by Anne Carsley
Then Katherine was alone with her husband. She looked down into the hawk face which was drawn with fever and wasted with exhaustion. He was still as she had never known him. Helpless. He did not move from his stupor even when she lifted the cover and turned back his bandages to look at the raised red cut that ran from his chest well down into his abdomen. It looked deep but was puffy and dark. He had been well tended. What could account for the length of the fever? She replaced the cover and as she did so he winced and caught her hand in a hard grip that lessened as his feeble strength ebbed.
“Margaret. Dear love. Stay with me.” The whisper was infinitely tender and longing. It came again as she tried to free herself. “So long without you.” She knelt at the bedside as the pleas turned into babble. His hand was burning hot but he held on as if it were his last grip on a life.
Katherine whispered in her turn. “Jamie, I am here. I shall remain.”
The hollow face turned, the drooping lids lifted and the fierce gray eyes burned into hers. “I know.” His hand fell and he slept.
Lady Arrington spoke later to her husband as they drank mulled ale before the fire in their bedroom which she had requisitioned that they might be apart from the communal life of a border garrison.
“She looks as near dead as he, Gilbert, but he holds to her and she will not be put from him. The physician and his helper are in attendance as well as the priest and several maids. If he dies it will not be for want of care. Gloucester made certain of that.”
The commander of the garrison looked at her, small and neat and loving as a man might want. “All those days he called for a woman not his wife, yet the fact that his wife is here may well save his life. I spoke to the physician when he came down to eat. He thinks the fever may abate soon.”
It was noon of the next day before the wound began to drain in response to the poultices and hot water. Katherine examined it and saw that a large portion of it remained hot and ugly. James tossed and raved, burned alive by the fever, and seeming wilder when Katherine left him hastily to tend to her needs. Once the priest, seeing her sway as she tried to ease cramped muscles, came close and bent to James.
“Leave go, sir. Your wife will return in a moment. Rest easy.”
The unseeing eyes rolled back as the parched lips drew to a narrow line over his teeth. It was as if he were struggling to hold onto the picture of Kate’s first love for him. Then James flung his hands wide, making as if to rise but fell back in a spasm of coughing that threatened to tear the edges of the wound apart. But suddenly he screamed,
“I’ll have no wife!” He rose again and flailed from side to side. “Katherine . . . Margaret ... I want you ... I hate you . . . slut. Margaret, where are you, love?” The last words were tender in contrast to his earlier fury.
Katherine came back then and met the puzzled eyes of the priest who said, “Lady, think nothing of this. His mind wanders in his pain. Of your charity, bear him no ill will. He needs prayers.”
Katherine sighed. “I am well aware of my lord’s feelings, Sir Priest, and need no explanations of what is obvious to all.” She took James’s hand and he was instantly still in exhausted sleep.
Later Katherine sat with James while the maids dozed. Outside the wind rose and she felt little flurries of chill about her feet. She was so tired she could not think, yet sleep was out of the question. What if he should die and she not know it? Pain crushed her. There was a very slim chance that he would live, more that he would die. She looked at the gaunt face, the endlessly picking fingers, felt the weak clasp on her own and knew the truth that she had tried to hide from herself.
She loved this man with all her being. His feelings toward her did not matter, his past behavior, cold and cruel, did not matter. She was jealous of the woman whose name he called and for whom he mistook her. How did he mean to be free of her, his wife whom he hated? Even that mattered little. How had she ever wanted to live apart from him? That would be death indeed. She would hide her love from him, he would never know, but she would fight to remain his wife if he lived. Better the barest crumbs than the loveless poverty forevermore. So Katherine thought in the abnegation of her. pride, bare before the first real love she had ever known.
James struggled in the grip of a dream and his hand pulled her toward him. She knelt by him and his fingers caught in her hair. She put her arm over him and felt his trembling. His helplessness and her own realization of her love weighed in upon her and she began to cry in deep gulping sobs that shook them both. Oblivious to everything, she cradled him in her arms and whispered his name over and over. Her pain reached him in the depth of the fever and he clutched her with both thin hands. They clung together, fused into one.
Then firm hands were on Katherine’s shoulders, lifting her up, leading her back to the chair. Lady Arrington was bending over her, saying soothingly, “That does no good for either of you, Lady Katherine. Let me bring you a sleeping potion.”
A gasp from one of the maids made them both turn. James gave almost an animal scream and sat bolt upright clutching his midsection. Katherine jerked free and ran to him, lifting his head to her lap as she pulled him back into the bed. Tears still ran down her face which was twisted with pain.
The priest and the physician entered on the run. The physician said authoritatively, “All this wailing is very bad for the lord. He must have quiet. I cannot answer for his life if this continues.”
Brother Martin gave the ashen face one look and began the prayers for the dying. His soft voice rose in the comforting ritual. Lady Arrington tugged at Katherine who began to rise.
James tossed convulsively and cried harshly, “Margaret! Where are you? You are dead, I know. I know.” Katherine shook free and went to him, clasping his fingers. He quieted instantly. She turned to the others and said, “Leave us.”
“That is not possible. He is dying.” The physician was annoyed at her assumption of power.
“I am his wife and by that authority I command you to go!” She glared around her as they filed out the door. Some inner wisdom told her that James approached a crisis point.
He was picking at the cloth over his wound and his breath was harsh in the room as he mumbled. “Dead. Dead. Faithless trull.”
Katherine sat down beside him and went to the core of his pain as Antony had once told her that wounds must be treated. “Who is Margaret, Jamie? What did you do to her that she haunts all your days?”
Even in his fog of pain and fever, James heard her. He could not escape the clear sound of that voice that called him to life. He muttered again as Katherine put a cool hand on his head and dabbed at his mouth with a wine-soaked cloth. Then the words rose as vomit.
“Fair and pure. Margaret. My betrothed in Burgundy. Debased!” Sweat stood on his forehead and his eyes, open and glassy, stared through Katherine and over her. His strength was waning and Katherine wanted to scream for the physician but did not dare now that she had unloosed this. She turned away from the exhausted body.
His voice came out strangely, nonsensical, yet matter-of-fact. “There were others, she liked the feel of many she said, the jongleur, she taunted me and I repudiated her. She ran away and died of the plague. My fault! The faithless slut!”
She had wanted to know, Katherine told herself staunchly, and she knew the thing festered in his mind. To one of his pride, such a thing was intolerable. It was no wonder that he hated lies and believed women false. But so long ago? At least ten years by all that Dame Sarah and Lady Dorotea had told her. It had begun in Burgundy and now reached out to touch Katherine herself.
There was a shriek behind her and she jerked around. “Katherine, sweet Kate, why were you not what you seemed?” James had ripped the bandage from his abdomen in his agitation and now his fingers were covered with blood. “Oh, Kate,” he cried again, “I would have been gentle.” She put her hands over his and pulled. They yielded and blood poured steadily over him, onto her gown and from there to the floor. His voice sank to a whisper, “Why, Kate
, why?” Then though James was still shivering and muttering his body became still.
The physician had peered in the door at the first shriek. After all, if the lord died he would be blamed.
Now he came closer, called for hot water and cloths, then said, “My lady, the wound is purging itself down the whole length. He has a chance to live now; he is no longer poisoned. I would say, a very good chance. You must leave me to my work now so that the wound may be cleansed and you fresh when you are needed again. I will call when there is a change.”
He smiled encouragingly at her, thinking that if she did not sleep she would soon require his services. He had seen too many battle wounds not to easily predict the course of this one. There would be a long period of recovery, much natural weakness, but the powerful nobleman would live.
Katherine looked down at James whose hands were still for the first time since she had come to the castle. She bent to him and cupped his face for a long moment. She kissed the eroded lips with passion and finality, ignoring the foul breath of sickness.
“James, I love you.” Her words hung soft in the room as her voice trembled. She had had to say it once in memory of that brief time when he had begun to love her.
His eyes were closed but the faintest smile touched his lips and the wasted face worked slightly. The physician moved impatiently at her side and she left him to his work. The struggle for his life would begin once more but this time there was hope.
In the aftermath of such emotion Katherine felt as if she had been beaten. She lay exhausted on her bed after taking a burning hot bath and a sleeping potion. Her mind roiled as she tossed unable for the moment to rest. She knew that James would live to hate her once more but for a small space in time they had met in different kinds of love and that must sustain her in the days ahead.
The spent face of her husband rose up before her and she began to cry silently at first and then harder as if the sobs were wrung from her. As sleep neared, she remembered the tanned, hawk face, the quirking dark brows that seemed so strange with his hair, and the bantering voice as it had been on the one day they had truly shared. It seemed as if he leaned over her now, lowering his lips to hers, his hands reaching for her breasts that craved his touch. Then he seemed to move away, turning into the proud lord riding away to battle, ill-wished by his wife who loved him with a love she had not known at the time. Katherine drifted into sleep, tears on her face, knowing that henceforth there would be no other for her, however long she lived.
Chapter 17
To Walk in Peril
When Katherine awoke late in the afternoon of the next day it was to fresh bread, broth, pigeon pie and French wine. She was surprised at her own hunger and the vigor with which she ate. It was less agreeable to look in the mirror and see her gaunt face about which the limp hair hung, still such things could be dealt with. The door swung open in the midst of her contemplations and Lady Arrington entered.
“James! Is he worse?”
“On the contrary, he will be ill for some time but we believe that he is out of danger. Had the wound not opened it would have been another story. The physician wishes him to rest quietly for a day or so. It would be better if you did not visit just yet.”
Katherine found that she was glad to be ministered to, her hair washed and brushed, her gown sponged and brought to her, the maid chattering lightly of the castle gossip. There was even a book she had not read, a retelling of certain mythological tales that set her laughing. The light came back to her eyes, her mouth curved softly and she gained a little weight.
After four days Katherine rose and dressed in the familiar green gown, then made her way to the bedchamber of her husband. She told the physician simply, “I will see Lord James now.”
The man’s resolve fell before the implacable eyes. How could he tell her that James, after being told that his wife, who had devotedly nursed him, was eager to see him, had forbidden it.
“Send her away. I will not see her nor countenance her presence. She was sent to Hunsdale at my direct order. See that she returns there.”
The horrified physician had told no one of this but had reassured James as best he might and imposed the rule of no visitors for the rest of the castle. Surely the will of the sick man came before all others. But now what was he to do?
He said carefully, “I fear that Lord Hunsdale is not yet himself. It might be wise to wait before seeing him.”
“Sir physician,” Katherine answered, “I am well aware of what my lord must have said to you and I understand your position, but I will see my husband.” Katherine continued to glare at him and he stepped aside. She entered and stood looking at James who lay against his pillows, the fading brown of his skin seeming dingy in the slit of light given by the slits of windows. He was fully conscious but very weak and remembered nothing of the battle to save his life. His face was still hollowed and his eyes dim but he seemed stronger. Speech was an effort.
“Why are you here? I bade you remain at Hunsdale and you have disobeyed.”
Given his temperament, Katherine knew that the question was natural so she said carefully, “You were desperately wounded and it was natural to summon me. When you are recovered we can return to our separate lives.”
“You will go now.” It was a command.
“No.” She was calm and determined not to yield.
James lifted a tired hand and let it fall. “We will not argue now. Let it be as you wish.” He slept almost in the same breath.
Katherine thanked the physician graciously as she left. He had listened cautiously at the door for he expected to be needed. Now he thanked all the saints that he was not married and so could safely forego such torments as he had witnessed in these past few weeks.
A routine soon evolved. Katherine looked in on James twice daily in the most perfunctory manner and their brief exchanges were always courteous. The rest of the time she rested, chatted with Lady Arrington and sometimes her husband, listened to the tales of the recent war and the siege of Berwick Castle. The gallantry of Duke Richard and his men grew with the telling and Katherine soon knew much of the military history of Scotland from the English point of view.
James soon grew restless and to keep him quiet so that he might heal more quickly, the physician suggested that Katherine read to him for a short time daily. He had observed that the animosity exhibited by James was less. Perhaps this would help. Katherine brought several books to his room, one a lengthy tale of chivalry and warfare, the other a consoling philosophical text. She dipped into one or the other as fancy bade. James did not speak directly to her but the soft sound of her voice seemed to soothe him.
One morning she sat beside him, well wrapped in her shawl for the room was chilly and she had called for a brazier which had not yet arrived. James was drinking broth and chewing on a biscuit, his eyes focused on space. Katherine opened the book of chivalry and began to read of the tournament for the hand of the fair lady and the anguish of her lover who must never see her again. Caught up as she was in the story, she did not notice that James was not.
“Katherine.” Her name dropped with freezing formality into the enchanted world of which she read. “I do not care to hear such falsity. Have done. If you must read, read Boethius.”
She stared. “It is but a light tale, James. A frivolity to cheer your mood.”
“It does not.” His voice held authority and she put the offending volume down.
Later she sought not the physician but the priest. “Father, could the tale offend his mind, upset him? Yet he must be kept occupied.”
Brother Martin smiled at her. “You must humor him at this stage, daughter. Men with such wounds as his are often fanciful and pettish. I will give you several edifying but very dull lives of the saints. I warrant he will soon call for a merry tale.”
Then James began to exist in a world apart where none could reach him. Katherine read to him more often from the texts provided but he ignored her except for the ritual greeting. He ate and drank
late and then moved cautiously about with the help of his manservant, then later went into the hall where he would sit for hours before the fire. His body grew stronger daily yet those who spoke to him felt as if he were not present and this frightened Katherine more than anything else. There was no longer any emotion between Katherine and James. He stared into spaces she could not touch. For him Katherine was no more than a pair of hands or a voice, never someone for whom he had felt passion. She did not know what to do and it was useless to ask the physician for he could not see beyond James’s healing scars.
Winter was settling into the North country. Those travelers who came were heartily welcomed both for their news and for their company. The country was quiet, they reported, the Scots were quelled, and King Edward had sent a letter to the Pope himself in praise of his brother, Richard, and all that had been accomplished. Messages arrived from London often and many of these were conveyed to James who tossed them aside and later burned them during the hours he sat by the fire.
One day a messenger arrived and was closeted with James for several minutes. When he came downstairs his face was red with anger. He refused food and drink, mounted his fresh horse and sped away without a word of courtesy to Lord Arrington. Katherine watched him go, then went unannounced into James’s rooms. He was staring moodily at nothing as usual.
“What did the messenger want?” Her voice shook slightly for she knew that she was unwelcome.
His gaze drifted over her face and came to rest at a point not far from her left ear. “Nothing.”
“I have a right to know.”
He just stared into space.
Katherine made as if to speak further but he turned his back on her and settled deeper in his chair. It was useless to continue.
In the next week two more messengers arrived and were turned away as swiftly as the first. During that time James began to walk out in the countryside and over the castle. He worked in the tiltyard with sword and lance, tiring swiftly. The heavy lines of his illness remained set in his face so that he appeared years older than when Katherine first knew him. The somber, withdrawn look remained also.