by Secret Vows
As she watched, Catherine saw the knights William described. There were three of them, riding their mounts so hard that, as they neared, she could see foam flying from the horses’ mouths. Gray rode close behind them. He was hunched over his steed’s neck, his face a mask of chill concentration as he pursued his quarry. His expression sent a shiver up Catherine’s spine, and she suddenly understood William’s comment about not wishing to be opposite her husband in a battle.
The cheering crowd grew louder as Gray charged after the men, coming closer and closer to pass in front of the pavilion. Yet he seemed not to notice the reaction of the spectators, keeping his gaze fixed with deadly purpose on the backs of the knights who fled him.
Suddenly, from the corner of her vision, Catherine noticed another knight hurtling across the green; but rather than heading for one of the positions of safety, this man cut an angled path across the field that would lead him to sure collision with either the escaping knights, or with Gray.
Her heart leaped into her throat, and she shifted forward, her fingers clutching the edge of the enclosure wall until her knuckles turned white. Others in the crowd saw, too, she realized, as a tense silence settled over the area. When the charging knight howled a battle cry, the crowd gasped, and Catherine gripped the wall tighter to prevent herself from crumpling back onto the bench.
God preserve her, it was Eduard.
The hairs prickled up on the back of Gray’s neck an instant before he heard the blood-curdling roar. Whipping his head toward the noise, he saw a flash of red and white and felt the bone-jarring impact as the knight’s steed slammed into his mount at almost full tilt. His stallion gave a shrieking whinny, and then the sky and the earth tumbled together in a sickening whirl. When it stopped, he found himself flat on his back on the field; the fall had knocked the wind from him, but he knew he couldn’t wait to recover. Struggling to stand, he cursed at the shooting pain that went through his right thigh, even as he raised his sword to ward off the blow that swung in hard from his opponent.
It only took an instant to recognize Eduard’s device—and even less for raw hatred to spill through his veins to mix dangerously with the battle lust he already felt. He’d done everything he could to avoid confronting his rival directly on the field today, trying to protect the fool’s life. Now he couldn’t hold back, even if he wanted to.
Gray spun around to fend off another blow and was knocked off balance by the pass of Eduard’s steed. But as he started to pitch backward, he reached up and dragged Eduard from his mount. They landed together in a crashing heap, and Gray bit back a growl as the impact jarred his injured leg again.
“Damn you, Camville,” Eduard snarled, pushing and grappling with him as he righted himself. “Give over and agree to ransom!”
“Never!” Gray took deep breaths, trying to keep rage from gripping him too tightly, from blinding his vision with the red heat that made his mind shut down for the kill. “’Tis you who’ll be damned,” Gray muttered, “if you don’t cease now, while you still can.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Eduard lunged forward, and their swords clashed. Neither would give ground, but when Eduard stumbled back, it seemed as if he’d had enough; then with a bellow he attacked again, using his knee as a battering ram. He slammed into Gray’s wounded leg with a sickening thump, and Gray’s vision erupted in flashes of light as pain engulfed him.
Everything seemed to slow. Gray felt every breath of air rasp into his lungs, heard the grinding screech of his armor as he crashed to his knees. Still Eduard came at him, yelling like a madman, swinging his blade down in a stroke meant to kill. At the last second, Gray raised his weapon to deflect the blow, and Eduard’s blade sliced sideways, gouging into his shoulder rather than his head. Burning warmth cut through him, hot blood seeping into his sleeve even as the strength drained from his arm.
All was quiet for a moment, as Gray absorbed the shock of his wound. He looked up slowly, feeling dark, dangerous emotions swelling, coming to life. He gripped his sword tighter, willing power to return to his muscles. And then the beast inside him thundered out of control.
Shooting to his feet, he hurtled at Eduard, heedless of anything but the need for answering blood. Through the haze of red he saw Eduard’s eyes widen, saw him trip over himself as he floundered back, trying to avoid the powerful sword thrusts. But Gray was relentless, driving and slashing. A long, drawn out roar burst from his lungs, and he pushed his enemy back and still back.
It was all Eduard could do to block the blows raining down on him, each one seeking to spill his life’s blood. But then he tripped, arms wheeling as he crashed to the field; his sword popped from his grip with the impact, and he lay there, helpless as a fly on its back.
Battle lust coursed hot and thick through Gray as he stood over his adversary and raised his weapon in both hands, point down. He heard nothing but the rush of his own blood in his ears, felt nothing but the gnawing hunger for vengeance, saw nothing but the faceless enemy he needed to crush.
With a battle cry, he prepared to drive his blade home into Eduard’s chest—when a woman’s voice pierced the well of his rage like an icicle plunged into his heart.
“Gray, please don’t! In God’s name, I beg you, please don’t kill him!”
It took a few seconds for the plea to penetrate his mind and a few moments more for awareness to come back and shake him from the throes of his battle trance. He felt as if all the pieces of his body were disjointed as he turned his head stiffly to the side to see who had spoken to him.
The blurring in his vision began to fade, and he recognized his wife. She stood less than ten paces away, tears streaming down her face. His gaze locked with hers. Dimly, he realized that she must have climbed from the pavilion, exposing herself to grave danger by running onto the field. Now her hand reached out to him, and she sobbed softly. All else was silent.
Almost against his will, the warmth of life began to seep back into his limbs, into his mind and his heart. He glanced back to Eduard, who lay still and helpless at the point of his sword. He struggled internally, thirsting to drive his blade home and finish the barbaric deed, while at the same time finding himself unable to ignore Elise; her entreaties pulled him away from the violence, tugging at the last vestiges of his compassion.
“Please, Gray, no more. Let him go, I beg you.”
The last was whispered, yet it resounded through his soul as if pealed on all the bells of heaven. Of a sudden his rage ebbed away. He closed his eyes for one, brief moment. Then he looked back at his wife.
“Christ,” he muttered, throwing his sword onto the field. He tilted his head back, took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. Without another glance at anyone, he turned and began to walk away from the scene of battle.
But in that instant, Eduard sprang up and rushed at him, dagger drawn.
Even as Gray whirled around to face him, Eduard’s cool blade pierced below his ribs and withdrew with stinging force. Surprise mingled with shock. Vaguely, Gray realized that it was his own blood spilling hot and slick over his tunic and hands. It splashed onto his legs, and he looked down at the gushing wound in his side as if he was apart from it, viewing it from a distance.
When he glanced back up, his head felt light from loss of blood. He took a few steps back, but his vision whirled, and he thought he might fall to the field. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stumble forward again. He grasped the front of Eduard’s tunic, yanking the bastard closer, even as he cocked his arm back for the blow.
And as the darkness closed in on him, Gray tensed every muscle with whatever strength was left in him and slammed his fist right into the middle of Eduard’s sneering face.
Catherine bit the inside of her cheek, reminding herself to stay calm and in control as the men laid Gray on a pallet in a chamber off of the great hall. But from the moment that Eduard had attacked her husband, all she’d wanted to do was scream until she went hoarse.
“Bring me some water, hot wine,
clean cloths, and my needles,” she managed to command.
Some of the servants departed to do her bidding, and she began the task of loosening Grayson’s clothing. Hurry. Her mind raged in frustration as she fumbled with the unfamiliar knots and clasps of his armor.
“Here, my lady, allow me,” said the knight who’d helped to carry Gray from the field. Grateful, she took over holding the cloth he’d kept pressed hard against Gray’s wounded side, while he made quick work of removing Gray’s bloodied surcoat, hauberk, and tunic. Then he stood and carried the ruined garments from the chamber. Everyone else had already rushed out in search of a priest and Sir Alban.
She was left alone with her husband for the moment. Shock and fear made every second seem like an hour, heightening her senses. Catherine looked down at Gray, her heart wrenching at the sight of him lying so still, eyes closed, his handsome face drawn and pale. The powerful muscles of his chest and arms were smeared with blood. Even with the pressure she exerted against it, the dagger wound still seeped. She knew that they needed to stop the flow or risk his dying from it.
A sob began to build in her throat, and she pressed harder against the puncture. Gray groaned and turned his head, though his eyes remained closed. His massive chest rose and fell in barely perceptible movement.
“Quickly!” she shouted as two squires came running in with the hot wine and linens she’d requested.
“How bad is it?” Alban asked when he burst into the chamber a moment later, followed by another squire who carried her needles. Blood covered Alban’s face, and she saw that his right hand was wrapped in bandages. He rushed to kneel next to the pallet. “Holy Mother Mary, he’s unconscious.”
“Take this,” Catherine commanded, and Alban pressed his weight into the cloth at Gray’s side so that she could more easily dip the linen in hot wine. “You,” she nodded to the third squire, “Heat the metal rod near the hearth. Then hold this needle to a flame until it’s blackened. Let it cool, and thread it with that silk there. I need someone else to fetch herb pots. Marjoram and fennel will do. And bring some nettle juice as well.”
Everyone scrambled to obey. One of the servants put more wood on the fire, making the room heat to an almost unbearable temperature. Catherine used her shoulder to wipe the sweat from her eyes as she waited for the iron to be prepared. She knew that there’d be no time to dally once the pressure was removed from Gray’s side.
Finally, all was ready. At her signal, Alban released the cloth, and she used the wine-soaked linen to catch the flow of blood and swab it away, revealing the extent of the wound. When it was clear enough to see, she poured hot wine over and into the two-inch wide puncture. Gray came awake then, cursing and thrashing. Alban held his friend still as Catherine murmured a prayer and then an apology; she hefted the wool-wrapped handle of the iron rod, glowing red-hot now, and pressed it into the bleeding gash.
Gray roared in agony and tried to throw himself from the pallet, but Alban pinned him down, cursing along with him. “Get him something to ease the pain,” he barked at a squire, who nearly tripped in his effort to fetch a goblet and strong, herbed wine.
“Nay,” Gray muttered at first, turning his head aside when the cup was brought to his lips. Someone pressed it to him again, and he dashed it aside, growling, “No wine! Just some water.”
A beaker was brought. Gray sipped from it and then fell back, his face ashen, mouth tight. “Saints, Alban, did you need to scorch me with the iron?”
“If you wish an honest answer, my lord, yes,” murmured Catherine, nudging Alban aside to inspect the cauterized area. “The wound was bleeding heavily enough to take your wits from you, and we had to stop the flow.” She saw now that the flesh around it looked red and sore, but the puncture itself had turned to a blackened scab. Nodding in satisfaction, she stepped aside and began to prepare a poultice for it from the herbs the serving boy had fetched for her.
Now that the worst of the danger seemed past, a weakness flooded her limbs. Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to blink back tears of relief. Concerned that someone might notice her reaction, she moved farther from the pallet and sat at a stool to work the poultice.
From that position, Alban blocked much of her view, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing toward her husband as she mashed the marjoram and fennel together. Gray showed improvement already. He had Alban prop him to a half-sitting position with cushions, and though ’twas obvious that his wounds still pained him, he was managing to carry on a hushed conversation. Someone brought more water, and Catherine was surprised to see her husband dutifully sipping from the beaker. When he’d emptied it, he handed it back to his friend.
“You’re being almost agreeable for a change,” Alban chuckled. “Mayhap I ought to arrange for you to be knocked about the field more frequently if I can get such cooperation from you afterward.”
“Knocked about? Ambushed is more like. Where did they take the whoreson after he stabbed me?”
“They carried him, senseless, from the field; he’s being tended in another chamber, bleeding from nigh on a half dozen slices. ’Tis said you broke his nose for him, too.”
Gray scoffed. “He deserved no less. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”
Catherine looked down with deliberate concentration as she poured hot wine over the herbs she’d crushed, but she saw from the corner of her vision as Alban gestured toward her with a murmur.
Her husband fell silent, obviously not wishing to offend her, and her heart welled with regret and grief. More than anything she wanted to beg his forgiveness for staying his hand on the field. But unless she exposed the lie of her identity, ’twould be impossible. She could never tell him that she hated Eduard even more than he did, but that his death would have placed her children’s lives at greater risk.
“Aye, well, I owe you thanks for seeing to my wounds, friend. I’ll not forget it,” Gray finally said.
“’Twas not my doing. Your wife made the decisions for your treatment before I knew which direction to turn. ’Tis she who saved your skin this day.”
Silence reigned again. Alban stood and moved toward the door, and suddenly Catherine felt Gray’s stare on her.
“My lady?”
She looked up, meeting her husband’s penetrating gaze and telling herself that the sudden heat in her cheeks was only from the warmth of the chamber. “Aye, my lord?” Catherine kept her gaze constant, though the sight of Grayson reclining nearly naked on the pallet was most unsettling. Some of the usual glint had returned to his eyes, and she tried not to notice the way his powerful muscles rippled as he shifted to a more comfortable position.
“I require your assistance, wife. And more of your tending, if it so please you.”
The heat in her face intensified, and she clutched the mortar and pestle as she rose from her stool to make her way to the pallet. Alban coughed lightly and mumbled something about checking on the other injured. Then he was gone, leaving her alone again with Gray.
“I was just finishing with this poultice for your wound, my lord. It should speed the healing and take away some of the pain from the burn.” She tried not to look directly at Gray, now that she stood less than an arm’s length from him.
“And this?” he asked, indicating the cut on his shoulder. “I see you have your needles at the ready. Will you be stitching it so I may keep what little remains of my blood inside my skin?”
Catherine hazarded a glance at him, uncertain whether or not he mocked her. He appeared in earnest, his focused gaze eliciting another flush of heat in her cheeks. She turned away to fuss with a new strip of linen, soaking it to prepare it for the poultice.
“Aye, my lord. That wound was not so urgent as the other, though I did intend to close it as well.”
“And glad I am that you’ll be using a method other than scorching to heal it.”
Catherine’s mouth tightened as she sat next to him. She stared down at the cloth as she smeared the ointment over it
. “Truly I did not wish to pain you with the iron, but I saw no other way to stop the bleeding. And if the flow continued, I was afraid that you might—” She paused in mid-sentence when his finger gently caught under her chin and lifted, raising her gaze to his.
“Nay, truly, my lady, I wish to thank you for your care of me. The hurt you inflicted was not so much.”
“’Twas enough to make me regret the giving of it.”
“Aye,” he murmured. “And yet I’ve suffered much worse at other hands. My own included.” He released her chin and looked away.
His enigmatic words intrigued her, at some level even frightened her. That he’d been wounded before seemed likely, considering the battles he’d fought as a knight. But when he spoke now he seemed to recall a particular suffering, a defined instance in his memory, and she couldn’t help but wonder at the cause of it.
“My lord?” She waited, uncertain whether he intended to speak further on the subject. But he only shook his head and breathed deep, which made him wince as the movement stretched his wound.
“Mayhap you should apply the poultice now, lady, and stitch the other gash. I’ll not be lying abed long.”
“You’ll not be rushing about anytime soon, either. The wounds need time to heal, and I’ll not have you tearing them open to taint and fester.” As she spoke, she began to wrap the strip of linen around his waist, centering the poultice over the burn. She punctuated the last of what she said by yanking his bandage tight, drawing another wince from him.
“I’ve a feeling that if a festered wound didn’t lay me low for stirring too soon, you would, lady,” he answered with the hint of a smile. “Do you always nurse those in your care so aggressively? You’re like a mother hen, pecking at her chick when it gets too near the stable cat.”
“Aye, well when you’re used to tending chicks who are always skinning their knees and romping underfoot—” Catherine abruptly swallowed the rest of her words and stood to fetch her needle. Heavens above. How could she have been so foolish as to let such a memory slip?