Lord of My Heart

by Jo Beverley

  She set St. John’s wort and pimpernel to steep in mead in one pot, and soaked iris root, fenugreek, moonwort, and dwayle in honey and hot water in the other. Then she took a clean cloth, dipped it in water, and gently cleaned the edges of the wound, waiting anxiously for him to flinch or even strike out. Perhaps she should call for his very large brother to hold him when it came to the stitching.

  A glance showed her he looked, if anything, preoccupied with other matters.

  With a shrug she lifted the mead decoction. “This will sting,” she warned. She gripped his wrist and angled his arm downward, then poured some of the fluid to stream down the wound. His fist clenched and he caught his breath, but he made no attempt to wrench away. Feeling those muscles flex, she knew she would have had no way of stopping him.

  “Animal wounds are always risky”—she looked at the wound, searching for obvious dirt—“but I’m not going to cauterize it. I’ll keep a close eye on it, and if there’s yet any sign of infection, I’ll do it later.”

  “It would be simpler to do it now,” he said, as if it were a matter of small account. Most men quailed before hot iron. Perhaps he’d never experienced it.

  “It wouldn’t heal as neatly, and it looks clean. It’s strange how hard it is to tell,” she mused to herself. “One wound looks dirty but heals well. Another looks clean but kills a man.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly.

  She looked up guiltily, knowing she should not be saying such things to a patient, but he appeared amused rather than fearful. They shared a tentative smile.

  Memory of that kiss returned to leech the strength from Madeleine’s limbs and confuse her. She hurriedly dragged her gaze away. She took up a needle and silk thread, willing her hands to be steady. She didn’t like this job, particularly if the patient made a fuss, but it was kinder to be firm and quick than to be hesitant.

  There was a skill to sewing a wound so that it healed with hardly a scar, and it was something she was good at. Even though the task made her cringe inside, she was always careful to show a calm face to the patient. She had often been complimented on her resolution in sewing a wound even as the patient jerked and cried for mercy; inside she had been flinching with every stitch and crying for mercy, too.

  And now there was this extra factor to shake her nerves. The memory of his body against hers; the tangy smell of leather and that other scent which was particularly his; the feel of his strong, resilient flesh beneath her hands . . .

  She reminded herself she was going to marry Stephen de Faix, who doubtless had sleek muscles, too.

  Madeleine took a deep breath and pressed the swollen edges of the wound close together. Steadying herself, she pushed the needle firmly through the flesh, braced for a fight. There was the slightest movement of his arm, instantly stilled. She went in again and then tied off the stitch, not too tight, not too loose.

  She moved down a little and pushed the needle in again. He couldn’t stop the rock-hard tension in his arm, but apart from that it was as if she worked on meat, not living flesh. If he could control himself so well, she could do a good job.

  He was not a coward then, she thought as she worked, trying to pretend this was a piece of pork she was sewing, just like the ones she had used when training at the Abbaye. How easy healing would be if one could ignore the patient’s pain.

  But why the fuss earlier if he could handle pain? Because he hated being touched by her? At that thought, she missed her place and had to take the needle out and put it in again. She glanced up guiltily. He gave no reaction.

  Heavens, she was probably going to be the one in tears, not him.

  She fixed the final stitch on the back of his hand and gave a shuddering sigh of relief. A goblet appeared before her. “You are very skillful,” he said.

  She took the cup and drank deeply. “You are an excellent patient,” she responded. “Can I hope you will continue it and not use that arm for a day or two?”

  She returned the cup, and he drank from it. They were sharing the same cup. It seemed unbearably intimate.

  “That depends,” he said, “on whether you insist on a fight for the maiden’s favors. I don’t think I’d be allowed to stand aside, and I don’t wield a sword well left-handed.”

  “You are not to even think of lifting a sword for a week,” she declared, horrified.

  He raised a brow. “I think your previous experience has not been with warriors, demoiselle. If I’m called to fight, I fight.”

  She turned to put away some of her supplies. “I won’t ask for a trial of arms.”

  That mad scene out in the woods had returned as if it were taking place all over again. His anger. His threats. His kiss. His pain. She closed a chest blindly and turned to him, but without words of any purpose . . .

  He was studying her, puzzled. “Some of the people here were flogged some months back,” he said. “What happened?”

  She frowned over the question, but suddenly it led straight back to Odo’s attack, and Edwald, who’d been kind to her that day for the last time. Edwald, who carried a skin design on his right hand. “Those marks on your hand,” she said slowly. “Are they common among the English?”

  The discontinuity of the conversation clearly didn’t surprise him. “Yes,” he said. “All English nobles are marked in this way.”

  “In the same place?”

  “On the sword hand and arm.”

  Her earlier certainty that this man was Golden Hart had begun to waver. Now his words suggested that Edwald and Golden Hart could be some other golden-haired, green-eyed, handsome English nobleman.

  One who turned her knees to water at a touch?

  “Face marks used to be popular,” he added with a wry smile, “but have gone out of fashion, for which I’m grateful.” He seemed at ease.

  She raised his hand. “How is it done?”

  “Needles and dye,” he replied. His hand rested without resistance in hers.

  “It must hurt.”

  “No more than you sewing me up.”

  “But so many more needles. How old were you?”

  “Fourteen. It’s a sign of manhood not to flinch.”

  The flesh was swollen and discolored, and it was hard to see the design. Higher on his arm was the stylized rump of an animal with flying legs. It could be almost anything—horse, deer, sheep. She turned his unresisting hand into the full sunlight, ostensibly to check her work but really to study the red, brown, and yellow marks.

  It was no good. She could not identify the animal, but if the hand healed well, in a few days the design would be clear once more. In a few days she’d be married to Stephen de Faix, and Aimery de Gaillard would be gone from her life forever.

  He turned his hand to take hers. “What is it?”

  She shook her head and pulled away to assemble her poultice and bandage, and to gather her self-control. She was in command of herself again when she turned back.

  He dryly anticipated her words. “Don’t tell me, it’s going to sting.”

  Her lips twitched. “If it doesn’t hurt, it’s probably not doing any good.”

  “You remind me of my mother,” he said lightly, and was relaxed enough to let out a curse when she pressed the warm pack over the wound. She quickly bound it there with gooseskin and leather thongs.

  “I want to check it tomorrow,” she said briskly.

  “On your wedding day. What devotion.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “Hardly a normal wedding day.”

  The silence built in the room like a nest of blades, painful every way she turned.

  She met his eyes. “I’m going to marry Stephen.”

  He stood. “It will be for the best.”

  She thought he was going to kiss her, and hungered for it, but he just looked at her for a moment, and then was gone.

  Madeleine swallowed tears and collapsed down on the stool where he had sat, and stared besottedly at some drops of his blood on the rush mat.

  She reminded h
erself he was the man who had toyed with her; the man who had caused her deep grief. He was a traitor to his king and his knightly vows. She couldn’t break her heart over a man like that. She couldn’t.

  And yet he had always been gentle, even in his anger. Today, when he had wanted to hurt and repulse her, he had not been able to carry it through. Now that she knew the allegiances which pulled at him, she could even understand his fractured loyalties. How would she behave in a similar situation? She did not know.

  He was a good man, kind and brave; a better man by far than Odo or Stephen. Still, she would not marry him. She’d be a fool to bind her fate to such a man, but more importantly, trapping him here could lead to his destruction. She had promised not to do that, and she was a woman of her word.

  Sunlight flashed off his bracelet. She picked it up, cold now but still heavy, smeared with dried blood. She slipped it onto her right wrist, and with some difficulty squeezed it until the split edges joined to make a closed, flared cylinder. It hung clumsily loose, which brought to mind the shape and feel of his muscular arm.

  The bracelet was valuable, and she should take it to him immediately, but she could not bear to be with him when she could not have him. She slid her arm out of the band of gold and put it away in her own jewel chest.

  Tomorrow she would marry Stephen de Faix; the day after, everyone would go away and leave her in peace. Except Stephen. He’d be with her for the rest of her life.

  Madeleine had no patience with whiners, and she flung herself into the preparations for her wedding. She forewarned the cooks that boarsmeat would be available for roasting for her wedding feast, and she ordered two bullocks slaughtered and spitted as well.

  Tomorrow would be her wedding day, and everyone in the area would feast.

  She sent the steward and three guards to Hertford with her second best gold chain and orders to bring back casks of wine.

  Tomorrow would be her wedding day, and everyone in the area would be drunk—herself included if she had any say in the matter.

  She authorized the use of their stores of dried and preserved fruits with a profligate hand. She didn’t know what they would do after tomorrow; she didn’t care. It was as if her world was about to end.

  The feast for this night was well in hand. The aroma of roasting lamb filled the hall, making everyone’s mouth water. Cakes and pastries were piled high in the pantry. Madeleine turned her ferocious energy toward the tables.

  Since Paul de Pouissey’s departure, work had halted on the defenses, and so she had no shortage of hands to mend the trestles and benches. Few of them ended up with any degree of elegance, but soon they were level, stable, and sound.

  While the men worked on that, Madeleine took two women and attacked the cloths. Rough edges were hemmed, holes were patched, stains rubbed out where possible. Again, there was no time to do a fine job, but at least the appearance of the hall this evening would be more dignified.

  At all times she was aware that Aimery de Gaillard was somewhere in the manor house, but she never saw him. Perhaps he was being as careful to avoid her as she was to avoid him.

  The watchcorn announced the return of the hunters. Madeleine leaped up from her stool by the window and thrust her half-finished hem into another woman’s hand. She had forgotten her own appearance. Calling for Dorothy, she ran to her room, washed her face and hands, and unbound her hair. Then Dorothy was there to comb it out.

  “Loose or plaited, my lady?”

  It was her last night as a maiden. “Loose,” she said, even as she shuddered at the implications.

  She wore her finest silk kirtle and chose a scarlet velvet tunic, banded with gold embroidery. It was too heavy for this warm weather, but she felt the announcement of her choice called for some display. She fastened a girdle of gold wire and obsidian around her waist and a fillet of gold wire around her head. “How do I look?” she asked Dorothy.

  “Magnificent,” the woman said reverently. “I’ve never seen you so . . . It’s as if there’s a fire in you, my lady. You’ve made your choice, then?”

  “The choice is made,” said Madeleine flatly. She went to collect his bracelet to return it, then stopped herself. The only way to get through this evening was to avoid him. Forget about him. Obliterate him . . .

  Tears threatened, but she fought them back. She’d cut her throat rather than show weakness tonight.

  She walked out into the hall. The hum of conversation stopped, and she received a barrage of speculative looks. Then talk picked up again, and Count Guy came over.

  “If you don’t intend to choose my son, demoiselle,” he said dryly, “your choice of dress is unfortunate.”

  She looked around and found him instantly. He was wearing flame red and heavy gold. He looked up as if someone had called his name, and their eyes caught and held. After a sober moment he turned away.

  Madeleine felt as if all the blood had drained from her body. She told herself it would be better when it was done. She was a practical person, after all, and once she was Stephen’s wife this strange hunger for Aimery de Gaillard would seem like a child’s dream. She looked for the king, intending to go to him immediately and announce her choice. He was not present.

  “Is the king engaged?” she asked.

  The count nodded. “More messengers. Do not think of asking William for more time, Lady Madeleine,” he warned. “There are urgent matters requiring him elsewhere.”

  “Golden Hart?” she asked on a caught breath.

  He flashed her an alert look, then shielded his eyes. “That figment of the imagination? No. The Earl of Mercia.”

  His reaction gave Madeleine pause. If Aimery de Gaillard carried a picture of a hart on his arm, one person who would know about it was his father. She had to say something to disguise her thoughts. “But isn’t Earl Edwin . . . ?”

  “My nephew and Aimery’s cousin?” he supplied. “Yes,” said Count Guy with exasperation. “This morning we heard he has fled the queen’s court. Now we hear his brother, Morcar, has joined him. They are raising a rebellion.”

  Madeleine remembered wishing for something to put off her marriage, but not this. “Will Aimery . . . will your son join them?”

  The count’s eyes flashed. “I would see him dead first, demoiselle. Aimery may look like an Englishman, but he is a Norman warrior, oath-bound to serve William and only William.” He frowned at her. “Is that what holds you back? Do you fear he will turn traitor? He will not.”

  His words were firm, but she sensed the uneasiness behind them.

  Madeleine sidestepped his question. “Will the king have to leave immediately, then?” she asked hopefully.

  “No. He’ll see you wed first. After all, Baddersley is strategically located. He’ll want it in strong hands.”

  “I thought the question of England was settled. Will the earl really rise against the king?”

  “Don’t fear, Lady Madeleine,” said Count Guy. “Edwin is not particularly bellicose, and I doubt he wants outright war. He’s making a show of rebellion to force William’s hand in the matter of his marriage.”

  “You sound as if you sympathize with the earl.”

  “He received a promise, and he and the girl have become genuinely fond, but a king has many considerations to take into account. Ah, here he is.”

  If the king was weighed down by a threat of imminent rebellion, it was not obvious. He was boisterous and jovial, and vocal about the day’s excellent sport. As soon as food was before him he asked Madeleine, “De Gaillard’s hand? What of it, demoiselle?”

  “If it does not fester, sir, it will heal well.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But,” Madeleine added quickly, “he should not use that arm yet in anything strenuous, sire. Such as fighting.”

  The king quirked a brow at her. “So I should cancel the display of your suitors’ fighting skills?”

  “If Odo and Lord Stephen wish to show their skills,” Madeleine said impassively, “I have no objection
.”

  “Hardly fair to leave one contender out of it. What then? Music? Riddles? Dancing?”

  Madeleine braced herself. “There is no purpose in further display of skills, sire.”

  He sobered and fixed her with those pale, calculating eyes. “So you have made your choice. I wonder, demoiselle, if it is the wise one. Have you noticed how well you and Aimery de Gaillard suit tonight?”

  Madeleine almost laughed at such lack of subtlety but remembered in time that this was the King of England. He had the power of life and death over them all. It was bad enough that she was going to thwart his plans without seeming to find the matter amusing.

  “I cannot match him in bullion,” she said dryly.

  “He would gift you with his gold if you asked.”

  “I have no claim to his gold,” Madeleine parried, and sought for a way to deflect the conversation. “I understand in any case that those English ornaments are for warriors, given by a leader to his men. Are they not like a wedding ring? A symbol of unity?”

  William’s eyes were cold. “You study the English ways, Lady Madeleine? That is good since you are to be part of my new Anglo-Norman kingdom.” He looked away to pick up a chicken leg from a platter presented to him. Madeleine drew in a shuddering breath. What would the king do when she finally made her choice irrevocably clear?

  He turned back, amiable once more. “In fact only the ring is that kind of symbol, demoiselle. The geld, as they call it, is more a matter of rank. The strongest leaders give the most. The most favored followers receive the most. It’s all a remnant of our joint ancestors, the Viking raiders.” He took a bite of chicken, chewed, and swallowed it. “I am a modern man, however. I give my faithful followers land. And heiresses.” His eyes cooled and threatened. “And I was foolish enough to give one heiress a choice.”

  Madeleine’s throat seized up, but she forced out the words. “And that choice is made, sire.”

  His brows lowered, and he studied her as if he could read the sins on her soul. She waited for him to ask the name and make the announcement. But he relaxed and smiled. “Then we can put the matter aside, Lady Madeleine, and relax. Let those three hopefuls sweat for the night.”