A Man of Value (4 page)

He saw the beginnings of a smile, but then her eyes widened and a frown creased her brow. Had he said something wrong?

“You have broken ribs, and other injuries, including a blow to the head. You were feverish, thrashing about, and we were afraid you might fall from the pallet.”

She was nervous, evidently wrestling with some indecision and he wanted to ask for more candles to be lit so he could see her eyes more clearly.

“I can untie you now, if you wish?”

He nodded, and watched as she untied the knots with some difficulty.

“My hands are cold,” she murmured.

He had an urge to take hold of the slender fingers and warm them with his breath. Her voice was cold too. What could he do to warm that? Why wouldn’t she look at him?

Once the knots were undone, he raised each of his hands slightly then looked back at her. Pain snaked through his chest with the movement and he hoped his face hadn’t betrayed him. She flushed, and he felt a wave of heat roll over him.

It was clearer to him from the moans, movements and shadows, that he wasn’t dead. His angel
was
a woman. Her hair was completely covered, her body concealed by what he now saw was a grey habit, stained with what he hoped wasn’t his blood. Why could he not take his eyes off her? His twitching fingers itched to reach up and remove her wimple. Was her hair brown or blonde? A nun. He was excited by a nun. He felt ashamed.

Forgive me, Lord.

But she’d said her name was Agneta, not
Sister
Agneta. He’d somehow been delivered into the care of a woman whose face alone drew him like a lodestone. But she’d spoken of a blow to the head. Perhaps that was his problem. He licked his lips and she scurried off, returning a few moments later, a tankard clasped in her delicate hands.

She steadied his head, and held the tankard to his lips. “Drink. Your body needs liquid.” Her hand on the back of his neck was indeed cold and he shivered. He drank, tentatively at first then greedily when he tasted ale.

The effort exhausted him, but she was the one shaking. He looked over the lip of the tankard to catch a glimpse of her eyes. They were downcast, but definitely green, or perhaps brown?

“Thank you, Agneta,” he rasped, wiping his hand across his mouth. “That was good—Sister.”

She laid his head back down and he closed his eyes.

Agneta wasn’t sure if she should have untied him? Was it too soon? He seemed calmer.

His voice sounded like the deep, low drumming of a moorland grouse, calling its mate. But her attraction fled quickly when she heard the brogue of the barbaric Scots.

“What’s your name?” she’d whispered, flustered by the feel of his eyes on her as he drank. His hair had felt silky beneath her hand, but her cold fingers had been a shock to him. Looking around furtively to make sure none of the lay workers were still in the infirmary, she wondered how they would react, if he proved to be a Scot? How would she react? Would she still want to heal him? The nuns taught that God loves everyone. Could she feel love and compassion for a Scot? Aware of the answer, she hunched her shoulders.

She’d asked him a simple question, why didn’t he answer? He opened his eyes and reached up to his forehead, as if to find his name there. He touched the newly forming scar at his temple. She reached to stay his hand and explained in a whisper that he had a wound. “It’s healing, but you’ll open it if you rub it.”

As she touched him, a wave of heat surged through her and she snatched her hand away. The blanket tented near his groin, and she averted her eyes quickly, but not before his face reddened as his eyes dropped, and his hands went to the bulge in the blanket. She retreated back to the stool, knocking it over.

He now knows he’s naked.

“I am—my name is—I don’t seem to recall—my name,” he stammered. “Perhaps it’s because I’m tired. Every bone in my body feels like it’s broken. Where am I?”

“You’re in the infirmary of the Abbey being built near Alnwick. We brought you here after we found you wounded, on the battlefield.”

“I was in a battle?”

How could he not remember being in a battle? If only she could forget her terrible memories.

“Yes. You were badly hurt. Besides the blow to the head and the wound on your face, you have a gash in your thigh, the damaged ribs and several deep bruises. You became feverish after lying on the muddy ground for hours before we found you.”

“And you’ve nursed me?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on where she supposed his feet were under the blanket.

There was an uneasy silence. Then he asked her, “Who won the battle?”

“The Earl of Northumbria. He defeated the cursed Scots and killed their King, Malcolm Canmore, and his son. Perhaps we’re finally rid of their attacks.”

He became pensive and she could see he was trying to put the pieces of information together.

“You’re hoping I’m not a Scot,” he said finally.

“Yes,” she admitted, then against her better judgment added, “But you sound like one, though you look like a Norman nobleman, except your hair is long—” She stopped, aware she was babbling, and felt a twinge of foreboding which she hoped her eyes didn’t betray.

He glanced around the room. “I should perhaps stay silent then,” he murmured.

She didn’t reply, but nodded slightly. “Sip more ale.”

At a loss for what to say after several minutes of awkward silence, she ventured, “We retrieved your sword. You were grasping it tightly. We might never have discovered you, if not for your horse. But your hauberk and helmet are not in good condition. We had to cut off most of your clothing.”

She blushed. He would now suspect she’d helped to strip him. Should she ease his embarrassment by assuring him she’d looked away? Or would trying to find the words increase the discomfort for them both? In an effort to change the subject, she reached underneath the pallet to grasp his sword. It was heavy, and she needed two hands.

He laughed, which caused him to wince. “Such a delicate nun, wielding such a large sword.”

His laughter warms me.

He took the sword from her with both powerful hands, and held it up in front of him, examining it in the dim candlelight. A spasm of pain ripped through him as he raised the weapon, though he masked it. She dared a glance. Was there a glint of a memory in his blue eyes? The sword swayed, and she had to take it carefully from his hands. She brought out the damaged helmet. He looked at it, laid it on his belly, closed his eyes, and fell asleep with his hands on it.

He dreamed of a desperate battle, an intense struggle. But who was his enemy? He felt the despair of a cause lost. Mangled bodies, parts of men, shrieking horses. Blood, a river of blood. Axes chopping off heads. Screams of terror. The rank smell of death. A suspicion of betrayal. A sword raised high against him. He turned his body and the blow glanced off his helmet. He fell, felt his opponent’s sword slice into his leg and pain sear through his chest. He awoke sweating and calling out, disturbing the handful of other patients.

Perhaps my little nun should have kept me tied up.

How long had he slept? Agneta was gone. Without her there, his befuddled mind sensed something important to him was missing. He felt an inexplicable need to look into those intriguing eyes.

“I suppose nuns are instructed to keep their eyes downcast,” he muttered. “Pray God I’m not a Scot. She hates Scots.”

He wondered about the cause of her deep hatred? What had happened to make such a beautiful woman sound cold, distant, and bereft? He felt ashamed he’d become aroused by a nun. What kind of man was he? Who was he?

CHAPTER FIVE

“How long have I been here now, Agneta?” the warrior asked, scratching the stubble at his chin, as he watched her approach, carrying the usual bowl and flint razor.

She smiled briefly. “Ten days, and you seem much improved.”

“Aye. Only thanks to you. And the food.”

“I’m surprised you enjoy the food here. Men don’t usually like vegetables. My father—”

She seemed reluctant to continue.

“I love cabbage, and garlic and leeks, and onions,” he interjected, sensing her unwillingness to continue.

The tension seemed to leave her. “And we throw in the occasional salted herring.”

He laughed, and now there was less pain. He liked the way she smiled when he laughed. She didn’t smile enough. “I do feel better. When I first stood, with the help of the monks, it took all my strength to relieve nature’s needs.”

He smiled, remembering how discrete the pious monks were when they removed the jordans filled with urine. “They carry the jordans away as if they held gold,” he jested.

“In a way they do,” she explained timidly. “They use the—contents—for making vellum.”

The silence stretched between them as he digested what she’d said.

“Now I can walk, albeit slowly, with some assistance. I want to remember who I am. It’s infuriating, like a tapestry with all the wrong threads. But, enough about me. If I stop trying to remember, it will come back. Tell me how
you
came to be here while you shave me.”

She was nervous when she shaved his beard. At first he’d been afraid she might cut his throat, but her hand was steadier now and she’d evidently come to accept she would actually have to look at him while she did it. If he kept her talking while she worked it seemed easier for her, though that was risky in itself. He was strong enough now to shave his own beard, but didn’t want to give up the pleasure he felt when she performed the task.

Taking a deep breath she wet his face, began the ritual and shared with him in whispers how she came to the nunnery. “My parents and brothers died in a raid carried out by Scots and their Saxon allies. I watched them butcher my father and brothers.”

She swallowed hard, and it was a few minutes before she could continue. “And then my mother—she—she died too.”

She trembled, making him nervous. He reached out to still her hand. She pulled away. “I’d nowhere to go. The few villagers who survived were taken in by this religious community where work has been underway for years on the building of an Abbey. The orphans are still here and they’ll become nuns or monks. Most of them are simple folk from the village. I’m the only one of genteel birth, and Mother Superior has high hopes and big ambitions for her protégé.”

She smiled bleakly. “I’m a young woman alone in dangerous times. The Church will protect me.”

He wondered why she felt it necessary to add, “I pray daily for a true vocation.”

“I understand now your deep hatred of the Scots,” was all he could say.

Agneta nodded, and turned his face to shave the other side. “Here in Northumbria the people are a mixture of ancestries, some Danes descended from the Vikings of the Danelaw, like my mother, some Anglo-Saxons, like my father’s family, the Kirkthwaites, and now Normans after the coming of the Conqueror.”

He rubbed his hand over his newly-shaved chin, wishing her hands were still on him. “But you said Saxon allies killed your family?”

She nodded. “They were most likely Saxons who had fled to Scotland after the Conquest.”

He shook his head. “Northumbria?” he murmured.

“Alnwick is in Northumbria, in the north of England.”

“Go on,” he said, wanting to keep her by his side as long as he could. “When did the Normans come?”

“In the Year of our Lord, One Thousand and Sixty-Six.”

“And what year is it now?”

She stopped in her task of gathering up the shaving materials, and thought for a moment. “It’s a score and seven years since.”

“Seven and twenty?”

Agneta wiped his face with a drying cloth. “Yes, and now Normans hold all the power. Roger de Mowbray is the Earl of Northumbria. His castle is nearby in Alnwick. The Conqueror wanted to hold Northumbria against the Scots. The Scots consider it theirs. King William Rufus, the Conqueror’s son and now the king, has seemed unable to stop the incursions by the Scots, who are often aided by these exiled Saxons. We’re caught in the middle of the conflict. But we’re not Scots.”

He admired the pride with which she spoke about her people, her heritage. He regretted she’d suffered such pain and loss and he wished he could offer solace.

Agneta Kirkthwaite. I love the sound of her name.

He felt she desperately wanted to impart to him why she had such strong feelings, but none of it resonated with the warrior—though she’d said
Rufus
. Something about that name niggled at the back of his mind, one of the tangled threads of his forgotten life, but why? “I was obviously involved in this important battle, but on whose side did I fight? And why?”

“I don’t know,” she replied wistfully. “Perhaps, I don’t want to know.” She reddened and left abruptly.

His name eluded him, but he had no doubt whatever about his feelings towards the young novice who tended him. “I can’t remember who I am, but I’m unable to hold chaste my thoughts about a nun.”

He berated himself that the sight of her aroused him and his imagination ran amok when she touched him with her cold hands. If only he could draw those cold hands to his—

He loved to breathe in the clean scent of her. The ugly habit had hidden her body, and he had no idea of the colour of her hair. But those eyes—oh, her beautiful eyes—he still couldn’t decide if they were green or brown, or both? Those eyes had him imagining. “Whoever I am, I seem to be a man without honour. A man who lusts after nuns.”

But she’d admitted to not having a true calling. She would become a nun because she had no choice. It was a great loss and, for some reason, a personal one.

When she deemed him fit enough to walk outside, she brought simple clothing from the alms cupboard—a linen shirt, woollen tunic and hose, braies, and a sheepskin jacket to protect against the December wind blowing off the North Sea. “They’re rather worn,” she apologized.

“Better than no clothes at all,” he laughed, then saw her blush.

“The boots are your own. We cleaned them.”

He tugged them on, feeling only a slight spasm in his ribs. In an effort to ease the tension, he said, “They feel good.”