“They’re stalling, for some reason,” Fawkes answered. “Although I can’t imagine what it is.”
The face appeared again. “Do you have the writ with you?”
“Of course, I don’t have the writ with me!” Fawkes shouted. “I have visited here twice in the last month and been welcomed into the castle without any trouble. Why are you refusing me now? Who’s in charge—who would deny entrance to me, your rightful lord? It’s FitzSaer, isn’t it? Well, bring him here. Let me speak to him.”
More whispering. Then, “My lord FitzSaer bids me tell you that he can’t come to the gate right now. Perhaps if you returned later, he could accommodate you.”
“The bastard’s stalling,” Engelard said. “Why? What does he hope to gain?”
“Perhaps FitzSaer is having trouble exerting his authority,” Fawkes said. “Some of the knights may still hold out hope that Sir Gilbert will come back.”
“But Sir Gilbert is under your command,” Oliver put in. “It doesn’t matter whether he’s here or not. These men ultimately answer to you.”
Fawkes nodded. He wished Nicola were with them. If she were, they would not refuse them entrance. According to Robbie, Nicola had been headed here when he left her. In fact, she might already be inside the castle.
An awful thought came to him. Perhaps Nicola was behind this defiance of his order. Perhaps she had told the men not to let him enter. He shouted up to the guard: “The Lady Nicola. Is she inside the castle?”
The face appeared again. “Nay. Lady Nicola is not here.”
Was it the truth? Or a lie? FitzSaer might be holding her hostage. But if that was the case, why wasn’t FitzSaer gloating? He was the kind of man who wouldn’t be able to stop himself from giving Fawkes the gleeful news himself. If Nicola was working with him, or she was his hostage, FitzSaer would make certain Fawkes knew of it.
Where the devil was FitzSaer? He wasn’t the sort of man to hide in the background. If he were in control of Mordeaux, he would want everyone to know it.
Gerard brought his horse up beside Fawkes’s. “What do we do?”
“We can hardly besiege the castle on our own. And if they won’t let us in, there’s no point remaining here.”
Fawkes turned his horse, his body taut with frustration and confusion. Nothing made sense. Not Sir Gilbert’s disappearance. Nor the behavior of the guards in refusing him entrance. He should have brought Robbie. The squire had been here only hours ago, inside the castle. He might have been able to convince the guards to let them in now.
Fawkes turned to look back at the castle. There was a hissing sound. Something struck him in the shoulder, knocking him from his horse. The world swirled around him and then dissolved into blackness.
Chapter Nineteen
“My lady! Come quickly!”
Nicola rose from the prie-deux. She’d finally found some peace praying in the chapel. But her sense of reprieve vanished like smoke in the wind as she hurried to follow the page. When she reached the yard, Gerard, Engelard and some other knights were gathered there, but not Fawkes. The expressions on the men’s faces alarmed her. She turned. A still form was draped over Fawkes’s horse Scimitar.
There was a rushing noise in her ears. The world turned gray and distant. Gerard hurried over and grabbed her arm. “Don’t worry, lady. He’s alive.”
“What…what happened?”
“A crossbow bolt. Went clean through his mail. But the good news is their aim was off. The bolt hit high, near his shoulder. “
She still felt stunned. Finally, she choked out, “Where did it happen?”
“Right outside of Mordeaux. They wouldn’t let us in, so we started to leave. We’d only gone a short distance when Fawkes turned to look back at the castle. That’s when he was struck. I’m certain they were aiming for his heart.”
Nicola closed her eyes, feeling sick with regret. If only she’d been able to convince Reynard to send someone after Fawkes. She drew near to Fawkes. He was as still as death. “Why is he insensible? Did he faint from the pain?”
“He might have hit his head. Or it could be because we gave him two full jacks of wine. Oliver thought we should get the bolt out right away. But when we tried to remove it, we realized if we did it wrong, he might never use his arm properly again. We decided to bring him back here and let the healer remove it.”
“But Glennyth is gone,” Nicola said.
Gerard’s eyes went wide. “You’re right. I’d forgotten Robbie took her to Mordeaux.”
Nicola nodded numbly. “We’ll have to do the best we can without her.”
“Lady, what can we do to help?” Engelard asked.
All four knights watched her, depending on her to save Fawkes. She was trained in basic medicines and tending wounds. But she’d never treated anything as serious as this. But she had no choice. Fawkes’s life was in her hands. She must not fail him.
“Get him down,” she said.
With Engelard on one side and Gerard on the other, the two knights got Fawkes off the horse. They tried to stand him up but he slumped over. The men staggered under the dead weight until they found their footing. Fawkes sagged between the two of them. His face was ashen, his eyes closed.
“Where should we take him?” Engelard asked.
Nicola stared at the broken end of the bolt protruding from Fawkes’s shoulder and the blood staining his chain-mail shirt. Two inches lower and he would have died instantly. She pushed the thought from her mind and concentrated on Engelard’s question. If they tried to carry him up the twisting stairway to her bedchamber, they might jar the bolt and drive it in deeper. “Bring him into the hall.”
Nicola ordered a page to get bandages and another to fetch mead. Oliver she sent to the kitchen to get a bowl of vinegar and a small, sharp knife. Alexander went after blankets. By the time she reached the hall, Gerard and Engelard already had Fawkes stretched out on one of the trestle tables.
Reynard stood gaping at Fawkes in horror. “Who did this?”
“Someone at Mordeaux. They were on the castle wall. We couldn’t see them,” Engelard answered.
“Good God,” Reynard breathed. “We need Glynneth.”
“But she’s not here and this can’t wait,” Nicola said. “We must get the bolt out soon, and clean the wound.”
“We?”
Nicola had never seen Reynard look so pale. “I know you don’t trust me, but you have no choice. My mother taught me basic healing skills. They will have to suffice.”
Reynard pulled himself together. “To get the bolt out, you’ll need proper tools. I’ll fetch some tongs from the smith.” He started off.
“Bring the smith with you,” Nicola called. “We may need his strength to hold Fawkes down.”
Poor Fawkes. Removing the bolt would cause him terrible pain. But she had no choice. Better to cause him pain than let him die.
She kept that thought in mind as she went to the lord’s tower to get blankets and poppy juice. Vial in hand, she raced back to the hall. The three knights and the smith were waiting. They stepped back to let her near. Seeing how waxen and still Fawkes looked, her panic returned. Then she took a deep, steadying breath. She must not think about what Fawkes meant to her, or the pain she was causing him. All her focus must be on getting the bolt out.
The page had left the cup of mead on a nearby table. Nicola looked at it, then at the vial of poppy juice. If Fawkes had a head injury, giving him poppy juice could be dangerous. She leaned over and spoke his name. When he didn’t respond, she bent nearer. “Fawkes, can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes and gazed at her, his dark eyes glazed with pain. “Nicola,” he whispered.
She was relieved he was aware enough to speak. But then she thought about the pain he would face. “I’m going to give you some poppy juice,”
He gave a faint nod.
“We have to get the quarrel out.”
He nodded again.
She lifted his head with one hand and held the cu
p to his lips with the other. He swallowed, grimacing. Even the cloying sweetness of the mead wasn’t enough to mask the bitterness of the poppy. When he’d finished, he lay back on the table again. Telling herself that it would take some time before the poppy took effect, she gave in to impulse and stroked his brow. He gazed up at her. “Nicola,” he said in a ravaged whisper.
She choked back a sob. She must not let him see how terrified she was. “Hush now. Don’t waste your breath talking.”
“But I…”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Save your strength. Lie back. Let yourself drift away. “
He closed his eyes. She turned to the waiting men. “While we wait for the poppy to take effect, we need to cut his mail and gambeson away from the wound.”
“I brought something for that.” Ellis, the burly smith, moved in with a scissor-like tool. Nicola looked away as he wielded it to cut through the chain-mail links. When she looked back, he was trying to remove Fawkes’s gambeson, which was stuck to the wound. Fearing he would cause Fawkes more pain than was necessary, she said, “Let me do that.”
She ordered a nearby maidservant to fetch her sewing scissors from the solar. By the time the maidservant returned, Fawkes’s breathing had slowed, showing the poppy was working. Nicola used scissors to painstakingly cut away the blood-soaked gambeson. The fabric had stuck to the wound in places, and Fawkes groaned as she pulled it away. She fought to keep her hands steady. If that small movement caused pain, he would be in agony as she cut out the bolt. But she could delay no longer. She turned to the waiting knights. “Hold him.”
Engelard and Gerard went to either side of the table and grasped Fawkes’s arms. Oliver and Reynard restrained Fawkes’s lower body. Nicola washed the knife blade in the bowl of vinegar and moved next to Engelard. With the knife poised over Fawkes’s shoulder, she said a silent prayer. Then she began her terrible task.
She made small cuts around the bolt. With each one, the tension in her stomach increased. She tried to pull out the bolt, but could get no purchase. To the smith, she said, “Do you have some tool that might work to pull it out?”
Ellis tried to remove the bolt using a pincer-like implement. “I’m not sure you’ve loosened the arrow enough,”
Once again, Nicola used the knife to cut around the bolt, digging deeper this time. Fawkes moaned and muttered as the knights held him. Sweat formed under Nicola’s arms and between her breasts. She told herself she must not think of Fawkes’s body as flesh, but like an ell of cloth. Samite or silk—some fine, delicate material. She must cut swift and true and precise, so it would not ravel and go to waste.
She rinsed her hands in the bowl of vinegar and slipped her fingers into the wound to search for the arrow tip. At last she found it. It was blessedly small. But she must free it completely, or it would do more damage as Ellis pulled it out.
When she’d finished cutting, she stepped back. “Now,” she said.
Ellis grasped the arrow bolt with his tongs and pulled. Fawkes’s body arched and he let out an anguished cry as the bolt came out. Blood oozed from Fawkes’s shoulder. Nicola grabbed some bandages and held them against the wound. Blood soaked the cloth. “More bandages. Nay, forget them. Give me a blanket!”
Oliver quickly brought a blanket and she secured it over the seeping bandage. When the top remained dry, she let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”
She continued the pressure for a while longer, then eased up on it and stepped back. The bolt was out. Now what should she do? She must try to wash the wound out with vinegar as she’d been taught. But after that, should she try to stitch it closed, or let it drain? Glennyth would know which method would make the wound less likely to putrefy. She did not.
Reynard seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Now what do we do?”
She met his gaze, seeing her own fear mirrored in his eyes. “We need Glennyth.”
“We must send someone to fetch her back.” Reynard said.
Oliver stepped up. “I’ll go.”
“You weren’t allowed in when you were with Fawkes. I doubt anything has changed.” Nicola pointed out. “Nay, we must send someone who will not be seen as a threat, who will be allowed to enter the castle. FitzSaer meant to kill Fawkes. He will be wary of anyone arriving from Valmar.”
Reynard nodded glumly, and Nicola felt panic seize her belly. What if they could not get Glennyth back in time? “I’ll try to think of a plan. In the meantime, we must get Fawkes into bed.”
****
Pain. Terrible pain. Fawkes tried to cry out, but could not. It felt as if someone was poking hot needles into his shoulder all the way to the bone. He’d tried to fight them, but they held him down.
Beside the pain, his wits were muddled. He wasn’t certain where he was. Although it felt as if he was being tortured, the few times he’d managed to open his eyes, he thought he’d seen Nicola. How could that be? Unless she’d also been captured by the enemy.
The horrifying thought made him force his eyes open. He saw Nicola leaning over him. Dread choked him. He could endure torture, but fine, delicate Nicola would never survive. Somehow they must escape.
“We have to get out of here,” he whispered. “Now, while they’ve left us alone!”
“Shhh. ’Tis all right. Lie back. All is well.”
She stroked his face as if soothing a child. Didn’t she understand? Didn’t she realize what the Saracens would do to her? “I can’t lie back,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “We have to get out of here.”
“Fawkes, you must lie still. I haven’t stitched your wound yet. I wasn’t sure if I should.”
He stared at her a moment, trying to focus. Slowly, he realized they were in Nicola’s bedchamber. Not a Saracen prison. Relief washed through him. He wasn’t being tortured; the pain was from a wound. He reached up and felt the bandages swaddling his shoulder. How had he been injured? He couldn’t remember.
She held a cup to his lips. “Drink.”
He expected water but the heavy taste of wine filled his mouth. Bitter wine.
“It will help with the pain,” she murmured.
Only half-willingly, he drank. In moments, all his questions, his words, vanished.
****
Nicola pushed the stool closer to the bed and sank down. The crossbow quarrel was out, and Fawkes was not only alive but able to speak. The wound was deep and ragged-edged. If it weren’t stitched, it would never heal properly. On the other hand, if she sewed it up and it festered, the putrefaction would kill him. I need you, Glennyth! I need you now.
Nicola felt Fawkes’s forehead. It seemed very warm. Not uncommon for someone who had been wounded. But if his fever rose, that meant he was in danger.
She went to the window and opened the shutters. It had rained overnight. As the sweet, clean air filled her lungs, she felt better. She reminded herself she didn’t have to face this alone. She was surrounded by people who cared about Fawkes, and who would do whatever she asked of them. If she ordered the whole garrison to march on Mordeaux and attack, they would obey.
But attacking Mordeaux wasn’t the answer. Now was not the time to confront FitzSaer. Instead, they must outsmart him. That thought triggered another, and all at once she had a plan. Mordeaux had a hidden entrance, one that FitzSaer would not know about. Nicola recalled following behind her father and his newly appointed castellan as he showed the man the underground passageway. But that had been years ago. Could she still find the opening? She thought so, although she would have to search awhile.
A sense of purpose flooded her, filling her with renewed energy. She could do this: find the secret entrance, get into the castle and get Glennyth out safely.
She approached the bed, her stomach knotted with worry. Fawkes reminded her of a wounded wild creature, a magnificent stag brought down in a hunt. She caressed his face, following the line of his jaw, now roughened with whiskers. An aching love suffused her. He was so dear to her, as dear as Simon. It was terrifying to reali
ze how much she loved him. She would do nearly anything to keep him safe. It was difficult to protect her son, but how did she protect this man? A knight. A warrior. If only she could harden her heart against him. Tell herself nothing mattered but Simon. But she could not do that. She loved Fawkes.
She touched his mouth and he stirred, sighing softly. Tears pricked her eyes. If only she could change the past. If she’d known Fawkes was alive and meant to return and save her from Mortimer, she’d never have risked everything in a desperate attempt to rid herself of her husband. Now her foolhardy act might have doomed them all.
She swiped at her tears and sniffed. It was impossible to change the past. She must move forward. And every moment she wasted at Fawkes’s bedside meant a moment longer before she could get Glennyth here to treat him.
She went to the storage chest in the corner to fetch some old clothing. As she dressed, she wondered whom she could get to care for Fawkes while she was gone. Old Emma was the only person she trusted. Was she up to it? Going up and down the stairs was difficult for her. But she could always get a page to fetch things for her.
She finished dressing, then went to the bed and bent to kiss Fawkes’s cheek. He stirred and reached up with his good arm to grasp her hair and try to pull her close. “Nicola,” he murmured.
“I must leave, my love.” She gently disengaged his hand from her hair and laced his fingers in her own. “But I will be back soon, I promise.”
He mumbled something else, seeming dazed and half aware.
Again, she kissed him on the cheek. He seemed even warmer now. Sick with worry, she gently disengaged her hand from his and turned from the bed. What if something happened to him while she was gone? What if she never saw him alive again? She pushed the thought from her mind and left the room without glancing back.
On the lower level she found Old Emma. Nicola told her about her plan to fetch Glennyth as well as the need to watch over Fawkes.
“I can do it,” Old Emma asserted. “I may be old, but I’ve nursed a lot of people through illnesses in my day. Including both your father and mother.”
Lady of Steel Page 24