CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two days later
The fever was gone but he still wouldn’t awaken.
Eiselle hadn’t left Bric’s side since the night he’d been brought in to Narborough with his terrible injury. She’d bathed the man, changed his bandages, and sat by his side every single minute of the day and night. She wouldn’t even go to bed, not even when Keeva begged her, instead choosing to sleep with her head on the mattress beside Bric as she sat in a chair next to the bed. It was uncomfortable, and she awoke with a stiff neck and back, but she ignored her discomfort. All that mattered was taking care of Bric, and she wanted to be there should he need her.
Manducor had been there most of the time, too, because he had more experience in such things. He would check Bric’s pulse and his breathing, freeing Weetley up to tend to the men in the hall. Out of the eighteen hundred men who had gone to Holdingham, seventy-eight had died and they had over three hundred wounded, so Weetley had his hands full with the wounded in the hall and also in the troop house, where they had taken some of the lesser wounded men.
But almost three days after their return, some men were taking a turn for the worse while others were showing signs of healing. They were starting to lose some men to infection, and the dead began to pile up. St. Peter and St. Paul’s church was just to the east of Narborough Castle and Daveigh had already spoken to the priests about burying the dead in a mass grave to the east of the church. The priests had agreed, and soldiers had been sent to dig the mass grave. Daveigh wasn’t willing to let the stench of the dead to start offending the women at Narborough, so the decision was made to start moving the dead over to the churchyard the following day.
But Eiselle was oblivious to that, and to everything else going on. Dashiell had remained for a couple of days after Bric’s injury, for as long as he could, but he had an army waiting for him, an army with wounded that had remained at Holdingham because moving them back to the seat of Savernake would take several days. Dashiell had wounded men he needed to see and plans to make to return to Ramsbury Castle, so after two days of waiting around to see if Bric would live or die, Dashiell was forced to leave.
Eiselle had promised to send him word of Bric’s condition, and she’d been driven to tears by Dashiell’s painful farewell to his old friend. She’d never seen such camaraderie between men, but in observing Dashiell and Pearce and Mylo, and even Daveigh, she had been given a glimpse of just how much these men meant to one another. It was a loyalty that went beyond politics – it was a loyalty that was in their blood. She’d bid Dashiell a sad farewell as the man returned to his own army.
Now, three days after Bric’s return to Narborough, Eiselle was starting to feel the stress of waiting for a man who refused to awaken. As Manducor had instructed her, she’d spoken to the man constantly, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, praying that he would hear her and open his eyes. But on the third day of Bric’s unconsciousness, she took to singing to him, singing every song she could think of, including the one she’d sung to him on their wedding night.
“I have loved, all my life, only thee;
The stars know thy name, the sky weeps at your beauty.
I pray thou will return to my arms,
but if not,
I pray to see thy face every night in my dreams.”
It was such a bittersweet song, with new meaning these days. Eiselle was too afraid to ask Weetley if Bric was deteriorating, so she simply kept up her singing, her chatter, bathing Bric’s face, arms, and chest with cool water, and making sure the hearth was stoked so the room remained warm. She didn’t want him to catch a chill.
As the third day began to move into night and the great torches in the hall were lit, Eiselle sat next to Bric’s bedside, watching her husband waste away before her very eyes. She’d done so well over the past three days, with no hysterics or tears, but time was wearing on her now. As she looked at the man, feeling the pangs of grief pull at her, she stroked his sticky blond hair and sang softly to him.
O lovely one… my lovely one…
The years will come… the years will go…
But still you’ll be… my own true love…
Until the day… we’ll meet again…
Her throat was tight with emotion as she finished the song, unable to go any further. She simply wasn’t as strong as she thought she was because the anguish she’d been fighting off for three days was now clawing at her, gutting her, begging her to release her emotions as the future she’d hope to have with a man she adored was slipping away. As the fire in the hearth snapped, sending sparks into the room, Eiselle finally lay her exhausted head down on the mattress next to Bric, feeling overwhelmed and despondent.
Is this how it will end, God? She thought, putting her hand on Bric’s chest in a protective gesture. Will I become a widow, with dreams of a life that never was, without a man I know I could have grown to love?
The tears came as she closed her eyes, with the intention of resting only for a moment.
“Please, Bric,” she whispered, her cheek against his big bicep. “Please do not leave me. Please do not let this be over before it begins.”
There was no response to a question full of agony. Before Eiselle realized it, she was asleep.
He’d been dreaming of angels.
They were singing to him, in a voice so pure and lovely that he wanted to listen to them forever. He’d been dreaming of someplace hot and bright, with a blinding white light, and heat that made him sweat. He’d been a little too young to go on King Richard’s crusade to The Holy Land, but he’d heard from others that the heat had been intense. Pale, white knights had returned with skin the color of tanned leather. He’d always imagined what that kind of heat felt like, and now he knew.
He’d been kissed by it.
Gradually, the white light faded and the singing stopped, and then he felt cold and alone. He’d never felt more alone in his life. Where was the singing angel, the one who had kept him company and had given him comfort? Oddly enough, he never saw the angel who had done the singing. He could only hear her, but she sounded familiar. He just couldn’t place her. He thought he could remain in that warm, blissful land, but it dissipated, like mist, and then he heard the crackling of a hearth.
His ears began to buzz and when he breathed, he was aware of pain in his torso. He took a breath and he felt as if he were being stabbed on his left side. Bric struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt as if they weighed more than the big stones that comprised Narborough. He could barely get them open, and even then, they were only open a slit. He could see that he was in his chamber off the entry in Narborough’s keep and he turned his head slightly, seeing that there was a small arm across the right side of his body, with the hand resting on his chest. Turning his head just a little more and looking down, he could see that Eiselle’s face was pressed up against his right bicep, and it was her arm that was draped over him.
“My lord?”
Someone was speaking to him and his eyes, red and swollen, moved off to his left to see the priest standing there. It was the drunken, slovenly man who had performed his marriage mass, only he didn’t look drunk or slovenly now. He looked quite lucid and, in truth, quite concerned as he gazed down at him.
Bric tried to speak, but his throat was raw and parched. He could only whisper.
“How… long?” he murmured.
Manducor moved closer so the man wouldn’t have to strain himself. “How long have you been unconscious?” he asked. When Bric nodded, barely, Manducor answered. “At least three days, my lord. How do you feel?”
Bric wasn’t even sure he could answer that, so he tried to shake his head, but that didn’t work out particularly well, either. He could barely move. Manducor sensed that, so he didn’t press the man; he simply told him the situation, as he suspected a straightforward man like MacRohan would want.
“You were wounded by an arrow five days ago,” he said. “You were brought back to Narborough where the surgeon, Weetley, has cleaned the wound and stitched it. You have been very sick, my lord, and now that you are awake, it is important that you drink a potion the surgeon has brewed for you. I know you are weak, but your lady wife and I will help you.”
Manducor reached over him to wake Eiselle, but Bric found his voice. “Nay,” he whispered hoarsely. “Let her sleep.”
Manducor paused. “She will be angry if we do not wake her,” he said. “She has not left your side, my lord. She has been here the entire time, singing to you and speaking to you. She has been quite worried for you.”
She has been here the entire time, singing to you. Those words echoed in Bric’s groggy mind. The angel singing in his dreams – had that been her? That sweet voice that kept him comforted, that kept him alive? He found himself turning to Eiselle, who was sleeping so heavily against his arm that she was drooling.
“She… she has been here?” he rasped.
Manducor nodded. “She has not left you,” he said. Then, he looked down at Bric’s left hand and reached down to unwind something from his wrist. He held it up. “She returned your talisman, my lord. She seemed to think it meant something to you.”
His talisman. Bric moved his focus away from Eiselle once again to see Manducor hanging the talisman in his face. That great and noble pendant that had been passed down through generations of a great Irish family until it was given to him.
Odd; it hadn’t even occurred to him that he hadn’t been wearing it when the arrow pierced his chest. Not once did he lament not having worn it, or having left it with his wife. It was something that had been with him since nearly the moment he’d seriously swung a sword, and the battle at Holdingham had been the first time he’d fought a battle without it. It was true that he’d gone to kiss it on more than one occasion during the fight, as that was a habit with him, but he’d never once regretted leaving it with Eiselle.
The woman who hadn’t left his side the entire time he’d been ill.
My devoted angel…
“Put it on me,” he whispered.
Manducor obliged, helping him lift his head as he put the chain around his neck. But the jostling awoke Eiselle and her head shot up when she realized that Bric was being moved. All she saw was Manducor lifting the man’s head and she bolted to her feet, reaching out to slap Manducor’s hand away.
“What are you doing?” she hissed groggily. “You will not move him about like that!”
“Eiselle,” Bric murmured. “’Tis okay, mo chroí. He is putting the talisman on me.”
At the sound of his hissing, raspy voice, Eiselle looked at Bric in shock, realizing the man was speaking. He was awake! Her eyes flew open wide at the realization and she cried out, slapping a hand over her mouth in shock.
“Bric!” she said through splayed fingers. “You have awakened!”
He smiled faintly – oh, so faintly – and his eyes glimmered weakly at her. “I had to see your beautiful face again.”
Eiselle’s shock turned to joy, and a grin of unimaginable brilliance spread over her lips. “How do you feel?”
He didn’t answer her right away. He simply gazed at her. Then, his right hand slowly lifted, his hand coming up to cup her face as she looked at him. It was a moment of tremendous sweetness as he touched her soft skin, reacquainting himself with those lovely features. More and more, he was convinced she had been the angel singing to him in his dreams. His heart swelled in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend, overwhelmed with her dedication.
“I understand you have been with me the entire time,” he said.
She put her hand over his as he touched her face. It was the most magnificent touch imaginable and her heart, so frightened by his wound and illness, began to beat again, just a little. There was hope in his touch; hope that he might actually survive.
Hope that he would heal.
“Nearly the entire time,” she said. “I will admit that I have not been around an injured man before, and the night they brought you in, I… I became a little sick over it. But I recovered quickly and I’ve not left you since. I wanted to be here when you awoke.”
His big, rough fingers caressed her cheek, her jaw. “Sick? What do you mean?”
She looked embarrassed. “I… well, I fainted. I’ve never seen such a wound before and… it overwhelmed me, I suppose.”
The corners of his lips twitched. “And you shall never see one like it again, God willing,” he said. “In answer to your question, I feel a good deal of pain. Will I live?”
Her smile faded. “You will,” she said firmly. “I will not permit you to do anything else. Weetley has cleaned your wound, and Manducor and I have been doing all we can to ensure there is no poison.”
“Manducor?” he asked, turning slightly to see the priest. “Are you a healer?”
Manducor shook his head. “A former knight, my lord,” he said quietly. “I have tended many a battle wound.”
That statement caused Bric to look at Manducor through new eyes, perhaps with a little more respect now. A former knight. He briefly wondered why the man had turned to the priesthood, but it was only a fleeting thought. In truth, he was surprised the priest had been so attentive to him, considering he’d been fairly rough with the man. But now, the priest’s presence made more sense – perhaps the former knight in Manducor had understood Bric’s manner.
“Then you have my thanks,” Bric said quietly. “And I am sure Lady MacRohan is thankful, as well.”
Eiselle nodded. “He has been quite helpful,” she said. “In fact, your fever is gone but Weetley made a terrible-smelling tea for you to drink. He wanted you to drink the moment you awakened, so I am sorry to say that you must take it.”
The smile on his lips grew as he looked at her. “You sound as if you are giving me orders, Lady MacRohan.”
“I am.”
Eiselle held her ground, hoping he wouldn’t rebel against such a statement. Instead, he emitted a noise that sounded like a chuckle.
“Aye, madam,” he said. “Give me a kiss and I shall take whatever potion you wish.”
Eiselle kissed him, gladly. Manducor turned away as the married couple shared a private moment, a sweet kiss that was as pure and fresh and new as the earth on the day that God had created it. It was a kiss full of the promise of hope and affection, a sign that something deep was brewing between the pair, something a stolen French arrow couldn’t destroy.
There was hope for a new future on the horizon now.
In the end, Bric drank the Rotten Tea that tasted as foul as anything he’d ever tasted in his life. He drank it twice every day, for the next week, until his wound showed signs of adequate healing and his health began to return. Weetley permitted him to eat beef broth but little else, and Eiselle sat by his side and fed him for the first few days until he was strong enough to sit up and feed himself. Then, it was beef broth with pieces of bread soaked in it. He ate it ravenously.
Little by little, Bric MacRohan began to heal.
As the days passed, and finally the weeks passed, it was clear that Bric was going to recover. Within ten days of his injury, he was able to stand, and then he began taking short walks around the great hall with his wife, who held on to him tightly as if she could keep a man of his size stabilized. Manducor, or even Pearce or Mylo or Daveigh, would usually follow around behind them, making sure Lady MacRohan didn’t get into any trouble she couldn’t handle. But Bric remained rock solid, demonstrating the sheer resilience of the man.
Everything seemed fine, and there was a sense of relief and joy around Narborough as de Winter’s High Warrior recovered both his strength and his health. Physically, the man was rapidly healing. Mentally, however, was another story.
The worst was yet to come.