CHAPTER TEN
Dashiell was standing in the hall.
When Eiselle looked up from a pallet she was fixing for the wounded, she saw Dashiell just inside the door and it appeared he was looking for something. Or someone. Curious, Eiselle stood up and started heading in his direction. When he caught sight of her, very quickly, he headed in her direction.
“Dash,” Eiselle said as she rushed to him. “Are you well?”
Dashiell was exhausted. Every line, every emotion, was showing on his sweaty, grimy face as he looked at Eiselle. Without answering her, he took her by the arm and pulled her away from the servants and the bustle of the great hall.
“Come with me,” he said. “I must speak to you.”
Eiselle was hesitant. “I cannot leave,” she said. “Lady de Winter has put me in charge of the hall. We are to expect many wounded. Was the battle terrible?”
Dashiell couldn’t stand it; the woman had no idea of what she was about to face and his heart was breaking into a million pieces for her. What had he told her? That Bric MacRohan always returns from a battle? He’d sworn that to her, and she believed him. It was true that Bric was returning, but not in the same condition as when he left.
God, he felt so very guilty.
“Terrible enough,” he said, pulling her along even though she was reluctant. “Selly, Lady de Winter has sent me to you. Bric has been wounded.”
Eiselle stared at him a moment as if she didn’t quite understand what he was saying. But as she gazed into his eyes and saw the despondency in the depths, it began to occur to her that something was amiss. Something terrible had happened.
To Bric? Was it really true? That which she’d been promised wouldn’t happen had apparently happened. Bric had been wounded.
But… it wasn’t possible! Hadn’t she been given assurances? Hadn’t Bric himself promised her that nothing would happen to him and that he would return? Nay… it simply wasn’t possible.
… was it?
As Eiselle’s knees locked up and her breath caught in her throat, she could only think to ask one thing.
“How badly?”
It was a question Dashiell didn’t want to answer. He blinked once, twice, and then tears began to pool in his eyes, tears that he quickly flicked away.
“Badly enough,” he said huskily. “Selly, you must listen to what I am to tell you. That will give you an indication of what you are about to face.”
That sounded as if he were about to tell her something horrible, indeed, and her composure took a hit. The room began to sway. Eiselle whimpered as she gripped Dashiell with both hands because her legs couldn’t seem to support her.
“God, no,” she gasped. “What happened? Where is he?”
Dashiell held on to her, fearful of what would happen if he let her go. “He is being brought in from one of the wagons,” he said. “Is there somewhere else to put him other than the great hall? He will need peace and quiet if… if…”
“If what?” Eiselle practically cried.
Dashiell knew he wasn’t doing a very good job of telling Eiselle what had happened, but he was handicapped with his own grief and guilt. He felt as if all of this was his fault; he’d been the one to propose the marriage. He’d been the one to summon the de Winter army for Holdingham. Now, Bric was badly wounded. Mortally, Dashiell thought.
It was a struggle to overcome the remorse he was feeling.
“Listen to me,” he said, grasping her by the arms and forcing her to look at him. “I must tell you what happened. Bric was hit by an arrow in the chest. The surgeon managed to remove the arrow and the arrowhead, but what it left in its wake is a sucking chest wound. This happened two days ago and since then, Bric has been in a very bad condition. The surgeon did what he could to pack the wound and sew it up but, earlier today, Bric started showing signs of a fever. If there is poison in his chest, his chances of survival are not good. Sweetheart, you married a warrior and I am so very sorry that this had to happen. Bric MacRohan has never been injured on the field of battle, so for this to happen… everyone is deeply shocked.”
Eiselle stared at him and as he watched, the tears began to pop out of her eyes and her face crumpled. Bric MacRohan has never been injured on the field of battle, he said. But at Holdingham, he was. It suddenly occurred to Eiselle why.
The talisman!
Bric had given her his talisman, and the one time he’d been without it, an arrow had found its mark. When Eiselle realized that she had been the cause, she couldn’t control her anguish. To ease her fear of battle, Bric had given up the one thing that he believed in and the very thing that protected him over all.
Now, she knew what had happened.
She’d left him vulnerable.
“I know why,” she whispered. “God help me, I know why. Dash, take me to him. Take me now!”
Dashiell didn’t think it was a good idea. “Your hysteria will not help him,” he said. “Selly, I know this is difficult for you, but you must not be hysterical. If Bric sees that, it will crush him. You must be strong for him, do you hear? Stronger than you have ever been in your life. I know you are capable of it. You must be capable of it. For Bric’s sake, you must try.”
He was right. God help her, he was right. Eiselle struggled to stop her weeping, to stop the panic and grief that was threatening to explode in all directions. Nodding quickly, unsteadily, she wiped at her tears, brushing them away, and took great gulps of air to steady herself.
“I will try,” she said breathlessly. “I will, I swear it. Dash… please take me to him.”
He still didn’t like the idea. “You are needed much more to prepare a private place for him,” he said, hoping to distract her from demanding to go to him again. “Where can we take him?”
Eiselle’s thoughts and emotions were scattered, but she managed to focus on his question. “His… his chamber is near the entry,” she said, pointing to the door that had been kept closed since the army’s departure. “That is his chamber. We can put him there.”
Dashiell turned her in the direction of the closed door. “Then go,” he said, praying the woman would find the strength he hoped she had. “Go and prepare the bed for him. Clear out the clutter and start a fire so that the chamber warms. They are bringing Bric in now and we will take him right to that chamber where you will be waiting for him. Let your face be the one he sees when he opens his eyes.”
Eiselle nodded, still a bit unsteadily, but at least she was standing on her own. Kissing her on the head, Dashiell rushed from the hall as Eiselle headed towards Bric’s chamber. There was a great deal of commotion in the hall now as some of the walking wounded began coming in through the entry, but she was completely focused on Bric’s chamber, just as Dashiell had asked. She found herself praying to a God she’d never given much notice to that Bric would, indeed, heal. She felt like a hypocrite, but this was a desperate time. She felt as if she had no one else to turn to.
Just as Eiselle put her hand on the door latch, she happened to catch a glimpse of Manducor as the man helped one of the servants seat a wounded soldier against the wall. Remembering what he’d told her about having tended battle wounds, she knew that she needed the man’s help. She needed everything he could provide. As she put her hand on the door latch, she called out to him.
“Manducor!”
Hearing his name, he looked up and saw Eiselle over near a half-open door, waving him over. He came, shuffling as quickly as Eiselle had ever seen him move.
“What is it?” he asked.
Eiselle’s throat was so tight with emotion that she could barely speak. “My husband,” she murmured. “He has been injured. They are bringing him in now and I require your assistance.”
With that, she opened the door and Manducor followed. His expression was wrought with concern.
“I am very sorry, Lady MacRohan,” he said. “Very sorry, indeed. What would you have me do?”
Eiselle began yanking the linens off the bed; they were in a messy pile, as was the room in general. “You said that you have tended battle wounds,” she said. “You will help me tend him.”
Manducor saw what she was doing and lent a hand to help her strip the bed. “How badly injured is he?”
The tears threatened; oh, God, how they threatened. “They say he took an arrow to the chest,” she said. “He may be with fever. We will know more when we see him, but the truth is that I have no experience tending wounds or illness. My life before I came to Narborough had been a rather isolated one, so I beg you for your assistance. I do not want to lose him.”
Manducor knew what it was to lose someone close. He’d watched his wife and two children die of a disease he’d had no power to stop. The physics had tried, but they’d died regardless. Therefore, he was quite sympathetic to Lady MacRohan’s request. In truth, he was very sad for her.
Performing the wedding mass several days before, he’d seen how the big Irish knight had looked at his new wife, and he’d seen how she looked at him. There had been interest there; nay, almost affection, even, which was unusual for a couple who had only just met. Clearly, they had been attentive to one another and when Lady MacRohan spoke of her husband, something in her eyes glowed.
Aye, Manducor felt very sorry for the woman. He knew what it was like to lose a loved one.
“I will help,” he told her, taking charge because she couldn’t seem to. “Quickly; pull the pillows off the mattress. If he has a chest wound, it will probably be better if he lays flat. Is a surgeon with him?”
Eiselle shook her head. “I do not know,” she said. “There seem to be many wounded. He will have many men who need his attention, so Bric must have all of mine. And yours; please. He will need us both.”
Manducor could see the grief in her face and how difficult this was for her. Manducor’s heart, something that had been stone-cold for years, began to feel some pity for her.
“MacRohan was cruel to me at the first, but he wasn’t wrong,” he said. “He tried to drown me when we first met. Did you know that?”
Eiselle looked at him in shock, only to see his old eyes twinkling. “Drown you?” she repeated. “Why?”
Manducor wriggled his bushy eyebrows. “Because I was drunk and he did not want a drunk performing your marriage mass,” he said. “Alas, I do not blame the man. At least he was honest about it. I appreciate a man who is honest. Now, Lady MacRohan, we must have hot water brought to us and a fire in the hearth. I will summon the nearest servant for the water and build a fire in the hearth myself. You make sure that bed is clean and ready for your husband.”
Eiselle began to tend the bed, smoothing the mattress and shaking out the used linens, simply because it gave her something to do. She was so distraught and nervous that she needed something to do. But her fussing over the bed quickly ended when several men appeared in the doorway, including Dashiell and Pearce and Mylo, all of them carrying a body between them on a makeshift stretcher. Eiselle caught a glimpse of Bric’s head and she quickly pointed to the bed.
“Put him on the bed,” she said, straining to catch a glimpse of him with all of the men carrying him. “Be gentle with him, please.”
More men flooded into the chamber, men who had been following Bric’s procession into the great hall. Eiselle didn’t know who the men were but it seemed to her, very quickly, that all they wanted to do was stand by and watch Bric as he was tended. Maybe they even wanted to watch him die. But she didn’t want an audience for the man, and she quickly rushed to the door to chase them away.
“Please,” she said. “He does not need all of you crowding the room. If you are not here to help him, then please go. Your concern is appreciated.”
She began to shoo men out. When Pearce and Mylo saw what she was doing, they, too, rushed to help her, pushing men out but being somewhat polite about it. They knew how worried the army was for their High Warrior.
With Pearce and Mylo clearing the room, Eiselle turned for the bed. She could hear Manducor sending for hot water and somewhere over to her left, someone else was building a fire. She didn’t know who it was, but she saw the movement in her periphery. There was a great deal of movement as men went to help, doing anything they could. It was a good thing, too; all Eiselle could see in front of her was Bric as they laid him upon the bed.
That was when her entire world came crashing down.
The sight of Bric was, in a word, awful. He wore his leather breeches, no boots, and he was stripped from the waist up. His magnificent chest was bared to the weak light of the chamber, tightly bound from the nipples to the waist with stained, boiled linen. His eyes were closed and he seemed to have a faint sheen on his body and face, as if he were sweating, and an old man with bushy white hair and a face like an old goat bent over him, pulling at the bindings.
Eiselle moved up to the other side of the bed where the men weren’t so crowded around. At that moment, all she could see was Bric’s ashen face. She then focused on the man as if there was no one else in the room.
“Bric?” she whispered, reaching out to touch his clammy cheek. “Bric, can you hear me? ’Tis me. ’Tis Eiselle.”
“He cannot hear you, my lady,” the old man bending over Bric spoke. “He has been unconscious for the past two hours. He does not respond at all.”
A sob caught in Eiselle’s throat. “He is sleeping,” she said hoarsely. “I am sure he is only sleeping.”
The old man looked at her. “He is a very sick man,” he said. “If he was merely asleep, then he would awake if prodded. He does not waken at all.”
Eiselle tore her eyes from Bric’s face, glaring at the old man. “And who are you?” she demanded. “What do you know of any of this?”
Dashiell was standing next to the old man. “This is Weetley, Eiselle,” he said quietly. “He is the de Winter surgeon. He has been with Bric the entire time.”
Eiselle backed down, somewhat. “Forgive me. I have not met you yet.”
The old man shook his head. “Nor I, you,” he replied. “I will assume you are Lady MacRohan.”
“I am.”
Old Weetley seemed to look her over as if acquainting himself with the lass he’d heard rumor about. She was all anyone at Narborough could speak of since her arrival, and now he could see why. She was a pretty young thing. But Weetley was a man with no tact, living and working with men as he did. In fact, he was something of a hermit when he was not traveling with the army, which was why he and the lady had not become acquainted yet. He had a room full of mysterious potions over in the knights’ quarters, and that was where he spent all of his time. After he was finished inspecting Lady MacRohan, he returned his focus to the bandages on Bric’s torso.
“Your husband was hit in the chest with an arrowhead meant for a horse,” he told her. “It buried itself deep and it was not easy to remove it. First, we had to break the shaft and then I had men hold your husband down as I dug out the head. There was a good deal of damage, my lady, and the arrow took mail and pieces of your husband’s tunic into his body when it entered. Some of those pieces are still in his body and that is what is causing his fever, but I could not adequately operate on him in the field. We needed to bring him home for that.”
Eiselle thought she was going to vomit. “Will… will you operate now?”
Weetley was oblivious to her pasty face. “Immediately. I must do it while he is unconscious so that he will not feel any pain.” With that, he turned to Dashiell. “Have the men bring my medicament bag in. I will also need a fire poker, heated until it is red-hot, to cauterize the wound. And have someone tie his arms and legs to the bed in case he awakens while I am working on him. I cannot have him moving about.”
As Eiselle listened, the room began to rock unsteadily. The crass old man was going to be digging into Bric’s body, with nothing to dull the pain. Be strong! She told herself. You must be strong! But it was to no avail; when she heard the old surgeon speak of clean rags and bowls to contain the blood, the spinning world turned to black and Eiselle ended up on the floor.
The sound of a crackling fire was the first thing she was aware of.
It was dark. Eiselle opened her eyes to a darkened chamber, with only the glow from the fire in the hearth casting light and shadow upon the walls. It took her a moment to recognize her surroundings because it was dark, and because she was somewhat dazed, but the moment she realized where she was, she gasped and sat straight up in bed.
“Bric!” she cried.
Keeva was sitting by the fire. When she heard the gasp, she rose to her feet, rushing to the bed and putting her hands on Eiselle as the woman tried to propel herself off the mattress.
“Easy, lass,” Keeva said softly. “Easy, Eiselle. Bric is in his chamber. He is being tended to.”
The last thing Eiselle remembered was seeing Bric on the bed, looking as if he were dead already. The tears came.
“I must go to him,” she said, trying to struggle against Keeva’s grip. “Please let me go to him!”
Keeva knew she was upset, and groggy, but she also knew that the woman couldn’t run off in hysterics to see her husband. Tightening her grip, she shook Eiselle hard enough to cause the woman’s head to snap.
“Stop yourself here and now,” Keeva hissed. “Eiselle, listen to me. Stop your hysterics or I swear I will not let you see him. I’ll keep you locked up in this chamber until you come to your senses.”
Eiselle looked at the woman in both shock and loathing. “Why would you keep me from him?” she demanded. “He is my husband and it is my right to be with him!”
Keeva didn’t ease her grip. “It is your right, but I will not let you go to him and act like a fool,” she said firmly. “Bric MacRohan is the greatest knight Ireland and England has ever seen, and if you are going to crumble like a foolish little girl, then you are not deserving of such a man. Do you understand me? Swallow your hysteria and be calm for Bric’s sake, or I swear I’ll lock you in here and throw away the key.”
Eiselle was prepared for a fiery retort but it died in her throat as she realized that Keeva was absolutely right – Bric deserved a strong, stoic wife, not a foolish girl. Embarrassment swamped her and her hands flew to her mouth.
“You are right,” she said, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “You are absolutely right. I am so very ashamed.”
Keeva breathed a sigh of relief, pleased she wasn’t going to have a fight on her hands. “There is nothing to be ashamed of,” she said, her grip on Eiselle easing. “This is the first time you’ve faced such a thing, so no one can blame you for your reaction. But from this moment forward, you must show how strong you are no matter how much you feel like weeping. Tears will not help Bric, but your strength will. Are you worthy of the man, lass?”
Eiselle nodded. “I am,” she said. “I swear, I am.”
Keeva smiled weakly and let go of her. “Then show us,” she said quietly. “Weetley finished surgery on him an hour ago. He cleaned the wound of all the debris he could and stitched him up again, so now all there is to do is wait until Bric decides to awaken.”
Eiselle took a long, deep breath, forcing the courage forth that she’d always hoped she had. From this point forward, she wouldn’t let herself show her fear or her distress. She couldn’t embarrass Bric so. If she was truly worthy of the man, then she needed to show it.
Stiffly, she climbed from the bed, smoothing back her hair which had escaped its braid.
“Is Bric with fever, still?” she asked.
Keeva nodded. “The last I heard,” she said, opening the door to the chamber. “Dash has come up to your chamber a few times to inquire on your health. He told me there was no change with Bric about a half-hour ago.”
They proceeded out into the short corridor, moving through the open area that smelled like a barnyard where the servants slept. As they reached the spiral stairs, Eiselle reached out and grasped her hand.
“Thank you for all you have done,” she said. “I feel terrible that you were sitting with me when I am sure you wanted to sit with Bric. I swear to you that I shall not let you down. I will show you that I am worthy of him, I promise.”
Keeva smiled faintly. “I know,” she whispered. “Go to him, now. He is in his chamber.”
“Will you come?”
Keeva shook her head. “I have other things to attend to, but I will come later.”
Eiselle squeezed her hand quickly before letting it go, fleeing down the stairs and to the entry level below. As soon as she came off of the stairs, which were near the hall, she was hit by the stench of men.
It was a horrific smell, of festering wounds mingling with the smoke from the hearth, which had been kept blazing at full capacity to keep the hall warm. Eiselle’s last memory was of a hall that only had a few wounded in it, but now as night set in, the cavernous chamber was lit only by torches and the raging hearth, she could see that the floor was lined with the wounded.
Servants and other soldiers, those who hadn’t been injured, were making their way amongst the wounded, including Zara. Eiselle could see her, but there was no sign of Angela. Trying not to become ill from the putrid smell, Eiselle headed for Bric’s chamber door.
Timidly, she opened the panel, sticking her head in and coming face to face with several men who were either standing at Bric’s bedside or lingering against the walls – Dashiell, Pearce, Mylo, the dour old surgeon Weetley, and even Manducor, who was sitting right at Bric’s bedside. Dashiell was the first one to greet her.
“Selly,” he said, sounding relieved. “How do you feel?”
Eiselle smiled wanly at him. “I feel fine,” she said. Then, she looked around the room, at the men standing vigilantly for Bric. “I am ashamed of what happened and I assure you it will not happen again. I… I suppose everyone is entitled to a moment of weakness, and I have had mine. Can someone please tell me how my husband fares?”
It was Dashiell who took her by the hand and pulled her over to Bric’s bedside. “Weetley cleaned out the wound,” he said quietly. “He rinsed it with wine and herbs, and stitched it tightly. Bric has not awoken yet.”
Eiselle looked down at Bric’s face, the color of paste. He still had that faint sheen on his skin and as she watched, every so often he would twitch. Her heart began to ache again, stronger than before, and she fought the urge to weep. She swore she wouldn’t, but it was so very difficult when she looked at him. Her brave, strong husband, a man she was only just starting to know and care for, was laid out in a most horrific way.
Suddenly, Eiselle remembered the talisman that was still around her neck and she quickly pulled it off. Leaning over Bric’s supine form, she put her hand on his chest, up near his neck, pressing the talisman against his clammy flesh.
“It’s your talisman,” she murmured. “You said you would return for it, and I have kept it safe. Remember that it has kept generations of warriors safe and now… now its magic will help you heal, Bric. I know it will.”
He didn’t respond to her. In truth, she hadn’t expected him to. As she watched him breathe, heavily and laboriously, it was increasingly clear just how ill he was. When she put her hand on his forehead, she could feel the fever in him. It hurt to see him like this, but rather than break down about it, she was determined to play an active role in his healing. She wanted to know how the old surgeon planned to help him, and she turned to the man, who was over near the hearth.
“Now that you have cleaned the wound, what do you intend to do for him?” she asked. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
The surgeon had an iron pot over the hearth, nestled down in the coals as he brewed something that smelled as rotten as the men out in the great hall.
“There is nothing to do now but wait,” he said. “But if he awakens, I have a potion for him to drink. The knights from Richard’s crusade brought it back from The Holy Land. Some call it Rotten Tea, but it heals miraculously where other medicaments will not.”
Eiselle wasn’t so sure she liked the thought of the man giving Bric a mysterious potion from lands across the sea. Dubious, glanced up at Dashiell.
“Have you heard of this before?” she asked.
Dashiell nodded. “I have,” he said. “Bread is put in warm water until a growth appears. When it turns bright blue, it is steeped with water to become a tea. It is something the men learned from the alchemists in The Holy Land, and I have heard that it is a great cure. It has been known to perform miracles.”
Over next to the hearth, Manducor spoke up. “I have heard of this also,” he said. “Its use is spreading because it attacks poison that men can die from.”
Two men had confirmed the use of the foul-smelling brew, so Eiselle wasn’t dubious any longer. In fact, she was encouraged. “And this will cure his fever?” she asked Weetley, just to make sure.
The old man nodded. “If we can get him to drink it. But he must ingest it for it to have any effect.”
Eiselle turned her focus back to Bric, who had stopped twitching and now simply lay still and quiet. Even his breathing had quieted down. She wasn’t so sure that was a good thing, but she didn’t say so. These men around her knew so much more than she did about wounds and injuries, and she didn’t want to sound foolish by asking questions about every little thing.
It was time for her to show a little patience and trust.
Taking the hand that held the talisman, she moved to hold Bric’s hand, sandwiching the talisman between her hand and his. She looked down at his hand; it was big and bloodied, the knuckles raw. It reminded her of the battle that may or may not have cost him his life. Surely, he must have been so magnificent in it. She began to caress his hand, thinking of the warrior that all men feared, a warrior now hovering on Death’s door.
“Will you tell me about the battle?” she asked, to no one in particular. “Tell me how great he was so I know that this wound was not in vain. Tell me that he made a difference before his time was cut short.”
Dashiell could hear both sorrow and pride in her voice, a question asked by a woman who was trying to know her husband in a way that other men did. It was possible that she would never get to know him better than she already did, so he found it a rather sad query.
Begging to know a man she might very well lose.
“You have married a great warrior, Selly,” he said softly. “You have never seen anything like Bric MacRohan in battle; he fights with a confidence and skill that can only be heaven-sent. It is like watching Michael the Archangel, fighting against men who have no chance against him. I did not spend much time in battle with him, but Pearce and Mylo did. They can tell you more than I.”
Hearing their names, Pearce and Mylo perked up. Mylo looked at Pearce because he was the one who had spent more time with Bric. It was also Pearce who had been with Bric when he’d been struck down, and there was a huge amount of guilt as a result.
The man had been wrestling with his guilt since it had happened, and it was something that grew worse by the hour. Bric himself had assured him that it had not been his fault, nor was he blameworthy, but Pearce still felt as if he could have done something… should have done something… to prevent Bric’s injury.
He felt like a failure and, now, he had to face Bric’s wife with what he’d done.
He felt sick.
“Lady MacRohan,” Pearce said, scratching his forehead in an exhausted gesture, “I have been fighting with Bric for several years. I have never known a man who fights better from one battle to the next. And by that, I mean that his skill and his talents seem to grow sharper and bolder. Our army was to hold the line against the French, who wanted very badly to lay siege to Holdingham Castle. The battle started with the archers, but when the French ran low on ammunition, the hand-to-hand combat started. Bric rushed through the French lines, cutting off heads and arms and… forgive me, my lady. That was probably more than you wanted to hear.”
Eiselle looked up at him, seeing that he looked rather mortified, as if he’d told her something that was too much for her delicate ears. But Eiselle smiled at him, letting him know that she wasn’t offended.
“It is of no matter,” she assured him. “I asked you to tell me what you know of him, through your eyes. What you see is a great warrior. What I see is the kind and lovely man that I married. I find it remarkable that we are speaking of the same man.”
Pearce grinned at her, lopsided, looking at Mylo, who also snorted. “We do not think of him as kind and lovely,” Pearce said. “Neither do the French.”
Eiselle laughed softly, an unexpected moment of humor in the midst of a dreadful situation. After that, she looked at Bric rather adoringly.
“That is what I see in him,” she said quietly, gazing upon his pale face. “Mayhap I am the only one.”
Dashiell put a hand on her shoulder. “You should be the only one to see that,” he said. Then, he patted her shoulder and dropped his hand. “Are you comfortable enough that we may leave and find something to eat? We shan’t be gone long. Just long enough to find something to eat and check on the wounded.”
Eiselle nodded. “I will not leave him,” she said. “Take what time you need. I will be here.”
Dashiell looked at Pearce and Mylo as he jerked his head in the direction of the chamber door, inviting the men to leave. He suspected Eiselle wanted some time alone with Bric. As the knights filed out, Manducor went to the opposite side of the bed again, passing a critical eye over Bric as the man lay there and sweated.
“He seems quiet now,” he said. “We must be ready to administer the tea the moment he awakens.”
Eiselle continued to hold his hand, her focus on his face. But after a moment, it trailed down his torso to the stained bandages. It reminded her of the grisly operation performed on him, one that saw a surgeon digging through his innards. The mere thought made her shudder.
“Were you present when the surgeon cleaned his wound?” she asked quietly.
Manducor nodded. “I was.”
“He did not awaken, did he? He did not feel… pain?”
“He did not awaken and he did not feel any pain.”
Eiselle breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” she muttered. Then, she looked up at Manducor as he leaned over Bric and peeled back an eyelid, looking into his right eye. “Is He speaking to you now? God, I mean. You said that He told you not to return to your church because you were needed here. Is God speaking to you about Bric?”
Manducor heard such hope and fear in her voice. The poor lass was desperate for help for her husband, for encouragement that he would recover. The truth was that he couldn’t give her such encouragement, not after he saw all of the poison the surgeon cleaned out of MacRohan’s chest. Truthfully, it would take a miracle to heal the man, but Manducor wasn’t going to tell her that. Right now, she had faith that he would recover.
Manducor wasn’t going to destroy that faith.
“He is not speaking to me about MacRohan,” he told her. “That does not mean He won’t. But I think you should talk to your husband and tell him to get well. He will want to please you, my lady.”
“Do you think it will work?”
“It is worth a try.”
Eiselle looked at Bric’s unconscious face, taking the priest’s words to heart. “Bric?” she said softly. “Can you hear me? I hope you can. The surgeon wishes to give you something to help your fever, but you must awaken so that you may drink it. You must wake up, Bric. You must get better. I… I cannot lose you. Not when I just found you.”
Surprisingly, Eiselle didn’t weep with her words, but no words were ever more heartfelt. Even Manducor could feel the sincerity, the utter hope that Bric could hear her in his haze of unconsciousness.
“He will hear you, my lady,” he muttered. “Keep speaking to him. He will hear you.”
Eiselle did. As Manducor went back over to the hearth where Weetley was stirring the tea that smelled like a horse’s arse, they could hear Eiselle speaking sweetly to Bric, soft words from a wife to a husband, deeply personal words that Manducor tried to ignore. It wasn’t right that he should hear such things, but the deep affection that the newly married couple had for each other was something that was already strong and true. Manducor had been blessed with such feelings for his wife, so he recognized those sentiments when he saw them.
They were as rare as rubies and twice as precious, but he knew that all he could do for the knight and his lady was pray, so pray he did.
For once, he hoped that God would hear him.