Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “Mistress...”

  “Get up! Go on!” Flipping the axe in her hands, she whacked him on the legs with its handle.

  “Fuck!” He contracted into a ball, clutching his legs. “Oh, shit! Fuck! Shit!”

  Joanna backed up swiftly to the doorway, unnerved by his reaction.

  He growled a torrent of ragged expletives before sinking, ashen-faced and quivering, onto the cot. “By the blood of the saints, mistress,” he rasped. “Did you have to do that?”

  “If you don’t leave right now,” she blustered, “I’ll do it again.”

  “If I could walk, I’d leave,” he said breathlessly. “My leg is broken.”

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “You’re lying.”

  He whipped back the blanket. “My left leg. And one or two ribs, I think.”

  Joanna fetched her makeshift oil lamp from the salle, careful not to turn her back on her uninvited guest. Holding her axe in one hand and the lamp in the other, she winced to see that his left leg below the knee was grossly swollen beneath the leathern legging.

  “I really did come here with Hugh,” he said wearily. “He went off to find a surgeon for me. That’s his satchel over there.” He nodded toward a leather kitbag in the corner.

  Holding the lamp over it, Joanna recognized it as her brother’s. He must have returned from the Rhineland. Thank God; every time he went off on another far-flung military campaign, she feared she’d never see him again. She dreaded the day one of his comrades showed up at her door to give her his personal effects—or perhaps there would be no one to attend to such niceties, and she would never find out what became of him.

  “How do I know you didn’t steal that satchel from him?” Joanna asked, her confidence faltering. “Perhaps he broke your leg trying to defend himself.”

  “I was attacked in the alley next door. They took my horse and a good deal of my overlord’s silver—but not all of it, thank the saints.” He patted the kidskin purse hanging from his belt. “Your brother came to my assistance and brought me here. He said your name was Joanna. You have a cat named—” he frowned as if trying to remember “—Pieretta? No, Petronilla. And she has a brother who’s shy, but I can’t remember his name. Your husband is a silk merchant who spends most of his time abroad. He sleeps down here instead of...” He looked away awkwardly.

  Heat bloomed in Joanna’s cheeks.

  The man on the cot said, “That’s all he told me, that I can remember. I don’t know what else I can say to convince you. I know you’re afraid of me, and you don’t want me here. As soon as your brother comes back, I’ll leave—I just can’t make it out of here on my own.”

  Joanna regarded him for a long, thoughtful moment. He met her gaze steadily, although it seemed he was having trouble focusing on her. His face, beneath its smudges of dirt and half-grown beard, was the face of a young man, carved with distinguished planes and an appealing symmetry. There was something earnest and direct about his eyes, despite the drunkenness that made them waver slightly. True, his brown riding tunic was filthy, but it was a tunic of good quality—as were his belt and boots.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “They call me Graeham Fox. I’m an Englishman, but I serve as serjant to a Norman baron.”

  Joanna set the axe and lamp on the bench. “What brings you to London?”

  He turned his head on the pillow, raking a hand through his lank hair. A gold signet ring glimmered on his index finger. “I was just passing through on my way to visit...kinsmen.”

  “Where are they?”

  After a moment’s pause, he said, “Oxfordshire.”

  “How did you happen to find yourself in West Cheap?” She moved a little closer to the bed.

  “I was looking for an inn.”

  “Most of the public inns are outside the city walls.”

  “I didn’t want to have to worry about being out and about when they locked the gates at curfew.”

  Joanna contemplated his distended leg uneasily. “That must hurt.”

  “The wine helped...for a while.” Until she’d hit him with that axe handle.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He smiled disarmingly. “You handled yourself rather well, I thought. I was impressed.”

  She couldn’t help but return his smile. “Are you hungry? I bought two eel turnovers at the cookshop. You may have one if you’d like.”

  He shook his head. “I fear I’d never keep it down after all that wine. Thanks all the same.”

  The back door opened. Joanna heard footsteps and the voices of men advancing down the hallway adjacent to the storeroom; one of the voices belonged to Hugh. She rose and met him in the doorway.

  “Joanna!” Hugh lifted her off her feet and swung her around. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” She kissed him on his scratchy cheek, noting with an indulgent smile that he still wore that heathen earring. “And I’ve been worried about you. Thank God you’re home.”

  “For the present,” he said carefully.

  Her mood, so swiftly elevated, plummeted abruptly. “Of course. For the present.” She nodded toward Graeham Fox, watching them from the cot. “Still bringing home strays for me to fix, I see.”

  Chuckling, Hugh told Graeham, “She never could resist a creature in need. How are you?”

  “Reeling drunk.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Someone cleared his throat. Hugh stepped aside to let a stocky man of advanced years enter the storeroom.

  “Joanna,” Hugh said, “do you know Master Aldfrith?”

  “By sight and reputation.”

  Joanna attempted to introduce Aldfrith to Graeham Fox, but the surgeon interrupted her with a brusque string of commands. “More light! Clean water! And clean linen, if you’ve got it.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Wish I had my assistants with me, but they’re in Southwark tonight, squandering their pay at the stews and most likely catching the pox in the bargain. You two will have to do.”

  Hugh lit a horn lantern off the oil lamp and hung it from a ceiling beam while Joanna fetched a bucket of water from the communal well out back. She produced two clean linen sheets and handed them over to Master Aldfrith, reflecting uncharitably that they’d be ruined now, and she could ill afford to replace them.

  The surgeon sent Hugh to the table in the salle to tear the sheets into long strips, and ordered Joanna to undress the patient.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Boots, leggings, tunic, shirt,” Aldfrith elaborated as he donned a leather apron. “Off. He may keep his drawers on.” He arched an eyebrow at her hesitation. “Come now. A maiden might blush at such a task, but you’re a married woman—or was I misinformed?”

  The serjant was observing her with quiet interest. Scalding heat rose in her cheeks.

  “I can do it myself,” Graeham said, grimacing as he tried to sit up.

  “Lie still!” Aldfrith barked as he pulled surgical tools out of his bag and laid them out on the low storage chest next to the cot. “You’ll only worsen your injuries.”

  “He’s right,” Joanna said, unsure why she’d balked at the request, and feeling like a fool for having done so. “You shouldn’t be exerting yourself. And I don’t mind—really.” She leaned over the foot of the cot and unlaced Graeham’s left boot; he hitched in a breath when she pulled it off, although she strove to be gentle. The right boot came next, and then she moved around to his side and studied the thong that bound the sheet of leather around his left leg.

  “It’s tied off up here.” Graeham gathered up his knee-length tunic to expose the top of the legging, a short expanse of densely muscled thigh, and the hem of his linen underdrawers.

  “Right, then.” Joanna tugged at the thong, which had been knotted off and tucked under itself, but the swelling had apparently spread up his leg, because the narrow strip of leather wouldn’t budge. She plucked futilely at the knot, all too aware of her hands grazing his bare thigh in an inadvertent caress
, the hair there tickling her fingers, and of him watching her with his heavy-lidded, strangely intent gaze. Her skin felt prickly all over, as if it were suddenly too small for her.

  “Perhaps you should just cut it off,” he said.

  “Ah, yes. All right.” Joanna retrieved her little dagger from its sheath on her girdle, slid it beneath the thong and severed it. She unwound it carefully, so as not to jostle Graeham, and then peeled away the leather wrapping. Beneath it he wore a woollen stocking, tightly stretched over his lower leg, and this she cautiously snipped away with the embroidery shears attached to her chatelaine.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered when she saw his shin. It was misshapen where the bone had snapped, the flesh inflamed and mottled with blue-black bruising.

  “Hmph.” Aldfrith paused in his preparations to peer at the damaged leg. “At least the bone didn’t break the skin. I can put these away.” He repacked several hellish-looking knives and a saw.

  The relief on Graeham’s face more than matched her own. Working swiftly, she divested him of the other legging as he unbuckled and set aside his belt. Between them, they managed to wrestle him out of his tunic and shirt. His left side was swollen in the area of the lower ribs, the only imperfection on a torso that was otherwise the epitome of masculine grace and power. His shoulders were wide and packed with muscle, his belly lean, his hips narrow beneath his loose linen drawers. When he raised a hand to comb the unruly hair off his face, bands of muscle flexed and contracted in his arms. It was all Joanna could do to keep from gaping at the man.

  Hugh came in with his strips of linen, one of which Aldfrith used to bind Graeham’s broken ribs, a swift and seemingly painless operation. The rest he placed on the cot next to Graeham, along with two slender ash boards the length of a man’s leg, lined with sheepskin.

  “How long will it take to set the leg?” Joanna asked.

  “Not long for the actual setting,” Aldfrith replied. “Most of the time is spent securing the splints. I need someone strong—” he pointed to Hugh “—that would be you, to help me reposition the bone. Normally I like a couple of sturdy men to hold a patient down for this. Perhaps there are some fellows in the neighborhood who’d be willing—”

  “No one needs to hold me down,” Graeham said, hiking himself up on an elbow.

  “Lie still!” Aldfrith commanded.

  Graeham obeyed with a grudging lack of grace. “I don’t need to be held down. I won’t move.”

  Aldfrith smirked. “You don’t think so now, but wait till we start realigning those bones. You’ll be thrashing and screaming like you were on fire.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “Just do it.”

  The surgeon shook his head, smiling indulgently. “While I admire your optimism, serjant, you really can’t imagine—”

  “Do it.”

  Scowling, Aldfrith motioned Joanna toward the head of the bed. “Hold his shoulders down.”

  Graeham struggled to sit up again. “I said—”

  “Consider it a compromise,” Aldfrith said mildly. “A sop to appease a grumpy old surgeon. I daresay you could toss her off like a gnat if you were so inclined.”

  “And I’d have something to do,” Joanna said, “besides standing about wringing my hands.” She caught Graeham’s eye and smiled beseechingly.

  Grim-faced, he looked at the ceiling. “Fine.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and tentatively rested her hands on his shoulders; they felt like warm rock beneath her palms.

  Aldfrith briefed Hugh as to what was expected of him, then lifted Graeham’s leg while Hugh slid one of the splints beneath it. Graeham let out a pent-up breath as his leg settled onto the fleece-lined board.

  The two men positioned themselves above and below the fracture, their hands wrapped firmly around Graeham’s leg. “Ready?” the surgeon asked.

  Hugh nodded. Joanna pressed as hard as she could on Graeham’s shoulders.

  “Now.”

  A low, strangled groan rose from Graeham’s throat as the two men leaned into their work. He squeezed his eyes shut, bared his teeth, arched his back.

  “It won’t take long,” Joanna promised in a trembling voice. She eased up on his shoulders when it became clear he could keep himself still, as promised. Smoothing stray tendrils of hair off his forehead, she said, “Ride it out.”

  “Pull harder,” the surgeon ordered.

  Graeham swore between his teeth, whipped both hands up to grab Joanna’s wrists. She slipped her hands into his and squeezed. “‘Twill be over soon.”

  Graeham’s lungs pumped like a bellows; his face was darkly flushed.

  Leaning down, Joanna whispered into his ear, “You’re very brave. You’re doing very well.”

  He might have smiled, or perhaps it was just a grimace.

  “Perfect,” announced the surgeon, slightly out of breath. “Or as near as we’re likely to get it. Let’s have the other splint.”

  Hugh placed the second board on top of Graeham’s leg and held the two splints together while Aldfrith wrapped the strips of linen tightly around them. The surgeon worked with practiced, economical movements, yet still it seemed to take forever. Graeham lay with his eyes closed, his face pale as wax and sheened with sweat. The fierce grip with which he held Joanna’s hands did not let up.

  “That’s it, then,” the surgeon announced at long last. Sitting back, he admired Graeham Fox’s splinted leg. “Not bad, considering I had amateur help. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” he asked Hugh.

  “Once or twice, but it was slapdash work on the battlefield. I doubt those fellows ever walked properly again.”

  “Our fearless and stoical serjant will walk properly,” Aldfrith promised as he untied his apron, “providing he stays off that leg for two months, with complete bed rest in the beginning, only gradually adding—”

  “Two months!” Graeham exclaimed, letting go of Joanna’s hands and trying to sit up.

  “Lie still!” Aldfrith shouted. “Do you want to ruin my beautiful work?”

  “I can’t stay off my feet for two months. I have to...I have a matter of great urgency to attend to.”

  “You can write to your family in Oxfordshire,” Joanna said, “and let them know you’ll be delayed.”

  “Nay,” he groaned, covering his face with his hands. “You don’t understand. I can’t explain.”

  “I’ll be happy to write the letter for you,” she offered diplomatically.

  “I can write,” he said. “‘Tisn’t that. It’s just...” He shook his head. “Bloody hell. Two bloody months.”

  “Possibly three,” Aldfrith said. “Or even more. It all depends on how quickly those bones knit. The more rested you keep yourself, the quicker you’ll heal.”

  Graeham muttered something under his breath that Joanna was just as happy not to hear.

  “Don’t take the splints off,” the surgeon said as he closed up his bag and gained his feet. “I’ll be back to check up on you, and I’ll change them when it’s needed, and bring you a crutch as well.”

  “I won’t be here,” Graeham said. “I’m staying at St. Bartholemew’s.”

  “That’s convenient,” said the surgeon, “what with the hospital being right there. The sisters know what they’re doing. They can tend to your leg.”

  “I don’t understand,” Joanna said. “If you’ve got a place to stay, why were you looking for an inn this afternoon?”

  Graeham stared at her blankly for a moment. “Ah. Well, it’s just as I told you. I decided I’d prefer lodgings within the walls.”

  “Yes, of course.” He had said that. Still, it seemed curious for a man who was just passing through town to go to such trouble over his lodgings.

  Dusting off his tunic, Aldfrith said, to no one in particular, “I get half a shilling for splinting a leg, plus three pennies extra for coming here instead of doing it in my shop.”

  Hugh started digging into his purse, but Graeham said, “Put your money away
. You’ve done enough for me.” He pointed to his purse on the floor, still attached to his belt. “Take it out of here.”

  Joanna weighed the kidskin pouch in her hand, estimating it at half a pound or more. Opening it, she saw that it was all silver pennies. The only time she’d ever see that much money in one place was when her father would unlock his money chest to calculate his fortune.

  Of course, it wasn’t the serjant’s money, but his overlord’s. Most soldiers, with the exception of knights, possessed only enough silver to pay for their next horn of ale—or their next woman.

  She counted out nine pennies and handed them to Aldfrith, who recounted them, slipped them into his own purse, and took his leave.

  Graeham yawned.

  “Are you tired after your ordeal?” Hugh asked.

  “What ordeal?” The serjant smiled gamely. “‘Twas more trouble for you two than for me—I got to just lie here. I am hungry, though.” He smiled at Joanna. “I wouldn’t mind one of those eel turnovers now.”

  Joanna pulled the blanket up to cover him. “I’ll go get it.”

  In the salle, Joanna found both cats on the table, feasting on the turnovers, having managed to unwrap them. “Manfrid! Petronilla! Scat!” They leapt down and tore off into the shop stall. She stared at the half-eaten pasties, sick at heart over having spent one of her last precious pennies to feed those spoiled creatures.

  Joanna lured the animals into the rear yard by clicking her tongue—the signal that they were to be fed—and dumped the remains of the turnovers into their food bowl by the back door. They’d been an extravagance, a final treat on the eve of complete penury; now they were cat food. “Enjoy this luxury while you can.” She petted the cats as they hunkered down to eat. “Soon you’ll be reduced to catching your own food.” She didn’t like to think what she’d be reduced to.

  Crossing the croft to the kitchen, Joanna scrounged up the best supper she could manage, given her meager provisions—dense, dark rye bread spread with honey and a cup of buttermilk—and brought it back to the storeroom.

  Hugh held his finger to his lips when she entered the little chamber. Grinning, he cocked his head toward the cot. Graeham lay with his eyes closed, one arm arcing gracefully above his head, fast asleep.