The gems in the sword were well cut and costly. Royce recognized his father’s sword. Looking up, he met Lyndle’s smug smile.
“I noticed my father’s sword missing. I assumed his murderer took it.” Royce’s gut twisted. He wanted to believe it wasn’t true.
“You do not seem surprised.” Lyndle’s smile faded.
Royce flexed his hands. “One of Edmond’s men was happy to share the information with me.”
“Ah, yes, Edmond. He did not do his job.” He ran his finger down the side of the sword. “Did you kill him?”
Royce nodded. His feet remained planted apart as he examined his uncle’s behavior. “His men are dead, except one.”
“Such a pity. I would have preferred to turn Edmond over to be killed. I am not made for all this bloodshed, but since he died rather than you, there is no choice, is there?” Lyndle lifted his weapon.
Fire blazed through Royce’s veins. His knuckles burned where he gripped the hilt of his sword. His strength returned and, with the speed of a striking snake, Royce smacked his uncle’s head with the flat of his sword. The man collapsed in a heap at the top of the stairs. A trickle of blood traced a path around his birthmark as if his own blood believed the lie of the superstition and was fearful of the mark.
Leaving Lyndle for his men to deal with, Royce turned and ran through the castle, looking for Brithwin. He rushed down the corridors, throwing open doors and calling out her name. With each empty room, his hope faded.
Where was she? He flung open the last door to find the room likewise empty. His heart lurched in his chest. He had to find her. Royce dashed back down the corridor, glancing in each room as he passed. He slowed, as muffled crying came from somewhere ahead of him. He stepped through the entrance of the next room and made a quick assessment—vacant. He reminded himself he’d never seen Brithwin cry. He was losing his mind. He turned to go, but again a quiet sob reached his ears. That was not in his mind. He turned. A narrow door in the wall held an old storage room that he’d forgotten about. Royce yanked it open, and light filled the tiny, dark cell. Brithwin lay curled in a ball on the floor.
He approached her. “Brithwin, love.”
She remained curled up, sobbing.
Royce came down on his haunches, reached out, and gently laid his hand on her back. “Brithwin, my love, it is me.”
Brithwin sat and launched herself against Royce’s body. “You came. You live!”
“Aye, I am back.” He gazed on a swollen cheek and eye. “Who did this?” He caressed her skin with the back of his finger.
She covered his hand with hers. “Edmond hit me after I—I stabbed him.”
Still squatting, Royce pulled her into his arms, gently brushing his lips across the bruised skin. “If he were not already dead . . .”
“He is dead?” Her voice trembled.
“Aye, he will not bother us again.” Royce stood and offered his hand. “Come.”
He pulled her up. Brithwin threw her arms around him. Tears trickled down her cheek. “I thought I would never see you again. I thought I would never be able to tell you I love you.”
Royce grasped her shoulders and squeezed. “You love me?”
She wrenched free and screamed as she swung herself between Royce and the door. He turned just as Lyndle brought down his sword.
Brithwin crumpled to the floor. Royce let out a howl. Lifting his sword, he warded off the second blow Lyndle intended for him. The small room held a disadvantage for both of them. Metal met metal, again and again.
The swords locked and Royce gazed down at the blood surrounding Brithwin—her chest lay still, breathless. Though exhausted from battle, Royce drew on his anger for strength. Lyndle staggered then braced himself against the wall. Royce hacked at Lyndle, putting him on the defensive. Lyndle pulled himself up, returning driving blows.
Lyndle lunged forward and swung his sword in an arc. Royce raised his weapon to block the blow. His uncle’s foot slipped in Brithwin’s blood, throwing him into Royce’s blade as he fell. The sharp edge sliced through his tunic and into his chest before he tumbled to the floor with a thud. Crimson pumped from the wound onto his tunic. He didn’t move. Royce knelt. He still breathed. At least he didn’t have another death at his hands.
Numbness filled his soul. He had lost. Without Brithwin, his life was worth nothing to him. He returned to his wife, pins pricking the back of his eyes. He had failed her.
She had told him she loved him, and he never had the chance to tell her. He slumped to the ground and pulled her in his lap. Her head dangled over his arm. Pushing her cheek against his chest, he drew her close. Tears broke free and fell unchecked.
He leaned against the wall. Closing his eyes, he drew his arms tightly around her limp body as a sob escaped him. She loved him.
†††
Commotion came from down the hall as he rocked Brithwin and stroked her hair. Jarren dashed into the small room. Lyndle’s unconscious body lay in a pool of Brithwin’s blood.
Jarren grunted and stepped over the body. “He dead?”
Royce shook his head.
Jarren squatted. “My lady?”
Royce swallowed the lump. “Aye. She saved me. The blade was meant for me.”
Jarren leaned forward and grasped Royce’s arm. “Come. At least let us take her away from here.”
As Royce stood, Brithwin let out a soft gurgle. His breath caught in his throat. “She is not dead!”
“Nay. I heard her, too.”
“Please, God, do not let her die.” Royce’s voice shook as he said his first prayer in two years. The words flowed out. He did not think about his sin, for in his desperation there was no place else to turn.
Yelling orders as he went, he rushed to the master’s chamber with Brithwin in his arms and laid her on the bed.
“Jarren!”
Jarren stood in the doorway. “I am here.”
“Quickly. Go and see if Clarice has arrived.”
Jarren hastened out the door and down the stairs. When he returned a few minutes later, the cook, Nog, followed him. “She is not here, Royce. The cook said she has learned some in the art of healing.”
Royce moved out of the way to allow the old woman room to tend to Brithwin. “Will she live?”
She opened a small cloth bag and pulled out two bowls. “I do not know, milord. She appears to have lost much blood. But I will do all I know to save her.” She placed the bowls on the table next to the bed and crumbled leaves into the first one. The second bowl contained a salve. The old woman looked around the room.
Royce was anxious to have the bleeding stopped. “What do you look for?”
“I need water, milord. For the leaves.”
Jarren had already rushed out of the room. By the time Royce turned to give orders, Jarren returned with a bucket of water and a cloth.
The old cook poured water on the leaves and left them to soak. Turning her attention to Brithwin, she dipped the cloth in the water and wiped the blood from Brithwin’s wound. She picked up the soaking leaves and let the water drip into the gash.
Royce leaned forward. “What is that?”
“’Tis stonecrop, milord. The leaves should help her with the pain.
“She is unconscious. She feels no pain. You need to stop the bleeding.” His voice came out harsh. He didn’t care.
“Aye, milord.” She picked up the salve and spread it around. Then she took a cloth and placed it on the wound, holding it securely with her hand.
Royce frowned. “What else can you do for her?”
“’Tis all I know to do, milord.” The cook’s voice quivered.
“I will hold the cloth.”
“Aye, milord.” She stood, shuffled to the door, and hesitated. “’Tis sorry I am about your lady.” She disappeared out the door.
Royce glanced at Jarren, still standing on alert next to the portal. “She uses the same herbs Brithwin used on me when I was stabbed.”
Jarren nodded.
“Aye, he was found locked in a room. He has been beaten but he will live.”
Royce swallowed to steady his voice. “It will mean much to Brithwin.”
†††
Royce raised Brithwin’s hand and kissed it. He lifted his lips enough to whisper a promise. “My lady, I shall not leave your side until you recover.” Again, he brushed his mouth over her soft skin.
A knock sounded on the door and without hesitation, Jarren entered.
“Your uncle is awake in the holding and asks for you.”
His uncle. If he had tied Lyndle up when he first knocked him out, Brithwin would not be lying here. “I will not see him until I know Brithwin lives.” It was best for both of them.
“I understand.” Jarren set down a trencher and goblet on the table. “I brought you food and something to drink.”
“I am not hungry.” He continued to stroke her hand.
Jarren sat and stretched out his legs. “You need to keep your strength. You fought hard today.”
“I cannot think about eating right now. All I know is I cannot lose her.” Royce took a deep breath to conquer his emotions.
“You can do nothing more for her, Royce. You should eat and get some sleep.” Jarren held out the trencher.
Royce pushed it away. “Thank you, my friend. Your concern is appreciated.”
Jarren frowned and strolled out of the room. Royce gingerly climbed onto the bed with Brithwin. He slipped his arms around her and drew himself to her. If he could will her to live, he would. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come.
He woke with a start. The candle had burned down, giving only a flicker of light. His clothes were damp, and Brithwin thrashed in his arms.
She burned with fever.
Chapter 30
Royce carefully pulled his arms from around his wife’s raging hot skin and sprang to the floor. Within two strides, he was at the door, bellowing for Nog.
“I am here, milord,” she said from within the chamber.
Royce turned as the woman rose from a pallet on the floor.
“She has the fever.” His voice sounded strained even to himself. He could not lose Brithwin. He could not.
“’Tis what I feared.” She pushed past him and shuffled to the bed. “We must keep her cool by wiping her down with a cold cloth. How long has she been like this?”
Royce shook his head. “I do not know. Her clothes are wet, her body hot, and she thrashes like she is tormented by demons.”
He spent the remainder of the night bathing her with cool water and whispering his love to her. He allowed no one to minister to her, taking care of her needs himself.
When morning arrived, the sun streaked across the bed and shrouded Brithwin’s quiet body. Even in sickness, she was beautiful. The thrashing had stopped just before dawn, but her lack of movement sent whispers of torture to his mind. Her chest rose and fell but her breathing was ever so shallow. Afraid to take his eyes away for fear her breaths would stop, he gently brushed her hair away from her face. The fever remained an insidious enemy that was slowly stealing her from him. He dipped the cloth and bathed her face again.
†††
A light tapping on the door brought Royce’s head around. “Enter.” Three days he had sat vigil tending to Brithwin in an attempt to keep her fever down. He’d expected Pater to walk through the door for the daily prayer over his wife. If God would listen to anyone, it would be a man like Pater.
Clarice poked her head in the door. “My lord, I have come to see if I can be of any assistance.”
“Come in.” Exhaustion racked his body, but he forced a smile. She was good to check regularly on Brithwin.
Clarice stepped into the room. “How is she today?”
“For days she has fought this fever. You know some healing. Tell me she will get better.” Would the fever continue to draw out until it took every bit of her life?
“I wish I could tell you, my lord, but it is out of our control.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “You look tired. I can take this vigil for you.”
“Aye, I am that.” He handed her the wet cloth then walked around and lay on the bed.
“You should go to another room where you will not be disturbed so you can get rest.” She smiled at him as she sat next to Brithwin.
Royce closed his eyes and threw his arm over them to block out the sunlight. “I have given her my vow. I will remain by her side until she is well.”
Clarice raised her eyebrows. “She has woken, then?”
Royce lifted his arm and peeked at Clarice. “Nay, but that matters not. I have made the vow. I will stay.”
He had not left her side since he brought her in. He feared if he were to leave, when he returned she would be dead. It was a foolish thought but real enough to make him promise to stay with her. He closed his eyes again. Brithwin was strong. She had to be because she could not die. He would not allow it. He would will her to live.
By eventide, Brithwin again tossed and turned in her sleep. The fever rose, leaving her skin hot to the touch. Once again alone with her, Royce spent the night bathing her body in the cool water. The lack of sleep had taken its toll on him. His mind clouded over with the repetitive motions, as he wiped, dipped, and wrung out water.
When morning arrived, Clarice tiptoed into the chamber. “How is Brithwin?”
Royce grinned. “Her fever broke with dawn.”
Clarice halted. “So she will live?” Shock filled her voice.
“’Tis a glorious day, I tell you. With the fever gone, ’tis only a matter of time before she wakes.”
“I am sure you are right.” Clarice glided over to the bed. “She is a fortunate woman to have a man like you.”
Royce caressed Brithwin’s cheek with the back of his finger. “Nay, I am the fortunate one.”
Clarice ran her hand down his arm. “Now she is well, would you like me to stay with her for a bit?”
He leaned back in his chair and yawned. “I do not need to leave, but you have my thanks.”
When Clarice shut the door, Royce went and lay beside Brithwin. He scooted next to her and pressed his lips to her forehead. She remained cool. She would live. He was certain. A sigh escaped him as he drifted off to sleep.
Royce woke to more tapping at the door.
Clarice sailed into the room with a goblet in hand. “Royce, I have brought an herb drink for Brithwin.”
His hackles prickled that she had entered their room without invitation. “What is this?” Royce sat, took the goblet from her, and smelled it.
“’Tis herbs used for healing.” She took the herb mix back. “Can you help me get this in her?”
“What is it for?” He moved behind Brithwin, holding her, while Clarice forced the liquid down her throat.
“She needs to gain her strength. This will help.”
Brithwin choked. Royce frowned. “Have a care. She knows not she is supposed to swallow.”
“Aye, my lord.” Clarice’s chin flew up and her lips tightened.
He wiped the liquid off Brithwin’s face and neck with the bedsheet. A young servant knocked and poked her head in the open door. Royce waved her in. She quietly came in and set a tray on the table beside him before scurrying out of the room.
Clarice narrowed her eyes. “Your people would like to see you take meals with them in the hall. It would give them a feeling all is well.”
Royce threw the cloth into the pan of water. “Brithwin is the one I concern myself with now.”
“Of course, my lord.” She went to the door and turned. “I will bring her more of the healing herbs on the morrow. She should be taking the drink twice a day.”
“Thank you, Clarice. We will see she doesn’t miss any of her doses. My lady is fortunate in having you for a friend.”
†††
Royce star
ed at Brithwin. What had gone wrong? Three days had passed since her fever broke. Yet her health continued to decline. She lay on the bed, delirious and vomiting. The broth they fed her came up almost as quickly as it went down. Immediately after her fever broke, she’d become sick. She awoke, but her ramblings made no sense, she kept no food down, and from what he could tell, her vision had deteriorated. He witnessed her slipping away a little more each day and could do nothing to prevent it. He’d not had a chance to tell her he loved her, and he would not say so until she could hear and understand the words that would leave his lips.
Brithwin moaned and wrapped her arms around her belly. Her eyes fluttered open but the lack of recognition told him the delirium remained.
Royce picked up a goblet. “Here, drink some water.”
Clarice sailed in the room with the herb drink in hand. “Nay, my lord. She has not had her herbs today. It is important she drinks this and gets nourishment.”
Clarice placed the goblet to Brithwin’s lips. Brithwin pushed the goblet away.
“You must drink this if you are to get better.” Clarice’s voice was stern.
Brithwin slapped at the goblet, and it spilled down the front of her and onto the bed. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Clarice growled and shoved her fists onto her hips. “Look what you have done. Now I will have to make more.” She jerked her head up and met Royce’s glare. “I am sorry, Lord Rosen Craig. It is the worry that frustrates me.”
Royce searched Brithwin’s face. Her eyes were wide and glassy. Was that alarm? Nay, it was terror in her eyes. She must be confused again. Her illness continued to rip his heart out. He wanted to assure her she would be fine. “You may leave, Clarice. I will see to my wife.”
Brithwin again tried to speak, but no sound left her throat. Royce put his finger to her lips. “Shh. All is well. I will take care of you. Do you want water?”
Brithwin nodded her head.
He put the goblet to her lips, and she took small sips.
“You must rest and get well. Let me get you in dry clothes and bedding.”
By the time he had finished making her comfortable, Brithwin had fallen asleep. Royce turned to the sound of sniffling.
Sword of Forgiveness (Winds of Change Book 1) Page 29