Only For You

by Hannah Howell

  Saxan tried to heed Thylda’s words. They held some truth. But her traitorous mind proceeded to reveal to her how many times a good man had fallen to the blow of a bad one. Whatever God’s reasons, He was not always there to save the good.

  “The men return, m’lady,” a page cried loudly as he dashed into the great hall only to spin on his heel and dash out again.

  Cursing her increasing lack of agility, Saxan got to her feet with Thylda’s help. She ignored Jane’s soft admonition to go carefully and nearly ran out into the bailey. Even before she reached it, a cold dread began to creep over her. There was a subdued tone to the murmurs of those gathering to greet the returning men that told her her fears had been justified.

  Her first sight of Botolf sent her reeling. Thylda and Jane hurried to support her as she swayed. Now that her fears had been realized, however, she found an inner source of strength. Fears were intangible things that tormented a person and could not be wrestled into submission with medicines and worldly goods. Botolf’s wound could be treated, the danger of it fought. Straightening her shoulders, she moved to where Little Peter now stood with Botolf in his big arms. She touched Botolf’s forehead and his eyes opened. She smiled at him to hide her worry.

  “Saxan,” he whispered as he fought to see her clearly.

  “Only a man like Little Peter could bring you home to me like a babe in arms. Peter, please follow me.” She started toward her chambers. “This cold cannot be good for him.”

  “Nay, m’lady,” agreed Peter.

  Hunter hurried to fall into step at her side and said, “It was a trap just as we had feared.”

  “Aye,” said Pitney as he moved to her other side. “But we held our own. When Hunter appeared, Cecil’s dogs began to scatter.”

  “And when was Botolf hurt?” she asked in a quiet voice, astonished at how calm she sounded.

  “That coward Cecil threw a dagger even as he retreated. There was no defense your husband could make.”

  “Which is exactly how Cecil likes matters to stand,” she said as she led everyone into her bedchamber. “Place Botolf on the bed, Peter, and undress him.

  “The wound needs closing, Saxan,” Pitney said as he and Hunter moved to help Peter. “We could not do it there.”

  “ ’Tis best that you did not, for it should be well cleaned first.”

  With Thylda’s and Jane’s help, Saxan gathered what she would need to tend to Botolf’s wound. By the time she was prepared, Botolf was stripped and tucked up into bed. As Saxan approached the bed, Hunter caught her by the arm.

  “Mayhap you should not tend to him,” Hunter said.

  “He is my husband,” she replied.

  “Aye, but you are heavy with child and this can only upset you. That cannot be good for you at such a time.”

  “ ’Tis not good at any time. I am good at this, Hunter. I do not think it is only vanity which makes me say that I am, mayhap, better than anyone here. I must tend him. It will upset me less than to stand back and let other, less skillful hands care for him.” When he let her go, she added, “You will be needed to hold him steady.”

  To her relief, Botolf quickly succumbed to his pain. She cleaned him and his injury thoroughly before stitching the wound closed. He had lost a lot of blood, but she found some hope in the fact that she was able to stop its flow. After she was done, she cleaned herself up and had Peter place a seat near the bed for her.

  “You should rest, Saxan,” Hunter said.

  “I shall rest here,” she said.

  “Saxan—”

  “Do not fret so, Hunter. I will not endanger the child Botolf has prayed for. Howbeit, I will take care of my husband.”

  “As you wish. Little Peter will stay here. Let him lift his lordship and do all such heavy work when it is needed.”

  “Thank you, Hunter. Cecil was unharmed?”

  “I fear the cur escaped with but a few small cuts from Botolf’s sword.”

  “I tried to make him stop this,” Botolf whispered hoarsely. “I was willing to forgive all if he would but cease this now.”

  Saxan urged Botolf to drink some of the herbal potion Jane had brought while Little Peter gently raised him up slightly and ordered, “Hush, m’lord. You need to rest. That is the only way to heal.”

  His brief hold on consciousness slipping away, Botolf muttered, “You need to rest, too, for the baby.”

  “The babe is fine,” she said, but knew he could not hear her. “Hunter, it might be best to send word to Lady Mary. I do not wish to offend by keeping this from her. She may not choose to come, but I feel certain she would wish to be told.”

  “Aye. I will send word out at dawn’s breaking,” Hunter promised.

  “Go and clean up,” she told him. “There is naught you can do here. Mayhap Farold can help Peter in that room.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the room Botolf used to dress in.

  “I will see to it,” Hunter said, “and I will have food sent up. Do not wear yourself out, dearling.”

  “I will not. Jane,” she said as her brothers left, “we shall need a pallet for Peter.”

  “And for you, m’lady,” Jane said firmly as she started to leave.

  “I will help you, Jane,” Thylda said as she followed the maid.

  When Farold arrived and led Peter away, Saxan found herself alone with Botolf at last. She knelt by the bed and fervently prayed for her husband’s recovery. It was impossible to ignore the seriousness of his wound, but she fought to cling to her hopes. Hope would be what gave her the strength to get through the ordeal ahead of her.

  Jane and Thylda soon returned with two other maids. They set up pallets for her and Little Peter. Despite her own grief, Saxan had to smile at the way Jane could not keep her eyes off Little Peter. She wondered if it were due to a real attraction for the man or a fascination with such a large specimen of manhood. Jane needed a nudge from Thylda to finally leave the room.

  Hunter himself brought the food up to her and Peter, saying the moment he entered the room, “I hope you realize what an honor I do you.”

  “Aye, Brother. I am truly humbled,” Saxan murmured.

  “So you should be. Now, eat it all. Thylda will come soon to sit with Botolf so that you may get some rest.”

  Saxan did not argue. She was being allowed to stay near Botolf and that would have to be enough. While Botolf lay ill, Hunter would take his place as the man in her life and she knew he would not tolerate any disobedience in this matter. It was important that she care for the child she carried as well as she cared for Botolf. Both duties required that she take care of herself, too. As she ate the food, which tasted like ashes in her mouth, she sought a more complete report on the battle.

  “So you feel you have well trimmed Cecil’s followers,” she murmured after Hunter told her all he knew.

  “Aye.” Hunter gathered up the few scraps left of her hearty meal. “If that was Cecil’s full strength, it will be a long while ere he reaches it again.”

  “His attack was nearly successful, however.”

  “Aye, but a costly one for him and nearly is not good enough, is it?”

  “Nay. Cecil is also wise enough to know that such a ploy will not work a second time.”

  “True enough. We must be wary though. Cecil has shown his great skill in these devious games.”

  “Until he is dead, we must be most careful whom and what we trust. The man has no sense of honor.”

  “None,” agreed Hunter. “The blow that felled your husband was the strike of a coward.”

  “ ’Tis a shame that such dishonorable strikes can wound as well as the honorable ones.”

  “By such an act Cecil lost all rights to being treated fairly and honorably.”

  “That should have been lost when he resorted to an assassin’s knife in the dark,” she said.

  “Ah, well.” Hunter shrugged. “We had no real proof he was the one behind those attacks even though everyone felt sure it was him. This loathsome act w
as done before many witnesses and will soon be widely known. I myself will now feel no qualms about meeting Cecil from behind and slipping a knife between his ribs. His sort deserves no better. Thank you, Peter,” he said with a smile when that man growled an agreement.

  Thylda entered and Saxan stood up, knowing she would have to lie down now. She bent to place a kiss on Botolf’s forehead and what she felt beneath her lips turned her blood to ice. She straightened up, her gaze fixed upon the bright color in Botolf’s cheeks. Her hand trembled as she rested it on his forehead only to prove what her lips and eyes had already told her. She felt all her hopes shatter.

  “Fever,” she whispered, and the looks upon the faces of the others in the room told her she was not alone in her fear.

  Fifteen

  Weary, but fighting to hide it, Saxan entered her bedchamber only to freeze at the sight that met her eyes. A priest she did not recognize stood by Botolf’s bed delivering the last rites. A wild cry of denial escaped her as she raced to the bed where Botolf still fought for his life. She turned a burning gaze upon the affronted priest.

  “Get out,” she snarled at him.

  “Now, Saxan,” Hunter began.

  “Nay. Botolf is not dead yet. I will not have this man looming over him like some carrion bird.”

  She knelt and clung to Botolf’s hand, keeping her gaze fixed upon the priest. She watched as Hunter tugged the priest away from his deathwatch. The two men conversed in low tones for a moment before Hunter returned to her side.

  “Saxan, heed me for a moment,” Hunter said.

  “Botolf is not dead,” she said.

  “Nay, and no one here wishes him to be. Howbeit, Saxan, he has been caught in the grip of a fever for four long days. You cannot deny how ill he is.”

  “I do not deny it, but I do not bring thoughts of death to his ears either.”

  “Do you wish him to die unshriven?”

  “He will not die.”

  “Then think of this as a foolish caution, but let it be done, for your husband’s sake. Let us be readied for all possibilities, no matter how grim.”

  “All right,” she agreed, reluctance and anger filling her voice.

  When the priest returned to Botolf’s bedside, Saxan closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the hand she held. It was not piety that caused her to do so, however. She did not wish to watch. This was a ritual of death, and she wanted nothing to do with it. It was as if she were the only one left who felt that Botolf would live, that he could fight off the fever which had such a firm grip on him and recover.

  “ ’Tis over, Saxan,” Hunter said at length. “The priest is gone.”

  “You think me foolish,” she murmured and peered up at him from beneath her thick lashes.

  “Nay.” Hunter sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on her head. “Howbeit, I needed all my skill with words to convince that priest that you were not a heretic.”

  Laughing weakly, she asked, “What did you tell him?”

  “That the babe causes you to act like a madwoman. That and fear for your man,” he added in a gentle voice.

  “A madwoman, am I?” She moved to refresh the water and cloth she used to bathe Botolf in a thus-far vain attempt to still his fever. “ ’Tis a ritual of death. I wanted no part of it.”

  “I understand and I think the priest will when he gets over the shock of being called a carrion bird.”

  She smiled faintly. “I shall do some penance for that. Why did you bring that man and not Father Chesney?”

  “Father Chesney is away at his kinsmen’s.”

  “There is no sign of Lady Mary?”

  “Nay, but the weather has been very poor.”

  “He cannot die,” she whispered, her gaze fixed upon her husband’s face.

  Hunter pulled her into his arms. “Everyone prays for him, Saxan. No one from Regenford can leave the castle without being besieged by questions about the earl’s health. They all know how fortunate they are to have such a liege lord. One need not look far to see how it could be, how fortunate the people of this demanse are. If prayers count for aught, he will recover.”

  “I felt it, you know,” she said softly as she tried to find some comfort in her brother’s hold.

  “Felt what, sweeting?” Hunter asked.

  “The wound Botolf got. When the dagger pierced his flesh, I felt it. I had prayed that it was just my own fear causing me to feel the pain.”

  “You have grown that close to him?”

  “He is my life.”

  “You have another life to think on as well,” he reminded her as he urged her into her seat.

  “I know. The babe.”

  “ ’Tis a part of him, Saxan. ’Tis the future of Regenford. You know in your heart that your husband would not wish you to do anything to put that life at risk. Aye, while he lies so ill and so in need of care, it is easy to forget the importance of what lies in your womb. ’Tis not only his heir but, if anything happens to him—”

  “Nay.”

  “If anything happens to Botolf,” he pressed, “you will be hungry for the life he has bred in you, for that part of him that he has nurtured within you.”

  “Aye, I know.”

  “And never forget it. You look weary, dearling. I know you do not tend to yourself as well as you should.”

  “I do try, Hunter.”

  “I know, sweeting.” He urged her to accept a tankard of wine, smiling his approval when she began to drink.

  “ ’Tis just that I am so afraid for him. I fear to leave, as if by staying at his side I can hold off death. There is a vanity, eh?”

  “Nay. ‘Tis a common feeling,” Hunter assured her. “E’en though we all know death can steal upon a man when he is surrounded by a hundred or more armed men, we still fear to leave an ailing loved one alone. I think, too, that we do not wish our loved one to face death alone. We feel guilty if we are not there, but that should not plague you, Sister. You know Botolf would want you to think on the child first and foremost. Therein lies the future of Regenford and all who depend upon it.”

  “You do not think it lies there?” She nodded toward Botolf.

  “Nay, not as strongly as it does within your womb. You know this to be the truth.”

  “Aye,” she admitted sadly. “I wish him at my side to help build that future.”

  “Everyone wishes for that, Saxan. The chapel swells with people praying for Lord Botolf. But, Saxan, do not deceive yourself into believing he will heal, that no other fate could await him. There are two roads he could travel now, and you must be ready for either.”

  “I know this, Hunter. I have tried to think only of his healing, but I cannot forget that some other fate may await him. My mind will not allow me the comfort of that lie.”

  “Truly, dearling, that is for the best. I think I am to lose my squire,” he said abruptly in an attempt to distract her.

  “Nothing could draw Peter from your side.” She struggled to go along with his diversion.

  “Then you are to lose Jane.”

  “Ah, ’tis like that, is it? I had wondered at first, for she could not cease looking at him.”

  “Many suffer from that affliction.”

  “Aye, but I felt even then that it was not merely amazement. I had no time to think upon it or watch her more closely.”

  “Will you miss her?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Saxan replied. “She is a good, honest girl. She will serve Wolfshead Hall well and loyally. I think only Peter would overrule you, but he would never even try to do that.”

  “She seemed a trifle bold with you.”

  “Botolf ordered it. He wished to be sure that I would take good care of myself and the child I carry, but could not always watch over me himself. Jane blushes and sometimes trembles when she stands firm in that, but stand firm she does.”

  “And that can only be praised.”

  At that moment Lady Mary burst into the room. One look at the woman’s pale face told
Saxan that she would have to put her own fears aside to calm Lady Mary’s. As she moved to put a comforting arm around the distraught woman, Hunter offered what little he could and left.

  “Never has he come so close,” Lady Mary murmured in a voice thick with tears as she sat by Botolf’s bedside.

  Saxan served the woman some wine and said, “It is still not close enough.”

  “Saxan—” Lady Mary began.

  “I can see how poorly he is as well as you can, m’lady. Howbeit, he is not dead yet.”

  “Nay. Has the priest come?” she whispered as she took her son’s limp hand in hers.

  “Aye, Hunter brought him.” Saxan gave her a faint smile. “I was none too pleased to find the man lurking over Botolf like carrion; but, though I sorely offended the priest, Hunter convinced me to let him perform the last rites.”

  “I understand. I, too, would have been upset to see it, but I can only be glad that Botolf will not,” she took a deep, unsteady breath and continued, “die unshriven.”

  “He will not die, m’lady,” Saxan said firmly and scowled at Botolf, only to frown in confusion when Lady Mary suddenly laughed. “What is funny?”

  “Very little. ’Twas the way you spoke and looked at him.” Lady Mary shook her head. “You were ordering him about, child.”

  Saxan smiled. “I have been doing a great deal of that.”

  “I hope you have not tired yourself too much. You look weary.”

  “I am weary, but I am not allowed to exhaust myself. There are scores of people who have made it their duty to see that I eat well and rest.” She pointed to her pallet. “They have made me a bed right here so that I cannot argue that I will not leave Botolf’s side.”

  Lady Mary looked at the pallet and shook her head again. “I do not believe my son would approve of that arrangement.” She held up her hand to halt Saxan’s protest. “I understand. ’Tis a fine compromise. Howbeit, when Botolf recovers, I would put myself into a proper bed as soon as possible if I were you. As soft as that pallet looks, it cannot be as good for you as a proper bed.”