by McCall, Mary
“You,” he whispered upon a moan.
“Nay,” Hugo snapped. “He will die if the leg is not removed.”
“Jerold has made his choice, Hugo,” Bernon admonished. “You insult me by suggesting my bride would purposely harm Jerold.”
“I will exam the wound, Hugo,” she said softly. “If I truly do not believe I can save it, then you may take over.”
Hugo grunted at her and sheathed his sword. “Come, men. We will give her an hour to decide.”
“Don’t you men dare leave,” Barwolf ordered, casting her ferocious glare. Hugo halted and turned toward her with a contemptuous expression. “I will need your help.” Padarn entered the hall. “Padarn, go to the shed and fetch Ardith and Betia please. Tell them to take fresh linens, water, and wine to my chamber. And tell Ardith we will need her medicinal tray too.”
Padarn took off, and she faced the men who stood glaring at her. “Be careful and lift him from the table then follow me. Jerold will use my chamber until he recovers.”
As she turned to leave, she noticed Bernon standing beside William off to the side, watching her. She ran toward him, jumped at his chest, and wrapped her arms around his neck. His arms came up, holding her against him, and she lay her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for washing off the blood. I’m glad you are not hurt, and I am sorry I disobeyed you. I would not have if I hadn’t been so worried about you.” Her tiny hand patted his cheek. “I will try to do better next time, and I appreciate your patience during this discussion. I will not ask you to kiss me now, because of your control problem and I truly need to take care of Jerold, but you should kiss me two extra times tonight, because you have put me off twice. You can put me down now.”
Bernon set his bride on her feet and watched her lead his soldiers, who carried the injured man, toward the alcove containing the anterior tower stairs. What in perdition had just happened?
Geno sauntered across the hall, holding a goblet of ale, and stood next to Bernon. “What did the little wolf say to put such a bemused look on your face?”
“I am not sure,” Bernon replied in a mystified voice.
William chuckled. “You misunderstand, Geno. They were having a discussion about his wife’s behavior. She has agreed with him that she will try to do better in the future.”
“But he never said a word,” Geno pointed out.
Glancing down at his queen, now standing beside him, William winked at her then looked at his two confused vassals. “He will get used to it.”
Padarn entered the front door, toting two buckets of fresh water, and headed for the common tower. A middle-aged woman of short stature with mousy-brown hair and a blotchy olive complexion followed him, carrying a tray piled with bowls, flasks, and linens. A young girl with curly chestnut hair and gentle violet eyes in a heart-shaped face accompanied the woman. She carried a leather case in her arms.
The trio was just passing Bernon when Padarn’s voice increased in volume. “Aye, Ardith, I’m telling the God’s honest truth, I am. Got us a big wounded Norman upstairs and our little lady is plannin’ on tending him. Hope he’s not as strong as he looks. If he starts fightin’ her when the wine burns, one blow from his fists could knock our little angel clear across the room and right out the window, aye, it could.”
Bernon frowned and strode after the trio.
“Where are you going, Bernon?” Matilda asked, laughter almost choking her speech.
“Upstairs to make sure my bride remains indoors.”
Eight
A gouging spear had left a gaping tubular wound through the outside aspect of Jerold’s thigh. He had passed out within minutes after Barwolf started her work. Hugo stood on the opposite side of the bed, watching her as if he expected her to unman his friend.
Bernon stood guard over Barwolf for two hours as she removed splinters and cleaned the horrific injury. She appeared diligent, thorough, and possessed a gentle touch, but God help her, she had tender feelings. She winced and whimpered just so Jerold wouldn’t have to.
As Barwolf worked, she issued quiet requests that sent the Saxons scurrying to do her bidding. Ardith left to escort William and Matilda to the king’s tower. Padarn fetched Mae, the head cook. Barwolf instructed the woman to prepare a simple fare for the evening meal and to meet with her later, so they could plan a celebration feast for the next day. Betia, who on closer inspection appeared about thirteen, remained in the sick room, assisting Barwolf whenever asked and wiping Jerold’s brow with a cool damp cloth.
Padarn returned and informed Barwolf that he had set some boys to cleaning out the rushes and scrubbing the tables in the hall. His wife, Lori, and some of the other women would bring fresh rushes later in the afternoon.
After Barwolf cleaned the wound to her satisfaction, she applied a poultice to both the entrance and exit wounds. Then she bid Hugo to hold Jerold’s leg up, so she could wrap a bandage to hold the dressing in place. She applied the rolled linen with meticulous exactness, carefully smoothing away every wrinkle. She glanced up at Padarn then returned her eyes to her task. “We are almost finished here, Padarn. Can you give me a hand in the dungeon in a few minutes? We have a couple of dead rats that need to be removed before they stink up the place.”
Bernon frowned. “Hugo, you will go help Padarn remove the rats.”
A disgruntled look passed over Hugo’s face, though he nodded.
“’Tis no need to bother Hugo with such a task, Bernon,” Barwolf said. “He is a warrior, after all. Padarn and I can handle it.”
“My wife does not remove dead rats or clean dungeons.” He would instruct her later not to countermand his orders.
Barwolf tied the knot, anchoring the bandage, then turned to face him. “But I clean the dungeon every other Monday. ‘Tis one of my duties, and today is Monday.”
Hugo and the other warriors looked at her as if she was daft.
The muscles in Bernon’s neck corded. “Not. Any. More.”
“Come on with me, Hugo, and bring your friends,” Padarn said. “I’ll show you around the place.”
As the warriors left, Ardith returned and went to her mistress, who was measuring out powder into a cup. Bernon noticed Ardith stood only an inch taller than his wife, had a slight crook in her left forearm from an old break, and a slight lump in the bridge of her nose. Even with those imperfections, Ardith would be a lovely woman without the splotches marring her complexion. He had never seen a skin problem quite like hers.
“The king and queen are settled in the king’s tower,” Ardith said, a slight burr lilting her voice. “Willa will be acting as the queen’s maid while she is here and Manuel will be acting as their page.”
Barwolf gaped at Ardith. “But Manuel is only six summers, and he is not trained.”
“King William took a liking to the boy for some reason.” Ardith shrugged and held her palms upward in a confounded manner. “After Manuel’s outrageous remarks, I’m surprised the king didn’t kill him—or tan his hide at the very least.”
“What did the boy say?” Bernon asked then looked into a pair of flawless violet eyes sparkling with amusement as Ardith turned her gaze on him.
“Well, Manuel bowed all right and proper, looked up at King William, and said he never thought the day would come when a bastard king would come to Strangclyf.” Ardith’s lips quivered with suppressed mirth. “Then he told the king that he was a damn bastard too, so maybe they should be sticking together.”
Barwolf tried unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle and snorted. “I had better talk to him. Manuel has the attention span of a young puppy. He will be off playing somewhere should the king have a message or need anything.”
“Willa is watching out for him. I doubt either of them will be having much to do afore the morrow.” Ardith gave Barwolf a knowing look. “The king and queen are in the bath.”
“Why would the bath occupy them so long?” Barwolf asked.
Ardith turned a reproachful gaze on Bernon. “I cannot say, but mayhap
you’ll be understanding soon.”
Barwolf shrugged. “Well, I thank you for your help, Ardith. Do you mind trading the rest of today and tomorrow? I have much to catch up on, and I would like to check on my special project this afternoon.”
“Trading days for what?” Bernon asked.
“Housekeeper,” Barwolf answered, not looking up from her task. “I usually do Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and Ardith does Sunday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Ardith, you will be the housekeeper every day,” Bernon ordered, clasping his hands behind his back and bracing his stance.
“Aye, milord,” Ardith said with a nod and a smile. “’Tis about time our young lady had a few less duties.”
Barwolf turned incredulous eyes on him. “But Bernon, ‘tis too much work for her.”
“’Tis not open for discussion. Are you finished with Jerold?”
Barwolf raked her fingers through her hair, bowing her head. “I have a potion for him to drink. Then I need to stay with him and make sure he drinks plenty of liquids.”
God’s bones, did she look for work? “Betia can stay with him.”
Barwolf raised wide eyes to his and complained, “But Betia is too young and what if something happens that—”
“Betia, does your voice work?” Bernon asked, casting his fierce gaze on the young girl.
Betia paused, holding a refreshed cloth over the basin. “Aye, Lord Strangclyf.”
“There, you see, ma petite. Betia can call out if she needs help. Ardith can probably even find someone to relieve her later, can you not, Ardith?” he asked in a commanding tone.
“’Twill be no problem,” Ardith declared and smiled triumphantly at Barwolf.
“But what about—”
“You are going to rest,” he ordered, scowling at her. “Honest to God, you look tired enough to drop.”
“’Tis still afternoon. I am not a weakling and there is much to be done.”
“Anything you have to do will either be done by someone else today or wait for the morrow.” She was exasperating, and why did she look at him as if he had just struck her?
“As you wish, milord.” Barwolf bowed her head and finished mixing the potion for Jerold. “Betia, here is the potion. Coax the whole cup down his throat. Then every four hours put a pinch of this powder into a cup of water and make him drink it. He is not to have any wine or ale, and get him to drink a glass of water every hour. Call Ardith if he becomes fevered or delirious.”
“Aye, milady,” Betia replied, accepting the cup and setting about her task.
Barwolf turned to Bernon and raked her fingers through her hair. “Bernon, may I please take a short walk outside before I rest? After being underground and inside most of the day, fresh air will make me feel better.”
Why did her request make him feel like an ogre? “You may as long as you do not take too long or wear yourself out.”
Bernon escorted Barwolf down to the hall and watched her exit the front of the keep. She was mumbling her valuable, rare, and precious litany again. Why did she appear so dejected after he had lightened her duties? She had been treated more like a serf than a daughter her whole life and seemed to equate her value with the work she performed. He wouldn’t put it past the little minx to search out some task and completely exhaust herself.
“God’s bones,” he muttered. He glanced across the hall and saw Medwyn enter the rear portal. “Medwyn, Lady Strangclyf just left by the front door. Follow her and make sure she only walks. She is not to do any work.”
“Aye, milord. I will see to it,” Medwyn replied and exited the hall in Barwolf’s wake.
Bernon looked about the hall and marveled at the size. He hadn’t known anything like this existed on the island. Centered between four towers, the room could easily hold three hundred people. Two lower hearths flanked the front doors where he stood.
Ardith entered the hall, coming from Jerold’s chamber, and he called out to her. “Ardith, come and tell me where things are.”
She hastened to his side and provided a quick overview of the keep’s layout. To his left rose the common tower, which housed the castle servants. Bernon scowled at the insult Barwolf’s father had dealt by placing her there. Next an arched corridor, opulently decorated with ice-blue and white drapes, led to the lord’s great chamber where business was conducted and the coffers were secured. The lord’s tower, providing living accommodations to The Strangclyf and his family, stood in the far-left corner. A massive hearth dominated the wall in front of him with rear double doors on the right exiting seaside. The centurion’s tower arose to the far right beside the ale room screen. The common corridor, less conspicuous than the one leading to the great chamber, gave entry to the ale room, buttery, and pantry. The tower dubbed the king’s tower, to his immediate right, provided residence to important guests. Galleries overlooked the hall on his left and right, and the walls rose four stories providing barrack quarters to one century. Another sprawling three-story structure, attached through the common corridor, housed the rest of the legion.
Ardith finished her explanation and grinned up at her new lord. “Would you be wanting a tour?”
Bernon grit his teeth to keep his mouth from hanging open and shook his head.
“It is a wee bit overwhelming at first glance.” Ardith’s violet eyes sparkled and she lowered her lilting voice as if relating a great secret. “Faith and the truth, it never gets any better.”
He finally looked at her and saw the kindly amusement in her eyes. Something about her seemed familiar and drew him, though he couldn’t understand why. “You don’t speak like the other Saxons?”
“Aye, and my old laird would tan my hide proper if I did,” she replied.
Bernon raised a brow at that news. He never would have expected that answer, considering her olive complexion. “You are a Scot?”
Ardith released a heady laugh. “Now ‘twould surely be courting death if I admitted to being anything other than a Highlander and a MacInnes at that. ‘Tis a pedigree issue, you know.”
Bernon found himself smiling at the woman. “Tell me, Ardith, how did a Highlander and a MacInnes, at that, end up at Strangclyf?”
Her eyes clouded and she gazed out at the hall as if she was looking at her past. “I fell in love with a Saxon. I got stolen on my way down then was forced to marry a brute. He is dead now, may he burn in hell.” She seemed to recollect herself and raised unrepentant eyes to her lord. “I will be apologizing for letting you hear such an awful thing from my mouth, but I’ll not be taking it back. Aurick brought me to Strangclyf to be your lady’s nurse about three months after she lost her mother. My own Betia was but an infant at the time.”
“Did you—” Bernon broke off, seeing Hugo, Padarn, and Geno escort an unkempt Saxon warrior into the hall from the common corridor. The man had beady eyes, shaggy dark hair, and a frizzy matted beard. His wrists were bound, and he walked with a marked limp. Bruises covered his face and Bernon would have sworn contempt flashed across the man’s face for the briefest instant as he spied the Normans in the hall, then the expression fled in favor of a blank mask.
Ardith muttered an expletive under her breath and turned away. “Excuse me, milord. I had best be about my duties.”
She took a wide path around the men, fleeing into the common corridor, and Bernon frowned. Ardith obviously had little use for the Saxon, and he trusted her judgment for some reason he couldn’t fathom.
The men stopped in front of Bernon. The Saxon dropped to one knee, placed his bound fists over his chest, and wavered slightly. “Welcome, Lord Strangclyf. I pledge you my loyalty and my life.”
Bernon raised an inquiring brow at Geno.
“His name is Gremian. We found him in one of the cells.” Geno looked at the Saxon, curled his lip, and snorted.
“One must wonder why he was spared the slaughter,” Bernon mused aloud, turning hard eyes on the man. “Tell me why I should accept your pledge, Gremian?”
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��Hadwyn let me live only because I fooled him into believing I knew the secret. He kept me alive, trying to beat it out of me. I was hoping to stay alive so I could protect your lady, but I failed.” Gremian remained on his knees with his head bowed.
Geno snorted again, Hugo grunted and rolled his eyes, and Padarn glared fierce enough to bore a hole in Gremian’s head. Bernon agreed with their obvious assessment. The recreant was lying, which meant he was some type of spy. Any warrior who would admit to such a terrible failure deserved naught but death. But the rat might lead him to others and he wanted the rebels contained sooner rather than later.
“I will concede the possibility that you speak the truth and accept your pledge,” Bernon said. “Go have someone tend your wounds then crop your hair and shave. You may rest for the remainder of the day and tonight. Your duties will be assigned in the morning.”
“Aye, milord.” Gremian rose and held out his wrists toward Hugo, who glowered at Bernon then cut the man’s bindings.
Padarn waited until Gremian left through the front door then turned his keen gaze upon Bernon. “Dead rats tend to draw vultures, Lord Strangclyf.”
Bernon sighed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Would you care to explain that?”
The wiry man eyed the dagger at Bernon’s waist and tugged on his beard. “’Tis a fine weapon you carry, milord. I remember it well. Your lady used to call the bear on the hilt her protector.” He raised his shrewd eyes back to Bernon’s face. “Told me she thought you were taking over the job.”
“Do you always hedge and speak in riddles, Padarn?” Bernon asked, wiping an exasperated hand over his face.
“Aye, ‘tis a mighty fine dagger.” Padarn’s expression hardened. “I’m sure Gremian remembers it too...seeing how that bear once bit him.”