Mathieu shook his head. “Nay. In bringing her to Coudenburg, you made the dreams of a simple tailor’s daughter come true.”
As well, mayhap, those of a certain ostler.
“Does Eva know how you feel for her?” she asked.
Mathieu shifted in his seat. “She knows I am drawn to her. Yet I believe she looks down upon me for my station. She hesitated not to allow the knight replace me for the bassadance—”
“You know she had no choice in that matter.”
“’Twas her choice to offer her token to the knight on the jousting field,” he countered.
Isabella scowled. “As I said, she is but an innocent girl with dreams of grandeur. Besides, it did not appear she was too pleased when the knight collected his prize.”
Mathieu blinked up at her. “What do you mean? I left the field before the joust ended.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “So you did not see? Gaspard was quite embarrassed by the girl’s reaction to his kiss.”
The ostler expression transformed, his lips quirking. “Is that so? Mayhap I shall renew my efforts to woo the maiden.”
The duchess leaned her chin on her hand and gazed off across the great room. “If she lives.”
Sobering quickly, Mathieu snapped, “Did the guards ever find the man who did this thing?” An edge sharpened his tone like a blade.
“Nay. Whomever it was disappeared into the night like a phantom.”
“If I ever catch the rogue, he shall die by my own hand,” he growled, his fist tightening around the knife until his knuckles were white.
A figure appeared in the stairwell. Isabella straightened in her chair. “Captain Knape. ’Tis about time you showed your face.” Her voice was cold and accusatory. One of her thin eyebrows rose.
She felt the ostler stiffen beside her. The duchess knew Mathieu despised the man, but not the reason why. Knape was a rough man, she knew, and stretched the codes of chivalry to their limits. But a knight needed to be so in order to survive on the battlefield. ’Twas one of the reasons she had never pushed Mathieu to continue his training and vie for knighthood.
Not that the ostler didn’t possess the bravery or weaponry skills—she knew he did. But sheer brutality and cold-hearted killing took a special kind of man. Mathieu would not be happy living such a life.
Still, she wondered about his hatred for Knape. Something specific must have happened between the men . . .
“Shall I have the servants bring you food, Captain Knape?” she asked.
The tall knight shook his head, avoiding her gaze. He was unshaven and dressed in a rumpled tunic she guessed he’d slept in. The duke told her the captain had drunk to excess the night before.
Knape made his way quickly across the room, pausing only briefly to bow before the duchess. “Nay, Your Grace. I will sup with my men.”
“You have heard, I trust, of the tragedy in the bailey last night?” she asked as he strode off, trying to keep her patience in check. She did not take lightly to being shunned.
Knape froze with his back toward the dais. When he finally jerked around, he drew up, his whole body taut like a bow.
“Nay, Your Grace. What happened?” Knape’s tone was strained.
Before the duchess could relate the tale, Mathieu wiped his mouth and rose to his feet. “Lady Duchess, I will return to my quarters until ’tis time to tend the lady’s wound again.” He spoke low so only she would hear his words.
Isabella squinted up at him and paused before nodding her permission.
She must, she decided, take the ostler aside and find out what caused him such disdain for the captain. Mathieu was a decent man, gentle and kind. There must be a very good reason for him to loathe being in the same room with Captain Knape.
Chapter Twenty
Mathieu retired to his quarters but could not sleep. His mind kept whirring back across the bailey, up the spiral staircase, and into the small room where Eva lay. Was she breathing still? Could she possibly have woken?
Dressing in a fresh tunic and braies, the ostler made his way through the stables to the courtyard. He noted the pages and squires had done an admiral job in his absence. The stalls were heavily padded with fresh straw, and the horses munched hay contentedly. He did not see Kleine Uil, but ’twas not unusual. The owl typically hid behind the great mound of hay in a corner, waiting silently for an unsuspecting rodent to venture out.
Torches burned in the bailey, casting light where there would have otherwise been none. No moon tonight, nor were stars visible. The air felt heavy and carried the distinct scent of impending rain.
Mathieu, a natural-born loner, was oddly gripped with the desire for conversation this night. There were so many worries on his mind, so much he was unsure of. He headed for the knight’s encampment in search of Keegan.
He found the big knight leaning against the stone outer wall, a mug in one hand, speaking in low tones with, of all men, Sir Gaspard. Mathieu paused and turned to leave, but too late. Keegan had seen him.
“Ostler! Come here and tell us. You have news of the maiden?” he boomed.
He approached and nodded to both knights. “Sir Keegan. Sir Gaspard. I tended to the maiden this afternoon after the surgeon took his leave.” Mathieu paused and tilted his head. “Do you know who took van Bel back to Brussels?”
“I did, ostler. ’Twas the least I could do,” Gaspard said.
The least I could do. And odd thing to say, Mathieu thought. Why?
He reached over and snatched a mug from the stack next to the barrel and drew some ale. Handing it to Mathieu, he added, “We both sent our squires, Sir Keegan and me, to the stables and aviary this eve as well.”
Mathieu drank deeply. “I thank you both, heartily. The duchess asked if I would tend to the dressings on the girl’s injury.” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “’Tis a ghastly sight.” He gazed off into the darkness, sadness aching in his chest. “I pray she will survive this.”
He filled the two knights in on the details of her injury and how the surgeon had treated it. Both men scowled and shuffled in place as he described the gory wound.
“’Tis no wonder the duchess asked you to tend the injury. I doubt any of the servants or handmaids could stomach it,” Keegan muttered.
“I’m not sure I could,” Gaspard added.
Mathieu shrugged. “I’ve tended battle wounds on the horses, and rest assured, some of them have been as difficult to see as Eva’s injury. ’Tis worse when the maggots set in.”
Both knights, huge and powerful men, winced and groaned.
“No news as to who was responsible?” Keegan asked.
“Nay. The duke believes ’twas someone from outside the castle who was here for the feast. I guess now we’ll never know,” Mathieu said. He turned toward Gaspard. “Sir knight, in all the confusion, I neglected to congratulate you on your jousting victory.” He caught the leer Keegan threw his way and ignored it.
“Thank you. I am proud of the win.” He paused, studying Mathieu with narrowed eyes. “But my victory favor from the maiden didn’t turn out exactly the way I’d hoped.”
Mathieu lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? I had left the field for the stables.”
Gaspard drained his mug and then glared at Mathieu. “I will tell you this, ostler. The lady likes the attention from the knights, the dancing and the flirting. But it’s just as well I have no ideas of pursuing her. I believe her heart already belongs to another.”
The castle was dark and silent as Mathieu crept through into the keep. He had waited as long as he dared, knowing the dressing needed changing, but dreading the task just the same. Two mugs of ale shared with the knights bolstered his courage enough to drive him up the stairs to where she lay.
A single candle flickered on the table, and a handmaiden sat near the window on a chair. Her chin rested on her chest, and she was dozing. Mathieu cleared his throat so as not to scare the wits out of her. She jerked awake, confusion clouding her face.
“I am
the ostler, milady. I have come to tend the maiden’s wound.”
She rose, saying, “I will wait in the hall, my lord. Unless you need my help . . .”
The way her voice trailed off, Mathieu could tell the girl definitely did not want his reply to be “aye.”
“Has there been any change?” he asked.
“Nay. I will wait outside, my lord,” she repeated, scurrying for the door.
A fresh bowl of myrtle powder stood beside the linen wrappings and bottle of unction on the table. Mathieu sucked in a deep breath and knelt next to the pallet.
Her pose and ghostly white pallor made her look so much like a corpse, he shuddered. Folded neatly across her middle, her fingers felt cold to his touch. But a pulse beat still in her neck. Hope flared in Mathieu’s mind when he determined ’twas even stronger than before.
Spiraling two strips of linen into the bowl of unction, he got to work unwrapping Eva’s head. As the bandages fell free, he held his breath. He prayed the ugly incision had not swollen, turned angry, or showed signs of infection.
It did not. A bald spot the size of his palm, where the surgeon had cut away her beautiful blonde hair, surrounded the stitched skin. The tan myrtle powder had absorbed some of the oozing, turning it a sickly dark green. But the wound was dry and did not appear to be bleeding.
Mathieu did better this time. His fingers weren’t shaking so badly—probably thanks to the ale—but he also knew now exactly what had to be done. The task took him half as long as the first time. Eva did not stir at all.
After he’d reapplied the calfskin cap over the dressing, he rested his elbows on the pallet, gazing at her face. If not for the ghoulish cap, one might think she were simply sleeping, peacefully. Her golden lashes fanned across ivory cheeks, and Mathieu felt his throat fill with emotion.
“My lord? How is she?” The duchess’ voice reached him from the doorway.
“She sleeps still, Your Grace. There is no change in the wound.”
Isabella came to crouch beside the pallet. “She sleeps still—better to bear the pain. The surgeon’s work was harsh.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory. “There were slivers of bone . . . he removed them. It is a blessing she sleeps.”
If she ever awakes.
An involuntary shudder racked Mathieu’s shoulders. He could not begin to imagine the pain such a wound would cause, if the girl was conscious.
She patted his shoulder. “My private quarters are across the hall. If you have need of me, alert the guard outside my door. He will rouse me.”
Mathieu remained after the duchess left, kneeling next to the pallet. The pain in his heart throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, a heart that felt as though it were breaking. How had this happened?
Less than a fortnight ago, he had begrudged retrieving the girl from Ghent.
He’d found her to be snobbish and aloof, almost to the point of insulting. Her pride was definitely her strongest suit—a suit she wore like armor. He wondered if what she kept hidden was more than just her illegitimate birth and her defect.
He wondered if he’d ever get the chance to ask her. Rubbing his eyes and blaming the moisture there from exhaustion, he rose to leave. Unable to help himself, he feathered the back of his hand over her cool cheek.
“Sleep peacefully, princess, until your pain has ebbed. But please, please come back to me. Back to the world of the living.” His voice broke. “Give me the chance to win your love,” he whispered.
As he stood he caught sight of her hair, the long, golden ribbons the surgeon had cut away. They had fallen between the pallet and the table. Reverently, he lifted the strands and ran them through his fingers. Stuck together near one end with crusted, dried blood, the remainder of the strands were still as soft as the finest silk. They still smelled like her—fresh and clean, scented with lavender.
A knot formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard. Curling her hair into his fist, he left the chamber.
The next two days passed in a blur for Mathieu. His fatigue increased as his inability to sleep took its toll, and soon he felt as if this entire situation was a terribly bad dream. In more lucid moments—like when he stared down at her horrendous wound—he knew ’twas no nightmare.
On the third night, he came to check on her after the evening meal. Nothing had changed. Like one who was already dead yet continued to breathe, Eva remained still, growing paler. Her full cheeks, Mathieu noticed with horror, had begun to take on a hollowness.
As the evening light faded from the colorful window, the ostler sat beneath it, his back against the stone wall. Exhaustion overtook him. When he closed his eyes, his mind whirled into the recent past, where his Eva was alive and well and feisty.
The afternoon in the aviary, when she’d so delighted him with her interest and bravery with the falcon. When she melted into his arms as though ’twas where she belonged. The scent of her hair, lavender filling his senses. The taste of her lush mouth, hot and warm on his own.
He could see her clearly, in his mind’s eye, dancing down the length of the Great Hall, their hands joined. The look of sheer delight and joy on her face was one he’d never forget. One he prayed, to all that was holy, he would see again.
His Eva.
His mind whirled back to the night of the bonfire, when he’d stolen their first kiss. When she’d come to the stable and met his little owl friend.
How enchanted she had been with the flawed creature, stroking its feathers as Kleine leaned into her hand. She identified with the damaged owl. Eva also recognized, and acknowledged, the part of Mathieu he tried to keep hidden. His softer side. The one that drew him to pamper the infirmed, not pity them.
His Eva.
Then the memory of her attack crashed down on him like a guillotine. Kleine Uil’s screeching. Keegan stooping over her body on the ground. The rivulet of blood trickling off the wedge of granite in the bailey.
He jerked awake to a sound. In the dim light of the almost-spent candle, he could see she had not moved. Did she breathe still, or had the relentless hand of death claimed her?
But he had heard a sound. Had he dreamed it?
A moment later she stirred, moaning, and his heart leapt. He rushed to her side.
When he laid his palm against her cheek, dread washed over him in an all-consuming wave. Her skin was as hot as a kettle on the hearth. She was burning up with fever.
Mathieu stumbled out the door, jarring awake the dozing guard in the hall.
“Please . . . the duchess . . . the maiden worsens.”
Within moments Isabella was at his side. She touched Eva’s head and gasped. “Bring us water,” she shouted to the guard.
They bathed her with cool water until her chemise and the pallet beneath her were soaked.
She fought them, moaning and pushing their hands away in a frenzied battle against the chill. Two handmaids held her down, and between Isabella and Mathieu, they continued until Eva stopped thrashing and went limp. Frighteningly so.
Isabella’s fingers went to her neck as Mathieu pressed his ear to her chest. Still beating, rapid now but still weak. They looked at each other, and the ostler saw the haunted look in Isabella’s eyes.
“I’m sorry I brought her here,” the duchess whispered, a tear leaking from her eye.
“Nay, Lady Duchess. I am not. Meeting Eva of Utrecht was one of the most magical events of my life.”
“But if she dies—”
“If she dies, I will have the brief, wondrous memories of my time with the maiden. Grief could never erase them.” He held the duchess’ gaze. “Eva is special, Lady Duchess. She has touched my soul as none other. I believe she was sent to us for a reason.”
Unable to speak, Isabella’s mouth quivered, and she looked away. With a parting glance at the girl, she quit the room in silence.
Mathieu changed Eva’s dressing again later that night. When he removed the lambskin cap, heat rose off the oil-soaked bandage in a steamy cloud. A haunting revelation washed over him.
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The cap was holding in the heat of her fever.
After redressing the wound, the ostler left the cap off. He bathed her again with cool cloths, over her face and arms, laying a wet strip over her forehead when he was through. She made no sound, no movement as he worked. The pulse in her neck fluttered like Kleine Uil’s heart, yet felt weaker than before. Even though her skin still burned hot, she’d begun to shiver violently.
Agony twisted in his gut as the ostler struggled with the grim reality—the maiden was dying.
There was naught more he could do for her. That anyone could do. Mathieu prayed for a miracle, wishing he could infuse the young girl with his own strength. If he could transfer some of his life’s force upon her broken body . . .
Around the time of the witching hour, Mathieu cast prudence and propriety to the side. He carefully climbed onto the soggy pallet, positioning himself above her head. With his back against the wall, he rested one leg on each side of her body. Then he lifted her until her battered head rested against his chest. He wound his arms around her and lowered his cheek to rest against hers.
Entirely inappropriate, yet entirely essential.
If the maid’s soul was to leave her body this night, Mathieu wanted to be the last to hold her while she lived.
As he held Eva’s limp form, her shivering lessened. Her breathing slowed and grew shallower. His tears flowed unchecked down his own cheek onto hers. Mathieu felt sure she was nearing the end.
He knew he should call for the priest to administer the last rites. That, he decided, would be giving up on her.
That, Mathieu refused to do.
He began to speak to her softly, hoping that somehow his words were penetrating her mind.
“Eva, you have touched a part of my soul I knew not existed. Your beauty, inside and out, has changed me. I could never have earned your love, but I prayed someday I might. I have never known love, but you taught me its magic. I love you, Eva of Utrecht. If ye enter heaven this night, ye shall know it to be true.”
Now facing the colorful round window, the ostler tried to make out the images in the stained glass. ’Twas not one single pane, he realized, but many smaller panels set in a circular pattern. They radiated out from the center like the spokes of a wheel. Or the petals of a flower. Like wildflowers. He recalled Eva’s mention of her love for wildflowers.
The Warrior and the Wildflower Page 17