As Reynold stared, too aghast to move, he saw long fingers, pale and slender, move over the misshapen area, gently touching, smoothing, soothing. And then, not only did he see what was happening, he felt it, and some sort of sound escaped him. For no one had ever touched his leg.
‘Does that hurt?’ she asked.
Reynold could not answer. He had expected her to recoil in disgust, but she kept stroking his skin, speaking with the same matter-of-fact calmness. And this was no old hag of a healer, but a beautiful woman, Mistress Sexton. Reynold blinked as moisture suddenly pressed against his eyes, and he swallowed hard.
‘Yes, I think a hot bath or a poultice of mustard would help,’ she said. ‘But I have noticed you rubbing it, so I suspect that massage would be the most effective.’
Reynold nearly swallowed his tongue as she lifted his foot and pressed firmly but gently against the rough skin. She rotated the appendage, then his ankle, and then her fingers closed around his leg, spreading and kneading. As her hands moved upwards, Reynold braced himself for pain, but her movements relieved the pain. He groaned, leaning back and relaxing, as if his aching body were liquid, supple and warm.
Reynold lost all sense of time as she probed and prodded with her fingers and thumbs, rubbed and circled and pressed and stroked until he felt like a limp rag, all discomfort wrung from him by the power of her touch. His foot remained in her lap, his toes touching the cloth that covered her belly, but when her hands moved upwards to the very top of his thigh, Reynold stiffened again.
His breath caught for a different reason this time. Although he realised that her actions were meant to be curative, they did more than ease his aching leg. Indeed, they set other parts of his body to aching, with a sudden joy, with a fierce hunger, with the ecstasy of lying here while her hands moved upon him.
Reynold swallowed a harsh groan, for he did not know what to do. He was loathe to put a stop to the most wonderful sensations he had ever known, but soon it would become apparent even to the innocent damsel that, while well intended, her ministrations were having another effect entirely.
Perhaps it would be better if he could not see her slender fingers doing their work, if he did not dwell upon her bent head, the golden strands of her hair falling to brush against his skin, or the way her breasts strained against her garment as she worked. Pulse pounding, Reynold shut his eyes to block out the sights of all those things, only to open them again when a loud clattering sound broke the silence.
Jerking upwards, Reynold put a hand to the hilt of his sword, wary of some new threat. But ’twas only Peregrine standing upon the threshold of the chamber, a fallen tray at his feet and his eyes wide.
‘I’m, uh, forgive me, my lord,’ he stammered, kneeling to pick up the wooden cup. ‘I beg your pardon.’
Reynold felt disappointment wash over him like a cold bath, taking away all the heat and emotion he had felt under the hands of the woman who knelt before him. But the icy return to reality made him realise that he ought to thank the boy for recalling his wits. Mistress Sexton had been moved by mercy, while Reynold would repay her in different coin. Hadn’t he promised never to repeat the kiss? ’Twas much more than that which he desired now.
‘Mistress Sexton was just leaving,’ Reynold said in a hoarse voice as he collected himself. ‘Pick up the food and join me, for I wish to discuss this day’s work with you.’
Peregrine stared at him as if shocked before nodding grudgingly. Perhaps the boy was worried that Reynold might steal Mistress Sexton away, but nothing could be further from the truth. When lucid, Reynold had enough sense to know that the beautiful damsel would aid him as best she could, for she needed his help. That was all.
Once Grim’s End was restored to her, no one would ever touch him again.
Sabina hurried to the small room off the kitchens, eager to avoid the questioning glances of the others, especially Urban or Ursula. Once there, she shut the door behind her, leaned against it and loosed a long, low breath. She kept her store of herbs and plants in the small space, and its quiet and privacy was welcome, for she needed a moment to collect her thoughts. Yet she struggled against the urge to hurry to complete her task, so she could return…to him.
When had she become so greedy?
Sabina had been cautious in treating Lord de Burgh’s leg because he often seemed leery of her touch. But she could not stop herself when she saw him wince in pain. And, once begun, she had continued, unheeding of his stiff posture and his silence. She had only wanted to help him, yet somehow over the course of the massage, she took such pleasure in her work that she never wanted to stop.
It was a personal thing, putting one’s hands upon another, and Sabina had always assumed a certain distance those few times she had treated someone other than her father. But with Lord de Burgh, she sought closeness instead, and it was all she could do to maintain her composure, hiding her flush, her quickened breath and her pounding heart from his gaze.
These past months Sabina had struggled so hard, thinking only of doing her duty, that she could see no harm at seeking a little respite for herself. But at whose expense? Sabina frowned as she prepared the poultice. Lord de Burgh had made his stance clear, and she should abide by it, keeping only to the agreement between them.
And yet she could not sit idly by and watch him suffer. It was her duty as mistress of the manor to ease his aches while he served Grim’s End, Sabina told herself as she took a pot of the plaster with her and headed back up the steps. If she enjoyed smoothing it upon his skin, ’twas only an added benefit that hurt no one.
But when she reached Lord de Burgh’s chamber, the door was closed against her. Sabina knocked, expecting to be admitted, yet Peregrine barred her way, slipping out to shut the portal behind him.
‘I have a poultice for Lord de Burgh,’ Sabina explained.
Peregrine appeared uncomfortable as he shook his head. ‘He wants his privacy.’
‘But I would apply this healing unguent.’
Peregrine frowned, as though in apology, and held out a hand. ‘I will take it.’
‘But you are not trained in the healing arts.’
The squire cleared his throat. ‘He, uh, insists that he will put it on himself.’
‘But…’
Something in Peregrine’s expression stopped Sabina from arguing further. ‘Of course,’ she said softly, handing the small container to the youth.
He opened the door a crack, but turned to look at her, shaking his head once more. ‘If you ask me, you are both too strong and too silent,’ he muttered.
Sabina had no idea what he meant. ‘Strong? Me?’ She laughed, but it was a low bitter sound. ‘You are mistaken, squire.’
In the days that followed, Reynold grew impatient, with himself, with Mistress Sexton, and most of all with The Dragon. Whatever or whoever it was, the worm stayed well away. If only Mistress Sexton would do so, as well.
Instead, she seemed to be intent upon smothering him with kindness. She greeted him when he returned from scouting with a cup, presented him with more than his share of their meagre food supplies and waited upon him. And even worse, she was determined to press upon him various willow-bark tonics, plasters made of bay or mustard, hot baths and massages.
Despite himself, Reynold yearned for such pampering, for never before had anyone doted upon him. Perhaps his older brothers recalled their mother or his mother, but Reynold did not. Campion Castle was the domain of men, or at least until recently.
Reynold remembered no nurturing female presence there except for the winter when Marion, his brother Dunstan’s future wife, had lived with them. She had overseen the household and made it a brighter place, and they had come to view her as a sister. Although she obviously had affection for them all, she had not singled any of them out for special treatment. Nor had she made Reynold’s heart stop with her beauty.
But Mistress Sexton did. And that is why he had refused further massages, along with any baths. Although he would never forget th
e feel of her hands upon him, he did not trust himself to stay still for another session.
Something, whether her kisses or her touch or the combination of both, had unleashed a hunger in Reynold such as he had never known. His innocent desire for Amice was nothing in comparison, his more heated urges for paid companions naught, as well.
And this appetite sparked to life at the very sight of Mistress Sexton, yet would not disappear when she was away. It gnawed away at his insides, each day growing stronger. And he could only try to contain it. For now, his will held, but the denial only added to his resentment.
When he trudged inside from scouting, his ill mood even kept Peregrine at a distance, but Mistress Sexton was not so easily cowed. She approached him immediately with the offer to fetch a stool on which to prop his leg.
‘No, I need it not,’ Reynold muttered. As always, he sank on to one of the benches by the trestle table, instead of the more comfortable berth offered by her father’s chair. Frustrated with his lack of progress, he was tired and sore and so sweaty that he did not want Mistress Sexton to come close.
But ignoring his words, she brought the stool anyway, setting it close to where his legs were stretched before him. Reynold glared at her, as though daring her to touch him, an action that he both desired and denied. In fact, just looking at her made him want to seize her, take her in his arms and return her massage. But he could not. Would not.
And like a festering sore, the knowledge pricked at him, making his anger simmer. Reynold tried to remember the days when he had felt so at ease in her company. But that was before he had felt her hands upon him, before he was so aware of her, before he hungered for that which he could not have.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he warned, as she reached for his leg.
‘But you are in pain,’ she protested.
Reynold looked away, unwilling to divine what was in those blue eyes, truth or lies, care or duty. ‘I did well enough without your unguents, and I will do so again.’
‘And yet I see you rubbing your leg, so why not let me massage it properly?’ she asked. ‘You know that I can rub it better than you can.’
Reynold slanted her a glance under his dark lashes. ‘I am sure of it,’ he said in a voice rough with innuendo. But he could see that the meaning was lost upon her.
‘Then why not accept my aid instead of scowling and grunting like a spoiled child?’
‘I am here. Isn’t that enough? Or does my vow include bowing to your every whim like everyone else in Grim’s End?’ Reynold asked. ‘Perhaps you are the selfish one, mistress, who would keep your people here, rather than move them to safety.’
Reynold heard Peregrine’s gasp and regretted his words. Frowning, he looked at Mistress Sexton, prepared to apologise, but the sight of her stopped his mouth. Her face was white, and her hand was trembling.
‘I am here because I made a vow to my father as he lay dying, a promise to keep his home and his legacy,’ she said. ‘And ’tis as sacred to me as yours is to you, my lord.’
Rising gracefully to her feet, she hurried away. Reynold pushed himself upwards, but his foot caught on the errant stool and he sank back down on the bench with a curse. What use to go after her anyway? The last thing he needed was to hare off after her into her bedchamber, a place where he might not be able to control himself, his tongue doing far worse than loosing a few careless words.
Turning his head away from her retreating figure, Reynold came face to face with his squire, who obviously had taken umbrage at his rudeness. ’Twas no surprise since Peregrine was Mistress Sexton’s most ardent supporter.
‘You are the spoiled one!’ the boy said. ‘How many people are blessed with what you have? Did you ever take a moment to realise that you have wealth beyond what the rest of us can imagine, a loving family to protect you and stand by you, and brothers who would die for you, if necessary?’
Reynold stared in shock as his squire continued. ‘Your father is not only caring, but wise, and does not barter his sons for power, as some noble families do. He lets all of you do as you wish, while gently guiding you. I do not have a father. I don’t have any brothers. The l’Estranges took my sister and I in when our mother was killed, and we are grateful every day for our rescue.’
Reynold felt a pang at the story, but the boy soon lost his sympathy with a mocking snort. ‘But, oh my, you have a bad leg! Well, so what? Do you know how many of the truly lame would love to be you? How many of the poor cannot feed themselves because of their infirmities? You can get around and do nearly everything anyone else does, often better than most because you are tall and strong and have been trained as a knight.’
Reynold sat staring, enraged at the way the boy dared speak to him, and yet, even in his anger, he recognised a bitter truth.
‘How many people look everywhere for love? But when you have it given to you freely, you run away from it. You fled from your family, and now you would turn from the woman who loves you. It’s easier for you to believe the worst, that all women are spoiled, selfish and deceitful, than to be a man. Slay me if you will, but you’re the selfish one, my lord.’
Reynold barely listened as the quaking youth finished speaking, for his attention had been caught and held by the most startling of Peregrine’s claims: the woman who loves you.
Chapter Eleven
R eynold stared at the squire, his heart stopped in his chest. Surely, he had not heard the boy aright? And if he had, Peregrine must be mistaken. As Reynold looked into the youth’s mutinous expression, all he saw was jealousy. The squire was so besotted himself, he would weave some tale to explain his own lack. That was all that lay behind his incredible claim. For Mistress Sexton did not, could not, love one such as Reynold de Burgh.
Rising to his feet, Reynold once again was tripped by the edge of the stool, and everything inside him boiled over. He lashed out, kicking the small wooden prop, a hated symbol of his infirmity, with all the strength of his confusion and frustration. It clattered across the tiles to bang up against the carved panel at the back of the hall, accomplishing nothing.
But then he heard a shriek from behind the screen. What the devil? Reynold took a step forwards just as Urban scurried out from the narrow passage, looking terrified. The man blinked, as though dazed, and for a moment Reynold wondered whether the stool had struck him. But it lay on its side, intact, against the edge of the screen.
‘What is it? Are we under attack? What are you doing?’
‘I might ask the same of you,’ Reynold said. He had become used to Urban skulking about, but was the fellow actually spying on him? And what did he hope to gain by it? But Reynold had only to remember what the man had just heard to have his answer, and he felt his face heat.
‘What do you behind the screen?’ Reynold asked, moving closer.
‘Nothing,’ Urban answered. He reached up to swipe at his eyes with one hand, as though unconcerned.
But Reynold would not be so easily dismissed. ‘Would you spy upon me?’ he demanded. His temper, loosed once, was now barely leashed.
Urban’s expression became shuttered. ‘What care I what you do?’ he asked, in a belligerent tone. As Reynold advanced, he frowned. ‘This hall is my home, and I am free to go where I will.’
‘As long as you do me no ill, Master Urban,’ Reynold said, leaving no doubt as to his intent.
For a moment, Reynold thought the man would argue, but he turned and scurried away, back behind the panel to the kitchens.
Reynold stood watching until Urban disappeared, only then realising that his hand was upon the hilt of his sword, ready for battle.
‘My lord?’
Reynold turned to see that Peregrine was standing beside him, wearing a puzzled expression. ‘I don’t think he was spying,’ the boy said. ‘I think he was asleep back there.’
‘Asleep?’ Reynold echoed with a snort. ‘Doesn’t he get enough rest at night that he would nod off during the day?’ The words were meant to mock the useless steward, who did little
to grow weary, and yet as soon as he spoke them, Reynold sucked in a harsh breath. The idea that struck him so forcefully was obvious now that he thought about it. Indeed, one of his wilier brothers would have caught on far earlier.
‘What?’ Peregrine asked, seeing the look on his face.
Glancing at the boy, Reynold realised that he had failed to follow his own advice. He had warned Peregrine often enough to be wary, and yet he had accepted the residents of Grim’s End without question when any one of them could be unworthy of his trust. Alec or Adele or even young Peregrine, the squire who appeared out of nowhere, might have a past or present at odds with what they showed to the world. Urban, the least likeable and most difficult, would be the easiest to suspect, and for that very reason Reynold tended to discount him. And yet…
‘Urban is not always with us,’ Reynold said aloud. Although he did not keep an eye on the inhabitants of Grim’s End at all times, there were so few that it was easy to notice when someone was missing.
Peregrine frowned, as though trying, as usual, to follow Reynold’s thoughts. ‘Sometimes he goes looking for game,’ the boy said.
‘And yet he has produced nothing,’ Reynold said. At other times, he was simply gone, and Reynold had never questioned where, perhaps because Mistress Sexton’s man might be cowering in the cellar, with or without pitchfork.
Reynold glanced at Peregrine, who would trust all and sundry, and saw that even the boy was frowning. ‘You don’t think that Urban has something to do with the…dragon, do you?’ he asked. ‘But he’s always been the most fearful.’
It was difficult for Reynold to believe that Urban had anything to do with the attacks on the village, either, for the former steward seemed too frightened, too righteous and too inept. ‘I don’t know,’ Reynold said slowly. ‘But if he is so weary as to sleep during the day, perhaps we should see for ourselves what he is about at night.’
Reynold de Burgh: The Dark Knight Page 14