Juliana Garnett (12 page)

“It is that bad?”

She gestured to the wound; crimson fingers spread out like the marks of a hand. “If he had not broken it open to release the poisons, he would no doubt be dead ere much longer. Even so, the poisons may still lay him low.”

Silence fell. Devaux’s breathing was a harsh rasp. Light from a rack of candles danced across the wall. Guy held her gaze until the tension stretched so tautly that she thought he would refuse. Then he blew out a heavy gust of air, cheeks puffed with the effort.

“I am not skilled at these things. He would not allow any surgeon near.…” He flicked a glance at Tré, then at her again. “Yet there is no other choice. If not you—nothing.”

“Then as I am better than nothing, let me work.”

Guy nodded curtly. “But I linger to watch, milady.”

“As long as you do not interfere.”

Jane turned her attention back to the wound; a pang of dismay clenched her stomach. For all her confident words, it might well be mortal. Her hand rested on Devaux’s ribs; his skin was hot to the touch. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes had not opened, though black lashes beat thinly like the wings of a trapped bird. Even though her reward might be a writ of arrest, she could not allow him to die without doing her best to save him.

Putting aside all other thoughts, she concentrated on
cleaning the wound with old wine that smelled strong. At one point, Guy and a man-at-arms were employed to hold him down, for he began to thrash about in his feverish state, muttering and throwing his arms about wildly.

“Aimée.…” The name erupted from his throat as if in agony; for a moment Jane paused. The sheriff’s face twisted in a tortured grimace. “Ah, God—
Aimée!
”

She looked up at Guy; he gave a slight shake of his head. “She is long dead now.”

“Hold him,” she said then. Guy used his weight to pin down the sheriff’s shoulders with both hands while she held a rag soaked in mandrake to Devaux’s nose. It worked, slowing his restive movements.

By the time Fiskin returned with the eggs, Jane had thoroughly cleansed the open wound with a mixture of herbs and hot water. She mixed egg whites in a shallow bowl, then gently spread the sticky paste onto the bruised, torn flesh and bound it with a wide strip of linen around his middle.

“Do not remove this,” she said to Guy.

“Until when?”

“Until I do it.” She met Guy’s quizzical gaze with a faint smile. “It draws. He must have rest. The hurt must be allowed to cleanse and heal, or it could yet kill him.”

“So I told him when he was first injured. He would not listen.” Guy looked worried; he raked a hand through hair dampened by the weight of his helmet until it stood up in short golden spikes atop his head. “I will sleep next to him.”

“Then I will have my servants prepare another pallet. When was he wounded?”

“Three months ago. This last, just this afternoon.” He looked up to meet her gaze. “In the dales.”

Her heart thumped a warning. “That is not far. It is fortunate you were so close to Ravenshed.”

“It was the outlaws who brought us here. We routed some of them from hiding.”

She thought of Shandy and Rowan, only names to her, but men known to Little John.

Guy’s gaze was steady; he waited for her response, and she
could think of nothing that would not sound foolish or too well informed.

Finally: “The barons will be most pleased to have the shire rid of outlaws.”

“We do not,” said Guy slowly, “do it for the barons. It is for the king.”

“Of course.” She wiped egg from her fingers with a cloth. “The new wound most like did him a service. His blood is near poisoned. A weaker man would have died long ago.”

“Should you not bleed him to rid his body of poison?”

“No.” Jane shook her head. “The evil humors are gone.”

“A surgeon would bleed him yet.”

She folded the sticky cloth in her hands. It was true. A surgeon would bleed him; Brother Tuck would not. She trusted Tuck, for he was oft right in these matters.

Devaux lay more quietly, yet there was a tinge of gray beneath his normally dark skin. She shrugged.

“You will do as you like, of course. If you bleed him, you will undertake his care yourself. I will not be held liable when he dies, as he surely will if you bleed him.”

“Lady, you have a sharp tongue.”

“So I have been told.” She stood up. “I shall brew a potion to ease his fever and pain. Shall I administer it, or do you take responsibility?”

“I take responsibility for him regardless of your actions. He is more than my liege—he is a friend.”

“I yield liability most willingly.”

When she returned with the bitter brew of mandrake and wine, Devaux was restless again. It took great effort to pour the contents of the cup down his throat, and Beaufort was sweating when it was at last emptied. The man-at-arms nursed a split lip and black eye; Guy gingerly felt his bruised nose.

“When he recovers, I shall demand ample retribution for this.”

Jane smiled as she gathered up the herbs scattered during the struggle and motioned for Dena to remove them. “I shall leave this flagon of potion, Sir Guy. Give it to him again before first light. He should rest easier.”

“Pray God he does, for I do not think I will hold out much longer. He is much stronger than a man with his wounds should be.”

Jane was not surprised. Devaux emanated strength, even delirious and half-conscious. Sweat-sheened skin was of a darker color than most, bronzed as if from the sun. Long limbs were muscular, lean yet powerful even in repose.

Inexplicably, her cousin’s words returned to her in a rush. Lissa’s mocking jest that the sheriff and his courser were “fine, muscular animals—sleek and dark and dangerous,” summoned an uncomfortable and disconcerting heat.

Escaping prying eyes, she retreated to the bedchamber she had shared with Hugh. Empty now of all save memories. The wide bed lay in shadow, curtains drawn around in velvet protection. A knight’s bed, massive and wide, her marriage bed. Twelve years she had slept in that bed. Gone from maid to matron in a single night, she had learned that the romantic tales told by minstrels were just that—romantic tales.

Later had come love for Hugh. Never had it been the fevered passion and breathless anticipation of the poets. No tempestuous emotion that swung her from despair to bliss in a single instant, but the steady burn of constancy. At first she had been disappointed. Then she had come to realize it was comforting. Security lay in her husband’s arms, if not the sweet ardor she had once dreamed of … yet even that would vanish in time.

Hugh died, an old man, ill at the last and appreciative of tender care, leaving her with regrets and no children. He had made a bad bargain, after all. Yet he had never complained, never felt that loss as did she, it seemed. If he had, it was not mentioned. Sweet Hugh … he was missed. He had made her feel competent, graceful; never a beauty like her cousin, she had blossomed under Hugh’s gentle love. He had taught her confidence in her abilities if not her beauty and she was grateful for that.

She leaned her head against the wood frame of the open window; beyond the manor, moonlight washed silver and gray over sloping field and dense wood. In the courtyard was the
sound of men settling for the night—Normans, with horses, weapons, and vengeance. She should have been wary.

Yet, in the lady’s chamber, she stared into the night and thought of a long-limbed body and the passion she had never known. She thought of Tré Devaux.

10
 

The cock crowed twice before Jane rose. A dream lingered: vivid images of Devaux. Intense, disturbing, the dream stirred unfamiliar sensations, a sense of heavy waiting, of wanting. It left her strangely flushed.

In lucid day, would Guy de Beaufort see her depravity? Would it be apparent to all who glanced her way? Long had she lain awake, strangely restless; vague yearning for something beyond her ken pricked her so sharply it had been nearly cockcrow before she slept at last.

Only to dream.…

Fumbling, eyes scratchy from lack of sleep, she made her morning ablutions and left the chamber to seek out Guy de Beaufort. He would expect it.

She met him at the door to the storeroom where Devaux lay. Bleary-eyed, haggard, his grim expression sparked alarm that he put to rest with his first words:

“He is restless still. He burns with fever. I fear he has lost his mind.”

“It is to be expected. I will see—”

“Milady—” Guy put out a hand to stop her. “I had to tie him to keep him from tearing open his wound again. He pulled away the bandage, but I rebound him as best I could.”

“I understand. Little you may credit it, Sir Guy, but this is not the first wounded man I have tended. Have you forgotten the Welsh wars? My husband was wounded more than once. I learned at an early age which wounds kill swiftly, and which heal slowly. Will you allow me to pass?”

Guy stepped aside but followed hard on her heels as she entered the storeroom. It smelled of spilled wine and candle tallow.

Devaux was bound at both wrists; loops of leather were stretched and secured to a heavy chest that stood against the far wall. Guy had tossed a light cover over him.

Muttering, he twisted and turned as far as the confines of the leather would allow; his muscles flexed against the restraints. Norman French was guttural and incoherent, his words indistinguishable.

Jane knelt at his side. A light touch of her hand on his cheek found it cooler than the night before, though still warm. She glanced up at Guy.

“His fever wanes. Perhaps he should be moved. It would be easier to tend him in a bed.”

“I do not relish moving him.”

She stood up. “Nonetheless, it must be done.”

Guy sighed heavily. “I will need to fetch more men. He is too unwieldy for two men to manage.”

“It seems only one man is available if you mean yon man-at-arms. He sleeps.”

Grunting, Guy moved to the dozing soldier and kicked him awake. The poor man went sprawling, blinking owlishly up at Beaufort when he snapped out an order:

“Fetch three more men from the stables to help move the sheriff.”

Lurching to his feet, the soldier nodded. He cast a wary glance at the restless Devaux as he left the room.

Jane followed his glance; heat flooded her face. The light cover was kicked free. At some time during the night, the braies had been removed. Devaux lay bare as the day he was born, candle glow washing over him in unerring clarity.

Boldly defined, potent male in unexpected beauty, a sculptured promise of raw power and passion … a warrior-baron,
invulnerable until now. It was disconcerting and beguiling; she inhaled sharply. The tight coil in the pit of her stomach moved lower and blossomed, heat a live thing, insidious and powerful. Unfamiliar, unwanted response, rendering her defenseless.

A slight cough, a shift of booted feet on stone, and she jerked her eyes from the sheriff, mortified and flushed. Guy de Beaufort gazed at her with lifted brows and bemused eyes. There was no comment she could make that would not be too obvious a defense, so she merely turned away and moved from the storeroom with silent, desperate dignity.

Dena waited in the corridor. Her matronly face was creased with curiosity and anxiety, her eyes were strained. “Is all well, milady?”

“Yea, take Enid and ready the front bedchamber for the sheriff. They are moving him there.”

“Yea, milady. Shall I fetch your herbs?”

“I will do it.” It would give her time to recover her poise. But as she gathered the basket and pouch of herbs and measured them, mixing and grinding with mortar and pestle, her hands trembled slightly. Absurd, that it would affect her so. He was not the first naked man she had seen; though intimate only with Hugh, she had tended other wounded men. It had necessitated seeing them in exposed circumstances; neither unusual nor remarkable.

“Milady?” Enid stuck her head around the corner of the small nook where Jane was mixing the herbs; her young face was frightened. “One of the Normans calls for you.”

Jane wiped her hands on a cloth as she returned to the storeroom. Guy met her just outside.

“Have you a potion to quiet him? He has knocked the men about so, they fear to go near him. I cannot do it alone.”

“Yea, I have potions to summon deep sleep, but—”

“Give it to him. Or give it to me and I will give it to him. He is too unruly for us to manage this way.” Guy bent his head toward the storeroom. “In his fever, he has fair wrecked the chamber. I do not think we will be able to get him up that staircase unless he is asleep.”

“Perhaps I can—”

“No.”

A bellow came from the storeroom, followed by a sharp cry of pain and the sounds of a scuffle. Jane pondered the options. To sedate him would take a powerful draught and the danger of overdoing it was great. Dare she risk it? Slowly, she shook her head.

“It is difficult to judge just how much to give a man at times. Even big men oft can bear only a small amount, so that—”

“Start with a small amount then,” Guy snarled, “but for the love of all the saints, give me
something
to quiet him! I fear he will tear open his wound again, and that will end him.”