Wicked (39 page)

“Thank you, milord.” Sofia turned to her cousin and gave a slight curtsey. “Sire.”

“Sofia,” Edward said.

Then both men left her alone.

She sat down next to Tobin on the bed, and watched his breathing. He was all bandages and bruises. She wanted to lie next to him, to hold him, but she was afraid to touch him, so she lay down alongside of him, careful not to touch anything but his left hand. She leaned over and whispered, “I love you, my husband. I love you.”

Then she lay back down and closed her eyes, but just before she feel asleep, she threaded her fingers with his.

Chapter 33

“God save me from you nursemaids!” Tobin bellowed so loudly his voice echoed out of the tower and over the bailey below.

“God save
us
from you pigheaded warriors,” Lady Jehane barked just as loud. “I swear you are worse than an infant! Now hold still, young man.”

“What are you going to do with that knife, woman?”

Lady Jehane paused, holding the knife over Tobin’s lower body. “I am going to cut off your—”

“Jehane!” Mavis warned in a hiss.

“Bandages!” Jehane said, then she sliced through one of the chest bandages and set the knife down and took a rag soaked in vinegar and warm water. With it, she began to soak the cloth to loosen it from the wound.

“Dammit! That stings!”

Sofia glanced outside and saw people gathered in the bailey below the tower, listening. This battle between Tobin and the Poleaxes had been going on for almost an hour. She was not certain who would win.

“Ouch! That hurts,” he said more quietly, his voice carrying a distinct whine to it.

Sofia saw Jehane look to Mavis and roll her eyes. “’Twill not be much longer. I need to check each of these wounds and the stitches.”

Tobin grumbled something and looked over at Sofia, a pleading look in his eyes.

She had tried to stand well out of the way and as she watched them, she wasn’t certain who she sympathized with more, the Queen’s ladies or her husband.

“Well now, that is finished. All cleaned and bandaged.” Jehane was washing her hands. “In spite of yourself.”

Tobin didn’t say anything. He just sat in the bed, scowling.

Mavis picked up all the supplies, and Jehane the wash bowl. They moved toward the door.

Sofia moved swiftly and opened the chamber door. “Thank you, both for all you’ve done. Truly.”

Jehane eyed Sofia from her head to her toes, then said, “Are you increasing yet?”

Sofia almost choked. She shook her head.

Jehane turned and looked at Tobin.

“What are you looking at?” he shouted.

Jehane started out the door and over her shoulder she said, “You know, Mavis, perhaps we should have bled her that time.”

“You think?” Mavis said thoughtfully, following her out the door. “I do not know. I am thinking maybe we should bleed him!”

Sofia closed the door and set the lock. She walked over to a table and poured a goblet of wine, then brought it to her husband, who was scowling.

“I am sorry you are still hurting,” she said, handing him the wine.

He took it, drank some and handed it back to her. “That’s enough.”

“I was so very frightened, husband. I am so pleased your wounds are healing so swiftly.”

“Swiftly? ’Tis been almost five days!”

“Your wounds were terribly deep.”

He said nothing, just sat there looking angry at the world in general.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“Nay.”

She sighed. “Well, then I suppose you should get some rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Oh. Would you like me to send for Merrick?”

“I do not want company.”

She counted to ten, then she stood. “Then I shall come back later.”

His left hand shot out and grabbed hers. “Do not go.”

There was such a desperate and needy tone to his voice that she sat back down. “What would you like to do?”

He shrugged, then winced.

“We can play draughts,” she suggested, waiting to have him deny that, too.

“Fine.”

She smiled and stood to fetch the game board and pieces. She set the heavy board on the bed. “Which color would you like?”

“Black. No, white.”

“You’re certain?”

“Aye. White.”

She lay out the pieces. “You can have the first move.”

“Wait. What are the stakes?”

“We shall play for fun.”

“Nay. There must be stakes.”

“Fine. What would you like me to wager?”

He grinned. “Your clothes.”

“Tobin!” She began to laugh. “You are terrible.”

“I am serious.”

“And what will you wager?”

“Gold?”

She shook her head.

“Jewels?”

“Nay.”

“I have no clothes on. What do you want?”

She chewed on her lip. “A child.”

And her husband laughed loud and hard for the first time in days.

By the end of that
week, Tobin was up, dressed in mail and was in the icy fields outside Camrose with the other knights, working to regain his strength. Every time he raised his sword, his chest felt as if it were going to explode.

He hid it.

He rode his mount up and down the field. Every hoofbeat jarred his shoulder and the bone in his elbow rang as if it were a church bell.

He dismounted without a flinch.

But when he decided to take a turn at the quintain and tilt, Merrick stepped in and grabbed his lance. “Stop this.”

“What?”

“You think I cannot see that you are hurting?”

“I hurt.” Tobin shrugged. “’Tis not the end of the world. I will heal and in the meanwhile I shall not lose any strength if I practice every day.”

“You are going to kill yourself, lad.”

“The only thing that will kill me is dire boredom. God in heaven, Merrick! If I have to stay in that bloody bedchamber one more day I will go mad.”

“You do not have to practice on the field.”

“I want to.”

“You are the most hardheaded fool.”

“Aye,” Tobin grinned. “You trained me well. Just ask your Lady Clio.”

Merrick barked something and walked away mumbling.

But for all his jesting and stubbornness, Tobin knew Merrick had a point. He was trying too hard. He hurt like hell and it was all he could do to stay atop his horse.

He sheathed his sword and moved off the training field. He led his horse to the stables and handed him to a groom, then rolled his shoulders and winced. He moved to a water barrel nearby, removed a ladle from a hook and took a drink.

A voice came from a nearby stall around the corner, where two varlets were mucking it out. “Ye know, me Bess, she were the one who told me that he paid ‘em gold guineas to shame the lady.”

Tobin froze.

“Gold guineas! We be saving for a farm outside Winton.”

“Why did he want to shame a lady?”

“She wouldn’t have him or some such rot.”

“What lady?”

“Lady Sofia. The black-haired beauty what’s wed to de Clare. He paid Bess and her sister to hang that sheet in the hall.”

Tobin dropped the ladle and rounded the corner in two long strides, his sword up and the point at the throat of the varlet who was talking. “Who?”

“Milord!” the man’s eyes bulged and he swallowed hard, gulping down his next words.

“I said, who paid them? Give me the name, man, and I won’t slit your scrawny throat!”

The man began to stammer. “I . . . I—”

“Now,” Tobin said with deadly calm.

“That blond one.”

“What blond one?”

“Baron Robert’s son.”

“Warwick?”

“Aye, sir. ’Twas him. Richard Warwick.”

’Twas not long afterward that Tobin found Richard Warwick in the Great Hall, sitting at a table with some other knights and young lords, all boasting about their prowess on the field and in bed.

’Twas the talk of young men. He had once been one of them. But he was no more.

He strode into the room with one purpose in mind, ignoring the greetings and comments, his eyes focused on his quarry. As he passed, even more wished him speedy health and good will.

At that moment he did not care for good will. He was so angry he wanted to crush something with his bare hands. Warwick’s throat for one thing.

He came up to the table where Richard Warwick and Thomas Moore were sitting. He just stood there.

Warwick cast a glance over his shoulder. “De Clare. Welcome. Sit and have a cup with us.” He started to move.

Tobin planted a hand on his shoulder, gripping him as hard as he could with his bad arm. “Do not move, Warwick, or I shall be forced to kill you now.”

“Kill me?” Warwick laughed, then he looked at Tobin’s face and his laughter grew nervous and higher pitched, then faded. “What jest is this?”

Tobin removed his gauntlet and threw it on the table in front of Warwick.

There was a gasp of surprise and the room grew suddenly quiet.

A challenge was made. A glove was thrown. This was no jesting thing among knights.

“I, Sir Tobin de Clare, challenge you, Richard Warwick. In the honorable name of my lady wife.” Then Tobin turned and walked from the room.

Sofia found him in
the armory, sitting on a bench and oiling his sword.

She came rushing inside. “There you are. What is this foolishness I hear?”

“What foolishness would that be?”

“You challenged Dickon Warwick?”

“Aye.” He was not looking at her, but sat there rubbing the oil up and down the blade, then taking a stone and honing the edge till it was more finely wrought.

“You cannot fight him. Look at you. Your wounds are not yet healed. Just look at your arm!”

“What about it?”

“You can barely move it.”

“I can move my arm just fine.”

“I will not let you do this. It is stupid.”

“You have no say.”

“You did this for my name. You think I do not know that?”

“I issued the challenge. Warwick chose the time and place. We will meet tomorrow, in the field outside Camrose.”

“Nay.” She shook her head. “Please, husband. You cannot do this. Please. He will kill you.”

“You have little faith in your own husband’s skills.”

“I have complete faith in your skills, but not when you are ill. Not when your arms and chest have been torn to shreds. Do not do this for me. I do not care about the sheet. I do not care. A piece of bloodstained cloth is not worth your life.”

“But I care. I care, Sofia.” He stood and looked at her. “It is honor at stake here. Honor, wife. A man must have his honor.”

Chapter 34

They lined up ten deep on either side of the field, for this was not a tourney, where the crowd was as much a part of the games and the ritual as the combatants. There were no gaily striped tents flying pennants of like colors. There were no galleries with benches for the ladies to wave their favors. There were no date sellers and sausage hawkers, no jongleurs singing of the great jousts of William the Marshall from so many years before, no cheers from the crowd, for this was a solemn moment.

This was not about prizes of gold and horses and weapons. This was about justice.

His wife rushed into the armory, where Tobin was waiting for his squire to bring the lances.

“Thud cannot find your lances.”

Tobin was strapping on his armor and he looked over his shoulder at her, his expression irritated. “They are in the weapons room. I put them there myself.”

“Let me help you,” Sofia volunteered, as she took the buckle from the back of a piece of plate armor and fastened it to the front piece, then drew it tight. “There.” She gave him a pat.

It almost made him laugh, the gesture, to pat his armor. He moved to the next piece of plate, the arm guards, and he slid them over his mail and did the buckle himself.

She looked up into his eyes. “How is your arm?”

“Fine.” His voice was sharp, but he was tired of answering that question. He had been answering it all morn.

Since he’d made the challenge, Merrick, Sofia and even the King himself had all talked to him, arguing the possibility that he was not physically ready to meet Warwick.

They were all wrong. He was more than ready to meet him and he did not need full use of his arm. He was so angry he could funnel his rage into the lance and sword.

He had no doubt he would win.

But when he looked at Sofia, he saw that she stood there, wringing her hands the way she did when she was upset. She would not look at him, so he stopped what he was doing and reached out to her.

He tilted her chin up so she had to look him in the eye. “’Twill be fine, sweet. I know you are worried. My arm is strong.”

She looked down at her clasped hands and nodded.

After Tobin strapped on the last piece of plate, he fastened his sword belt and turned. “I suppose I shall have to go fetch those lances myself.” He did not understand how Thud could miss those lances. But then he had not been into the weapons room in weeks. Perhaps someone moved them.

“Thud was still there when I left.” Sofia followed him out the door and up the stairs. The weapons room was on the west side of the castle, near the upper wall, so men could be armed and easily move back to their posts. The room was small, but packed with swords and daggers, crossbows, arrows, quivers, maces and axes and extra mail and plate, in addition to any kind of missile from stone to oil that could be thrown or poured from the castle walls.

Tobin moved more stiffly than usual. His armor was weighty and made the climb to the room at the top of the castle a long one. He was still sore and his chest was not all that comfortable in mail and plate. He could feel his torn flesh, feel the scabs and the tightness.

He ignored it.

At one point, he glanced outside through an arrow slit He saw the crowd below and the strip of field. He was ready. His blood sped through his veins. He had been ready since yesterday and the moment he laid eyes on Warwick and thrown that glove.

He opened the door to the weapons room. “I know those lances are in here, Thud.” He stepped inside.

A second later the door slammed closed.