Silverhawk (22 page)

Emelin’s quick glance surprised tears in the other lady’s eyes. “Yes,” Lady Clysta called. “I’m coming.” Her teeth worried one side of her lower lip. A frown creased her lined brow.

“He sometimes believes our son has returned to us,” she murmured. “But Mangan was lost a score and more years past. Please excuse me. My lord husband grows agitated at times like this.”

Sure enough, the elderly man had grabbed Giles’ hand as Sister Ressa worked at the wound. Giles opened his eyes. His head turned from Sir Daviess’ chatter, and his gaze caught hers. She could almost hear his questions.

The lord’s voice rose. “You see, Clysta, he’s here. I said he’d come home, didn’t I?” His grin folded into the lines around his mouth and eyes. His wife stroked his shoulder in comfort.

“Yes, my dear. So you did. But we must allow him to rest now and recover from his injury. Come inside with me, and we’ll have a drink to warm us. This air grows cool.”

He patted the hand she’d placed on his shoulder. “You go ahead, my lady. I’ll stay here for a bit, see if he needs anything.” His arm slid around her waist. “Come and welcome him home, before you go.”

With a small smile, Lady Clysta stepped up beside Giles. When he turned his head to meet her gaze she smiled sadly. Although her hand shook as she touched his arm, she spoke graciously.

“I can understand my lord husband’s confusion. There is a look of our son about you. He was lost to us many years ago. Our only child, you understand.” Her voice broke as she struggled to maintain composure. After a moment, she continued. “You are very welcome at Granville, Sir Knight. Please remain until you have recovered.”

Unable to persuade Sir Daviess to abandon his place at Giles’ side, Lady Clysta at last returned to the keep where, she promised, she would prepare a room and a bath for Emelin.

Emelin took up a place on the opposite side of the table from where the nun yet worked and Sir Daviess stood guard. Her fingers grazed Giles’ arm. His head angled to watch her.

“Are you all right?” he rasped.

“Yes,” she assured him. “This is Granville. You brought us here safely.” She bit her lip to keep tears at bay.

His eyes closed, then opened as he fought sleep. When he lost the battle, his long black lashes lay thick against his cheeks. She leaned in and brushed her lips across his forehead.

“Your man is very ill, my lady,” Sister Ressa said as Emelin straightened. The two women looked at each other. “There may be some substance trapped deep inside the torn flesh. I have observed that infection often gathers around such foreign matter. If it is not removed the infection will worsen.”

The nun’s meaning was clear. Giles might die. It was her fault. Had she not tried to escape again, had she remained under his protection, he wouldn’t be in this condition. Garley had been right all along. She was obstinate.

“What can I do, Sister?” She stroked his hand and arm.

“There is nothing right now, my lady. I will try to clean the wound. It will be painful for him. He must be tied down. Perhaps you should take this time to rest and change your garments. You will want to be fresh when he awakens. I’m certain he will want to see you then.”

Sister Ressa was correct. Emelin needed to rest and put herself to rights. With a sigh, she nodded. Halfway to the door she stopped. What was she thinking? Giles must not be left to the mercy of strangers. He hadn’t deserted her when she was in need. Besides, she could not rest in the keep, worried that he suffered.

Two burly men-at-arms side-stepped around her, followed by Sir James. Each carried a stout rope. They bound him to the table with one rope around his chest, shoulders and upper arms and the other around his legs. Then at a word from the healer, they turned the table half way around so that the light from the door fell on the wound.

Sir Daviess did not move and now stood at the foot of the table. Emelin took her place at Giles’ uninjured side and reached for his hand. This she could do. Sister Ressa caught her eye and nodded. The nun had wiped her knife with a cloth dampened in some aromatic liquid. Now she bent and began to probe.

Every sound was magnified in the otherwise silent room. Breath roared, a cleared throat thundered, the blade against torn flesh sucked and smacked. Sister Ressa uttered “Umm” from between compressed lips.

Almost immediately after, Giles winced then shouted. His eyes flew open. “What in Satan’s arse is happening? Why can’t I move?” He started to struggle. “Get these ropes off me. What in Hades’ fire are you poking in me?”

The nun straightened to wipe the knife with the treated linen.

“Hold still if you can,” she said to Giles. “There’s something else lodged in your side that I can’t reach. I must try again.”

He muttered something in reply, then lunged to free his arms. The men-at-arms jumped forward to brace his shoulders and legs while the nun continued.

Emelin grasped Giles’ hand; her other hand stroked his brow. “You’ve been injured. The good sister is cleaning the wound.”

Unfocused eyes roamed over her face, then he frowned. “Emelin? You’re safe? Where are we? What in…” Sister Ressa took that moment to insert the knife again, and he swore. He didn’t flinch, but beads of perspiration lined his upper lip, his forehead. The two men-at-arm pressed him down.

“God curse you sons of poxed whores, let go of me. I don’t need to be held down like a babe.”

Emelin dampened a length of linen in the bowl of water and blotted his forehead.

“It will be all right.” Her voice was low, soothing. “You were very brave. You fought three outlaws all alone. And then you found me. I was frightened, but you kept me safe.”

She continued to stroke his face, murmur foolish words she lost sense of. Her touch, the sound of her voice calmed him. His jaw was clenched, his eyes closed. If only he could manage that trick he had, she thought, to remove himself from the moment, perhaps the pain would not be so acute.

“Found it,” Sister Ressa announced. “Hold on.” Emelin could see the sharp angle of the nun’s elbow as she moved the knife.

“Emelin,” he whispered. His eyes found hers, the silver dulled to steel, the whites webbed with red. The grip on her hand was so intense, she feared some bones might break.

“I’m here.” She stroked his face, his hair. “You will be all right,” she repeated.

The nun straightened, held up a small piece of metal triumphantly, then put it on the table and slid her hands into the water bowl.

“It’s over. Sister Ressa is finished.” His eyes closed again; his grip loosened. He’d lost consciousness. Emelin again blotted his damp face, brushed back his hair. Gently she placed his hand down and flexed her fingers. They all moved.

“The fever has taken him,” the nun said as she dried her hands. “I’ll vow he wouldn’t utter a word in his right mind. He only fought the bindings, not the pain.” She gazed at him a moment, then shook her head. “I’ll dress the wound now. No stitching. It may need to drain. Come, my lady, see how this is done.”

Emelin stepped to the other side of the table where a small dish of ointment sat. Its odor was nasty.

Working quickly, Sister Ressa washed and blotted the bloody skin, then patted a mass of the smelly substance over the still-bleeding wound. Another generous glob went on a square of linen for the bandage.

“Hold this firmly,” she ordered Emelin. “You.” She nodded to one of the men who had just removed the ropes from Giles’ chest. “Help me turn him to slide this binding under his back. Carefully. Thank you.” She pulled the wide linen strip firmly around his waist, over the pad, and tied it tightly.

“Now,” she said to Emelin, “you know how to prepare his bandage if I cannot attend him.” The nun took one last look.

“He’s a fighter, that’s for sure,” she pronounced with a slight smile. “Wouldn’t let the pain best him until it was all over. Most men wouldn’t have lasted half that long. Now then, my lady, I suggest you seek your own rest. You look ready to drop.”

“Are you sure he will be all right?”

“It’s in God’s hands. Ask Him for His blessings and His mercy.” With a nod, the nun trotted away.

Emelin stood at Giles’ side for a while longer. His breath was shallow, but the chest movement was even. With a final touch to his cheek, Emelin left.

Inside, the clean, fragrant hall bustled with activity. One young maid smiled cheerfully and pointed toward the back where Lady Clysta directed a pair of lads weighted down with buckets of steaming water.

“There you are my dear,” the lady called when Emelin neared. “I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve set the tub for your bath in my solar. It will be quicker than to wait until your room is prepared.”

“Not at all,” Emelin assured her. “I’m grateful for the luxury of a real bath. But how have you managed all this warm water so quickly?” The lady hadn’t been gone that long.

Lady Clysta smiled. “We keep a cauldron warming in the bath house much of the time. The men and women who work here appreciate a bath as much as we do.”

“You mean the servants?” That was odd.

“We’ve no servants here,” the motherly lady replied. “The men and women who give their time to help in the hall are from the village. Most go to their homes each night, then return in the morning.”

“But they serve you?” Emelin didn’t understand what she meant.

“Perhaps it’s the word that misleads.” Lady Clysta nodded as one of the lads eased past with his bucket. “My family settled in England hundreds of years ago, from the northern countries you know.”

“Norsemen? Your family were Vikings?” Emelin had never met anyone with ties to the people known as dangerous marauders.

The older lady smiled. “I believe my family included traders, not warriors, although my mother’s grandfather passed down tales of fighting valor. He was Mangan the Mighty. We named our son for him.”

Emelin looked for signs of tears but was comforted when she saw none. The lady must have noticed her concern.

“The pain of losing him has dulled, although it never entirely disappears,” she confided. “I have learned to go on. But Mangan’s father has found it harder to let go of the memories and disappointment, especially as he ages.”

Recalling the hope in the old man’s face, she nodded. “It must be difficult, losing your only child, your only son.”

With a sigh, Lady Clysta gestured to her to follow up the narrow stairway. “He was young, but nineteen years. He served a neighbor as squire. When his lord announced he would travel to Normandy to collect his betrothed, Mangan begged to be included in the party. Oh, he was excited to be going. I remember the last time he visited, so full of plans. Knighthood, perhaps service with the king.”

They reached the solar and stopped next to the tub. The lady stared at the water. “They were away six months for the lord to marry. On the return journey, a storm overtook the ship. Mangan was on deck helping the crew when a blast of wind knocked a sail loose. He was struck in the head and washed overboard. And lost.”

Chapter Seventeen

Emelin brushed away tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Lady Clysta sighed, straightened her round, soft shoulders. “Perhaps you will understand if Sir Daviess occasionally forgets and believes our son will return. It harms no one, after all. And for the most part, he is with me in the present. It is just on days like this, when someone reminds him of our Mangan, that he slips away. But he returns.”

She handed Emelin a dish of soap from a small table and gave her a gentle smile. “Today is the first time it’s happened since Christmastide. One of the traveling minstrels bore a striking resemblance, and my lord was disturbed for days. But forgive me for running on so. I must allow you your privacy. I will send Jenna with an old gown of mine you can wear, one from my younger days, when there was less of me to cover.”

In a blink, Emelin was relaxing in the warm water. As the tension of the past days eased from her, she thought of the old couple who lived at Granville. She didn’t know why the Lady Clysta had shared such an intimate story with a stranger. Perhaps it was to explain that the old lord wasn’t mad.

Emelin couldn’t imagine losing a child. It would be a sorrow one carried always. She thought of Giles, hurt, in an empty room across the bailey. His mother would have worried about him. He’d been so young when she died. And his grandfather, soon after. No kin left.

What must it have been like with no one to care for him? He told her his father still lived. Yet from what he said, it was evident there was no contact between them. Had his mother and father never married?

Alone like that, how had Giles become a knight? He insisted upon the title of mercenary. No matter what he was called, he possessed an inflexible honor. Never mind that he had carried her off in the deep of night, bundled up like laundry.

The memory chilled her in the still-warm water. She had to get back, now more than ever. If Garley were to find them here, Giles was in no condition to fight or to escape. He would be at her brother’s mercy. And Lord Osbert’s, too, of course.

Perhaps she should take Lady Clysta into her confidence. She could tell her they had been traveling to Langley, that the lord there would worry if she didn’t appear. The lady might be persuaded to help her return.

The warmth of the water proved an effective tonic, and before Emelin had worked out the plan, her eyes drooped shut. When they at last opened, her body had slid down in the now-cool depth of the linen-lined tub. Her head rested against the side. Strands of her unbound auburn hair floated around her. With a sigh, she ducked her head into the water and reached for the soap.