Suzanne Robinson (8 page)

The past few days he’d started when she came into his chamber or the library, and he’d taken odd fancies into his head. Only three nights ago he had insisted that she read all of old Sir Thomas Wyatt’s poems. While the reading was enjoyable, she did think old Wyatt could have left off feeling sorry for himself. He seemed to
have let the scorn of one woman ruin his enjoyment of life and then poured out his torment on paper.

She had finished the collection this morning and fled the house in search of nature and air free of the staleness of old tragedies. Wyatt must have loved Anne Boleyn above all else. What would it be like to have a man so in love with you? Oriel sighed and patted her mare’s neck. She wasn’t likely to inspire such passion. She knew that she irritated folk, especially noblemen.

Taking deep breaths of icy air, she gazed around her, letting her eyes feast upon the white world that had lifted her spirits. She glanced past the Hall to the gate near the horizon and pulled her horse up. Two men on a single horse rode up to the massive red brick pillars. A second horse followed them. As they approached, Leslie rode up to them, shouting.

He reached out and took the reins of the overburdened horse. One of the riders slipped off it, mounted the second horse and galloped away. Meanwhile, his companion slumped forward in the saddle. The moment his horse began to walk, he dropped unconscious to the ground.

Oriel kicked her own mare into a trot that brought her across the lawn to the gate.

“Oriel, come quickly.”

She left her horse inside the gate and trudged through the snow to join her cousin. As she knelt beside him, Leslie pulled aside the hood of the fallen man’s cloak to reveal the face of that young man who had called her a weasel. Her heart decided to stop beating for a moment, then she forgot about her own concerns.

“It’s, it’s …”

“Nicholas Fitzstephen.”

“That half Frenchman,” she said. “The Sieur de something. He’s hurt.”

“Of course he’s hurt, you wigeon. You stay with him while I gather men to carry him inside.”

“Hurry. He’s cold and as pale as his shirt.”

Oriel rose, went to the roan stallion, and searched its saddlebags. She drew out a blanket, then stumbled back through the snow to throw it over the young man. His head was resting in the snow, so she pulled him up and gathered as much of him as she could in her arms. He was heavy, and his head fell back over her arm. She drew him close, so that his head rested on her shoulder.

Putting her hand to his face, she found that his skin was almost as cold as the snow in which they rested. Fearful, she searched beneath his cloak and found a leather doublet soaked and icy with blood. He’d been stabbed. Oriel swore and looked at his face again. His hair was soft and dark, and reflected the shine of the snow surrounding them. But what worried her was his pallor. She remembered the dark rose of his lips, and their present blue color alarmed her.

He lay so still in her arms that her fear grew, and she looked up, intending to shout for Leslie. Relief flooded her when she saw her cousin trotting ahead of several men, yet she couldn’t stop herself from yelling at them to hurry. Though anxious to get her charge inside, she relinquished him to the servants with a surprising reluctance.

Following them inside, she ignored Aunt Faith’s hysterics and directed the men to put the wounded man upstairs in the guest chamber next to that of Uncle Thomas. While she was supervising his transfer to the bed, Livia charged in with George and Robert at her heels. She boomed questions at Oriel and Leslie while Faith, Jane, and Joan hovered in the doorway. When the two girls began giggling, Livia snarled at them, and all three scattered.

“If you’d hunted these rogues down when I demanded it, this wouldn’t have happened,” Livia said to George. “They’ve hounded travelers for two months now, and you’ve done nothing.”

George scowled at his mother. “I’ve ridden the countryside until my backside ached.”

“I’ve sent for the apothecary,” Livia said as she left. “Come, Oriel. It’s not meet that you should be here when they strip him.”

Oriel allowed Leslie to herd her from the room, but she was back as soon as the patient was tucked beneath a pile of blankets.

Motioning to a serving man, she said, “Stoke the fire high. This room must be hotter than an August day. And bring hot water and cloths.” She pointed to a stack of pillows. “Jonathan, when I lift him, stuff those beneath his head and shoulders. We must keep his shoulders above his legs. That’s well done. Now, go heat bricks, lots of them, and put them between the blankets.”

Livia’s apothecary arrived, out of breath, his black cap askew. “Mistress, there is a wounded man?”

“Yes, it’s the Sieur de—it’s the son of Lord Fitzstephen.”

“The Sieur de Racine?” The apothecary bent over the young man and clucked. “Hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmm.”

“Will he live?”

“I think so, but he’s bled a lot, mistress. Is he a choleric man?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. Do you know his birth date? I should consult the stars.”

“Shouldn’t you sew up his wound?”

“Yes, mistress, I’ll do that. Press hard upon the wound while I ready myself.”

She was proud of herself. Though she felt giddy at the sight of needle piercing flesh, she remained throughout the apothecary’s ministrations. Soon the wound was cleaned, stitched, and bound, and the apothecary was gone. He left instructions that she wait for a few minutes before transferring the pillows from his head to his feet.

This done, Oriel dragged a chair to the bedside and
sat looking at the wounded man. Servants came with hot bricks, followed by Leslie, who stood beside her chair.

“Saints, dear coz, our drowsy home has been invaded. What a stir he’ll cause awake if he can upturn the household in such a manner when asleep.”

“Who was the man who abandoned him to you?” Oriel asked.

“I know not. I never saw him before. A strange fellow. He said I must take great care of his treasure—meaning Fitzstephen, I suppose.”

“And then he ran away?”

“Yes,” said Leslie. “A most curious occurrence.”

“Oriel!”

Both Oriel and Leslie started at the trumpet call of Livia’s voice as she invaded the chamber.

“Oriel, what do you here? The apothecary said you sent him away.”

“I can watch the Sieur de—”

“Racine,” Leslie said.

“I can watch the Sieur de Racine as well as he. There’s naught to be done but watch and keep him warm.”

“After you sent him from our house like a cheap peddler,” Livia said, “I’m amazed that you now wring your hands over him.”

“Christian charity, Aunt.”

“Ridiculous,” Livia said. “But mayhap if you attend him, I’ll gain a betrothal from it.”

“I think not,” Oriel said.

Livia went away, contenting herself with a disgusted snort. Leslie left as well, and Oriel spent the rest of the day beside the unmoving patient. She sent for books, and spent much of the time rereading Wyatt’s poetry.

Before nightfall Leslie reported that Fitzstephen’s men had been found, including the one called René, who insisted upon viewing his master before receiving care himself. All the men were suffering from the cold
and needed nursing. One had an arrow wound, but would live.

As evening wore on, she fell asleep. Uncle Thomas came sometime during the night and insisted she go to her chamber. She agreed only after he promised to set Nell in her place, and she was back again the following morning.

She hadn’t slept well, for she kept thinking of the dangers even a shallow wound meant, and then chastised herself for dwelling upon the welfare of the man when she’d managed to put him from her thoughts, for the most part, since he’d left. Now she sat beside his bed once more. However, she’d promised herself she’d leave the moment he woke. She wouldn’t want him to know she had lingered at his side like a puppy.

If she hadn’t had her nose tucked in the Wyatt poems she would have had some warning. Instead, she glanced up to find him staring at her, his face flushed, those silver-grey eyes bright with the slight fever that had come upon him. He stared at her, and she at him. Oriel stopped breathing as he continued to hold her gaze as though he wanted to devour her alive. Then he closed his eyes, and to her chagrin, chuckled softly and murmured to himself.

“Vain imaginings.”

He sighed and turned his face from her so that she saw only tousled dark hair and the angle of his cheek.

“ ‘Stay me with flagons,’ ” he whispered as he drifted into sleep again, “ ‘comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.’ ”

Oriel stood, and her book dropped to the floor. He didn’t stir, so she bent over him. “What mean you by that vile remark? My lord? A pox on you and your pretty face and your sleek body and—” She clamped her mouth shut.

She had returned to her chair and was scowling at her patient when Joan and Jane came in.

“Mother said we should help you,” Joan said. She
was the older of the two, and the one with the most wits.

Jane bobbed her head. “Yes, we should help.”

“We’re to help you,” Joan said by way of making herself clear.

Oriel lifted her gaze to the ceiling and groaned. “I need no help.”

“Food is coming,” said Joan. “We sent for food. Sick people need food.”

She spoke slowly. “Joan, he can’t eat if he isn’t awake, and I would have sent for food if he could eat.”

“Oh.” Joan sat on the end of the bed.

“Don’t do that! You’ll jostle his wound.”

“Oh.”

Joan started to wriggle off the bed, thus jarring the sleeping man. He moaned, and Oriel pounced on Joan. Grabbing her cousin’s hand, she yanked the girl off the bed. Jane whined a protest and Oriel rounded on her.

“Having you two for nurses will make him worse, not better.”

Jane stared at her. “Mother said we were to help.”

“We’re as good at sitting as you,” Joan said.

“And what if his fever worsens? You two will gawk at him like two cows in need of milking.”

Oriel didn’t finish, for her patient turned and sighed; his lashes fluttered. She swore, then shoved Jane into her chair.

“He wakes. Don’t tell him I was here at all. Do you understand?”

Both girls nodded without curiosity, and Oriel glanced at the stirring figure on the bed. His eyes opened. He stared at the top of the bed frame, then lowered his lashes again. Oriel raced out of the room, giving him a last glance over her shoulder. He’d opened his eyes to study the top of the bed again, and she darted out of sight.

She avoided the sick man’s chamber the rest of the day. It wasn’t her fault that her daily habits kept her
nearby in Uncle Thomas’s library. Once she heard that fabulous voice raised in annoyance, but it faded, and she continued her cataloging of her uncle’s books. After the evening meal, she and Uncle Thomas were back in the library, where they had taken refuge from the rest of the family. George and the rest of her cousins were playing cards, but Oriel found she couldn’t pay attention to any game with that man upstairs. She kept imagining she heard his voice. All of a sudden, she did hear it, along with a crash.

“God’s blood! Get you gone, evil wenches.”

She raced for the sick chamber with Uncle Thomas behind. She ran into Jane and Joan, who were scrambling out of the room, hot towels in their hands. They raced past her like frightened cattle, and clambered down the stairs. Inside, Oriel beheld the wounded man and a chamber in near shambles. He sat up in bed, naked except for the bandage on his shoulder and the covers over his hips and legs. He was glowering at her, and breathing hard. Beside the bed lay an overturned basin of water and several towels still steaming from the heat of the water. Beside them lay a chair, overturned.

“What ails you, my lord?”

“Those two harpies tried to scald me.” The young man winced and put a hand to his bandage. “A plague take them.”

Uncle Thomas came in, surveyed the room, and righted the chair. Sitting in it, he gazed at the patient, who was staring at Oriel. She reddened and busied herself with picking up the basin and wiping the spilled water.

“Fear not, young Blade. I’ll warn Jane and Joan away, though I doubt they’ll have the courage to come near you again. I am Sir Thomas Richmond.”

“I thank you, sir. I am Nicholas Fitzstephen, but I see you know who I am.” Blade craned his neck so that he could see Oriel kneeling beside the bed. “I find myself
cast upon your mercy. I’m in need of a gentle nurse—one who won’t try to boil me.”

“Oriel will protect you,” Thomas said. “She’s attended you without pause since you arrived, but Jane and Joan replaced her when she grew weary.”

“Uncle!”

Oriel popped to her feet and gave Thomas a look of dismay. Thomas stared back in surprise.

“Ah-ha!” Blade said. “Then it wasn’t a dream.”

She hastened to explain. “I’ve an interest in learning, and have knowledge gained from our apothecary, and so I’m better suited than the others for nursing.”

Blade sank into his pillows with a smile that turned her face a deeper shade of pink. “Marry, lady, then God has bestowed upon me a great blessing. Might I trouble you for a change of dressing? This one chafes now that your cousins have gotten it wet.”

Thomas rose. “I’ll send for the apothecary.”

“Uncle, don’t go.”

“You but need to slit the bandage, child.”

Thomas was gone. He’d left her with this man apurpose, she knew it. Swallowing, Oriel turned to face him, wishing he would cover his chest so that she didn’t have to gaze upon all that smooth flesh.

She hesitated between the bed and the door, but finally came back. Taking a pair of scissors from a table beside the bed, she began to cut the bandage. Her hands were separated from his skin by a wet cloth, but she still felt the heat of his flesh as she worked.

“My lord, part of the dressing has stuck to the wound. I will try to be gentle.”

“Arrrgh!”

“Fie. Such a great noise for such a small pain.”

“Small?” Blade swore and tried to put his hand to the wound. “Marry, woman, it felt as if you’d torn me open afresh.”

“If you carry on so, what a thunder you must make when you’re grievously wounded.”