Magdalen followed Steffan inside. She forced herself not to think about his pain, what he had done, or what had been done to him, but to concentrate on tending each injury.
He went straight to a bed and lay down, moaning as he did so.
Never had she been inside a man’s bedchamber or near his bed. She halted midstride. But no one was around and this was Steffan. He would not harm her.
He took the cloth, which was nearly saturated with bright-red blood, away from his mouth. His bottom lip was terribly swollen, and the lower half of his face was bloody.
“It appears to have stopped bleeding.” She tried to look at him as a task, to be cold in her assessment of him. She did not want to break down in tears as Katrin had done—which had brought tears to Magdalen’s eyes as well.
“I am well,” he said. Or at least she thought that was what he said. It was hard to understand him, and his lip might still be swelling.
“I wish I had some ice or snow to put on your lip.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Wrong time of year.”
“And your other injury only bled a bit.” She pointed to the cut over his eye. But dried blood stained the side of his face.
Footsteps shuffled down the hallway, coming closer.
Magdalen turned and watched as one of the other menservants walked through the doorway with a bucket and a cloth.
“I thought you might need this.” He headed over to the table against the wall and poured some of the water into a pitcher and some into a pottery bowl. Then he handed the cloth to Magdalen.
“Thank you, Dietrich,” Steffan said.
Dietrich came over and looked down at Steffan. “I’ve seen raw meat that looked better than your face. But you won’t die.”
“Ah, that’s very encouraging,” he managed to say in spite of his fat lip.
“We all heard what you did,” the man said. “That was . . .” He paused, nodded, and raised his brows before he said, “Very brave.” He tilted his head to one side. “Stupid, but brave.”
Steffan seemed to be trying not to smile, not to stretch his lips. “Ja. Danke.”
“I must go back to my duties and leave you to your lovely healer.” He winked at Magdalen.
“Thank you for the water,” she said, then realized what he’d called her. She felt herself blushing and went over to get the bowl of water so she’d be facing away from Steffan. She took a deep breath, then carried the bowl back to him and set it on the bed.
She squeezed the cloth out over the bowl. “I feel as if I’ve done this before.” She had to make light of the situation because she felt her heart twisting in pity and admiration as she started to wash the blood from his cheeks and beard.
She stroked the side of his face where the cut over his eye had left traces of blood. She would not think about how he had defended an old man and willingly allowed himself to be beaten so the thief could go free. She would not think about how unfair life was at the moment to both Steffen and her, about how he was the only person who knew her pain.
She dabbed at the cut over his eye. He winced.
She might have told him something that Hegatha had once said, that the cut might not scar if it did not scab over. But she did not trust herself to speak.
She wiped the blood from the whiskers on his chin with the cloth. His eyes were half open, watching her face. She pretended not to notice and dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and squeezed it out, turning the water pink.
Her heart beat faster and her breath became shallow. She tried to think of something to say to break the tension in the air as she dabbed at the spot just below his bottom lip.
“You aren’t doing very well at not drawing attention to yourself.”
He did that thing again where he quirked one eyebrow up. Even beaten and bloody, he was handsome, with intelligent eyes emphasized by distinct black eyebrows.
“All the servant girls will be in love with you before the day is out, as Katrin will tell them all about your noble and chivalrous deed.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow. “I need to spit.”
She nearly laughed. His statement finally broke the taut feeling in the air. Magdalen turned away to get a cup and the slop bucket she had spied by the door.
She held the bucket for him while he spit. Then she filled the cup with fresh water from the pitcher and handed it to him.
He swished some water around in his mouth, then spit it in the slop bucket. He repeated the action, then drank the rest of the water in the cup.
She took the cup and then remembered the breakfast she had snatched for him—a bread roll and a piece of cheese. She removed it from her pocket and handed it to him.
He unfolded the cloth and bit into the bread, still half sitting up. Magdalen retrieved pillows from two other beds and placed them behind his back.
“Thank you.”
Her cheeks were beginning to burn again. “I think I should go now.”
He swallowed his bite. “Finished doctoring my wounds already?”
“If I could do any more for you I would. God will do the rest of the healing, no doubt.”
His brown hair was tousled and lying across his forehead in a wavy swath, a healthy color back in his cheeks as he ate his roll and cheese, and his intense brown eyes were staring back at her. If it weren’t for his enormously swollen lip, she might be tempted to do something very improper, like bend down and kiss him.
She took a step back. How foolish her thoughts were! She was no immature girl fancying herself in love with every young man she met. Then she remembered that she was angry with him for not sending her letters.
What she should be thinking about was how to get their identities back.
“I can go and see if Lord Hazen is in his rooms, and if he isn’t I can—”
“No.”
He leaned forward and grabbed her wrist, holding it loosely. “I don’t want you getting in trouble with him. He is a dangerous man.”
“But it makes more sense for me to look for the portrait. He thinks I am only a house servant. He would not be so alarmed if he saw me—”
“If he thought you were trying to steal from him, he would. He would suspect I was still alive and that I had sent you. He would torture you and use you to get to me. It is entirely too dangerous. I forbid it.”
Magdalen pulled her arm free from his grasp. She was not used to anyone touching her without her permission or talking to her this way—at least, no one except her mother. If Steffan treated her like her mother, it was a good thing he didn’t want to marry her. She’d rather die than be married to someone for the rest of her life who treated her as if she didn’t matter, as if she didn’t deserve respect.
“You have no right to forbid me from doing anything,” she said, her voice low as she fought off the anger that had stolen her breath. “I have a stake in this too.”
He sighed. “Forgive me. I am in no position . . . You are right.”
His contrite tone made her breath return and her heart stop pounding.
“I am used to being in control,” he went on, “and I wanted to feel as if I could get myself out of this situation. Perhaps you are in a better position to look for the portrait. But even if one of us finds it, we should probably leave it where it is for now, as we have nowhere to hide it. We will need someone powerful to help us fight Lord Hazen and get our places back, so the portrait is only the first task.”
He was staring her in the eye now. “I want you to be cautious. There is no need to feel any urgency about the portrait just yet. Take your time, and if you are absolutely certain Lord Hazen is not in his chamber and will not be returning soon, I suppose it will be acceptable if you take a quick look.”
“I will be careful.”
“And make sure his guard and personal servant are not nearby. They may be greater impediments than Lord Hazen himself.”
“Of course. I shall be cautious of them as well.”
He reached out and took her hand. “Please. Don’t get caught.”
Her heart was a lump in her throat. Did he care so much about her? No, he probably just did not want Lord Hazen’s suspicions to be aroused.
She slipped her hand out of his loose grasp. “Do not worry. I understand the seriousness of our situation. If I cannot safely enter and leave Lord Hazen’s chamber, I shall stay away.”
“Good. Thank you.”
Agnes would not expect her for more than an hour, so Magdalen found one of the other servants who shared the fourth-level bedchamber with her. She was carrying sheets down the stairs from the third level.
“Hilde, I would be pleased to help you change the linens on Lord Hazen’s bed. Is he still in his chamber?”
Hilde halted on the steps and stared, mouth slightly ajar. “Lord Hazen? He is down in the Great Hall breaking his fast. I changed his linens already, but you can change them next week.”
“Thank you, Hilde. But please don’t tell anyone I asked to do that. They might be jealous, or you might get scolded by Frau Clara. It can be our secret.”
Instructing Hilde not to tell might have the opposite effect. But it was too late. Magdalen couldn’t take the words back.
She ran up the steps to Lord Hazen’s chamber and paused in the corridor. No guard stood in front of the door, which was half open. She hurried toward it and peeked inside. No one was in sight, so she went toward the water pitcher, as if she were taking the pitcher to refill it. But no one called out to her, and she faced the rest of the room.
The bed was enormous and draped all around with dark curtains. A couple of trunks stood near the bed, but would Jacob have hidden the portrait in one of Lord Hazen’s trunks? That wouldn’t make sense.
She let her gaze travel around the room looking for possible hiding places. The thing that caught her eye was what was set against the wall. Stacks of small wooden coffers were laid out in the shape of a large rectangle. Most of the boxes would require a key to open. The small coffers were of varying sizes—some as big as three handbreadths and others as small as a black walnut with its green hull still on.
They were too small to hide a large portrait, unless it was folded or rolled up, but Steffan had not said how large the portrait was. She had assumed it was several handbreadths tall, as befitted a wealthy duke, but some portrait painters preferred a smaller canvas.
She decided to search the larger places first. She opened a trunk and rummaged around inside. Nothing except clothing. She ran her shaking hands around the sides and inside the lid, but found no secret compartments. She did the same with the second trunk. Still nothing.
She stood and looked around, but the wooden coffers were drawing her to them. Magdalen walked across the room, intent on the little coffers. Even if the portrait was not here, she might find something important. She reached for one of the top boxes and the lid lifted easily. Inside was a foreign coin and three buttons. She closed it and opened the next one. It was larger and held a pair of shears one might use for clipping hair.
Her hands were shaking harder than before as she reached for a large one. She shifted two smaller ones so she could lift the lid. Inside was a large book, a book she recognized.
Her father’s mining book. She lifted it to find a second one. They’d both been missing since just after her father’s death. But how did they get here?
“Magdalen.”
She jumped and spun around, her heart pounding out of her chest. Steffan came through the door toward her.
“Dear heavenly saints,” Magdalen whispered. “I nearly died of fright.”
Steffan’s footfalls were silent as he walked toward her. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“My father’s books.” Magdalen pointed down at the box.
Steffan leaned over to inspect them. “Quickly. Let’s check all the boxes.”
They lifted the lids of all the coffers on top, then moved them one at a time, but they began encountering locked coffers. In fact, many of the others were locked.
As quickly and carefully as they could, they restacked the boxes as they were before.
Magdalen whispered, “He could return at any moment, and you cannot let him see you.” She wanted to take her father’s books, but she had no good place to hide them. Besides, she didn’t want Lord Hazen to know someone had discovered them.
“I’m not arguing,” Steffan said as they both hurried to the door and looked out.
She did not see anyone, but the sound of footsteps resounded on the wooden stairs. Someone was coming.