Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

"And wounded by that afternoon. We brought you here for healing."

  "Wounded?" He dimly recalled besting one of the other champions, then in a fit of spite the man on the ground slammed upward with his blade and got under Richard's armor. No one on that side of the field claimed to have seen the dishonorable blow, of course, they were all angered at losing. Richard recalled cursing him and staggering off, and then two squires rushed over to help him back to his pavilion. He'd bled like a pig at the butcher's, and that's where things went thick as fog. "The reckoning—how did it fall?"

  "You are still the Champion d'Orleans, your lordship."

  He lay back, relieved, then grunted again at the sudden pain of the movement. How his shoulder throbbed. It was as though the sword blade was still in him. He couldn't see much of the wound, just a little of the stitching from the corner of his eye; it was too much work to twist his head to look. He felt hot all over and even his bones seemed bruised.

  With a murmured apology for the hurt she must bring, the Holy Sister continued to bathe his wound as gently as possible. He tried not to let his discomfort show, knowing that she and the other women here had been uncommonly kind to him. They always were when he got injured fighting.

  "I've slept two days?" he asked, trying to remember.

  "And just as well. You would not have liked what we had to do to stop the bleeding."

  From the color of the water in her bucket there was still flow from his wound, unless that was from some other hapless warrior under their care. He seemed to have a room to himself, though. Being a duke's son, albeit the third one, had its advantages, though he knew they would have looked after him well whatever his station.

  He was wakeful yet lethargic, and too weak to get up. A page sent from the castle to watch his progress was brought in to hold the slop bucket so he could pass water lying sideways on the bed. Richard went dizzy after that. Someone brought him wine mixed with cold broth, but he could only manage the smallest sip, refusing the rest. His belly wouldn't stand it. The fever in his shoulder seemed to be spreading, and no amount of cool, wet cloths on his brow eased it.

  In turns Richard shivered and sweated and cursed and whimpered, but nothing curbed the growing pain. He thought another night passed, but could not be sure. The chamber had but a small window, high up, and no real light came through. He was told it had been raining since the tourney, all the time raining, the summer days gone ominously dark . . .

  * * *

  "Not dead yet?"

  He didn't bother to open his eyes, recognizing the comfortless voice of Dear Brother Ambert.

  "You, there. You hear me?" Richard felt something prod him in the side. A sword or cudgel, it made no difference; he simply didn't care, giving no protest. Thirst tormented him far more than ever Ambert could. Dear Brother sounded drunk. That was normal.

  "Lord Ambert, your brother is sorely stricken and needs your prayers lest he die." A woman's voice. The eldest Sister, who was in charge of the place, no less. She sounded severe and reproving. Wasted on Ambert. He had too much of old Montague in him.

  "Heaven will get my prayer of thanks when they put him in the ground and good riddance to him."

  A gasp of shock. He liked doing that to people. Fortunately, the Sister was canny enough not to respond. Ambert was not above striking a woman, any woman, who annoyed him. By God if he dared, Richard would rise and kill him, wound or no wound.

  "See to it I'm told when he's dead, not dying. Until then keep your damned messengers to yourselves. I've more important things to worry about."

  Richard looked in time to see Ambert's departing back. The Sister crossed herself, shaking her head.

  "I'm sorry . . ." he whispered. He was ashamed to share blood with the man.

  She heard and came over. An older woman, thirty at least, she spared him a kindly smile. "Your brother is not your keeper, it seems."

  He tried to nod and smile back, but couldn't manage. His lips were so dry and cracked they hurt.

  She dipped her fingers in a cup and dripped water into his mouth until he had enough, then smoothed an oil on the chapping. "There, now. Rest. We will pray for your recovery."

  But he gave a sudden shiver from cold and stifled a cry of pain. When the tremor passed he knew her prayers would be for nothing. He'd caught a whiff of his own stink; a foulness was coming from his shoulder. Soon it would spread to his blood and that would be the end of him. He had seen enough men fall to it before; now it was his turn.

  Oddly, he felt no panic, no regret. He'd done well in his twenty years, and would always be remembered as the undefeated Champion d'Orleans. Life was harsh and laborious and heaven would be all the better after his earthly sufferings. He'd seen worse deaths. All he had to do was go to sleep and wait. He knew how to do that.

  The Sister departed as he sank into slumber.

  It was uneasy, though. Fever kept him from fully passing out, which was all he wanted. When he was unconscious, he had no pain, and at this point the agony thundering in time to his beating heart was such that dying promised to be his best and only release. He lay in his sweat and panted and prayed for it to come lift him free of his infected and exhausted body. Slow hours passed, and he thought with relief that things were at last fading away as his chamber got darker.

  Then one of the Sisters came in with a candle, making a lie of his expectations. He could not see her face, the soft white mantle covering her head came down almost to her lips. The veil was so delicate it seemed to float with her smallest movement. Perhaps she was one of the great and wealthy ladies who took orders to escape their husbands or who had been sent away by a family not wanting an unmarried female in the house. Each of the women here had her own secret story, but all were made alike by their simple robes. For the most part. Sometimes the robes were of fine weave or the woman carried a cross made of gold not wood.

  This Sister wore no cross, but she knelt by him and seemed to pray. She seemed very young, a tiny little bird of a woman, with a voice as gentle as mist. She pulled off the wrappings on his wound and clucked over it. The skin on his arm was hot and tight from the swelling.

  "Drink," she whispered, lifting his head.

  He didn't think he could, but from the cup she held came the clearest, coldest water he'd ever tasted. There was a hint of crushed flowers in it, as though she'd distilled the air of springtime itself. Finally, at last, his awful thirst eased.

  "Your pain is no more," she told him decisively after lifting her veil to look hard at him.

  She had the most amazing eyes; their light seeming to sweetly pierce him right to his soul. His pain fled. Even when she poured the water over his hot and festering wound he felt nothing of it. Dimly, he noticed when she produced a knife, heating it in the candle flame. It caused him no alarm, not even when she cut into his corrupted flesh, removed the stitches, and laid her hands on to squeeze out the poison.

  As though from a distance he heard himself groan piteously in response, but she told him all was well and painless. He utterly believed her. There seemed to be a glow about her form; his eyes playing tricks perhaps.

  It entered Richard's head that he was having a vision of the Holy Mother Herself, though why She would be concerned for him in particular was beyond his ken.

  She paused in her work, giving in to a shudder and catching her breath. It was an altogether human reaction, but he could still not shed the impression of an unworldly presence.

  Washing the wound again in the cold, cold water, she stitched him back up and lay a fragrant poultice on it, pressing it down firmly against the outraged flesh and holding it hard in place. He should have been screaming, but as she told him, he felt nothing.

  "Lady . . ."

  "Hush, all is well."

  Then she sang to him, very softly so only he could hear. He didn't know the words, but there was no need; he understood them from a place outside his mind. They went straight to his heart, kindling feelings he never knew existed. She soothed him without and lightened him
within.

  This is how safe and loved a child feels when his mother sings him to sleep.

  No one had ever done that for Richard. His mother had died birthing him long ago.

  What a lovely, lovely voice this woman had. He wanted to tell her so, tell her quite a lot, but one mustn't say such things to a Sister.

  As he began to finally drift away, she leaned close to kiss his brow. "Live and thrive, my Richard," she whispered and turned to leave.

  He raised one hand toward her, wanting her to stay. "Wait . . . please . . ." He forced his eyes open . . .

  . . . and looked on the face of his brother Edward looming over him.

  It was no mistake. Strong daylight poured into the room from the high window.

  "How, now, Dickon? Are you going to stay with us after all?" Edward gently asked.

  "Where is the Holy Sister?"

  "Here, Lord Richard."

  But the woman who replied was the eldest Sister who had dealt with Ambert. She seemed pleased.

  "The other one," he said. "The one who cared for me last night."

  She gave him a puzzled smile. "We were here for you, we only."

  "The other one," he insisted. "She sang."

  She and Edward exchanged a glance, then she left. He found a low stool and sat next to the bed. "You worried everyone, Dickon."

  "All but two," he said without bitterness. Ambert had appeared once to sneer, and Montague had simply not come. But for Edward to have traveled so far for a visit . . . Richard was deeply glad of that. "Water . . . please."

  Edward dipped a cup into a bucket by a small table. He carefully held Richard's head, tilting the vessel so it would not spill. One would think he tended the sick every day. His hands were so much larger than hers had been . . . but the water was the same.

  "Drink, you must try some," said Richard.

  Shrugging, he took a sip.

  "Is it not good water?"

  "Very good."

  "Don't you taste it?"

  "What?"

  "Sweet, like flowers."

  Edward made naught of the miracle. "I suppose the Sisters flavor it. They know much of herbs."

  "But that one who came, she tended me all night, took away my fever. I must thank her."

  "What did she look like?"

  As best he could Richard described her and what she'd done, especially how she'd freed him from pain through what should have been the worst torment.

  "I've seen none here like that," said Edward. "And they all turned out for my arrival."

  They would, since he was a bishop now. As a scion of the d'Orlean's house of course he would rise quickly within the church no matter what, but it didn't hurt that he could also read and write. He was very good at it, too.

  "When did you get here?" asked Richard.

  "Three days ago they sent for me. I was told that if God was merciful I might arrive in time to deliver the last prayers to speed you to heaven. It would seem He is being most kindly to spare me from the work."

  Edward's humor had ever a backward slant, but Richard found he could smile. "I've slept long, then."

  "You've barely slept at all, Dickon. I was sitting right here for the better part of two days, you just didn't know it. We kept praying for the fever to leave you. Only last night did it finally break."

  "But she was here. She came at sunset and cared for and sang to me for hours."

  Edward pursed his lips, looking solemn beyond his years.

  Richard, cast about for some other proof besides the water, and touched the poultice. His wound was still tender, but like a bruise, not a raging fire. "She put this on me after cleaning out the rot."

  "Ah—yes—well . . ."

  "Was it one of the others?" Richard desperately wanted that not to be true.

  "Actually, it's a bit of a mystery to us."

  "How so?"

  "You say this was last night?"

  "It must be, for I was like to die from the fever, and she took it away. You said it broke last night."

  "There were several of us sitting vigil here then. Through the whole of the night. No Sister tended you in the way that you said. When light came one of them noticed your dressings and stitches were different, and the poultice was in place."

  Richard's heart pounded. "What does it mean?"

  "That . . . we all must have fallen asleep."

  He couldn't believe it. "Everyone?"

  "So it would seem. And while we slept, this unknown Sister came and tended you."

  "Without waking anybody? How did she get in? The gates are always locked."

  Edward spread his hands. "I was here. I saw no such woman. Not here, anyway."

  "You know her."

  "I can't be certain if she was the same one, but a veiled Sister came to the monastery insisting I hasten to see my wounded brother. I knew there was a tourney on, but Ambert had sent no word that you'd been hurt."

  "He wouldn't."

  "She arrived at the monastery gate on horseback—a very fine animal it was, too—with no escort. What Sister would travel such a distance alone and that way? And at night in the rain? None that I know. She was as you said: a tiny little bird of a woman, young. I cannot be sure of her voice being beautiful since she was shouting, not singing. Once she gave her message to me, she kicked the animal and took off. Never saw a woman ride a horse so well. Held on like she was part of its own skin then vanished into the darkness."

  "But you saw her."

  "I saw that woman." Edward liked to be precise. "If both are the same, then yes, she is real."

  "How can she not be?"

  "Well, you said you thought she might be a vision of the Holy Mother. What if she was? The one here, that is."

  Richard deliberated for some while. He was tired, very weak, but his mind had cleared, and his memory was fresh. "No, she could not have been."

  "You're so certain?"

  "Had she been the Holy Mother, then . . . I would have not felt as I did toward her."

  "And how is that?"

  Richard frowned. The eldest Sister stood just beyond the doorway, her clasped hands hidden by her robe sleeves, her head respectfully bowed, pretending not to listen. "Closer."

  Edward obliged, leaning in.

  "I'm speaking to you brother to brother, not brother to bishop."

  "Speak on then."

  He did, in his lowest voice. "I felt toward her as a man feels toward a woman. If that was the Holy Mother, then . . ."

  Edward straightened, smiling. "Yes. Quite blasphemous, I'm sure. So this woman could not have possibly been a Vision. The Holy Mother inspires devotion, but not that kind."

  "I'm glad you agree. Very glad." Despite his conviction, Richard had been sincerely worried for a moment. He now felt exceedingly heavy, especially at the eyelids. Couldn't seem to keep them raised for some reason. "Find her, will you? I want to thank . . ."

  When he dreamed, he heard her singing.

  * * *

  Despite Edward's official dismissal of the event, or perhaps because of it, the story got out, and seemingly in an instant the puzzling mystery bloomed into a major miracle. Whenever Edward came to visit during the early days of Richard's recovery he brought a new version to tell.

  The best was that the Holy Mother had appeared at the altar in the hospice hall in a blaze of light that rivaled the sun. All the warriors who happened to be touched by that glow were immediately healed of their wounds and told to never fight again. This was widely believed despite the fact that many of the men being cared for in the hall remained in their beds, either healing or dying.

  "I don't remember that taking place," Richard said, almost chuckling. It hurt to laugh, but he was able to sit up today, and had begun eating more strengthening food than wine and broth. He'd just experimented with bread dipped in warm honey, and it seemed to want to stay down.

  "Neither does anyone else, but the villagers are passing it about as fact. I shall have to speak about it at the Sabbath mass. I'll t
ell them exactly what happened as we know it and let them walk through the hospice to see for themselves. Doubtless they will make a tale of it, but at least I'll have done the right thing."

  "You're staying that long?" Edward's visits were rare and usually brief in duration.

  "The good Sisters here are expecting it. Mustn't disappoint them. They seem to like hearing me say mass."

  "Do you like what you do?" To Richard, his brother's isolated life behind protected walls dealing with spiritual matters was at best, bizarre, and worst, a living hell. He counted himself most fortunate to have escaped such a fate.

  "Yes, very much. Of course, it's not nearly as rousing as getting your arm half lopped off in tourney battles, but has its rewards. I'm also a very busy man, so you keep yourself out of trouble from now on. Can't expect me to drop the whole lot and leave just to look in on you every time you're like to die."

  "Then I'll to come by and visit you instead. My last winnings included a fine mount."

  "I saw him. You've finally got yourself a horse to suit your size. He's not gelded, either. You'd best find a mare sturdy enough to handle him and breed more of the same."

  "I plan to."

  "Good. I wouldn't count on continuing with tourneys to support you in your old age."

  "If I live to see it."

  Edward looked at him a moment with an odd, amused expression. "I think of all of us, you're the one who will. The chances are against it with what you do, but I've a feeling—"

  "What?" An abrasive voice interrupted him. "Prophesy from the priest? You get above yourself, Brother."

  Ambert stood in the doorway, one hand on his sword belt, the other holding a riding whip.

  Edward stiffened slightly, then abruptly relaxed. Smiling and kind, he turned. "Hallo, Ambert. Good to see you engaged in charitable works. I've been told the depth of concern you showed to Richard on his sickbed."

  "Faugh." Ambert was impervious to sarcasm, even when he wasn't too drunk to understand it. He seemed clear on the meaning today. He swung his attention on Richard. "So—the pup's to live after all."

  "Indeed. This evening we hold a special mass of thanksgiving for his recovery. You'll come of course. My son."

  The last was proof that Edward still had some devilry in him. There were few other things that set Ambert off than the reminder his younger brother was in a position of power over him. In spiritual matters. Though not a very secure place—for Ambert was loath to pay much mind to the nurturing of his soul—it was sufficient to infuriate him. He turned a dark, murderous eye on Edward, who continued to inoffensively smile. "I'll be there—and see to it you regret the invitation."