Only For You

by Hannah Howell

  “True. I do find it difficult to get to my feet.” She sighed and sat down on the bed. “I am in the mood to accept some painful truths, m’lady. So, tell me, how does he look to you?” she asked Lady Mary.

  “He still lives, and that can only be a good sign. There is no poison in his wound?”

  “None. I change his dressings several times each day. The wound itself appears to be healing as it should.”

  “Another good sign. ’Tis just this fever. He has suffered it for four days?”

  “Aye, m’lady. We can occasionally force some hearty broth into his mouth, but not much. I wondered if there were a poison on the dagger which made the wound poison, too; but, as I said, his wound appears clean. Nothing breaks this fever.”

  “A fever can be difficult to cast off or drive away. Fevers are also frightening. They are too often the harbingers of death. That knowledge may feed our fears. To me, he looks poorly, and I want to weep with fear. The stronger side of me sees only that he is still alive and so there is still hope. Have you brought in a physician?”

  “Nay.” Saxan realized how sharp her reply was and took a deep breath to calm herself. “They would only bleed him, and he has lost too much blood already. I have little faith in those men.”

  “To tell the truth, I do not have much myself. I have never felt that they know more than we do. And their readiness to use bloodletting as a cure has always troubled me.” She smoothed her hand over Botolf’s hot, dry brow and bit her lip to stop its sudden trembling. “I fear I have never learned of a sure way to bring down a fever.”

  “We bathe him with cool water several times a day. It helps for a little while.” Saxan quickly covered her mouth with her hand when she failed to smother a yawn.

  “I think it is past time you had some rest.” Lady Mary stood up, took Saxan by the hand, and tugged her to her feet.

  “But you have only just arrived,” Saxan protested, yet she did not fight Lady Mary as the woman led her to the pallet.

  “And I shall remain here until Botolf is well, so there is no need to tire yourself for my sake. I will sit with Botolf and tell you if there is any change.”

  “You do not wish to clean up or rest after your long journey?”

  “I can wash right here. After fretting about Botolf throughout my journey, I need to sit with him. And you need to rest.” When Saxan had settled down on the pallet, she tucked the light coverlet over her.

  “And you will wake me if there is any change?” Saxan asked even as she got comfortable and felt the need to sleep grow overpowering.

  “Of a certain. No matter what the change.”

  “He will not die, Lady Mary.”

  “If a wife’s determination can work a cure, then Botolf will indeed recover.”

  “Saxon.”

  The hoarse cry yanked Saxan out of sleep so abruptly her head ached. She started to get to her feet and gasped in surprise when Little Peter suddenly loomed over her. The unsteadiness she felt told her she still needed more sleep, and she frowned up at Peter.

  “Is something wrong? Why did you call me?”

  “I did not call you, m’lady,” Peter replied and he pointed to the bed. “The earl did.”

  “Saxan.”

  The voice was definitely coming from the bed, but it was so weak and raspy, Saxan did not recognize it as Botolf’s. She wanted to rush to his side, but fear kept her rooted to the spot. Was he better or was he about to bless her with his last words? When she had gone to sleep, Lady Mary had only just arrived and Botolf had been in the same fevered state with no hint of a change. Saxan found that waking after a nap to hear her husband’s voice for the first time in four days was not the joyful experience she had anticipated. It terrified her.

  “M’lady,” Peter said and nudged her toward Botolf. “He calls you.”

  “I know. I have just panicked, is all.” She took a deep breath to steady herself and walked to the bed.

  Botolf stared at her and, although the light from the candles was too dim for her to be certain, his eyes looked clear. Her hand shook as she reached out to touch his face. It was slick with sweat. His fever had broken. Saxan swayed, and Peter quickly steadied her.

  “His fever has broken,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed as she struggled to calm herself.

  “I had a fever?” Botolf asked.

  “Aye, for four long days.” She smiled her gratitude to Peter, who lifted Botolf up enough to drink some mead. “That should soothe your parched throat, Husband.” Botolf tried to reach for her hand, but was too weak. Saxan took his hand between hers. “We shall have to wash you down and change the linen.”

  “I am as weak as a babe,” Botolf complained, briefly closing his eyes. “Have you been taking care of yourself?”

  Saxan grinned at the hint of his old arrogance in his voice. “Well enough. Now, we had best tend to you so that you can be comfortable again.”

  With Peter’s help, Saxan washed the sweat from Botolf’s body and changed his linen and bandages. Although they tried to be gentle, Botolf was pale and exhausted by the time they were through. She hurried to get some hearty broth into him before he fell asleep. Several times she paused to feel his forehead and reassure herself that his fever was truly gone.

  “I should wake your mother, yet I hesitate to do so,” she said. “Lady Mary only arrived here this afternoon and she sat with you for a few hours. It seems a shame to wake her when, by the time she can come, you will most likely be asleep again.”

  “Tell her woman Elizabeth and let her decide,” Botolf said, grimacing as he swallowed another spoonful of broth. “God’s toenails, I am almost too weak to swallow.”

  “Your strength will soon return now that it is not exhausted battling a fever.” She glanced at Peter. “Would you tell Lady Mary’s maid what has happened, Peter?” As the big man started to leave, she added, “Be sure that she understands that Botolf will soon be asleep again.”

  “You sound very certain of that,” Botolf murmured after Peter left.

  “ ’Tis the way of it,” Saxan replied, accepting his refusal to eat any more and setting the nearly empty bowl aside.

  “Even after I have been asleep for nearly four days?”

  “Aye, for that time was spent in a hard battle against the fever. It has left you exhausted and weak. Now you will sleep so that you can renew your strength. The real trouble will come when you are still not well enough to do much, yet think you are for you are heartily sick of being abed.”

  He tried to squeeze her hand. “And you shall undoubtedly command me to do as I should.”

  “Undoubtedly.” She moved closer and pressed his hand to her cheek. “I shall be remembering all too well how close we came to losing you. I will probably grow quite shrewish.”

  “Nay.” He sighed then winced at the pain that slight movement drew from his wound. “Cecil nearly won.”

  “Only if all he wished were your death. He would never have gained Regenford. Nay, not even enough of the land to be buried in. I would cut out his heart myself ere I would allow that.”

  “Methinks Cecil does not realize the fierceness of the wife I would leave behind.”

  “He would soon know.” She smoothed her hand over his brow. “You must rest.”

  “I know, and I can feel sleep beckoning me. Yet I feel a need to talk, although I do not have anything to say.”

  “Mayhap the need to talk comes from being so close to death or being nearly silent for four days.”

  “You mean I did not rant and rave whilst I was fevered?”

  “Nay, m’lord. You said little save for a few profane remarks concerning Cecil.” She smiled when he gave a weak laugh, but then grew solemn as some of the fears she had suffered from during his illness returned. “I wish you had raved, cursed, and bellowed, no matter how wild and nonsensical the words. Your silence was chilling. It made it all too clear that death stood at your bedside.”

  “He obviously got tired of waiting for me. And
I do not intend to invite him for another vigil until I am very old and have seen my child have children.”

  Saxan knew he jested, but prayed that his words were prophetic. She smiled and placed his hand over her stomach. To her delight the child within her responded vigorously. Botolf’s red-rimmed eyes widened as he felt his child kick. Or children, she thought with an inner joy, wondering if he would realize what a prodigious amount of activity there was.

  Botolf felt such a wave of emotion it almost swept away his weakness. He had felt the movement in her womb before, but it had never been so strong. That he had nearly died certainly added a poignancy to what he felt. He knew the tiny woman smiling at him, his seed growing in her belly, was one reason he had fought death so hard. Botolf realized that he had never had such a reason to live before.

  “There is certainly no doubt that our child is alive,” he said.

  “No doubt at all. There is definitely strength there.”

  “A good thing for a son to have.” He grinned when she gave him a mock scowl. “Or a daughter.”

  “Very wise,” she murmured, then stood up and made sure he was properly tucked in. “Do you want a drink before you go to sleep?”

  “I am going to sleep, am I?”

  “Aye, you are. You know you will soon anyway. Your weariness is already reddening your eyes and it begins to slur your speech. If you do not pander to yourself now, your fever could easily return.”

  “And I am now too weak to endure any more of that.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “If my mother decides to visit, wake me. If I can speak to her, it will help ease her worry.”

  “I will, but I begin to think she has decided to try and wait until the morning.”

  “You are to rest as well. From the movement I could feel within your womb, you will need to be strong to carry that child.”

  Saxan nodded. She bent down and gave him one kiss on the mouth. A sudden sharp look in his eyes told her she may have conveyed far more emotion in that small kiss than she had planned to, but she did not care. Botolf had almost died. If he remembered the hint of emotion in her kiss at all, he would probably attribute it to the high drama of the moment. Instinct told her that Botolf would not press her for the answers to any questions her kiss had raised, not when it concerned something emotional. She doubted that his close brush with death would change him that much.

  “Good sleep, Botolf,” she whispered and moved to her pallet.

  “Is that where you are sleeping?” he asked as she settled herself on her meager bed.

  “For now. We can argue about it later.”

  “We will.”

  She hid a smile as she squeezed her pillow into the right shape. That promised argument would be welcomed. It would prove that at least some of the strength stolen by the fever had returned. As she closed her eyes, she heard Little Peter return. Knowing Botolf would be in good hands, Saxan let the need to sleep conquer her.

  “Do you see what she is sleeping on, Mother?”

  “Hush, Botolf. It has only been for a few days. She needed to be near at hand to see to your care.”

  Saxan shook off the last vestiges of sleep. Botolf’s voice was stronger, more easily recognizable as his. That one night of an unfevered sleep could give that added strength to his voice eased her last doubts about his recovery. She stretched and realized that she was really hungry for the first time since Botolf had been carried back to Regenford.

  “I know you are awake, Saxan,” Botolf said, ignoring his mother’s command to be quiet.

  “How can anyone sleep with you squealing like a stuck pig?” Saxan winked at Lady Mary, who hurried over to help her stand up. “You have rapidly gone from silent to very loud, my husband.”

  “You are fortunate that I am still too weak to bellow,” he said even as he exchanged a good-morning kiss with her. “I was too groggy last night to fully comprehend the inadequacy of what you have been sleeping on.”

  “Talking loudly and using such big words, too. A very good sign.”

  “Saxan,” Botolf said, directing a scowl toward his mother when she giggled, “that is not a good place for a woman in your condition to sleep. The cold and damp of the floor cannot be good for you.”

  “There is the pallet, linen, and a sheepskin between me and that floor.” She patted his cheek, savoring its healthy coolness. “I will sleep there one more night and then find a more suitable bed. Now, I must go and have a bath and a very hearty meal.”

  “Saxan,” he called as she started out of the room.

  “I will be back in just a little while.”

  “You enjoy a good, large meal,” Lady Mary said. “I will stay with Botolf.”

  “Mother,” Botolf protested after Saxan left, “I wished to talk to my wife.”

  “Nay, you wished to argue with her.” Lady Mary carefully set a tray of food on the bed. “I think it is much more important that she have a relaxing bath and a quiet, filling meal.”

  “She has not been eating well?” he asked between bites of the hearty broth his mother fed him.

  “Saxan has been eating and sleeping well enough. Not as well as you would like, certainly, but she has not neglected herself. She is well aware that everything she does affects her child. Howbeit, she also needed to remain at your bedside.” She helped steady him enough so that he could drink some cider.

  “Well, she should not have been so determined to do her duty to me. Her duty to her child is far more important.”

  “ ’Tis odd that men, who feel they are able to rule, can be so silly at times,” muttered Lady Mary.

  Botolf stared at his mother in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you really believe that it was duty which kept that child at your bedside night and day? Duty only required that she insure that you got the best care. It was certainly not duty that had her offending the priest brought to give you last rites by calling him a carrion bird. It was not duty that had her denying the very real possibility that you could die. Nay, I have heard all about what went on here before I arrived yesterday and duty is not the word I would use to describe your wife’s behavior.”

  “And how would you describe it?”

  “That child loves you.” She watched his face and sighed. “You do not want your wife to love you.”

  “I want a comfortable, peaceful marriage,” he said, fighting the sudden surge of joy he felt at the thought that Saxan loved him. “Love does not often bring comfort and peace. I have dealt with love before—”

  “Nay, you have not. You dealt with a mean-spirited whore who would not have recognized love if God Himself had shown it to her. Oh, Alice quite liked the fact that you loved her, but she had no heart for love. That particular marriage does not allow you to say you have dealt with love.”

  “It certainly showed me the folly of allowing myself to be entrapped by it.”

  “Has Saxan given you any indication that she wishes to entrap you or trick you or deceive you in any way?”

  “Nay, but she knows she does not have the power to do so. I have not given it to her.”

  “And you are doing your best to never give it to her,” Lady Mary said in a soft, sad voice. “I had not realized how deeply Alice had cut you.”

  “Do not be ridiculous,” he snapped. “She was a lesson, and I had the wit to learn it well.”

  “Nay, you learned the wrong lesson. You learned that the actions of one heartless whore are the ways of all women. You insult women with that belief, myself included. I had thought that, despite your woeful experience with Alice, you would see through my actions that all women are not like her. Instead, you heed Alice’s lessons over mine. You choose to see only the worst.”

  “There is nothing wrong with being wary.” Botolf shifted uncomfortably beneath his mother’s angry look.

  “You are not being wary; you have closed yourself off. Has Cecil’s attempts to murder you made you mistrust every man? Nay, of course not. Aye, you will be more cautious, but you will still t
rust men. But you allow the betrayal of one stupid girl to make you distrust all women.”

  “ ’Tis not just Alice.” Botolf wanted to defend himself, but, suddenly, his usual arguments seemed foolish. “At court one sees many women like Alice.”

  “And you dare to judge the world by what happens at court? Do you truly see the world filled with sycophants, whores, and intriguers?” Lady Mary shook her head. “Mayhap it is my fault. I know I can be naive, too trusting, and too ready to see only the good in people. Mayhap I did not prepare you well for the place you have had to take in the world. I sent you out into the world with my naivete, and that caused you to feel any hurt inflicted more deeply than another would have.”

  Botolf winced as he reached for her hand and the action pulled at his wound, but he managed to grasp hold of her. “You have not failed me.”

  Before Lady Mary could reply, Little Peter and Hunter arrived. Inwardly, Botolf breathed a sigh of relief. The conversation with his mother had begun to get uncomfortable. The look she gave him as she left told him that the discussion had only been delayed, not ended, and he cursed silently. He knew he did not want to hear any more of what she had to say because her words held too much truth.

  Saxan slipped into Botolf’s room as quietly as she could only to find him watching her. “Good afternoon,” she said and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “That was a very long meal you enjoyed,” he grumbled, taking her hand in his.

  “A long bath, a full meal, and a little nap. The first two made me need the last. Have you been well taken care of whilst I was gone?”

  “Aye, I have been fed, turned, bathed, prodded at, my dressings changed, and thoroughly ordered about”

  “Well, I am glad you have been so well entertained.” She laughed when he glared at her.

  “You find my ill humor amusing?”

  “Today—aye. As I become more confident of your recovery, I shall probably treat your irritation with the scorn it deserves.” She saw his lips twitch as he fought a smile. “Have you rested?” Saxan gave in to the strong temptation to feel his forehead and nodded her approval when she found it was still beautifully cool.