Ruthless (10 page)

Muriele no longer felt reluctant to touch
him, for he became as any other hurt animal she had helped. When he
lifted his leg, she slid the cloth beneath and packed it against
the sides of his flesh. Selecting one of the clean cloths laying on
the table, she ripped off a small piece. Holding it with her
fingertips, she dipped it in the hot water then flapped it in the
air until cool enough she could fold it to where there were four
sharp corners. She placed it on his bare belly.

As Grunda held his flesh open, Muriele held a
knife blade alongside the lip of the small pot of betony soaked
water to hold back the leaves while she poured the warm water into
the open wound. Grunda worked the flesh around, spilling the
thinned pus from it. After several soakings, Muriele used the tips
of the cloth to pull the dislodged rust away. Magnus gritted his
teeth to as she dug to get the last piece.

She sighed. "'Tis as clean as I can get it."
She looked up at Grunda. "Ye can stitch it now. Do ye think a
compress with harebell roots and woundwort will staunch the blood
and clear the infected fluids?"

Magnus brought her attention back to him.

"Ye do the stitching; Grunda can do the
compress making."

Why, she had been so engrossed in what she
was doing she near forgot she was working on a man.

"I have never stitched a man. Or woman. Only
animals." She shook her head at him. "Grunda must do it."

"Dinna defy me, woman! If ye can stitch my
clothing, ye can stitch my flesh. 'Tis no difference."

What if she hurt him and he knocked her to
the floor? Sometimes pain-riddled men struck out at their healers
if someone didna hold them to the bed. She gulped and jumped
back.

"'Tis painful. Who will aide ye? Grunda isna
strong enough to hold yer leg still."

"Do ye think me a nithing of a man? Get back
here and do it."

"You trust the witch's get to work on your
flesh, brother?" Feradoch said from the doorway.

"Her mother was Lady Ragnhild, nay a witch.
The girl knows where her fate lies. She wouldna dare cause me
harm." He turned his hot glare to rest on her.

"Ye sew and I will cut the thread. 'Twill be
faster," Grunda said as she handed her the needle already threaded
and waiting.

"For the lass' safety, should I hold you
down?" Feradoch stepped over to the bed.

"Keep yer hands to yerself."

"Best get on with it then. Father is
impatient. He sent me to fetch you." He folded muscular arms across
his chest and lounged against the foot of the bed.

She took a deep breath and tried to think of
the leg as part of a wounded animal. But an animal did not have
bronzed flesh with soft hair tickling her hand when she moved.

She held her breath taking the first stitch.
When he didn't lash out at her, she felt more confident. Every now
and again, his flesh quivered.

"Best not be so clumsy, lass," Feradoch
warned.

Muriele dared not look up but worked as fast
as she could. Her needle no sooner made the knot than Grunda's
knife tip cut the thread and she was on to the next one. Once the
last stitch was in place, Grunda handed her the poultice and helped
spread it over the wound. She moved back for the old woman to wind
the bindings around his leg and secure it.

"Ye did much better than Sweyn. No doubt it
will heal sooner with no dirt left behind." Magnus swung his legs
over the bed and stood.

Muriele's eyes widened. Dirt? Did his squire
not know to clean dirt from a wound? No wonder he had so many
ridged scars on his body!

Feradoch picked up the clean tunic and tossed
it to Magnus. He snatched it out of the air and over his head in
one smooth movement. He took only long enough to pull on his boots
before they left without another word.

"I think ye will have made a friend in Sweyn,
lass," Grunda said, grinning.

"Why?"

"Ye saved him a blackened eye." Grunda
laughed at Muriele's look of surprise. "Aye. Sir Magnus refused my
aide when I was brought here saying Sweyn needed to learn the skill
for after battles. But he always lashed out at him."

"Is Sweyn clumsy, then?"

"Nay." She shrugged and chuckled. "Except he
needed to be deep in his cups afore he could get near Sir Magnus'
flesh."

They had no sooner put their supplies back in
the basket than a servant appeared with a rolled pallet slung over
his left shoulder. Relieved to see it, Muriele placed it in the far
corner until they could get the room back to rights. After he left,
she closed the door and looked at the tub.

Magnus had certainly needed a bath from the
looks of it! The cooled water left scum along the wooden sides.
Wrinkling her nose, she went to the window and looked below to see
a cobblestone path with grass on either side.

"No one seems to be about. I can empty the
water out the window." She grabbed the nearest empty bucket and
dipped it in the tub.

"Nay, girl. Let me." Grunda reached around
her and took hold of the braided rope handle. "Warm water is left
in the rinsing bucket. Best take advantage of it now whilst he is
gone."

A small washstand stood in the far left
corner with a polished metal square hanging above it. She knelt and
found her soap then hurried over to pour warm water in the basin.
She bathed as fast as she could, listening for the slightest
sounds. When she finally slid the beige and brown garments over her
head, she sighed with relief.

"Ye no longer need me here," Grunda said as
she hugged her. "Be abed afore he returns. Likely, he won't notice
and will crawl between his sheets. Warriors sleep quickly. He'll be
snoring afore ye know it." She collected the basket of supplies and
slipped out the door.

Muriele shut it, but instead of it giving her
a sense of security, she felt imprisoned. She shivered and tidied
up Magnus' shaving table, making sure to place everything exactly
as he left it. She looked around for anything she had forgotten to
do. Grunda had emptied and wiped out the tub before pushing it
against the wall. The floor dried, aided a bit by blotting with his
dirty clothing. She made a bundle and put it out of the way for
washing the next morn.

After replacing the small table in the right
hand corner where it belonged, she put the helmet stand on top. She
looked around again, making sure she hadn't missed anything. 'Twas
a big bed for one man. The fat feather mattress looked inviting as
she straightened the sheets and fluffed the pillows he'd propped
himself against. Smoothing the sheet and blanket, she folded them
back at the corner so he needed only to sit and pull them over
himself.

Nothing seemed out of place. Except her
rolled pallet. Where could she place it so it wouldn't be obvious,
yet be as far from the bed as possible? The space along the wall
between the helmet table and the clothing chest seemed the safest
spot.

Her stomach grumbled when she unrolled the
bedding. Too late to think about food now. Ah, well, it was not the
first time she'd gone without eating. And it likely wouldn't be the
last. She slipped off her shoes and debated about taking off her
kirtle. Nay. 'Twas a cold room and the thin blanket and pillow
rolled inside the pallet wouldn't be enough to keep the chill
away.

She sat on her bedding and brushed her hair
as she thought over these last horrible two days. Once done, she
made one long plait to the side and stretched out. Shivering, she
wrapped her hands in the blanket and drew it tight under her chin.
Seeking her mother's comfort, she cupped the treasured rings
through her clothing and waited on the bedding to warm. Once it
did, she sighed and slept.

o0o

Magnus, bone tired and sore, wanted nothing
more than to return to his bedchamber. His leg felt afire. Once
he'd told the Chief about the raiders, he settled back to drink
until it dulled his aches.

The men broke up their bouts of swigging by
feats of strength. He had arm-wrestled with the Chief and Feradoch,
and to do so, he'd had to plant his feet firmly on the floor,
tightening his muscles to lend strength to his back and arm.
Feradoch had near beat him the last time. He was insisting Magnus
body-wrestle with him when Sweyn mentioned Magnus had new stitches
on his thigh. The Chief frowned and put a stop to the evening.

Feradoch's disappointed look brought home the
coming changes in their lives. No longer would they spend a month
together each year. With time, would they lose the special bond
between them? The unspoken loyalty? He hoped not.

He felt uneasy about returning to Clibrick.
Though Graemme seemed to welcome the event, would he miss the man
who had been more of a true brother by living there these past
seventeen years? An ancient Clan belief claimed,
A man is
affectionate to his kin, but a foster brother is the life blood of
his heart
.

When he reached his bedchamber, he clutched
his sheathed short sword under his left arm then shifted his helmet
from his right to his left hand and opened the door. The glow from
the rushlights at the top of the stairwell spilled into the room.
He spied his empty bed and snapped the door shut with his heel.
Walking over to put his cleaned helmet on its stand, his right foot
stepped on something soft. A startled gasp caused him to hop and
shift his weight to his left foot.

Bending, Magnus felt the edge of his boot to
find what was beneath it. 'Twas a braided rope of hair. He lifted
his foot, took the hair in his hands and followed it until he
reached the woman's head. When his hand cupped her jaw, the clouds
moved from the moon. Its light spilled over her face, making her
skin glow like a yellow stone polished by a rushing stream.

His fingertips stroked over a warm cheek and
soft lips and stopped to explore them before moving up to stroke
the silky hair of her temple. Her eyes, wide and startled, met his
gaze.

He remembered their look when she had
concentrated on stitching his flesh. Worry. Compassion. She had
tried hard not to cause him added pain.

"Why are ye awake at this hour?"

"I was not. Ye near yanked the hair from my
head."

"I'm not yanking it now. Get to sleep."

He jerked his hand back as if her flesh
scalded him, and then stood. Feeling his helmet pressed against his
left side, it reminded his ale-fuddled mind why he was there. He
dropped the helmet in place. His leg ached like Lucifer's moldy
horns ripped into his flesh and jerked on it.

Going to his bed, he slammed the sword atop
the extra pillow then tugged off his clothing. Finally, he threw
everything across the chair and stretched out on the bed. Grateful
he wasn't wrapped in a plaid and sleeping on the hard forest floor,
he sighed and rolled over, pulling the blanket with him as he
closed his eyes.

Muriele's muscles cramped from her efforts to
remain so still she'd be inconspicuous. With her back to the wall,
she wanted to change position but feared Magnus was not asleep and
her movements would remind him she was there. Finally, when he
began to snore, she relaxed enough to drift off to sleep.

During the night, every time Magnus turned,
squeaking bed ropes' awakened her. Her gaze probed the darkness
until heavy breathing told her he still slumbered. 'Twas likely his
leg ached and he needed to move it to a more comfortable
position.

What if his wound festered? Would he blame
her? Though he had not struck out when she stitched his flesh, what
if he went out of his head with fever? His fist would likely break
her jaw.

Clutching her arms around herself, she
thought over everything she'd done from the time he stepped into
the bath. If the wound began to fester, hot water and soap would
help draw bad humors from it. And he
had
scrubbed his legs
vigorously.

'Twas a good thing, wasn't it?

Ah...but what about the sweat-soaked breeches
he'd worn all day? Not to mention the dirt and blood from other men
had washed off his body into the water.

'Twas a bad thing, wasn't it?

She reminded herself she'd cleansed the wound
with the betony water and had added harebell and woundwort to the
dressing. If his skin looked inflamed come the morn, she'd best put
a hot poultice with herbs on it to draw out the infection.

If he allowed it.

As darkness started to fade, she fell asleep,
exhausted.

Muriele snapped awake. What had changed?
Something was about to happen, but what? She stopped breathing to
heighten her hearing. Soft murmurs came from outside the door. Its
latch slowly lifted. The door eased open. Two shadows stood framed
in the open doorway, one huge the other smaller. They hesitated
then slowly moved forward. They carried something in their
hands.

"Beware!"

The shout left her mouth as she scrambled to
her feet, feeling on the calf of her right leg for the familiar
sheath there. Her hand touched bare flesh. Magnus erupted from his
bed and before his feet touched the floor, he had drawn the short
sword and stood balanced to spring.

He was visible in the faint light from the
hallway. 'Twas a warrior ready to kill, crouched with a sheet
wrapped around his left arm, his right hand gripping his weapon,
ready to strike.

"My lord! 'Tis Brian and Gille."

"Lucifer's rotted arse, woman! Why did ye
scream?"

"They entered so quietly I thought someone
meant to skewer ye while ye slept."

"I am most sorry, lady," Brian said with
laughter in his voice. "Each morn I bring hot water for my lord to
shave. He usually awakes before I open the door."

Muriele's heart slowed to a steady beat, but
her face flamed. Embarrassed by the attention, she pulled her
kirtle into place where it had twisted as she slept. Out of the
corner of her eye, she watched Magnus pull on his breeches and
boots. He winced when he first bent his leg, but once he'd laced
the clothing at his waist, he did not look to have trouble
walking.