God she’d never given much notice to that Bric would, indeed, heal. She felt like a hypocrite, but this was a desperate time. She felt as if she had no one else to turn to.
Just as Eiselle put her hand on the door latch, she happened to catch a glimpse of Manducor as the man helped one of the servants seat a wounded soldier against the wall. Remembering what he’d told her about having tended battle wounds, she knew that she needed the man’s help. She needed everything he could provide. As she put her hand on the door latch, she called out to him.
“Manducor!”
Hearing his name, he looked up and saw Eiselle over near a half-open door, waving him over. He came, shuffling as quickly as Eiselle had ever seen him move.
“What is it?” he asked.
Eiselle’s throat was so tight with emotion that she could barely speak. “My husband,” she murmured. “He has been injured. They are bringing him in now and I require your assistance.”
With that, she opened the door and Manducor followed. His expression was wrought with concern.
“I am very sorry, Lady MacRohan,” he said. “Very sorry, indeed. What would you have me do?”
Eiselle began yanking the linens off the bed; they were in a messy pile, as was the room in general. “You said that you have tended battle wounds,” she said. “You will help me tend him.”
Manducor saw what she was doing and lent a hand to help her strip the bed. “How badly injured is he?”
The tears threatened; oh, God, how they threatened. “They say he took an arrow to the chest,” she said. “He may be with fever. We will know more when we see him, but the truth is that I have no experience tending wounds or illness. My life before I came to Narborough had been a rather isolated one, so I beg you for your assistance. I do not want to lose him.”
Manducor knew what it was to lose someone close. He’d watched his wife and two children die of a disease he’d had no power to stop. The physics had tried, but they’d died regardless. Therefore, he was quite sympathetic to Lady MacRohan’s request. In truth, he was very sad for her.
Performing the wedding mass several days before, he’d seen how the big Irish knight had looked at his new wife, and he’d seen how she looked at him. There had been interest there; nay, almost affection, even, which was unusual for a couple who had only just met. Clearly, they had been attentive to one another and when Lady MacRohan spoke of her husband, something in her eyes glowed.
Aye, Manducor felt very sorry for the woman. He knew what it was like to lose a loved one.
“I will help,” he told her, taking charge because she couldn’t seem to. “Quickly; pull the pillows off the mattress. If he has a chest wound, it will probably be better if he lays flat. Is a surgeon with him?”
Eiselle shook her head. “I do not know,” she said. “There seem to be many wounded. He will have many men who need his attention, so Bric must have all of mine. And yours; please. He will need us both.”
Manducor could see the grief in her face and how difficult this was for her. Manducor’s heart, something that had been stone-cold for years, began to feel some pity for her.
“MacRohan was cruel to me at the first, but he wasn’t wrong,” he said. “He tried to drown me when we first met. Did you know that?”
Eiselle looked at him in shock, only to see his old eyes twinkling. “Drown you?” she repeated. “Why?”
Manducor wriggled his bushy eyebrows. “Because I was drunk and he did not want a drunk performing your marriage mass,” he said. “Alas, I do not blame the man. At least he was honest about it. I appreciate a man who is honest. Now, Lady MacRohan, we must have hot water brought to us and a fire in the hearth. I will summon the nearest servant for the water and build a fire in the hearth myself. You make sure that bed is clean and ready for your husband.”
Eiselle began to tend the bed, smoothing the mattress and shaking out the used linens, simply because it gave her something to do. She was so distraught and nervous that she needed something to do. But her fussing over the bed quickly ended when several men appeared in the doorway, including Dashiell and Pearce and Mylo, all of them carrying a body between them on a makeshift stretcher. Eiselle caught a glimpse of Bric’s head and she quickly pointed to the bed.
“Put him on the bed,” she said, straining to catch a glimpse of him with all of the men carrying him. “Be gentle with him, please.”
More men flooded into the chamber, men who had been following Bric’s procession into the great hall. Eiselle didn’t know who the men were but it seemed to her, very quickly, that all they wanted to do was stand by and watch Bric as he was tended. Maybe they even wanted to watch him die. But she didn’t want an audience for the man, and she quickly rushed to the door to chase them away.
“Please,” she said. “He does not need all of you crowding the room. If you are not here to help him, then please go. Your concern is appreciated.”
She began to shoo men out. When Pearce and Mylo saw what she was doing, they, too, rushed to help her, pushing men out but being somewhat polite about it. They knew how worried the army was for their High Warrior.
With Pearce and Mylo clearing the room, Eiselle turned for the bed. She could hear Manducor sending for hot water and somewhere over to her left, someone else was building a fire. She didn’t know who it was, but she saw the movement in her periphery. There was a great deal of movement as men went to help, doing anything they could. It was a good thing, too; all Eiselle could see in front of her was Bric as they laid him upon the bed.
That was when her entire world came crashing down.
The sight of Bric was, in a word, awful. He wore his leather breeches, no boots, and he was stripped from the waist up. His magnificent chest was bared to the weak light of the chamber, tightly bound from the nipples to the waist with stained, boiled linen. His eyes were closed and he seemed to have a faint sheen on his body and face, as if he were sweating, and an old man with bushy white hair and a face like an old goat bent over him, pulling at the bindings.
Eiselle moved up to the other side of the bed where the men weren’t so crowded around. At that moment, all she could see was Bric’s ashen face. She then focused on the man as if there was no one else in the room.
“Bric?” she whispered, reaching out to touch his clammy cheek. “Bric, can you hear me? ’Tis me. ’Tis Eiselle.”
“He cannot hear you, my lady,” the old man bending over Bric spo
ke. “He has been unconscious for the past two hours. He does not respond at all.”
A sob caught in Eiselle’s throat. “He is sleeping,” she said hoarsely. “I am sure he is only sleeping.”
The old man looked at her. “He is a very sick man,” he said. “If he was merely asleep, then he would awake if prodded. He does not waken at all.”
Eiselle tore her eyes from Bric’s face, glaring at the old man. “And who are you?” she demanded. “What do you know of any of this?”
Dashiell was standing next to the old man. “This is Weetley, Eiselle,” he said quietly. “He is the de Winter surgeon. He has been with Bric the entire time.”
Eiselle backed down, somewhat. “Forgive me. I have not met you yet.”
The old man shook his head. “Nor I, you,” he replied. “I will assume you are Lady MacRohan.”
“I am.”
Old Weetley seemed to look her over as if acquainting himself with the lass he’d heard rumor about. She was all anyone at Narborough could speak of since her arrival, and now he could see why. She was a pretty young thing. But Weetley was a man with no tact, living and working with men as he did. In fact, he was something of a hermit when he was not traveling with the army, which was why he and the lady had not become acquainted yet. He had a room full of mysterious potions over in the knights’ quarters, and that was where he spent all of his time. After he was finished inspecting Lady MacRohan, he returned his focus to the bandages on Bric’s torso.
“Your husband was hit in the chest with an arrowhead meant for a horse,” he told her. “It buried itself deep and it was not easy to remove it. First, we had to break the shaft and then I had men hold your husband down as I dug out the head. There was a good deal of damage, my lady, and the arrow took mail and pieces of your husband’s tunic into his body when it entered. Some of those pieces are still in his body and that is what is causing his fever, but I could not adequately operate on him in the field. We needed to bring him home for that.”
Eiselle thought she was going to vomit. “Will… will you operate now?”
Weetley was oblivious to her pasty face. “Immediately. I must do it while he is unconscious so that he will not feel any pain.” With that, he turned to Dashiell. “Have the men bring my medicament bag in. I will also need a fire poker, heated until it is red-hot, to cauterize the wound. And have someone tie his arms and legs to the bed in case he awakens while I am working on him. I cannot have him moving about.”
As Eiselle listened, the room began to rock unsteadily. The crass old man was going to be digging into Bric’s body, with nothing to dull the pain. Be strong! She told herself. You must be strong! But it was to no avail; when she heard the old surgeon speak of clean rags and bowls to contain the blood, the spinning world turned to black and Eiselle ended up on the floor.
The sound of a crackling fire was the first thing she was aware of.
It was dark. Eiselle opened her eyes to a darkened chamber, with only the glow from the fire in the hearth casting light and shadow upon the walls. It took her a moment to recognize her surroundings because it was dark, and because she was somewhat dazed, but the moment she realized where she was, she gasped and sat straight up in bed.
“Bric!” she cried.
Keeva was sitting by the fire. When she heard the gasp, she rose to her feet, rushing to the bed and putting her hands on Eiselle as the woman tried to propel herself off the mattress.
“Easy, lass,” Keeva said softly. “Easy, Eiselle. Bric is in his chamber. He is being tended to.”
The last thing Eiselle remembered was seeing Bric on the bed, looking as if he were dead already. The tears came.
“I must go to him,” she said, trying to struggle against Keeva’s grip. “Please let me go to him!”
Keeva knew she was upset, and groggy, but she also knew that the woman couldn’t run off in hysterics to see her husband. Tightening her grip, she shook Eiselle hard enough to cause the woman’s head to snap.
“Stop yourself here and now,” Keeva hissed. “Eiselle, listen to me. Stop your hysterics or I swear I will not let you see him. I’ll keep you locked up in this chamber until you come to your senses.”
Eiselle looked at the woman in both shock and loathing. “Why would you keep me from him?” she demanded. “He is my husband and it is my right to be with him!”
Keeva didn’t ease her grip. “It is your right, but I will not let you go to him and act like a fool,” she said firmly. “Bric MacRohan is the greatest knight Ireland and England has ever seen, and if you are going to crumble like a foolish little girl, then you are not deserving of such a man. Do you understand me? Swallow your hysteria and be calm for Bric’s sake, or I swear I’ll lock you in here and throw away the key.”
Eiselle was prepared for a fiery retort but it died in her throat as she realized that Keeva was absolutely right – Bric deserved a strong, stoic wife, not a foolish girl. Embarrassment swamped her and her hands flew to her mouth.
“You are right,” she said, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “You are absolutely right. I am so very ashamed.”
Keeva breathed a sigh of relief, pleased she wasn’t going to have a fight on her hands. “There is nothing to be ashamed of,” she said, her grip on Eiselle easing. “This is the first time you’ve faced such a thing, so no one can blame you for your reaction. But from this moment forward, you must show how strong you are no matter how much you feel like weeping. Tears will not help Bric, but your strength will. Are you worthy of the man, lass?”
Eiselle nodded. “I am,” she said. “I swear, I am.”
Keeva smiled weakly and let go of her. “Then show us,” she said quietly. “Weetley finished surgery on him an hour ago. He cleaned the wound of all the debris he could and stitched him up again, so now all there is to do is wait until Bric decides to awaken.”
Eiselle took a long, deep breath, forcing the courage forth that she’d always hoped she had. From this point forward, she wouldn’t let herself show her fear or her distress. She couldn’t embarrass Bric so. If she was truly worthy of the man, then she needed to show it.
Stiffly, she climbed from the bed, smoothing back her hair which had escaped its braid.
“Is Bric with fever, still?” she asked.
Keeva nodded. “The last I heard,” she said, opening the door to the chamber. “Dash has come up to your chamber a few times to inquire on your health. He told me there was no change with Bric about a half-hour ago.”
They proceeded out into the short corridor, moving through the open area that smelled like a barnyard where the servants slept. As they reached the spiral stairs, Eiselle reached out and grasped her hand.
“Thank you for all you have done,” she said. “I feel terrible that you were sitting with me when I am sure you wanted to sit with Bric. I swear to you that I shall not let you down. I will show you that I am worthy of him, I promise.”
Keeva smiled faintly. “I know,” she whispered. “Go to him, now. He is in his chamber.”
“Will you come?”
Keeva shook her head. “I have other things to attend to, but I will come later.”
Eiselle squeezed her hand quickly before letting it go, fleeing down the stairs and to the entry level below. As soon as she came off of the stairs, which were near the hall, she was hit by the stench of men.
It was a horrific smell, of festering wounds mingling with the smoke from the hearth, which had been kept blazing at full capacity to keep the hall warm. Eiselle’s last memory was of a hall that only had a few wounded in it, but now as night set in, the cavernous chamber was lit only by torches and the raging hearth, she could see that the floor was lined with the wounded.
Servants and other soldiers, those who hadn’t been injured, were making their way amongst the wounded, including Zara. Eiselle could see her, but there was no sign of Angela. Trying not to become ill from the putrid smell, Eiselle headed for Bric’s chamber door.
Timidly, she opened the panel, st
icking her head in and coming face to face with several men who were either standing at Bric’s bedside or lingering against the walls – Dashiell, Pearce, Mylo, the dour old surgeon Weetley, and even Manducor, who was sitting right at Bric’s bedside. Dashiell was the first one to greet her.
“Selly,” he said, sounding relieved. “How do you feel?”
Eiselle smiled wanly at him. “I feel fine,” she said. Then, she looked around the room, at the men standing vigilantly for Bric. “I am ashamed of what happened and I assure you it will not happen again. I… I suppose everyone is entitled to a moment of weakness, and I have had mine. Can someone please tell me how my husband fares?”
It was Dashiell who took her by the hand and pulled her over to Bric’s bedside. “Weetley cleaned out the wound,” he said quietly. “He rinsed it with wine and herbs, and stitched it tightly. Bric has not awoken yet.”
Eiselle looked down at Bric’s face, the color of paste. He still had that faint sheen on his skin and as she watched, every so often he would twitch. Her heart began to ache again, stronger than before, and she fought the urge to weep. She swore she wouldn’t, but it was so very difficult when she looked at him. Her brave, strong husband, a man she was only just starting to know and care for, was laid out in a most horrific way.
Suddenly, Eiselle remembered the talisman that was still around her neck and she quickly pulled it off. Leaning over Bric’s supine form, she put her hand on his chest, up near his neck, pressing the talisman against his clammy flesh.
“It’s your talisman,” she murmured. “You said you would return for it, and I have kept it safe. Remember that it has kept generations of warriors safe and now… now its magic will help you heal, Bric. I know it will.”
He didn’t respond to her. In truth, she hadn’t expected him to. As she watched him breathe, heavily and laboriously, it was increasingly clear just how ill he was. When she put her hand on his forehead, she could feel the fever in him. It hurt to see him like this, but rather than break down about it, she was determined to play an active role in his healing. She wanted to know how the old surgeon planned to help him, and she turned to the man, who was over near the hearth.
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