by Amelia Brown
The healer lurched to one side nearly collapsing on the man next to him. “Keep her away from me! I am Master Pope! I am the King’s physician.” He continued to rant about his own importance, but in his drunken stupor, the man-made little sense to anyone but himself. By the time Luveday had wrestled the knife from him and taken his left ear in a punishing grip the two men Sumerland had left behind had sheathed their swords and chosen their side. One took the left arm and the other the right and half carried, half dragged Master Pope from the room. Coll stood inside the door smiling wickedly as Luveday slammed it shut efficiently cutting off the incoherent rantings of the old man.
She did not spare a glance for Benedict or Gregori as she turned and went to Iain’s side. The sheets were soaked with sweat and other bodily fluids. The smell was so foul she had to cover her nose and mouth to stop from vomiting. Tears stung her eyes as she whispered brokenly. “What have they done to you?” A shaky hand reached out to test his forehead. The sweat on his brow was remarkably cold. Cold as death.
Iain didn’t stir as she began her work. “Hot water, strong soap, clean linens, Cassandra and the willow bark syrup. Bring the honey and a cup of Sir Templeton’s spirits.” Benedict rushed out of the room yelling orders. Women were already on their way. “I will need new bed linens, clean bandages, fresh rushes and strong soap.”
“You already said that, Lady.” Gregori was at her elbow once more. He turned her away from the man on the bed to look her in the eye. “Is he going to be alright, Luveday?” What he really meant was, is he going to live?
Luveday shook her head as it seemed to wobble on her shoulders. In a hard whisper, she told him the truth. “I don’t know, Gregori. I don’t know…” There was a look of horror before she whispered. “He was bleeding him, Gregori.” There was a shared moment between them, a bleak and pain filled look before people bustled in carrying out her hasty orders.
They began by washing Iain and changing the linens on his bed. Pope had let the Lord rest in his own refuse for days. With the foul smell gone Luveday could pinpoint the smell of decay on De Lane’s body. With patience and small gentle movements, they removed the ball of dirty linens from the wound in his side. It wouldn’t have surprised Luveday if it were the same mound of cloth she had removed that first day. The wound was worse than even she expected. Red streaks ran across his torso radiating from the hole in his side like an angry sun. The edges of torn skin were black; nothing looked as if it had begun to heal. Cassandra let loose a stream of curses that would have made a sailor blush, but no one reprimanded her tongue. If master Pope hadn’t been thrown out on his fat arse, the women would have throttled him.
Cassandra saw to the wounds left by the bloodletting, continuing to curse the arrogant bastard of a healer as Luveday probed deeper into the arrow wound. It wasn’t her imagination, the wound looked larger than it had before, deeper too somehow. It was swollen and infected. Pus and brown blood ran in rivers over the edge of the bed and into a deep bowl, too much to be stopped with linens. A sinking suspicion left a knot in her throat and a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach. It was disconcerting that through their ministrations Iain did not so much as flinch.
“Spirits, where are the…” Someone handed her the silver mug of firewater that Luveday recognized as something like vodka. It was what she had poured into Benedicts leg wound, and she was about to do something similar to Iain. Men rushed forward, not to stop her but to hold down her patient remembering all too well how violently the young lordling had reacted.
A thin stream of alcohol filled the wound when Iain did not move or moan a strange silence fell over the room. No one seemed to breathe, but Luveday didn’t have time for them, she was testing her hypothesis. Even with Pope’s lesser skill, the herbs and some techniques he possessed should have helped the wound along a little. After all, it had been cleaned properly before he arrived, but if it hadn’t… If it hadn’t then… Luveday cleaned her hands again in water so hot she doubted her skin was unscathed. Digging carefully in the depths of the wound that, thanks to the swelling, was now nearly twice as deep as if was before; Luveday felt something hard that should not have been there. She could barely fit two fingers inside and had to feel her way as best she could, but she was finally able to move the object free of the muscle that had tried to heal around it. A moment later more pus and blood flowed onto the floor followed by a small plop. Luveday bent to retrieve the item. A small piece of chainmail, only a few links, covered with blood and dirt rested in her palm. Cassandra looked at her and the chain in wonder. The features soon schooled themselves focusing once more on their patient, but the nod the older healer gave her was more than one of encouragement, or pride, it was one skilled healer to another.
After the wound was cleaned and packed with honey, herbs and sterilized linen the women turned to other problems. They cleaned the bed linens once more and sent tools and utensils to be washed downstairs. The room cleared of people as the worst of the tasks were finished. Next on the list was nutrition and repairing the damage the bloodletting had caused. Luveday wondered how such a practice had ever come to be, but she knew that similar methods were used to relieve pressure on trauma wounds in her mother’s modern medicine. In this setting, it was more likely to kill someone than help them. Not only did bloodletting remove blood from an already depleted body, taking with it nutrients and white blood cells, but more often than not, the wounds inflicted by the healers could become infected themselves. Dirty blades would cause blood poisoning, and once in the blood, there was nothing they could do. Luckily, it looked like the only form of hygiene master Pope practiced was with his tools and so Iain had been spared that at least.
Hours later the two women had managed to get a spoonful or two of a sickly-sweet syrup down his throat with a little beef broth. The syrup was a mixture of sugar and salt which would hopefully help replace some of the electrolytes and other nutrients from his system. They hesitated to give him more willow bark, opting to watch for signs of pain or his return to awareness. Iain remained still, breathing shallowly and nearer to the edge of death than anyone, save the two women who watched over him, knew.
The first thing that Iain De Lane saw was a bright light and, in that light, stood an angel outlined in golden hues. The look in her blue-gray eyes was one of concern and wonder. Shutting his eyes against the white-hot pain he turned away afraid her radiance would burn him, but her soothing voice grew quiet, and he had to turn back afraid she would leave him.
His arm extended out into the white light, but she was not there. Something seemed to break at her absence, and he knew that wherever she had gone, he would follow. He must follow, but before he could move to rise, she appeared again, taking his outstretched arm and moving to his side. It was only as she came close that he realized he lay in bed and tried to pull her closer so that she could join him there, but she did not do as he wanted. Voices drifted to him from afar, but Iain could not bring himself to care for anyone or anything except the golden woman before him. As he slipped back into unconsciousness, he was not troubled but knew without a doubt that his angel would continue to watch over him.
Sometime later, the darkness around him receded and Iain was once again aware of his surroundings. Candles burned around him in the room he now recognized as his own. His mind seemed heavy, slow to move and slower to remember. If his mind was bogged down then is body was made of stone, too heavy for his listless mind to will into action. He tried to remember what had happened to him, something worried at the edge of his consciousness but when he tried to discern its source it seemed to fade away. Slowly his mind took stock of the world around him. His body, stone that it was, didn’t move beyond the steady rise and fall of each breath. His legs twitched with the effort to move them but remained where they were. Linen, soft and warm encased him, and for the moment he was content to stay as he was. Something soft nestled in his hand, and one by one his fingers closed around it. His head rolled to one side, and he caught the mass of golden h
air that rested at his elbow off the side of the bed. His Angel. It was no surprise that he recognized the woman next to him, though her face was turned away. His angel had a name and wasn’t it wonderful. Luveday.
A warmth spread through him as his eyes closed once more.
“Where is she?” A hoarse voice demanded from the bed flooded with the weak light of midmorning.
Gregori was startled by the direct gaze that pierced him in his chair beside the bed. “Who?” He began, but did he really have to ask. Gregori smiled. They had told him that Iain had had a few moments of lucidity, having improved miraculously since the day they had removed Pope from the keep. “Lady Emmalyn commanded that she go wash and rest. Lady Luveday has barely left your side in a fortnight.”
“She was standing guard, my angel.” He murmured to himself not realizing that the knight could hear him.
Gregori couldn’t agree more but said nothing as he watched his friend get his bearings.
“How long?” There was wariness in the question as if Iain already knew that much had transpired while he was unwell.
“Since the arrow pierced your side, ‘tis been twenty-two days.” Shocked eyes flew to meet his own. Gregori didn’t have to convince him, the monk never lied, and the look in his friend’s eyes spoke of days of pain and worry.
Iain moved in bed, but the effort to shift himself higher on the pallet was almost more than he could accomplish. His weakness alone attested to what had befallen him. “The arrow.” He tested his side and found it strangely numb.
A moment later Cass appeared to swat his hand away saying, “Stop that, foolish boy.” Though there was no sting in her words. She was clearly relieved to see him awake and talking. “We have only just closed the wound.”
He nodded, smirking at her. “Some of your dreadful potions to help with the pain?” He remembered some of the foul concoctions he had to drink as a child, but unlike the hacks and charlatans of King’s town, Cassandra’s potions always delivered on their promise to heal.
She huffed but took the teasing as intended. “Aye, and more still to come.” She pressed on his side around the wound that was now stitched shut. The smooth muscle of his abdomen now dipped inward, leaving a permanent well where the arrow had pierced, and the rot had taken hold. “Just you wait, My Lord.” She said with no little glee, as the man shuttered like the boy she remembered.
“Lady Luveday sleeps?” He asked seeming concerned.
Cassandra looked to Gregori who held her gaze steadily. There was the smallest smile at the corner of his mouth as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Aye, My Lord. She was sent off to bed but a chime ago. The girl was dead on her feet. If Lord Benedict had not dragged her from the room, I doubt she would have been able to make it there on her own.” There was a noticeable narrowing of his eyes at the mention of Benedict. Though perhaps it was inevitable, and though Cassandra secretly wished for it, as many of De Lane’s people did, she could not stop the prickle of unease that passed through her at the blatant evidence of the growing attraction between her lord and her young protégé.
Cassandra distracted him and herself by outlining everything that had transpired between the time that Lord Iain had been returned to the castle and that moment. It filled up the minutes until the noon meal and more importantly for Iain until Luveday’s return.
Days passed quickly. Spring was making a valiant effort, but winter refused to let go of her fury, and despite the mild weather of recent months, snow fell often and in great flurries. It looked as if warmer weather was far off. Iain De Lane recovered quickly. Twenty-two days he spent unconscious in his bed, by the time a week more had passed he was up and walking in the great hall. The scars on his side pained him a little as his body tried to become familiar with the restricted movement. It was a familiar experience for a knight and slowed him down little despite the stern warnings of his three experienced healers.
Luveday was both solicitous and exacting. It was clear that he had scared her, and clearer still that she cared deeply for him, but more often than not, his attempts to draw her out were met with disappointment. One moment they were talking, laughing and the next it was as if a barrier thicker than the baileys outer walls suddenly stood between them. Iain was at a loss for what to do. Not only did Luveday seem to be drifting away from him, and often Christabel would somehow find herself in the way. Iain had not forgotten what his fiancé had tried to do to the lady and he could not forgive her. Not yet, perhaps not ever. The nuptials were still looming ahead of them, and neither Iain’s near-death experience nor his miraculous recovery could hold them off indefinitely.
It was with a great deal of wicked intent that he called her to him one night.
Luveday entered the solar with every fiber of her being protesting. She had passed Cass and Henna as they exited the chambers. Both had given her odd looks. Cassandra appeared concerned for her, while Henna gave her a nod and a smile that was clearly encouraging. Luveday didn’t know which one worried her more.
Now she stood before the inner door, his door and debated whether or not she should turn around and… well, flee. The thought left a foul taste in her mouth. She was a lady, a healer, and a damn good one. Opening the door, she reminded herself that she did not flee from handsome men… her mind slid to a halt as she turned toward the fire and the large copper tub there. She did not flee from handsome men bathing in the glow of the fireside, but maybe she really should.
It was hard to swallow with her mouth going suddenly dry and the gasp that was stuck in her throat. His back was to her, and in the firelight, she could clearly see the pattern of scars that marred the skin of his shoulders not that she needed the light to see them. No, the pattern had become very familiar to her over the last weeks of tending to him. She had always made herself scarce during bathing hour. Not that she hadn’t seen him nude since his illness began; indeed, the visions still haunted her. It was that she didn’t want him to see her reaction to him. She could pretend that he didn’t affect her, while he was sick and unaware she could be professional, but she had no illusions now. Iain could take one look at her and see through the walls she had worked so hard to erect around her heart. Everything had changed between them, and yet nothing had. His future was still planned; his place beside Christabel should have been carved in stone for how little this new-found longing had altered that course.
“Come in, Luveday.” She had paused behind him, unwittingly admiring what little she could see. More often than not, he would leave off her title as if to say they were somehow equal. It was those little intimacies that were beginning to drive her mad.
“You summoned me, My Lord.” Cold yet polite, rigid yet respectful; that was her goal. She berated herself, once again needing to remind herself to remain professional. Her mask needed to be flawless.
She came abreast to the tub, deciding to face the fireplace leaving the bed at her back. Better to keep the monstrous thing out of view.
The smile on his face was like nothing she had ever seen, and she prayed somehow, she could be spared this one. “My Lady Luveday.” Luveday wanted to faint or flee but willed her spine to stay stiff. She knew how he disdained formality, so as he smirked and sipped a goblet of wine she curtsied to him. The graceful movement had come after months of practice and caused a slight frown to mar his brow. One for Lord Iain and One to Luveday, she counted to herself.
Iain sat the goblet aside, using a simple wooden stool as a table beside the tub. Before he could speak Luveday jumped to fill the poignant silence. “How may I be of service, My Lord?” Service, she cringed mentally wanting to take the words back.
That devastating smirk returned causing her to feel like a rabbit caught between the paws of a lion, or more appropriately, a wolf. “I am in need of a healer’s skill.” But the way he said it made her think that he had planned his answers well.
“And Healer Cassandra could not help you.” It was more of a statement than a question, but she could not help the disbelief that
colored her words.
“Dear Cassandra,” Luveday almost laughed at the false endearment, “has grown impatient with me. I need a steady hand and a light touch.” Luveday was looking anywhere but directly at him, but in that moment when their eyes met, she had the impression that he had been watching her every movement since laying eyes on her.
Luveday was clearly at a disadvantage. “May I ask what ails you, My Lord?”
Iain seemed to be displeased by her question, though nothing more than a slight narrowing at the corners of his eyes gave it away. “My wound is still troubling me. The stitches are out, but I am concerned I might open it again.” Only a few days after leaving his bed, Iain had torn out a few of the stitches. Thanks to the numbing salve they had put on the wound, he had not realized the extent of the damage until Aunt Emmalyn had nearly fainted and Luveday came rushing to his aid. At the moment, Luveday could not tell if he had pulled that excuse out of his arse or if he was truly concerned. She suspected the former, but caution prevailed.
For a moment she looked heavenward, but the ceiling provided no immediate solution to this predicament. She would have to take a look at his side, either by circling around the tub or leaning over it. The first option was prudent but cowardly while the second was efficient with temptations galore. Breathing deeply, she knelt on the stool beside the tub and reached over to examine the wound. Iain turned towards her, leaning in and yet somehow arching his back to give her a better view of the wounded side. The skin remained a light shade of pink along the scar and the small dots where the stitches had knitted his flesh together. The color was good, the skin had healed nicely; all in all, everything was as it should be. Luveday said as much, but as she leaned back ready to extract herself and leave his presence his large hand delicately returned a wayward strand of hair to its resting place behind the shell of her ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement, and the look on his face was so intent as he watched her that Luveday was momentarily mesmerized.