Gentle Warrior (3 page)

The hearth took up most of the far wall, and was flanked by two wooden chairs with royal-blue cushions her sister Margaret had sewn for her.

Her gaze moved to the banner hanging above the hearth, its blue color matching the cushions with pale yellow threads interwoven in the design of her two wolfhounds. The banner's only other coloring was that of a deep burgundy, near the top of the tapestry, outlining the design of her pet hawk. Her heart ached as memories of the many times she and her mother had worked on the banner assaulted her.

No! her mind cried. 'Tis not the time. Elizabeth shook her head and this action was not missed by the watching knight. He, too, studied the banner and then turned back to Elizabeth.

He recognized the fleeting torment she tried to hide. Speculation and curiosity appeared in his eyes but Elizabeth gave him little attention. She had turned to look upon the bed, and with the blue and yellow draping tied back on each side, she had a clear view of the leader. She was immediately struck by the largeness of the man, thinking he was even taller than her grandfather.

His hair was the color of the raven, and almost touched the drape at the head of the bed while his feet nearly hung over the other end. For some unexplainable reason, even in his weakened condition, he frightened her, and she stood transfixed while she studied the harshness of his features. He was a handsome knight, she admitted, handsome and… hard.

The warrior began to thrash about from side to side, moaning in a weakened yet deep voice, and his movement prompted her into action. She quickly placed her hand upon his damp, bronzed forehead, gently brushing the wet hair out of her way as she felt his skin. Her milky white hand was in stark contrast to his deeply tanned and weathered skin, and her touch stilled his motion.

"He burns with fever," Elizabeth remarked. "How long has he been like this?" Even as she spoke, she noticed the swelling above his right temple and gently probed around it. The warrior's companion watched her from his position at the foot of the bed, a frown upon his face.

"I saw him take the blow. He fell to the ground and has been like this ever since."

Elizabeth frowned in concentration. She wasn't sure what she should do next. "This makes little sense," she countered, "for a blow does not bring the fever." She straightened then and with determination in her voice commanded, "Help me strip him."

Elizabeth did not give the companion time to question her motives, for she immediately began to unfasten the lacings at the warrior's back. The knight hesitated for a brief minute and then helped by pulling the chausses from the lower half of the now-sleeping form.

Though she tried mightily, Elizabeth was unable to pull the quilted hauberk, made of thick cotton, and soaked with the fever's sweat, over the massive shoulders, and she finally admitted defeat. She instinctively reached for the dagger she carried at her waist, thinking she would have to cut the material in order to sponge the heat from the warrior's chest.

The companion saw the glint of metal and, not understanding her reasoning, knocked the knife to the floor with the back of his hand.

The dogs began to growl but Elizabeth quickly silenced them and turned to face the knight.

Her voice was gentle and devoid of all anger. "Though you have no reason to trust me, you need have no fear. I was merely going to cut his shirt."

"What is the need?" the knight demanded with frustration.

Elizabeth ignored the question and bent to retrieve her dagger. She split the shirt at the neck and tore the garment wide with her hands. Without looking at the angry companion, she commanded that he bring her cool water so that she could bathe the sweat and heat from his lord.

While the knight relayed her orders to the sentries outside the door, Elizabeth scanned her patient's arms and neck, looking for possible injuries. She willed her eyes to travel lower and felt her cheeks grow warm. Knowing that she blushed at the sight of his nakedness made her angry with herself, though in truth she had never seen a naked man before. Although it was the custom for the daughters to assist in the bathing of the visiting gentry, her father held too much distrust with the appetites of his friends and decreed that the servants would do the assisting, not his daughters.

Curiosity overcame embarrassment and Elizabeth quickly looked at the lower half of his body. She was mildly surprised that he did not display the fiercesome weapon she had heard that all men possess, and wondered if the female servants she had overheard had exaggerated, or if all men were built like this one. Perhaps he was defective.

Elizabeth concentrated on the task at hand and crossed to her chest. She removed clean linen and tore the material into long strips. When the water arrived, she began to sponge the warrior's face.

He is as still as death, she thought, and his ragged breathing is much too shallow. He carried an angry red scar that began at the edge of his left eye and curved, as a half-moon, ending somewhere behind his ear, well hidden by the black, slightly curling hair. With the wet cloth she gently traced its jagged outline, thinking that the scar did little to detract from the leader's appearance.

She washed his neck and chest, noting still more scars. "He has too many marks to suit me,"

she voiced aloud.

Elizabeth stopped sponging when she reached his waist. "Help me turn him," she said to the companion.

The companion's patience was at an end, his frustration evident with his bellow, "By all the saints, woman, he needs not a bath but a cure."

"I would know that the blow to his head is all he carries," Elizabeth replied just as loudly.

"You have not even taken the time to remove his battle clothes."

The companion's response was to fold his arms against his chest, a fierce glare upon his face, and Elizabeth concluded that she would get no assistance. She gave him what she hoped was a scathing look, and then turned back to the warrior. She reached across the bed and grabbed the unresisting hand with both of hers. Though she pulled with all of her strength, the warrior did not budge. She continued to pull, unconsciously biting her lower lip in her effort, and thought she was making progress when the hand she held jerked back to its former position. Elizabeth went with it, and ended up draped across the lord's massive chest. She frantically tried to pry her hands free, but the knight now had a firm grip and seemed, even in sleep, disinclined to cooperate.

The vassal watched Elizabeth 's puny attempt to free herself, shaking his head all the while, and then yelled, "Out of the way, woman." He released the hold and roughly hauled her to her feet. With one sure movement, he flipped her unresisting patient over onto his stomach.

Irritation turned to horror when the vassal saw the blood-covered undershirt stuck to the warrior's back, and he stepped back in shock.

Elizabeth was most relieved when she saw the injury, for this was something she could handle. She sat on the side of the bed and gently pried the material from its festering imprisonment. When the companion could clearly view the extent of the diagonal gash, he raised a hand to his brow. Unashamed that tears filled his eyes, he whispered in an anguished voice, "I never thought to check…"

"Do not berate yourself," Elizabeth replied. She gave him a sympathetic smile before continuing, "Now I understand what is causing the fever. We will need more water, but this time it must be hot, just to boiling, please."

The vassal nodded and hurried out of the room. Within minutes a steaming kettle was placed on the floor next to Elizabeth. In truth, Elizabeth dreaded what she must do, had seen her mother do countless times in the past for those with similar injuries. Repeating a prayer for guidance, she dipped a clean strip of cloth into the kettle and grimaced from the discomfort it caused her hands. She ignored the pain and rung the cloth of excess water. She was now ready, and yet she hesitated. "You will need to hold him down, I fear," she whispered, "for this will pain him considerably… but it needs be done." She lifted blue eyes to meet the vassal's anxious frown and waited.

The companion nodded his understanding and placed both of his hands on the broad shoulders of his leader.

Still she hesitated. "I must draw the poison out or he will surely die." Elizabeth wasn't sure if she was convincing the vassal or herself that the pain she was about to cause was necessary.

"Aye," was the companion's only response. If Elizabeth had listened closely, she would have heard the gentle understanding in his voice, but she was too distraught over the agony she would soon inflict.

Taking a deep breath, she placed the steaming cloth full upon the open wound. The leader's reaction was swift and furious. He tried to lift the branding cloth from his back with a fierce jerk, but the vassal's hold was great and he was unable to shed his torment. The agonized cry from the leader tore at Elizabeth 's heart and she closed her eyes in distress.

The door to the bedroom burst open and the two guards rushed inside, swords drawn. Fear and confusion showed in their expressions. The vassal shook his head and told them to put their weapons away.

"It must be done." The words from Elizabeth calmed the guards and they retreated to their posts outside the door.

"He would never cry out if he was awake," the vassal said to Elizabeth. "He does not know what he is doing," he explained.

"Are you thinking it makes him less a man to vent his agony?" Elizabeth asked while she placed a second cloth over the wound.

"He is a fearless warrior," the vassal replied.

"The fever rules his actions now," Elizabeth answered.

The companion's nod made Elizabeth want to smile. She turned back to her patient and lifted both strips from the wound, bringing yellow and red residue with them. She repeated the procedure countless times, until only bright red blood oozed from the deep opening. By the time she was finished, her hands were as red as the wound, and blistered. She rubbed them together in an effort to ease the sting, and then reached for her bundle. Speaking more to herself than to the vassal, she said, "I do not think there is need to seal the wound with a hot knife, for it bleeds clean and true and not overmuch."

The leader was unconscious, and for that Elizabeth was thankful for she knew that the medicine she must pack the wound with was not soothing. She applied a liberal amount of the foul-smelling salve and then bandaged his entire back. Once this was done, the companion turned the leader for her and she forced water containing crushed sage, mallows, and nightshade roots down his throat.

There was nothing more to do. Elizabeth 's muscles ached from the strain and she stood and walked to the window. She lifted the fur blocking the wind and was surprised to find that darkness had descended. She leaned wearily against the stone and let the cool air revive her.

Finally she turned back to the companion, noting for the first time how tired and haggard he appeared. "Go and find some rest. I will watch over your leader."

"Nay," he replied. "I can sleep only when the Hawk has recovered. Not before." He placed another log in the fire while he spoke.

"By what name are you called?" Elizabeth questioned.

"Roger."

"Roger, why do you call your leader the Hawk?"

The vassal looked at her from his bent position in front of the fire and then gruffly answered, "All those who fight in battle with him call him thus. It is the way of things."

His noncommittal reply made little sense to Elizabeth but she didn't want to irritate him by questioning him further on the matter. She would get to the heart of the need now. " 'Tis said there is a boy here who does not speak and that the Hawk saved his life. Is this true?"

"Aye." Suspicion was back in the vassal's expression and Elizabeth knew she would have to tread softly.

"If he be the one I am thinking of, I know of his family and would be willing to take him with me when I leave."

The companion eyed her thoughtfully. His lack of reply was maddening but Elizabeth forced herself to remain calm. "What say you, Roger?"

"I will see what I can do, though only the Baron can make that decision."

"But Baron Geoffrey never travels here! It would take a month of masses before word returned that I might take the boy. Surely he would want the child reunited with his parents.

Can you not act in his stead? I am sure he would be pleased not to be bothered, for Montwright is but a small, insignificant holding compared to his others." Elizabeth almost added that she had heard her father say so on countless occasions. And she knew it to be true, for Baron Geoffrey had never paid her father a visit. No, Lord Thomas always traveled to the Baron's main holding when business needed to be conducted.

The companion was surprised by her vehement outburst. "A month? You have only to wait until the fever leaves and he awakens to ask him," he argued. "And you are mistaken, lass.

There is no such thing as a holding too insignificant for Geoffrey's inspection. He protects all who pledge fealty, from the highest to the lowest."

"Are you telling me that the Hawk can give me permission? He can act in the Baron's stead?" Elizabeth asked, her voice hopeful. "Then of course he shall," she rushed to answer herself, "for I have taken care of him. He can do no less." She smiled with relief and clasped her hands together.

"Do you not know who you have just tended?" Roger asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Elizabeth frowned at him and waited.

"The Hawk is Lord Geoffrey, overlord of Montwright." Roger sat down in one of the chairs and propped his feet up on the other, waiting her reaction.

"
He
is Baron Geoffrey?" Astonishment sounded in her tone.

"Aye," Roger acknowledged. He crossed his ankles and smiled. "Why are you so surprised?

All know of the Hawk," he said with arrogance. "His reputation is well known."

"Yes,. but I thought him to be old… older than…" She motioned to the sleeping warrior and studied him a long minute, her mind racing with this turn of events. Her father had never mentioned that his overlord was so young. Elizabeth had just assumed that he was an old man, like the lesser barons she had met. She leaned back against the cold stone and looked back at Roger. He seemed amused by her ignorance.