Medieval Rogues (32 page)

Elizabeth jerked free of his hold. “I will find Mildred. There is a garden here at Branton. Medicinal herbs—”

“I have sent de Lanceau’s friend to fetch her,” her sire said and limped up beside her, his face contorting with pain. Blood trailed down his leg.

“Father, we must tend to your wound.”

“Fear not, I shall live.” His eyes softened with a strained smile. “You have a tender heart, Daughter, but do not fret for de Lanceau. He is, after all, a rogue. Sedgewick, take Elizabeth from this gruesome scene, and see that she is well attended.”

Fear whipped up inside her. She must not leave Geoffrey to fight for his life, alone. “I will stay.”

“Do as I command,” Arthur said. “’Tis not a sight for a lady.”

A brisk “harrumph” carried above the commotion, and Mildred elbowed her way through the men-at-arms. She looked down at Geoffrey, at the crimson pool by her feet, and whispered, “By the blessed Virgin.”

“Can you save him?” Elizabeth asked.

Mildred knelt in the dirt and with light touches, probed the wound. Blood gushed between her fingers, and her mouth pinched. “I cannot say for certain.”

Arthur growled, a sound of annoyance. “Take my daughter from here, Baron.”

The matron rose to her feet with the sound of popping joints. “Milord, I have much work ahead of me, tasks that would benefit from a woman’s delicate hand rather than a knight’s crude fist.” Her gaze, bright with meaning, slid to Elizabeth. “Would she be able to assist me?”

Elizabeth squared her shoulders. “I will be glad to help.”

Fatigue shadowed Arthur’s face. Rubbing his brow, he sighed. “Very well.”

As her father hobbled over to the well, assisted by several knights, Elizabeth crouched down beside Geoffrey. She touched his cold cheek, and fresh tears filled her eyes.

She fought the horrible, pressing fear that she had lost the man who had captured her heart and soul.

Forever.
 

Chapter Nineteen

Raising her lashes, Elizabeth stared at the candles flickering on the altar. Laughter, music, and the sounds of revelry floated into Wode’s quiet chapel. While she prayed for Geoffrey, the castle folk celebrated her father’s safe return and the fact that none of his men had died in the skirmish at Branton Keep. Thirty were wounded, and some had serious injuries, but they would live.

One man at Wode stood to die from the siege.

“Oh, Geoffrey,” she whispered.

Her lips trembled, and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth to quell a sob. When she and her father’s weary army had ridden up to the keep’s gates, she had smiled and waved to the sentries on the wall walk who cheered and clapped. She had bathed, dressed in her finery, and dined in the great hall as her father expected where ale and wine flowed and servants brought endless courses of rich food. Through it all, she had struggled to keep her face a mask of noble dignity. Inside, she was dying.

She linked her icy hands over her favorite blue silk gown, noting with a stab of anguish that the folds were a soft gray hue, the color of Geoffrey’s eyes when he bent his head to kiss her. She prayed with all the aching love inside her that he would live.

She had done all that Mildred had asked. Elizabeth had watched, horrified but unable to look away, as soldiers cut the bolt from Geoffrey’s body and sealed the gaping flesh with red-hot irons heated in the fire. Her head swimming, she had fought not to faint while she helped Mildred apply a poultice of crushed nettles to the burnt flesh.

When Mildred declared Branton’s garden ill equipped to deal with a wound of such magnitude, Elizabeth had helped her lay Geoffrey on a crude mattress of straw and blankets strewn in the back of a supply wagon. For good luck, she had tucked the half-mended saddle trapping next to him, and had ridden by his side until they reached Wode.

She might never feel the joy of his lovemaking again.

Tears welled, and Elizabeth blinked them away. She would do all within her power to save Geoffrey, for she could not bear to live without him.

Gathering her skirts, she hurried down the corridor toward her chamber. She passed it and halted at a door father along the passage. Elizabeth made a fist and pounded on the wood.

She knocked again. Why did Mildred not answer?

A muffled exclamation came from inside the chamber, an instant before the door opened and the scent of rose and dill soap floated into the corridor. “Here I am,” Mildred grumbled, clutching a towel over her wrinkled bosom and removing one draped over her head. “Can an old woman not have a few moments of privacy?”

When she saw Elizabeth, she started. “Oh, milady, I do apologize.” Her gaze softened with concern. “You are crying.”

Elizabeth dried her eyes. “Please, I need your help.”

“You wish for a soothing draught?” The matron beamed and nodded. “It has been an emotional few days. A touch of poppy and valerian will help you sleep. Come in. I will dress and fetch you a tonic straight away.”

“’Tis not for me.”

“Who, then?” Mildred’s puzzled gaze lit with understanding. “Ah, de Lanceau.”

“We must save him. We must.”

The healer’s eyes misted. Drawing Elizabeth inside, she closed the door. “I left his side not long ago. As I told your father earlier, Geoffrey is so near death, ’twill be a miracle if he lives to the morning, and an even greater miracle if he can swallow even a drop of tonic.”

“He will die?” Elizabeth’s heart shriveled, dying too.

Mildred shook her damp hair. “I can only help the body to heal,” she said, helplessness in her voice. “I cannot mend flesh that is torn beyond repair.” She walked over to the linen chest and removed a prim gray wool bliaut.

“I beg you,” Elizabeth cried. “Bring whatever ointments you have. Please. We cannot give up on him, not until he is d—” She could not say the awful word.

“As I told the maid who watches over him now, I intended to cleanse his wounds again after my bath.” The matron shook her head and smiled. “I must admit, I have developed a fondness for the rogue.”

Elizabeth ran and hugged her. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when he lives, milady.” Mildred pulled on the crisp wool. “If we can keep him alive to the morning, he might have a chance.”

***

Elizabeth hesitated outside the guest chamber. Geoffrey lay beyond the stout wooden door. Her father had ordered him ensconced here, in the wing reserved for the privileged guests of the lord and his family. Although the solar now belonged to Geoffrey, ’twas clear her father did not expect Geoffrey to live to assume tenure of Wode.

Quelling a surge of panic, she entered the chamber. The candles on the bedside table sputtered at the draught. Mildred hurried in behind her and shut the door, then spoke in hushed tones to the maid who rose from a chair near the bed. The air in the room was warm, though not stuffy, and bore the odors of well water, pungent herbs, and blood.

Geoffrey lay on the bed near the window, his lean, muscled body stretched out beneath linen sheets and wool blankets. Elizabeth walked to the side of the bed. Her silk gown whispered in the room’s stillness.

As the door clicked shut behind the maid, tears flooded Elizabeth’s eyes. He looked so pale—paler even than when he lay in the wagon, his profile washed in harsh sunlight. His eyelids were closed, his lashes thick and dark against his cheeks. His lips were parted. She leaned over him, hoping to feel his breath on her skin. So very, very faint.

She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. Fear and terror gripped her, for he felt so cold.

“Mildred,” Elizabeth sobbed.

“Hush, milady.” The matron set her willow basket on the floor, and it creaked with the weight of the ointments and stoppered bottles. “Come and help me.”

“Tell me what to do.”

Mildred glanced at Elizabeth. The matron paused a moment, then shook her head. Curling her fingers over the edge of the sheet, the matron whipped it down to Geoffrey’s bare waist. With gentle hands, she removed a second sheet folded across his chest.

Blood stained the linen and welled past the thick poultice covering the wound. Eyes burning, Elizabeth stared at the magnificent torso that had invited her touch, now slashed and smeared with dried blood and blackened, macerated herbs. Memories taunted her, of his skin flexing and gleaming in the firelight. Of his chest hairs tickling her palm. Of his sweat-slicked skin sliding beneath her fingertips. He was still beautiful, so beautiful. Yet, his skin lacked its former luster.

“Are you certain you wish to watch?” Mildred asked, as she worked at the poultice.

“A-aye.”

Even so, when Elizabeth saw the state of the wound, her stomach roiled.

With light fingers, the matron touched the wound. “Mercy,” she muttered. “I now understand why the Pope issued an edict to ban the use of the crossbow.” She leaned closer and inspected the shattered flesh. “Thank God we had time to seal the wound.”

Elizabeth shuddered. For the rest of her days, she would remember the soldiers wrenching the bolt from Geoffrey’s limp body. Had he felt pain? Had he felt the blood spurt when—?

“Do not faint,” Mildred said sharply. “I cannot spare the time to cut mint and revive you.”

Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open. She had not realized they had closed, or that she swayed on her feet. Straightening her shoulders, she forced her fear to the back of her mind.

Rummaging in her basket, the healer withdrew a small earthenware flask of cooled, boiled water. She added greenish oil that smelled of rosemary and lavender. “Bathe him, milady. Start with the crossbow wound.”

Elizabeth took the linen cloth and washed his chest with great tenderness. The water soon turned crimson, but she tossed the bowl’s contents into the fire and resumed with fresh water. When finished, she swabbed the grime from his face.

Mildred worked beside her. She rinsed the gaping wound and the slash down his chest with a pinkish lotion. “St. John’s wort, betony, and goose-grass to staunch the bleeding and to heal,” she said, in answer to Elizabeth’s questioning glance.

“And that?” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the odorous ointment the healer rubbed into the wounds.

“Betony and nettle.”

Geoffrey did not stir.

The matron dropped her pot of ointment into the basket. “I must gather ingredients for a fresh poultice, and bring more blankets, too. The fever will start soon.”

“Fever?”

“’Tis a grave wound. ’Tis a miracle he still breathes.”

“That is a good sign, is it not?” Elizabeth said, clinging to the spark of hope.

Heading to the door, Mildred begrudged a smile. “I suppose ’tis.”

Taking Geoffrey’s hand, Elizabeth squeezed it to let him know she was beside him, waiting for him to recover.

Waiting to tell him how much she loved him.

She sat on the bed’s edge, keeping watch, her fingers cradling Geoffrey’s, until the matron returned with fresh nettle leaves. She crushed them using a mortar and pestle and pressed them over the wound.

Sick with worry, Elizabeth rubbed her hands over her arms. Geoffrey still had not stirred, and his breathing seemed shallower than before.

“The fever has started,” Mildred said.

Elizabeth scooped up the wool blanket the matron had brought and spread it over Geoffrey, and tucked the edges under the mattress to keep in his body heat.

Frowning, Mildred reached into her collection of bottles and drew out a flask of pale liquid. She motioned for Elizabeth to move to the end of the bed and popped the lid of the flask. “Lift his head.”

“What are you giving him?”

“Feverfew and burdock root in wine. ’Twill help control the fever. And,” Mildred added with a wry smile, “to dull his pain, a touch of monkshood.”

Elizabeth gasped. “Are you certain the quantity—?”

“Not enough to do him harm, I promise.”

As instructed, Elizabeth cradled Geoffrey’s head in her hands. Mildred forced her finger between his teeth and pried open his jaw. His mouth went slack. With care, she poured in a few drops of the liquid.

The tonic drizzled from the corner of his lips and dripped onto the blanket. “He did not drink it,” Elizabeth said.

“He cannot swallow.” The healer pressed closer. “Tilt his head a bit more. I will try again.”

This time, when Mildred sloshed in more of the elixir, she ran her fingers inside his mouth and depressed his tongue. The liquid vanished down his throat, and she nodded. “There.”

Exhaling a shuddered breath, Elizabeth returned Geoffrey’s head to the pillow. She trailed her fingers through his silky hair. He had liked that tender caress, most of all after lovemaking. He had once said it reminded him of his mother, of the way she had soothed his stubbed toes and bruises when he was a boy.

“You love him?” Mildred asked.

Elizabeth would not deny the emotion that had rooted deep in her heart. “I do. Very much.”

The matron set the flask on the table beside the bed. “I cannot excuse what he has done, but he would have made you a fine husband.”

“Not would, Mildred.
Will.
”

***

Some time later, Elizabeth admitted two menservants lugging a straw pallet. Both appeared flushed and tipsy. In the brief moment the chamber door stayed open, she noted that despite the late hour, the raucous celebration in the hall continued.