Mathieu wondered again at the placement of such an exquisite window in this tiny room.
The moon’s cool rays radiated through the complex design, causing the air around them to glow. The effect was mesmerizing. As he gazed upon it, a strange peace settled over him as he succumbed to exhaustion.
Chapter Twenty-One
Isabella crept into the room at dawn’s first light. After helping the ostler deal with Eva’s raging fever, she had gone back to her quarters with a heavy heart, certain the girl would not live until the morn. Sleep eluded her. Finally she rose and dressed, then made her way across the hall.
Shock and pity washed over her at the scene. Mathieu lay in the bed with the girl, holding her in his arms on the sodden pallet. The ostler’s scarred cheek rested against Eva’s, on the side opposite her wound. He was deeply asleep.
Two damaged creatures, clinging to one another. Her heart clutched.
The girl, she feared, had ceased breathing.
She knelt beside them and laid her fingers on Eva’s arm. ’Twas cool and damp, and the duchess’ stomach lurched. It was then she noticed how the girl’s hand clutched Mathieu’s wrists. It looked as though she’d been hanging on as one drowning to a floating branch.
Isabella laid her fingers on the girl’s neck and was shocked to feel a pulse. ’Twas stronger now, no longer fluttering like a captive bird. Her fever had broken, and she lived still. A burst of hope bloomed in her chest.
The duchess hurried into the hall and summoned the guard.
*
Mathieu awoke to a throbbing pain. Cocked at an odd angle against the wall, his neck was so stiff he could barely move his head. His arms felt empty and cold. His clothing was soaked through to the skin from the soggy pallet beneath him.
Eva was gone.
Bolting to his feet, Mathieu nearly collided with the duchess in the doorway.
“Is she . . .?” He could not bear to say the words he knew to be true.
The expression on Isabella’s face first confused, and then angered him. Her mouth was quirked, as though trying to suppress a smile. ’Twas funny? His fists clenched as he croaked out the question.
“Where is she?”
The duchess took hold of Mathieu’s arm and led him, silently, across the hall into her personal quarters. There, on a padded bench with a tall, carved back, lay Eva. Dread consumed him. Her body was laid out . . . but on a settle in the duchess’ private quarters? ’Twas odd . . .
He hurried to Eva’s body and dropped to his knees, sobs racking his chest.
“No, Mathieu. Do not grieve. She lives.” Lady Isabella’s voice penetrated his sorrow, and for a moment, the ostler was befuddled.
It was not until he laid his ear to Eva’s chest and heard her heart beating, steady and strong, that he believed the duchess’ words. She slept still, yet her skin was cool. No fever. The duchess’ handmaids had stripped her wet chemise and replaced it with a clean, dry frock. He looked up at Isabella, who was now smiling openly.
“I had to get her off the wet pallet and into fresh clothes,” she said.
Mathieu cringed, realizing how it was Isabella had found him. In the bed, holding the maiden.
“I am sorry, milady. I know what I did was improper. But she was shivering. I hoped only to warm and comfort her.”
Isabella closed her eyes, shaking her head. “You did naught wrong, ostler. For all we know, yours may have been the life force holding her spirit within her body.”
“’Twas my hope,” Mathieu choked out.
“She is past the danger of the fever. A miracle,” she said. “Now we need pray for yet another—that she wakes. Wakes to see and recognize the man who truly loves her.”
The ostler stood, dumbfounded. He did not know what to say.
The servants entered the room carrying the bandages and unction.
“’Tis time to change the dressing, Mathieu. If you would, please,” the duchess said. She eyed him up and down, standing there in his soaking garments, dripping on her solar floor. “But first, you should go change into dry clothes.”
*
While Mathieu was gone, Isabella ordered a new, dry pallet to be placed in the small room, along with rations for the ostler to break his fast. She knew he wouldn’t want to leave Eva yet again to dine in the Great Hall.
Mathieu returned shortly after, and the duchess met him in the hall.
“How is she, Lady Duchess? Still no fever?” he asked, rubbing his hands, one over the other.
“She is the same, Mathieu. We have moved her back into the oratory, onto a dry pallet.” She sobered. “Still, she has not awoken, I’m afraid.”
The duchess motioned for him to follow her. When they entered the room, as before, Eva lay in a corpse-like pose, her hands folded on her middle. Isabella was pleased to notice the room smelled much better now, with the fresh pallet and a new layer of scented rushes covering the floor. He watched Mathieu kneel at the girl’s side to check the pulse in her neck. His sigh of relief clutched at her heart.
“I have left you bread and cheese, with a little wine, Mathieu. You are welcome to break your fast here, if you wish.”
“Many thanks, milady.” Mathieu pulled the single chair closer to the pallet and settled into it. He glanced about the small room. “What is this place, Lady Duchess? It seems an odd room for such a wondrous window.” He motioned to the round, stained glass, glowing brilliantly now in the morning sun.
“This was intended as my private chapel. When my husband, Philip, took over the conversion of the castle to a residence, he ordered this room be built for me.” Tears blurred her vision. She motioned toward the window. “The colorful window amplifies the light pouring in . . . like divine light from heaven.”
“’Tis most powerful.” He laid a hand over Eva’s, and she could see he was fighting back emotion.
“I thought ’twould be the best place for Eva. Here, I pray, the heavens will shine their light down upon her, and mayhap heal her.” She gathered her skirts and turned to leave. “Eat, Mathieu. You must keep up your strength.”
The ostler stood and bowed before her. “I know ’tis most irregular to ask I be allowed to remain, Lady Duchess. You may assign a handmaiden to join me if you wish—”
She waved a hand in the air. “The handmaiden who was here last night waited outside the door until you had finished with Eva’s bandage. I then sent her away.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “I have no doubts your intentions with the girl are honorable.”
Mathieu heaved a deep sigh and raked a hand through his hair. “If she awakes . . . no, when she awakes, I intend to ask Eva for her hand in marriage.” He hesitated before adding, “I will ask the duke for her hand.”
The duchess was not surprised at his words. She had witnessed, firsthand, how the relationship between the two had flickered with promise. ’Twas true, Eva had met Mathieu less than a fortnight ago, yet some things, she knew, were simply meant to be.
To Isabella’s mind, Eva and Mathieu were meant to be.
“She will most likely refuse me,” he added sadly. “She has set her sights higher.”
“You may be surprised, ostler. Eva has learned much since she’s come here to the castle. She’s also, I daresay, matured a great deal in her thinking.”
Isabella found Philip in the Great Hall. He was sitting with his arms crossed on the table, staring into his goblet as the servants cleared away the morning meal. When she stepped up onto the dais, he greeted her with a wan smile.
“Milady. How does the maiden fare?” he asked.
“She breathes still, but has not awoken.” Isabella took the seat next to her husband. “Do you still intend to travel to Ghent this day?”
Philip nodded. “’Tis not much I can do for the girl, even if I stay.” He met her gaze, concern pinching his brows. “Shall I inform her family of her fate while I am there?”
Her family. The duke’s indifference roused ire in Isabella’s chest. “Her family? I believe you
are a member of her family, are you not, Philip?”
His scowl spoke volumes. “Aye. I am her father, but I did not raise the girl. I am not one who has grown to love her, and who will miss her. If she does not live,” he added quickly.
The duchess snapped around in her chair to glare at him. “We do not yet know if the girl’s life is forfeit, do we?” Isabella took a sip from her goblet the servant had just filled. Quietly, she added, “The fever broke during the night. She may have a chance at life after all.”
Philip looked up and smiled. “Good news! So I shall send word to . . . her maman that she may be coming home soon?”
“Nay. Eva may not be going home soon, even if she recovers. Do not send word. Not yet.”
“Why so?”
Isabella set down her goblet, her eyes boring into his. “The ostler has expressed . . . interest in the maiden. We may have, inadvertently—and with no help from you, I might add—found a marriage match for Eva by bringing her here to Coudenburg.”
The duke’s mouth flattened, and Isabella wasn’t sure if it was due to her insult or to the proposed match. Until he spoke.
“I received a missive this morn, milady,” he began, “from Master Arnolfini in Ghent. He has an apprentice . . . an Italian called Stefano. He has expressed interest in the girl as well.”
Isabella tipped up her chin. “Eva mentioned this man to me. She has no interest in the Italian.”
Philip sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “That may be so. But a merchant’s wife lives much more comfortably than an ostler’s. Do you not agree?”
Isabella bristled. “Marriage can be more than a domestic arrangement,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Oh. Is it love to which you refer? Have the bard’s tales tainted your mind with the ridiculous idea of romance?” Philip hissed, his tone as sharp as vinegar.
He jumped, however, when the lady’s fist came down on the table, rattling everything on its surface.
“To you—as to most men—love is synonymous with lust, nothing more. Pleasures of the flesh, fleeting and inconsequential.” She glared at him, narrowing her eyes. “Love does exist, though, dear Philip. Mayhap not for me or you. ’Tis true, ’tis a rare find in this world. But I believe Eva has a chance for this wondrous thing, with Mathieu. As Alys has with Rutger,” she added.
Philip ran his hand through his short, dark hair. “I had forgotten. Alys is to marry the blacksmith’s apprentice soon, is she not? He asked for her hand on May Day.”
“Aye. The union was to take place before you left for Ghent, but Eva’s injury changed those plans. When do you intend to return? We will schedule the wedding for then.”
“I should return within a fortnight. The business I have there should not take long.”
Isabella couldn’t help but wonder exactly what “business” Philip referred to. Would his short trip result in yet another bastard? She dared not ask.
At this point, she had come to where she did not care.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eva was in her room at home, in Ghent, that which she shared with her two siblings. Young Tomas was awake early, again. Even on the days when she was permitted to sleep late, her younger brother would not allow it. He was trying to wake her, this time by pulling on her hair. A sharp pain throbbed on the side of her head as he tug, tug, tugged. If she didn’t stop him soon, he would pull out her hair by the very roots.
Her eyes fluttered open and she raised a hand to swat him away. But a swirling light of many colors accosted her eyes, making her dizzy. Clutching one hand to her head, she felt not her hair, but a wad of linen. Confusion swept over her, and her stomach twisted. She was going to be sick, she was sure of it. But when she tried to roll over so as not to soil her pallet, a strong, warm hand caught hers. She struggled to focus on the face hovering above her.
’Twas not Tomas. ’Twas Mathieu.
He was . . . smiling. Beaming, in fact. Yet there were tears running down his face, over his puckered scar and into a beard that had grown quite full. She stared at him, thoroughly confused.
“Wha—what happened?” she asked. Her throat felt as dry as pressed linen, her tongue a sticky, starched board.
Mathieu dropped to his knees beside her, grasping both of her hands in his. He laid his forehead on them, and she could feel his body shuddering. Was he ill too?
By God’s bones, she needed some water. “Ostler . . . water. Please.”
He stumbled to his feet and shouted toward the door. “Bring boiled water for the lady, please. She wakes!” He returned to her side, cupping her cheek in his hand. “Praise God. You are still with us.”
She raised her hand to her head once again. The tugging on her scalp had not ceased, and now the pain was threatening to pop her eyes out of her head. “Can you untangle my hair, please, Mathieu. It must be caught on something—”
“Nay, sweet girl. You have an injury. Your pain comes from that.” He turned to the servant who had entered with a pitcher and a cup. “Please, summon the healer. The lady needs something for the pain.”
Several hours later, Eva lay on the pallet, propped up by great, soft pillows the servants had carried in from the duchess’ solar. Her head pounded still, but a potion the healer made her drink was beginning to soften the pain. Many faces had drifted in and out of the small room since she’d awoken, ever-changing.
Except for Mathieu’s. He had not left her side one time.
Now it was Isabella who sat near the pallet, holding one of Eva’s hands. “What is the last thing you remember, Eva? Do you remember who accosted you in the bailey?”
Eva blinked, clawing through her befuddled brain to remember. It seemed a lifetime ago, and yet, just moments. Finally a memory stirred.
“The tiny owl. Kleine Uil. He was screeching. I had come to speak to Mathieu, to thank him. For the dance.” She smiled up at him where he stood behind the duchess.
As the scene formed itself in her mind, her smile faded. “Someone grabbed me. My arm. He tore my beautiful gown. A great gauntlet covered my face. I could not breathe . . .” Her gaze drifted off toward the window. “That’s all I remember.”
Isabella sighed and patted her hand. “’Tis fine, Eva. Do not worry on it any longer.” She turned to the servant by the door. “Can you please bring more broth for the maiden? She’s finished what was here.”
Eva was, truly, starving. Her stomach made odd noises as it turned over on itself, empty as it had been for—as she discovered—four days.
She had been unconscious for four entire days.
Just then a loud, gurgling came from her midsection. Feeling her cheeks warm, she raised a hand and asked, “Your Grace, may I have some bread as well? My stomach demands it.”
Warm laughter from all present felt like an invisible embrace.
“’Tis good to hear you are hungry, Eva. I will send up bread, and perhaps a little cheese.”
When all had left the chamber save Mathieu, she asked, “Alys’ wedding. Did I miss it?”
“Nay. They have postponed the marriage until . . . until you are well. Now ’twill occur when the duke returns from his business in Ghent.”
Eva tensed. The duke had left for Ghent. Why did that frighten her so? Her thinking remained clouded, whether from the injury or the potions, she knew not which.
Think, Eva, think . . . the duke would tell her mother of her injury, certainly but . . .
Her eyes flew wide and she struggled to sit forward. “Mathieu, the duke must be told. The clothier, his apprentice. Stefano intends to ask for my hand.”
She watched the ostler’s face pinch with concern. “Your hand?” He swiped a hand down his face, a mask of anguish. “Are you promised to another, milady?” he asked, his voice a tremulous whisper.
“Nay! The apprentice, he pursues me. But I do not want to marry him. Please—” Isabella came in through the door carrying a tray of food and drink. “Lady Duchess, the duke must know—I do not want to marry Stefano.”
Isabella set down the tray and clasped Eva’s hand. “Worry not. I have spoken with the duke before he departed. No decisions will be made until his return.”
Over the next days, Eva’s strength returned gradually, though the pain in her head persisted. The healer instructed the cook to prepare great pots of tea with ginger, peppermint, and feverfew. Although the taste was rather unpleasant, she found the brew did ease her head from aching for a short time.
’Twas a glorious spring day when the healer first allowed Eva out of the castle. Mathieu held her arm securely as they strolled in the garden, now a riotous mass of color and scents. He led her to a turfed bench to rest in the shade, as the sun had risen high.
“Are you well, milady?” Mathieu asked.
Eva breathed in the floral-scented air and smiled. “I am. The healer’s tea works its magic. And you,” she reached up to cradle the ostler’s cheek in her hand, “your gentle ministrations cause my wound to heal quickly, I believe.” Her hand touched the bandage. “I fear, though, what I shall look like when the wrappings come free. My hair—”
“I would think you beautiful if there was not a hair on your head.”
“Would you?”
He gazed into her eyes. “Aye. And I would do anything for you, Eva. I just wish I could find the man who did this to you.” His fist clenched and unclenched. “I would kill him with my bare hands.”
“Nay. You have it not in you, Mathieu. You are not a killer. ’Tis why a warrior’s life would not suit you.”
He stared at her silently for a moment. “Does that bother you? You had your heart set on a knight, did you not?”
Eva lowered her head. “Aye, I did. I was a silly girl who did not understand what is truly worth seeking in this life. The duchess has taught me well since I arrived here at the castle.”
The Warrior and the Wildflower Page 18