Love at First Sight (21 page)

“You will say nothing, lest I place a curse on you,” she hissed in his face. “Your seed will dry up, and your shaft will wither, until you have naught to piss with.” The swineherd backed away, jowels quivering. “Do wot ye will.”

Spitting in his palm again, the swineherd took himself off, and Golde followed the children to peer over a thick, slatted railing. The wounded sow lay opposite from the pen’s gate, her small black eyes half-closed, Ronces’ arrow yet embedded in her hind. Her sides heaved and she grunted with each breath she took.

Golde wrinkled her nose at the stench, and eyed the flies swarming above the filth-strewn ground.

“The three of you go ’round to the other side of the pen.” She gestured at the children. “As I need things, you can hand them to me through the slats. Stay well back of the railing until I call for you, and under no circumstances are any of you to enter the pen. Understood?”

Three heads bobbed in unison, then the children moved off to do her bidding, as several people halted to watch the proceedings.

Grasping the latch, Golde opened the gate and stepped inside. Slime gushed between her toes, but she paid it no heed. The sow’s eyes had snapped open, and never had Golde seen a more suspicious look.

“Easy, mi’lady,” she soothed.

The sow snorted and Golde stilled. “’Tis quite a nasty wound you have there.”

She eased to a squat and waddled forward, balancing on the balls of her feet. “How brave you must be, mi’lady. And very pretty, too. ’Twould be a shame for such a fine pig to die.”

The sow wallowed to sit, her grunts more guttural and threatening. Again, Golde stilled until the pig’s grunts subsided, then waddled closer. “I mean you no harm.”

Abruptly the sow tried to rise. Gasps issued from the onlookers, and it took all of Golde’s will not to jump up and run.

But the pig only squealed its misery, then collapsed on its side, its body trembling.

’Twas now or never. Golde quickly closed the gap between herself and the pig before it could regain any strength.

Its eyes rolled in its great head and its tongue hung panting from its mouth. Short tusks peeked from its jaws.

“All is well.” Golde babbled as she reached out to stroke the sow’s ears. “All is well.”

She glanced at the arrow. It appeared to have sunk the length of a man’s hand. Golde pursed her lips. The animal would have to be rendered unconscious to remove the arrow. Which was a problem unto itself.

How much tonic would be necessary to make the pig sleep without disturbing the litter she carried?

“There, there,” she crooned, and continued to pet the animal. “We’ll soon have you back on your hooves.”

As the sow’s grunts eased, so did its flat, round nose begin to twitch. Before Golde realized what it was about, the pig’s tongue had captured her sleeve.

The honey! It was after the honey that soaked her garments.

Golde worked quickly. Leaning her head to one side, she scraped her hair across her shoulder to obscure the pig’s vision so it would be less frightened. “Ronces, I need the black flagon.”

She reached through the slats with one hand while stroking the pig with the other. Uncorking the bottle with her teeth, she dribbled a small amount on her sleeve.

The pig suckled a bit more, then her tongue moved to lap at Golde’s hair.

God’s teeth, she thought. She felt like a contortionist. The muscles in her neck, arms, and legs were screaming for relief. Meanwhile, it felt as if her toes might cramp any moment from the way she was squatting on the balls of her feet.

For what seemed an eternity, she dripped tonic in the area where the animal licked, waiting to gauge its effect before dribbling more.

The sow’s breathing slowly grew deeper and more even, until finally its tongue lolled to the ground.

Hushed voices whispered from the assembled castlefolk as Golde rose. “Ronces, the rope.”

Grabbing the cord, she tied the animal’s feet, then again directed the boys. “The knife, Ronces. Alory, the cloth.”

The boys’ hands shook as they handed the items to her. “Be careful,” Alory urged.

Golde knelt beside the pig. Holding her breath, she cut the arrow shaft away, and placed the blade’s sharp tip to the sow’s punctured flesh. She then gave the knife a hard thrust until it scraped against the embedded tip of the arrow.

Sweat trickled down her forehead as she set to work, cutting a core around the arrow. Faith, ’twas like trying to cut a wheel of cheese that was composed of nothing but rind. Once finished, she used the knife for leverage. Steeling herself, she gave a mighty yank on the arrow while pulling up on the blade. The arrow came free cleanly.

And not a moment too soon. Already the sow’s breathing was growing lighter and less even.

“Ronces . . .” She looked at her hands. They were covered with blood and gore.

For a moment she swayed, certain she was going to sick. A snort from the sow sent fear to her rescue. Sick or no, she’d best finish quickly.

“Ronces. You and Alory will have to light the taper.”

Ronces fumbled with a flint until Nicolette jerked it away. While he held the tinder, the sure-handed girl struck the flint. Once the tinder caught, Alory held the candle to it.

Another snort issued from the sow as Golde held the knife above the flame. “Hurry, hurry,” she muttered.

The blade grew black, then ashen. Kneeling beside the sow one last time, Golde sunk the knife in its bloody hide.

In the same instant that the blade hissed, she heard Ronces shout, “Papa!”

Golde dared not look away from the pig. The animal’s body writhed as it tried to wake, but Golde held. The knife needed a few moments to cauterize the wound.

Abruptly a mail-clad arm wrapped about her waist.

“Leave go,” she snapped, leaning all her weight forward and locking her muscles.

“Witless get of an idiot!” Gavarnie hissed in her ear. “You will get yourself killed.”

The pig began to grunt with ferocity, and its hooves flailed.

“Mistress!” Sperville croaked, prying at her hand where she held the knife.

’Twas more than she could withstand. In the same instant the blade came free, Gavarnie jerked her backward. Her momentum carried them both to the ground, where she landed in his lap.

G
AVARNIE SCREECHED
. There was no other word for the high-pitched wail that erupted all the way from his
coillons,
where his plate armor had pinched him.

Pinched
him? Nay.

Shoving Golde from his lap, he clutched himself between the legs and rolled to his side. He’d been torn asunder. His body quivered with the pain. He squeezed his eyes shut against scalding tears of agony, and curled in a ball.

As if it understood his misery perfectly, the sow began to squeal.

“Lund!” Sperville called. “Have your blade to ready lest the pig breaks its bonds.”

“Nay!” Nicolette wailed.

“Mi’lord.” Sperville touched Gavarnie’s shoulder, and he flinched. “What—”

“The witch did it,” the swineherd accused.

“She did not,” Alory cried. “She was only trying to help.”

Gavarnie’s heart pounded thickly in his chest. Dear God, he could not look. How much blood would there be?

“He is having a fit,” Lund remarked anxiously. “See how he shakes?”

Instantly a thumb was prying his eyelid open, and he saw Golde’s apprehensive features peering at him. Groaning, he rocked away from her touch.

Castrated. Emasculated.

“What spell have you cast upon him, hellhag?” Henri demanded from nearby.

His eyes squeezed shut, Gavarnie heard scuffling sounds to the tune of the sow’s grunts and snorts.

“Unhand me, fool,” Golde huffed. “’Tis no fit. Can you not see he is in great pain?”

Soft, warm fingers brushed the hair from his forehead. “Mi’lord, tell me where you are hurt.”

He shook his head. Death was preferable to discussing his malady with her, or anyone.

Sir Shaft le Mort, Baron of Gelding. He could hear it now.

“Sperville, what became of the knife I held?” Golde sounded frantic. “Mi’lord, did I stab you?”

Mud squished, then the chamberlain replied, “’Tis here.”

Gavarnie ground his teeth. Opening his eyes to slits, he found Golde kneeling beside him, her hair stuck to her face and clothing in black clumps. Beyond her, Lund held his sword at the ready, prepared to kill the sow if she attacked. Henri stood beside Lund, his features drawn. And inexplicably, an overpowering scent of honey permeated the air.

“It is his stomach,” Golde concluded aloud, tugging at his wrists. “Mi’lord, let me see. ’Tis not safe to move you until we determine the extent of your injuries, and this is no place to tarry.”

As if to underscore her words, the pig loosed another round of howling squeals.

“Leave go,” he gritted, locking his muscles in place.

“I swear I will not hurt you,” she cajoled, pulling harder.

The pain was beginning to ease, and he wished only for privacy. “Get thee gone, wench. Sperville, disperse this crowd. Then you, Lund, and Henri, remove yourselves to the hall.”

Golde’s eyes jerked upward, her worried gaze directed behind him at Sperville. She pursed her lips.

“I cannot leave you thus,” the chamberlain declined, “not with an angry sow. Let Golde look at you. Then we will know how best to proceed.”

The throbbing rapidly diminished, leaving a numb sensation in its wake. Doubtless because there was nothing left to feel pain. He grimaced.

“For once, Sperville, you will do my bidding without argument. You will take yourself off, or by all that is holy, I will crush that stubborn head of yours.”

“But sir—”

“I tell you, my complaints are naught to concern yourself with. Begone!”

It seemed the sow agreed with his sentiments, for it grunted heartily.

“He is out of his head,” Golde pronounced solemnly.

“Lund, Henri, you will have to help Sperville hold him if I am to find the source of his ailment.”

Plague take the wench, Gavarnie swore to himself. She would badger him to the grave. Even now, Lund and Henri were moving toward him, the louts.

“The first person who lays hands on me will die,” he blustered.

Lund and Henri halted to exchange wary glances. “Papa, pwease, let her help you!” Nicolette cried from outside the pen.

“He will remember naught of this once he is recovered,” Golde persisted. “Indeed, he will understand your good intentions and be grateful.”

“I will not,” he vowed.

“Come,” Sperville addressed the two liegemen. “Would you truly consider leaving our liege in a pig stye?” The simpering bastard. Rage blew through Gavarnie like a hell-borne gale. To be forevermore pitied and scorned. But the devil would take him before he’d be physically restrained while the buzzards ogled him.

He scrambled to his feet. “There!” He backed toward the gate. “Are you satisfied?”

He spread his arms and legs wide. “Does it please you to see a man so foully disfigured?”

A hush fell over the stye. Even the pig stilled and grew silent. Lund glanced at Henri, though there was no horror on their faces. Sperville was peering at him with a puzzled tilt to his brows. Finally Golde rose from her bent position.

“Calm yourself, mi’lord,” she soothed. “I know it appears dire to you, but I have treated such wounds often. A few cobwebs and bee tails and you will be fine.”

He frowned at her. What in God’s name was she talking about? He glanced at his hands, then jerked his head down.

No blood. No half-hinged appendages dangled beneath the hem of his mail tunic.

Giving the buzzards his back, he spun to face a deserted corner of the stye. He yanked up the chain mail tunic that covered the armor plate on his thighs, then snatched at the drawstring of his braies. Closing one eye, he peeked inside. Everything appeared normal. He opened his eye and pulled the material farther away from his belly. Nothing. He eased his hand in for a closer inspection.

He flinched.

Then he sighed gratefully. Though the area was most tender, all was intact. He felt like jumping for joy. Well, mayhap not jumping, but—

“Mi’lord?” Golde’s husky voice invaded his good cheer.

So, that was what the wench was about with her talk of cobwebs and bee tails. She believed him daft and sought to humor him.

Of all the arrogance, the conceit. That she would think she knew more of his person than he. Turning, he glared at her.

“You dare to presume much which does not exist. Cobwebs and bee tails. There is naught wrong with my head, Mistress Know-All. My armor pinched . . .”

Words deserted him. Everyone was looking at him, nonplussed. He stabbed Golde with a hateful look and lowered his voice that the entire castle would not hear.

“When you landed in my lap, my plate caught . . .”

Faith, were they not all so stupid, he would not have to be so explicit. “I thought I’d been—that is, it felt as if . . . Well, you can imagine my horror.”

Abruptly Henri and Lund grew interested in the ground. Sperville turned his head to study the pen’s railing. Only Golde continued to look at him, her lips trembling as if she were holding back tears.