Elizabeth Chadwick (21 page)

He tensed, his face remained averted, but he did not withdraw from the light pressure.

The curtain rattled on its pole as Emmeline returned with Barbette in tow and the requested articles. Resisting the impulse born of guilt to snatch her hand away, Maude tightened her grip.

“How good are you at ignoring pain?” she asked Fulke.

He shrugged and looked at her, his expression restored to one of sardonic humor. “That is hard to say since I have never had an arrow taken from my flesh before. How much are you going to inflict?”

Maude briefly compressed her lips while she pondered how to reply, finally deciding that in kind was as good a way as any. “That is hard to say also, since I have never taken an arrow from anyone’s flesh before.”

Fulke eyed her fingers upon his. “Then we are well matched,” he said.

Maude reddened. “In this matter, yes,” she said, trying to appear unruffled and in her own time removed her hand.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Emmeline’s voice had been thready with fear. “No,” Maude said. “There is nothing you can do, but if you could send two of the men in, I would be grateful.”

Emmeline nodded and scurried out, her relief obvious.

“Two men?” Fulke raised his brow. “You think it is going to be that difficult to hold me down?”

“You may well buck like a branded colt and do serious damage to yourself.”

She took the knife, examined its edge, then went to the brazier burning in the middle of the room and thrust the instrument among the glowing lumps of charcoal. Fulke stared, and she saw sweat spring on his brow. She had no doubt that if he had been sound in limb he would have run from the room.

“Good Christ, woman, what do you think you’re doing?”

“The chirugeon who showed me his art said that fire purifies. To stop a wound from festering you must use instruments that have been tempered in its heat. Don’t worry: I’ll quench it first.”

“I think I need to be drunk,” he said weakly.

Maude gave a brisk nod. “It would be a good idea.” Leaving the knife in the glowing charcoal, she went to the costrel and removed the stopper. “Are you familiar with uisge beatha?”

Fulke managed a grim smile. “I was introduced to it as a squire in Ireland with Theobald—vile stuff, but useful if you crave to get drunk without bursting your bladder.” He held out his hand for the costrel. Before she gave it to him, Maude poured off some of the almost colorless liquor into a large pottery beaker.

“Are you going to drink that before or after you cut out the arrow?”

“Neither,” she said. He was jesting, trying to be light and flippant, but she knew that he must be feeling sick with apprehension and fear. Even if the operation of removing the arrowhead was simple, it was still no small undertaking and she knew without a doubt that for a brief time at least he was going to be in agony.

The curtain pole rattled again as two of Fulke’s brothers entered. Not William, who was nursing cracked ribs and heavy bruises, but Ivo and Richard who were both big and strong. The latter was cramming the last of a griddle scone into his mouth and dusting his hands on his tunic.

“Is there ever a time when you’re not eating?” Fulke demanded from the bed.

Richard patted his solid stomach. “Extra flesh acts like another layer on your gambeson.”

“It’s no wonder your horse sags in the middle.” Fulke took a swig from the costrel, and his repartee was immediately silenced by a glottal wheeze.

Maude waited until he had drunk more than half the remaining uisge beatha in the costrel then gestured Ivo and Richard into position. Fetching the knife, she quenched it in a jar of water standing nearby and then, with a prayer on her lips, picked up the mead cup and sloshed some of its contents over Fulke’s wounded thigh.

Although he was well on the way to being gilded, Fulke still arched and yowled like a scalded cat and there was nothing his brothers could do to hold him. “Bitch!” he gasped. “Vixen, bitch!” He fell back onto the bed, his lids squeezed tightly shut and moisture leaking out between them.

“That is the worst over,” Maude said tremulously. Her heart was pounding in her throat at both Fulke’s reaction and what she was about to do.

His voice was ragged. “Christ, just do what you must, and be quick about it!”

Faces grim, Ivo and Richard pinned him. Maude took the knife. “I have to open the wound to reach the arrow head. With good fortune it will not be barbed and can be eased out.”

“And if it is barbed?” Ivo gave her a searching look from beneath his brows.

“That is what the goose quills are for. They are set over the tines so that when the arrow head is drawn out, the flesh is not ripped.”

Both brothers winced. Fulke made an inarticulate sound conveying drunken, angry impatience.

Maude took a deep breath, entreated God to steady her hand, and set to work. To his credit, Fulke tried hard not to tense his leg and she was able to cut down to the arrow head reasonably quickly. There was plenty of superficial blood, but she could tell from the way it welled around the wound that no major vessel was involved. A gentle probe revealed that mercifully the arrow head was not barbed. She took the thin wedge of wood, slid it carefully into the side of the slit, and eased the iron arrow out.

“Here,” she said, presenting it to Fulke in her bloody fingers. “A talisman for luck.”

“Luck!” he laughed weakly. His complexion was ashen and his pupils huge and dark with pain. “What kind of luck is that?”

“The kind that lets you off lightly. It was only in your flesh, no damage to bone or major vessels. If you do not suffer the wound fever or stiffening sickness, you will live with naught but a scar to show for it.”

While he was still looking at the bloodied arrow, she removed the wedge and doused the wound in uisge beatha a second time. Once again he reacted like a scalded cat, this time almost losing consciousness. Maude quickly packed the wound with a greased bandage and then wrapped it in strips of linen swaddling band.

“How long before he is able to ride again?” Ivo asked. His look was a little reproachful and she could tell that he thought her unnecessarily cruel. “When can we leave?”

“A week at least, but better two. You’ll need to do some hunting for your suppers if you are not to strip Higford of its supplies.”

“Oh yes, we’ll hunt,” Ivo said. The way he looked at Richard made Maude decide not to ask the kind of prey they had in mind, although she suspected that any royal manors within the vicinity might soon find themselves receiving a visit. So she merely nodded and changed the subject.

“He needs peace and quiet to sleep and recover. One of you can sit with him and make sure he needs for nothing. I will speak to your aunt—reassure her that all is well.” She grimaced at the dried blood caking her fingers. “Although I had best wash my hands first, or she will never believe me!”

That raised weak smiles from Fulke’s brothers. She took the costrel bottle and swigged down the dregs. The fire of the brew hit the back of her throat and shot in a line of liquid flame to her belly. She gasped, first with shock, then with relief. Fulke half opened his eyes and gave her a glazed look. “I don’t know whether to kiss or kill you,” he slurred.

He was out of his wits with drink and pain, but his words still sent a jolt through her that almost rivaled the uisge beatha for effect. “Perhaps you should just thank me,” she said, and left the bedside before he could say anything else.

***

Three days later, Maude was able to pronounce that Fulke’s wound was healing cleanly, without signs of the dreaded wound fever. At first she had not been sure and had had to wait out the raging headache, the thirst and sickness caused by the after-effects of his drinking such a large quantity of uisge beatha. Now, however, she was certain. Already he was proving to be a restless, irritable patient, refusing to stay abed and swallow his nostrums as instructed.

“I’m not a puling infant,” he snarled at the sight of Maude armed with a bowl of oxtail broth. “It’s my thigh that’s injured, not my stomach.”

He was fully dressed and sitting in the window embrasure, his leg stretched out in front of him. His tangled hair and a four-day growth of beard made him look like the outlaw he was rather than a polished knight.

Maude narrowed her eyes. He had already sent one of the maids out in tears that morning, and had been thoroughly insufferable ever since William had taken the men out on a “hunt” after the breaking of fast. She knew that he saw it as his responsibility to lead them, and was not happy at being forced to delegate, but that did not mean he should take his temper out on those around him.

“It’s the state of your manners that concerns me the most,” she answered tartly as she set the bowl down in front of him together with a small loaf. “Since everyone else is dining on oxtail broth, I do not see that you should object. You cannot bring fifty fighting men into a small manor like this and expect to eat like a king every day.”

He gave her an angry scowl and drew himself up. “I will pay my way. The men have gone out foraging, as you well know.”

“Stealing from John, you mean.”

“Much less than he steals from me.” Grudgingly he tore a piece off the bread and dipped it in the broth. “Why bring it to my chamber?” he demanded. “I am quite capable of sitting in the hall with my aunt and whoever else remains.”

“Partly because I hoped you might still be abed,” Maude snapped, “and partly because no one wants to sit at table with a boor.” She had intended staying with him to make sure he ate his broth. Since he seemed to have every intention of doing so and she found his behavior objectionable, she abandoned her plan and stalked out. She would examine his leg later, and if she hurt him, she would not be contrite.

Too angry and exasperated to sit at table in the hall and make conversation with Emmeline, Maude fetched her bow and quivers from her chamber and went to practice her archery at the butts.

***

Fulke drank the broth, which was excellent and full flavored. He ate the bread and knew with annoyance at Maude and irritation at himself that she was right. He was being petulant, but only because he was bored, shut away in this chamber and treated as if his wits had bled out of the hole in his leg. He was a proud, active man, healthy and vigorous, and not within his living memory had he been confined to bed for more than a day. The thought of William out foraging at the head of the troop was enough to make him bite his nails ragged. It was true that his brother had learned a little more prudence along the tourney road, but not so much that Fulke trusted him without qualm.

Still, he should not have taken his frustration out on Maude. He owed her more than he could repay. Perhaps that was part of the reason he had lashed out. He made an impatient sound at the thought, and decided on the instant to do something to amend both his behavior and the situation.

Pulling himself up by the angle of the embrasure wall, he limped slowly and painfully to the entrance curtain. His lance was propped against a coffer nearby and he grasped it to use as a prop. His chamber was part of a large room divided by the curtain, the other section containing his aunt’s solar. A maid was busy weaving braid on a small loom, but his aunt was nowhere to be seen. Likely she was in the hall dining on her own broth and being regaled by Maude with the tale of his execrable behavior.

It was that thought rather than the pain in his leg that made him grimace as he limped to the embrasure. The maid had opened the lower shutters to allow daylight into the chamber. Fulke gazed out on herb beds and a green area beyond, which the manors retainers used for battle training and archery practice.

A single bowman faced the straw butts, drawing and releasing with fluid ease. He narrowed his eyes, the better to focus on the distant figure. A bow woman, he amended with surprise and admiration. Even from where he stood, he could see that Maude Walter was good.

With difficulty, Fulke negotiated the external stairs at the end of the solar and descended to the courtyard. There was a slight breeze, enough to ruffle his hair, but not sufficient to blow the arrows off their course as Maude sent them winging into the butt. He watched the sharp angle of her arm, the tilt of her head, the way her lips pursed on the draw and then released in an expression that was almost a kiss as she loosed all the pent-up tension and let the arrow fly. Beauty controlling power. He felt the hair lift on the nape of his neck.

He limped between the herb beds until he reached the edge of the sward, then paused to gain his breath and recover from the pain.

She must have seen him from the corner of her eye, for she turned. Angry color burned her cheeks and she lowered the bow, her next arrow un-nocked.

“I am glad that it was not you shooting at me from the walls of Whittington,” he said, “for I know I would be dead. You have a better eye than Alain, and he’s by far the keenest marksman among us.”

She shrugged. “I shoot finest when I’m angry.”

Fulke stirred his toe in the soft, thick pile of the grass. A beetle was toiling among the short blades, its body as glossy as polished dark leather. “As you have every right to be.” A glance at Maude revealed that she was eyeing him warily, anger still apparent in her eyes. Christ, she was lovely. It was all too easy to imagine her long-limbed and wild in his bed. He cleared his throat and quashed the thought. “Even since being bound in swaddling bands as an infant, I have chafed at confinement. I am sorry if I railed at you for what is none of your fault. Indeed, I owe you and my aunt a debt beyond all paying. I would not have you think me ungrateful.”

Her look told him that while she was a little mollified, she was not yet prepared to let him off the hook. “I don’t.” She walked up to the butt and tugged her arrows out. He looked at her straight back, the ripple of her linen veil at each jerk of effort. “But you’re still a mannerless boor,” she said on her return.

“If you gave me another chance, I could prove otherwise.”

Her lips curved. “How many chances do you want?”

Fulke gave her a questioning frown.

“On my wedding morn,” she said, “you took a whore beneath my bridal roof