by Lynn Kurland
"Take Amery, would you? Amery, Frances is going to take you downstairs and get you something to eat. Bread? Butter? Jam?"
None of those things seemed to make any impression, which meant that Amery was screaming his head off as Frances carried him off. Alex waved reassuringly, then leaned back against the chair and just concentrated on breathing. His shirt was trashed, but at least he'd managed to save his coat. Things could have been worse.
Margaret entered the chamber, carrying two bottles of something Alex hoped was drinkable. She'd removed her sleeve and tied a bandage of sorts around her arm.
"Let me look," he said, waving her closer.
" 'Tis nothing."
"Then you won't mind if I look."
She set the bottles down on the table next to Cook's needle and thread, sighed heavily, and then unwrapped her arm. Alex looked at the cut. It wasn't deep, but an emergency room certainly would have sewn it up.
"As you can see," Margaret said, " 'tis nothing to trouble yourself over. Now, can you sew yourself up, or must I call for Master Jacob?"
"I'd like you to do it."
"I know nothing of healing matters."
"I'll teach you what you need to know."
"I have no desire—"
"Please," he asked, feeling very light-headed all of the sudden. "I don't trust anyone else, Margaret. Just do this one thing for me."
She scowled. "I don't know why I should."
"Because you want to know all the truth I have to tell you, and you won't get it if you leave me in the care of that leech. How about that for logic?"
She picked up the needle. "All right. What will you have done?"
Alex looked at the needle and grimaced at its thickness. He'd had more than his share of sutures, but those very small, very sterile little needles were a far sight less intimidating than the thick piece of steel he was looking at.
"Wash your hands first," he said, gritting his teeth as he sat up and tried to strip off what was left of his shirt. ''Then hold the needle in the flame of the candle. It will burn off all the germs."
"Germs?"
"I'll explain later, okay? Please just do it."
She looked like she wasn't going to until he pulled away one of her makeshift tourniquets. Alex didn't let himself think much about what he needed to do. He uncorked a bottle of whatever spirits she'd brought and poured it over his arm.
"Yeouch!" he bellowed. "Ouch, damn it," he said, blowing on his shoulder as best he could. "Damn it to hell!"
Blowing was not a good idea. He began to see stars.
"Just sew," he gasped. "Start at one end and finish at the other. Do the best you can. If I don't make it through, just pour whatever that stuff is on the other cuts and sew them too. Got it?"
She was as white as a sheet. Her lips were bloodless and compressed in a very tight line, but she nodded just the same.
Alex leaned back against the chair and tried to concentrate on just staying conscious.
All in all, it was a very unpleasant experience. Margaret was not a seamstress, neither was she good at judging depths. Alex began to wonder if she intended to sew his bones together along with everything else. George appeared out of nowhere to hold a candle over him so Margaret could see better. George dripped wax on his bare chest twice which made him flinch which made Margaret jerk the needle.
He prayed for unconsciousness, but it never came.
By the time Margaret had finished, her hands were trembling uncontrollably. Alex took them and brought them to his lips.
"Thank you," he whispered. "You did a good job."
Tears were streaming down her face. "Don't ask me to do it again," she said, sniffling loudly.
"Better you than Master Jacob. Why don't you head off to bed? You could probably use some sleep."
"You're the one who needs sleep," Margaret said. "And food. I'll have some brought immediately."
Well, at least she wasn't planning on tossing him into the dungeon. Alex leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.
This was a hell of a welcome-home party.
Twelve
Margaret woke. Every bit of her body tingled. Ah, so she'd had a bit of a fever. And from such a paltry wound. She shook her head, and her flesh sent up renewed protests. She'd become soft. There would be no more of that. She would rouse, dress, arm, and put herself back in her normal mode of doing things. No matter that Alex was dwelling beneath her roof again.
Assuming he hadn't left while she'd slept.
She threw back her covers and crawled from her bed, though less agilely than she would have liked. She had a modest wash, then dressed. By the time she managed to don her mail, she was sweating profusely. She shuffled to the seat in the alcove and sat, panting. By the saints, she needed to train harder.
Once she'd caught her breath, she shuffled back across her chamber and opened the door. The sound of screeching was so loud, she wondered how she'd missed hearing it.
A score of dreadful possibilities assaulted her poor brain before she had even set foot to the stairs. Perhaps Baldric had taken to unraveling himself instead of the tapestries. Or perhaps something had happened to Alex. ...
"As if it matters to me," she said, through gritted teeth. She thumped down the steps and skidded out into the great hall. She came to a sliding stop and her mood darkened considerably. Aye, Alex was behind this, to be sure. The wailing was coming from that wee Amery he'd brought home with no thought for the child's future or welfare.
Said child was currently fighting his keeper with tiny fists and prodigious wails.
"Amery, lord Alex is sleeping," Frances said, sounding as if her wits, and her patience, were stretched to their very breaking point.
Margaret could sympathize. And then Frances caught sight of her and looked as if she'd been given reprieve from the gallows.
"See you, Amery, there is the lady Margaret!"
"But I..." Margaret spluttered.
She held out her hands to ward Frances off only to find a small, squirming bundle foisted upon herself. She held him out at arm's length and spluttered again, but her protests resounded off Frances's retreating back.
Margaret looked at Amery. He returned her look. Silently. Well, at least that was progress. She held him firmly about his slight chest and marveled anew that something so small could produce such a volume of noise.
"Magwet," he said. Then he smiled at her.
"Indeed," Margaret said, at a complete loss. "I do not recall giving you leave to use my name, young Amery."
"Magwet," he said again. And he stretched out his scrawny arms toward her. "Pwetty Magwet."
"Indeed," she repeated.
Well, no sense in leaving the lad dangling out there so uncomfortably. She brought him close and settled him on her mail-covered hip as if she'd been doing it the whole of her life.
Amery reached around her with one hand and brought her heavy braid forward over her shoulder. Then he clutched it in one of his pudgy fists and smiled up at her.
"Pwetty hai-uh," he announced. Then without further comment, he popped his thumb into his mouth and concentrated on seemingly sucking the flesh from the bone. He looked up at her and the soft skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. Then he turned his attentions back to her hair that he held so tightly.
"Harumph," Margaret said, undone. She'd never suspected children to be so unsettling. To be sure, they were disruptive to a household. If young Amery wasn't bellowing his head off for Alex, he was eluding Frances and bellowing seemingly for the sheer sport of it. Hard on the ears indeed.
Yet it was this other habit the child had of crawling into her arms and latching onto her hair that left her feeling completely unbalanced. Who would have thought the sweet, innocent touch of a trusting child could stir up such tender emotions in her breast?
"Damn that Alex," Margaret muttered under her breath. If it wasn't Alex touching her hair, it was his small shadow. How was she to keep her wits about her in the face of
this dual assault?
Amery's thumb came free of his mouth with a distinct popping sound. "Damn Aweks," he repeated cheerfully.
"Oh, nay," Margaret breathed, "you shouldn't say such."
"Damn Aweks now?" Amery asked hopefully.
What a thought. Margaret was so tempted to smile that she almost succumbed.
But only because Amery was such an angelic, cherubic child. It had nothing to do with Alex.
"His damning couldn't happen with enough swiftness to suit me," she confided. "What say you we break our fast, then seek him out?'' And you can bellow so loudly in his ear that the maids will be scraping his remains from the ceiling for a se'nnight.
It was such an appealing thought, Margaret almost forewent the pleasure of a hot meal. Unfortunately, her belly seemed not to concur. Watching Alex leap from his skin would have to wait.
After a hearty meal of porridge and cleaning up Amery's meal from off the front of the oversized tunic he seemed to have borrowed from her late brother's trunk, Margaret led her small charge up the stairs to the sleeping chambers. Climbing steps with a small child was a tedious process, but it gave her ample time to savor Alex's startled awakening, so she didn't begrudge Amery his independent ascent.
She paused at Alex's chamber door and put her ear to the wood. Ah, no sound. She pushed open the door and gestured for Amery to enter.
"A loud awakening call is best," she offered as Amery bounded into the chamber.
She pulled the door almost closed, leaving herself just enough of an opening to hear clearly Alex's surprise over his rude awakening.
"Aweks? Aweks?" There was a long pause, then a wail. "Aweks!"
The terror in Amery's voice brought Margaret into the room as if she'd been flung there. She was at the bedside instantly and she stretched her hand out, fully expecting to feel cold flesh.
He was burning up.
"Oh, merciful saints above," she breathed.
And still Amery continued to scream Alex's name.
"Amery!" Margaret exclaimed. "Be you silent!" She pulled the boy off the bed and held him to her, turning his face so she could look at him. "He sleeps, lad, nothing more! Here, feel you how his flesh is hot?" She knelt by the bed and let Amery touch Alex's hand. "See? Now, stay you here and keep hold of his hand. I will fetch help and soon he'll awaken."
Or so she hoped.
She fled to the doorway. "George!" she screamed. "Cook! Help me!"
A score of people were soon crowding inside the room. She shoved all but Cook and George out. Cook was not a healer, but she was a far sight less congested than Master Jacob. Margaret never had believed in bleeding either and shunned leeches whenever possible. She stood behind Cook, wringing her hands as her rotund servant checked Alex's wounds. Then Cook stood and announced her opinion.
"He must be bathed with cool water until the fever breaks. Open the stitches in the shoulder. Draw the pus from the wound with hot cloths until it bleeds freely. Then it must be resewn and watched carefully. He must eat. I will prepare broth and send up water."
"And keep young Amery downstairs," George added. "Seeing him failing thusly will only upset the lad."
"He's not going to die," Margaret said, whirling on him. "Damnation, he is a strong man!"
"And he spent much of that strength watching over you," George retorted.
"Me?" she asked, taken aback. "When?"
"The whole of the day yesterday and far into the night. After you sewed his wounds and sent him away, he returned to assure himself you would come to no harm."
"I did not ask that of him," she said, surprised Alex would have done as much for her. She also marveled that she'd slept so deeply that she hadn't noticed him. Perhaps her paltry wound had taken more out of her than she'd thought.
"Alex watched over you freely and now pays the cost," George said grimly. "Perhaps that should prove his trustworthiness."
"I never doubted his honor," Margaret returned hotly. " 'Tis his honesty I question."
George paused until Cook had retreated from the room. "Margaret," he said softly, "he had his reasons for wishing to return home. There are also things he may not be allowed to tell us. But if you ask my opinion, I'll wager he cares a great deal for you. A man does not put his life in jeopardy as he did for a woman he feels nothing for."
Margaret pursed her lips and turned away. "You're a bloody romantic," she grumbled.
George reached out and tugged roughly on her bound hair, a gesture he had made hundreds of times while she was growing up, but one he had not attempted in at least ten years.
"Tend him well," he said gruffly. "He deserves to live." He walked to the door, then paused and turned. "A messenger's arrived from Brackwald come to demand Alex's release."
"Oh, by the saints," she groused, "what else would it be?"
"What will you have done with him?"
"How belligerent is he?"
"Very."
"Toss him in the dungeon."
"Done." And with that, he left the room.
Margaret turned her attentions to Alex. She hastily lit a fire in the hearth, though it was more for her than Alex. Though Alex burned with fever, her hands were like ice.
Cook bustled in with servants trailing behind her, bearing basins of water and clean cloths. Cook held a clean knife, needle, and thread. She looked down at Margaret sympathetically.
''Would you rather I did it, my lady?''
"Nay, Cook, I do not fear the deed." She took the knife and slit the stitches in Alex's shoulder. That made him thrash about again, dislodging the sheet that had covered him from the waist down. The view of his body drew murmurs of approval from Cook's help. Margaret sent them scurrying with a deep frown. She turned back to Alex and smoothed his hair back from his fevered brow.
"Alex, 'tis Meg," she said, feeling slightly embarrassed at using the name, with Cook standing right there. "Hush and let me do this thing. It will make your fever come down."
"Meg?" he said thickly, struggling to open his eyes.
She leaned down and pressed her cheek against his. "Aye, 'tis me. Hush now and rest. You have a fever. Let me tend it for you."
"Don't... leave," he whispered hoarsely.
"I won't," she promised softly.
"No ... wife ..."
"No wife," she agreed. "Now will you go to sleep?"
She doubted he'd heard the last. Already he had slipped back into the fever. Margaret dipped a cloth in the hot water and put it to the shoulder wound. Alex flinched, but she didn't pull away. Again and again she drew forth the infection until the wound bled cleanly. She looked up and received a nod of approval from Cook.
Sewing his shoulder was no less miserable this time than it had been before. He was fairly still, but he moaned each time the needle pierced his flesh. By the time she had closed the wound, she was weeping.
"There, there now," Cook said, taking the needle from her and cradling Margaret's head against her ample middle. "No need for tears, my lady. A fine job you've done, to be sure. Now, see if he'll sip a bit of this warm broth, then you'll bathe him with cool cloths. I daresay you'll be up the night doing the same, but I'll see that someone comes to give you a rest."
"Nay," Margaret said quickly, pulling away, "I'll do it alone."
"Then I'll send up something to strengthen you a bit later and more broth for the young lord. Take this cup and see if he won't drink a bit of this."
The broth smelled delicious. Margaret waved it in front of his nose, then put her hand behind his head and lifted it.
"Alex, drink some of this," she coaxed. " 'Tis something Cook made especially for you, and you know how it displeases her when you do not eat." She flashed Cook a smile, uncomfortably conscious that she had never had much speech with her servants, then turned back to Alex. "Alex, honey," she said, using that strange term he had called her, "drink this. Please, Alex. Open your mouth." She opened her mouth, as if somehow that would convince him he should do the same.
Miracle of
all miracles, he obeyed her. She only managed to make him ingest two mouthfuls, but that was something.
"Well done, my lady," Cook said, pleased. "Now, cool him down and perhaps he'll have another drink later. I'll be downstairs if you need me. I fear young Amery may be a problem," she trailed off with a frown.
"Send him up in an hour or so. I daresay he won't sleep at all if he's not allowed to sleep in Alex's chamber."
"That young one's already impossible," Cook grumbled as she left the chamber.
"As is his benefactor," Margaret muttered to herself.
She reached for a basin of cool water and wrung out a cloth in it. The actual fashion in which she would have to touch Alex to bathe him had never occurred to her. At least he was asleep. Having those pale blue-green eyes open and looking at her while she was at her task would have been simply too much to bear.
She started with his right arm, draping it over her knees and smoothing the cool cloth over his skin. He sighed immediately, and she jerked her gaze to his face, sure he would be giving her that mischievous grin. Nay, he was quite asleep and the frown had almost faded from his brow.
She marveled not only at the muscles, but the lack of scars, though what scars he did have surely came from swordplay. She shook her head. He claimed not to be a knight, but bore the marks of it just the same. Where was Seattle and what odd things went on there? It was hard to imagine a place where healers held places of honor and knights did not.
Well, she would just have the entire tale when he awoke. It was far past time to know it.
She even washed his hand, remembering how his fingers felt in her hair and against her face. The strength of that hand could have easily broken her jaw, yet he had never touched her ungently. Though she had the distinct feeling there were times he would have liked to throttle her.
Feeling decidedly bold, she started to work on his chest. After all, 'twas simply more of his skin, was it not?