Lord of Secrets

by Gillgannon, Mary

  She followed him across the yard and into the hall. A man, obviously Anselm, was lying on one of the trestle tables, fully clothed in a mail shirt, braies and boots. His face was flushed and sweaty, his features tight with pain.

  The two knights near the table moved away as Rhosyn and Fitzhugh approached. Rhosyn felt a shiver of unease. These men were the wounded man’s comrades. They would be watching and judging everything she did. If Anselm cried out in pain, which he likely would, they would be distressed.

  She looked at Fitzhugh and then at the men, trying to communicate that he should send them away. He seemed to understand. “Baldwin, Robert, you should go back to the barracks and rest. The healer and I will deal with this.”

  The two knights gave their wounded companion a worried glance before leaving the hall.

  Rhosyn let out her breath in relief. She was anxious enough about what she had to do. She did not need Anselm’s friends watching and judging her.

  She looked at Fitzhugh. “We must undress him. So I can better feel the bones.”

  The wounded man cried out. “Nay, please! I can’t bear it.”

  “We must do this, Anselm,” Fitzhugh said. His voice was gentle.

  The wounded man raised his head and looked at Rhosyn, then shrank away. He was clearly terrified of what she was going to do.

  “His mail can remain on for now,” she said. “But we must get his boots and braies off. First, I will give him the poppy juice. Is there mead?”

  “Nay. But we do have wine.” Fitzhugh motioned to a ewer and a cup on a nearby table. Rhosyn put down her basket and poured a small amount of wine and added the poppy juice.

  Fitzhugh took the cup from her, lifted Anselm’s shoulders and held the cup to his lips. When Anselm had finished drinking, Fitzhugh asked, “How long before it muddles his wits?”

  “Not long.”

  “So, for now we wait.” Fitzhugh gestured to the ewer. “Would you like some wine? It might hearten you.”

  “Aye, but rinse the cup out first. I don’t want to imbibe any poppy.”

  Fitzhugh rinsed out the cup with a small amount of wine and then poured some more. She took a few sips. She had not had wine since she left Cardiff. She’d always enjoyed the subtle flavor. It wasn’t bitter like ale, or as cloyingly sweet as mead.

  Fitzhugh took the cup from her and had a swallow. She could not help thinking that his mouth was touching the very place her lips had touched.

  “’Tis good wine,” he said. “I can scarce believe Roscales left it behind. There’s only one cask though, so we must save it for special situations. If we have guests, or for circumstances like this.”

  “In Wales there is a drink that comes from Ireland, called uiske beathe. ’Tis even stronger than mead. I wish we had some now.”

  He nodded and then smiled at her. She felt a tingling warmth building inside her that was not from the wine. As odd as it was, being near this man seemed to relax and soothe her.

  They each had a few more swallows of the wine, sharing the cup. When he looked at her, his blue, blue eyes, which should have seemed cold, made her feel as if she was bathed in warmth. She savored the feeling for a bit, only reluctantly returning her attention to the wounded man.

  She touched his arm, to see if he stirred. He mumbled a bit, but did not truly rouse. Fitzhugh eased off the man’s boots. Then they started to remove his braies. The wounded man began to moan.

  “I think we will have to cut them off,” Rhosyn said. “And we may need help to hold him when I try to put the bones back together. Despite the poppy, he will feel that.”

  “I will fetch help.”

  “While you are gone, I will deal with his clothing.”

  Fitzhugh left. Rhosyn retrieved her knife from her basket and set about carefully cutting the wounded man’s braies until she could pull the fabric away. Once his clothing was removed, she could see that his thigh bone had been snapped in two. One of the bone ends was pushing against the skin, although it had not pierced it. Putting the two ends of the bone together would not be difficult. But keeping them in that position so they could heal properly would be more of a challenge.

  Fitzhugh came back with two men. “We need some wood,” Rhosyn told him. “Two pieces that are the same length as his thigh. To serve as splint to hold the bones together once they are in the right position.”

  “Gervaise. Simon. Fetch some wood from the smithy. About this long.” Fitzhugh gestured. “And bring a saw.”

  The two knights left. Fitzhugh leaned over Anselm, grimacing when he saw the bone end pressing against the skin. “Jesu, that it a bad break.”

  “It could be worse. If it was his lower leg or ankle it would be more complicated to put the bones back in place. But the thigh bone is large and will take a while to heal. In the meantime he can’t put weight on that leg.”

  “I will have the carpenter make some crutches.”

  Rhosyn nodded. Except for the wounded man, they were alone. The atmosphere between Fitzhugh and her was charged. She could feel Fitzhugh’s beautiful blue eyes on her and the intensity of his gaze made her feel an overwhelming desire to be closer to him, to touch him and feel his hands on her. She reminded herself that he was Saesneg, the enemy. But the awareness did not affect her yearning for him at all.

  She wondered if he was as drawn to her as she was to him. Her instincts told her he was. But her rational mind also told her they could never act on their feelings. Especially now. The two knights could come back at any time, and she needed to focus on her task of fixing Anselm’s leg.

  She moved away from Fitzhugh to examine the pile of linen strips on the table. “I wonder if we have enough bandages. We will need to wrap his leg very tightly to keep the bones in place.”

  “I can have Esme bring more, if we need them.” He called out to the delicate, almost elfish woman with pale hair who was cleaning the several lamps on a table nearby. She came and heard his request and then left.

  They were alone again. Rhosyn looked back at Fitzhugh and then quickly away. She could almost feel fine, invisible strands like a spider’s web entangling them and drawing them closer.

  The tension between them was shattered when the two knights appeared with the wood. Fitzhugh took a step away. “What do we do next?”

  She must forget Fitzhugh. Banish him from her thoughts. She moved next to the wounded man and gestured to his leg “We must make certain the wood for the splint is the right length.”

  She watched as Fitzhugh carefully measured the man’s thigh, marked the spot on the wood and used a saw one of the knights brought to cut it. Once again, she was impressed by his willingness to do whatever needed to be done. Most lords would not have bothered with such a menial task. She wondered if his helpfulness arose from his concern for the wounded man. Or from his eagerness to aid her. Mayhaps it was both things.

  Fitzhugh put the wood on the table with the bandages and came to stand beside her. She gestured to the two knights. “Hold his shoulders, in case he starts to thrash.”

  She feared the knights might balk at obeying her, but they quickly moved into place.

  “What next?” Fitzhugh asked.

  “I must get the two bone ends back together. I may need may your help.”

  He nodded.

  She put her hands on Anselm’s thigh and felt for the ends of the bone. Despite being very careful, her movements caused Anselm to moan. Rhosyn motioned with her head for Fitzhugh to hold the man’s upper thigh. She grasped the lower part and together, with his strength and her finesse, they maneuvered the ends of the broken bones together. Anselm cried out, then went silent when his thigh bone was back in place.

  “Now the splint.” She retrieved the pieces of wood, and as Fitzhugh held the bone ends together, she placed the pieces of wood on each side of the Anselm’s thigh. She began to wrap the bandages around the splint.

  Their bodies were inches apart. Their hands touched briefly as she wound the strips of linen around Anselm’s thigh. W
orking together like this was so intimate. She was keenly aware of Fitzhugh and everything about him. The massiveness of his body. The vitality and beauty of his sunburned skin and golden hair. His blue eyes, like lakes in her homeland. Mountain lakes, reflecting a glorious, clear summer sky.

  She thought to summon the terrible dread she’d felt around him in the beginning. But it had been worn away by his consideration and respect. He seemed willing to defer to her knowledge and to help her to succeed. It was heady, to be treated as if she was the most important person in the room.

  She finished swathing Anselm’s thigh in strips of linen and stepped back.

  “What’s next?” Fitzhugh asked.

  “Take him to his bed, or wherever he usually finds his rest. You can dose him with poppy juice to keep him quiet. After two or three days, he can get up, as long as he uses crutches and is careful not to put any weight on that leg.”

  “He will need someone to mix the poppy juice and care for him. Will you stay and do this?”

  Fitzhugh was asking her to remain at the castle for several days. The thought panicked her. Thankfully, she had a good excuse. “I cannot. I must also tend the miller and his son, and their injuries are much more serious.”

  She saw the disappointment in Fitzhugh’s eyes. He wanted her near, and it seemed likely it was for more than caring for the wounded man.

  She collected her basket and knife from the table. “I must return to the village and see to the miller and his son now.” She picked up the jar of poppy juice and put it in her basket. “I will bring the poppy when I come.” She started for the door.

  “Thank you, Healer Rhosyn.” he called.

  She did not turn around.

  *

  He wished he could escort her to the gate. But he must get Anselm situated. With a hide to transport him on and two more men to help, they finally got the wounded man onto a sheepskin pallet in the main room of the barracks.

  William was exhausted but knew he must keep going. There were Henry’s funeral rites to deal with, as well figuring out how to prevent future deaths. He climbed up on the rapports, hoping that would clear his head and refresh him.

  Once on the walkway, he gazed out at the landscape. There was a pall of smoke from the fire lingering over the area where the mill had been. The reminder of the fire made him think about what they should do to protect the village. How large of force was needed to deter the Welsh from attacking? And what about guarding the cattle? His knights needed to eat and sleep. If they were too tired, their vigilance would suffer and they might become targets. Did he have enough men to keep both the village and the herds safe?

  Or maybe it was not so much a matter of numbers, as of caution and preparation. From what Baldwin said, the attack in which Henry was killed had taken them completely by surprise. Until they heard the hiss of the arrow they had not known the Welsh were there.

  Henry had been killed when they were in the woods; Anselm’s injury also occurred there. In the future, they should try to stay out in the open. He thought again about Rhosyn’s cottage among the trees. She would make a perfect target.

  But she was a woman and Welsh. And mayhaps they knew she was a healer. All those things should deter them from attacking her. Even so, the thought of how vulnerable she was filled him with dread. He had said he would post a guard there, but he wasn’t certain he could spare a knight for that. Instead, he should insist she either stay at the tanner’s house, or at the castle, at least for the next few days.

  Far better the castle. He wanted to keep her as close as possible. Not only so he could more easily protect her. If he were honest, he wanted to keep her close because merely looking at her gave him pleasure. Although it aroused urges he dare not indulge. She was so lovely, so finely made. He desired her with an intensity he’d never felt towards a woman before.

  Sighing, he tried to put thoughts of Rhosyn out of his mind. It was very unlikely she had fond feelings for him. In fact, she’d made it clear she considered him the enemy. But surely by now, her perception of him had begun to change. He’d been unfailingly kind and polite in his dealings with her. Treated her with deference and respect.

  Was that enough to alter her hatred of him? And where did that hatred arise from? What horrible things had she endured that caused her to immediately assume he meant to rape her?

  He wanted to ask, to seek to discover her secrets. But it seemed too prying. He didn’t want to arouse her dread of him all over again. Or, reawaken memories she sought to forget.

  He knew all about that sort of memories. It was a struggle not to think about Emma and the babe. Sometimes the guilt he felt threatened to drag him down and sap his energy and will.

  That was another reason he wished to have the healer near. She gave him a reason to move forward. As much as she was a distraction, she also motivated him. With her around he felt a sense of purpose. He must protect his lands, this castle and his people. And he needed to start now. Find Adam and decide what needed to be done.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rhosyn trudged up the trackway to the castle. It had been an arduous day. Or more than a day. It had started late the night before when she’d woken and smelled the smoke. She’d immediately dressed and gone racing into the village. By the time she’d arrived, the miller and his son had been injured and needed her attention. Then she’d gone to the castle and treated Anselm’s leg. Then back to the village to again to dose the miller and his son with poppy. After that, she’d returned to her cottage and slept a short time. Then she’d risen and prepared more healing salve and had something to eat. Now she was on her way back to the castle.

  ’Twould not take long to check on Anselm and give him some poppy. Then she would have to walk all the way back to the village. Then see to the miller and his son again, and after another few hours of sleep, do everything all over again.

  Fitzhugh likely didn’t think about how much effort was involved in her going back and forth from the castle. He could make the trip on horseback. And he had people to wait upon him. To saddle and halter his horse and prepare his food. To do whatever needed to be done. The thought of it aroused her resentment all over again. He was an arrogant English lord like the rest. Expecting her to do his bidding, like a servant.

  Even so, she looked forward to seeing him. She yearned for the sight of his handsome face and big, powerful body. She thought again of how he reminded her of the sun. He radiated warmth and light and she could not help seeking him out, even as a plant twists and turns to soak up the sunshine.

  The gate was closed, likely because of the recent attack. She hesitated a moment, then called up and identified herself. A dark-haired man peered over the edge of the watchtower. “Anselm has no need of you. He is sleeping.”

  Of course he sleeps, you dolt! I gave him poppy a few hours ago. But it will wear off soon. “Lord Fitzhugh asked me to come back.”

  “Fitzhugh is in his private quarters. He did not leave word you were to be allowed in.”

  He took his rest, while she tended her responsibilities. Most likely he had forgotten he’d asked her to come back.

  She turned and started wearily down the trackway.

  *

  William plodded across the yard to the gate, his steps leaden. The healer should return soon. Mayhaps the sight of her would revive him. He’d done all he could think of to secure the village and herds. Adam and he had decided on three patrols of a half dozen men each. One would guard the village. The other two would circle the grazing lands, meeting up at the point farthest from the castle. That left only about twenty knights inside the keep. Not enough if they were attacked. But he did not think that would happen. It was not the usual tactic of the Welsh.

  Tomorrow they would bury Henry and begin the work to replace the mill. The rest of the debris needed to be cleared. Mayhaps he could have some of his men help with that. During daylight, they should not need a full guard on the village. There would be plenty of people around to sound the alarm if there was
a raid.

  But his men would not be pleased to be charged with dragging away sodden, half-burned timber. As it was, they would have to sleep in shifts and snatch food when they could. And, as Stephen had gloomily complained, their meals for now would consist of the same bland pottage, since they could not butcher without salt, nor risk sending men into the forest to hunt.

  His men would likely grumble and complain. They might criticize his tactics and argue that his father would do things differently. That might be true, but his father was not here and this was his responsibility.

  He reached the gate and called up to the guard to ask if there had been any sign of the healer.

  “Nay, milord.” Rollo. William recognized the subtly mocking way he always said milord.

  “When she comes, send someone to find me. I’ll be in my bedchamber.” He might as well rest for a time. Even a few minutes would help.

  The healer was probably also exhausted. Mayhaps he should send a knight on horseback to fetch her so she did not have to walk. But then she would have to ride pillion. She had not wanted to share a mount with him; she certainly would not be pleased to do so with a knight she did not know at all.

  He decided if she did not come in a short while, he would fetch her himself. But first he needed to rest for a time. He reached the bedchamber and collapsed on the pallet.

  *

  It seemed as if only moments had passed when someone was shaking him. “Milord, I’m about to go out on patrol and Anselm is moaning in pain. Do you have the poppy juice?”

  He opened his eyes and saw Adam, wearing full armor. He could tell from the light coming in the slit window that it was late afternoon. He’d slept for hours. How could he be so irresponsible?

  He sat up and rubbed his face. “The healer didn’t come?”

  “Nay. Was she supposed to? I thought she would leave the poppy juice.”