Chapter 13
Fay punched the air ten times in rapid succession, then dropped to the ground and did a few pushups. The stone floor was hard and cold and she longed for a yoga mat, but ignored the discomfort. She popped back up and did jumping jacks. Her chemise clung to her skin as she worked up a sweat, trying to clear her mind by exhausting her body. She jogged around the big room, sure she’d have shin splints the next day from the absolute lack of support in her thin slippers. She flung herself at the high bed like someone in an action film, kicking the mattress, then resumed her jumping jacks.
She didn’t miss action films, since she had the knight fights to watch out Anne’s window, and she had enough gossip from Batty and Catherine to keep her from missing evening drama shows, but what she did miss was music. Yes, there was the lovely stuff that went on during supper entertainments. Lutes, lyres, tambors and the like. The singing was nice, too, and some of the songs were actually interesting and funny. She’d find herself leaning over the table, trying to catch all the bawdy lyrics over the laughter of everyone at the lower tables.
She missed rocking workout music, the fast and pumping songs the gym played. Now she hummed breathily to herself as she jumped around, still not able to empty her mind. More pushups, then.
Lord Drayton turned out to be charming and engaging. There hadn’t been a dull moment at the supper table in the three nights since he’d arrived. He’d been solicitous, too, always asking after her health and inquiring if she needed anything any time he saw her during the day. She found it endearing, albeit slightly annoying.
And that was why she was air punching the hell out of her chamber. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Lord Drayton. In fact, everything was right. He didn’t have a bit of the gruffness that Sir Tristan had. She dropped and ruthlessly forced herself to do more pushups. She had to stop comparing him to Tristan.
She knew Tristan and his men had squashed the attempt to take his keep. Yet, he hadn’t returned. She didn’t know enough about what people did in this day and age, so she wasn’t certain if she should be disappointed that he hadn’t sent her a message. She only knew she was disappointed. It was a day’s ride with a party of twenty men. A single rider on a fast horse could have gotten there sooner. But perhaps it wasn’t proper. It wasn’t especially proper to be kissing out behind the inner wall, either, but he’d had no problem doing that.
“You have to stop thinking about Tristan,” she huffed, punctuating each word with a vicious air punch. “Start thinking about Lord Drayton.”
She laughed, realizing she didn’t know the man’s first name. Or his last name for that matter, since she was fairly certain Drayton was the name of his property. Finally worn out, but never having found a moment of mental peace, she sank to the hard floor, panting and thirsty.
She also missed bottled water. And margaritas. And tea. If she had a chance to go back for one thing, she didn’t think it would be penicillin. She was positive she’d bring a giant crate full of different teas. She’d be a hero and then the bards would write their sonnets.
There was nothing in her room but the pitcher Batty brought every morning so she could rinse her hands and face. She was too sweaty to get dressed and if she rang for Batty, she’d have to answer to why she was so sweaty. Her poor, dear maid would probably panic and bundle her into bed, hollering for the physician. With a sour look, she chugged what was left in the pitcher and then slowly paced the room, still desperate for that bit of mental clarity.
After she dried off and got herself dressed again, she decided to find Batty or Catherine and see if she could make herself useful. She peeked in on Anne, who sat hunched over some stitching, her weaving loom abandoned. Fay frowned, realizing she hadn’t seen Anne doing her tapestries in weeks.
“Stuck on a color?” she asked, entering the room and running her fingers along the taut strands.
Anne’s initial look of concern that Fay was touching her precious loom quickly faded and she shrugged. “Lost interest, I suppose. It may remain unfinished.”
“It’s too pretty to remain unfinished. I want it for my room,” Fay said, hoping that would get her back to it.
The more she thought about it, the more Anne seemed disinterested in everything. Well, besides hounding everyone to keep the castle in order. But her personal interests had fallen to the wayside. Every day, Fay sat with her and goaded her into eating, refusing to leave her side until she’d downed what Fay considered a reasonable amount of calories.
“Is that so?” Anne asked, looking at the tapestry with the uncalled for contempt most artists always seemed to have for their work. “If you say so, then I’ll work on it a bit now, I suppose.”
“Good. Then I’ll go help out with chores.”
“You help out a lot more than you used to,” Anne said with a smile. “I’m not complaining, but I hope it’s not because I’ve been so lacking lately.”
Fay was surprised to hear her predecessors had been lazy layabouts, and she shook her head. No wonder they’d all failed. They sat around moping and complaining in their depressing instruction book that had very little instruction at all. She’d given the horrid thing another quick look the night before. Something about a tournament had looked interesting, but a lot of it was scratched out so thoroughly she couldn’t make most of it out, even after holding the page up to a candle. After two pages, she’d got angry and put it away. She refused to write in it, no matter if something utterly staggering occurred. If she did, it would be as good as admitting she was expecting there to be someone after her. As far as she was concerned it was no better than a suicide note.
“It’s not at all because of that. I’ve just grown up, I suppose,” Fay said, dropping a kiss onto Anne’s brow, pleased it wasn’t hot or clammy.
She spent the rest of the afternoon helping with laundry. She was only allowed to hang it, as Catherine refused to let her put her hands in the water. She’d held up her own red, raw hands as evidence, citing it was no look for a lady to sport. She enjoyed the brisk winds as she shook and smoothed and hung up the linens, listening to stories from the village that had come with the peddler that morning. Apparently, Catherine’s uncle was having an affair with the mayor’s wife. While she was ashamed of him and feared he’d end up sorely punished, she couldn’t stand the mayor, and felt he deserved it. And there’d been a fire at the gristmill, but no one had been hurt … Fay found herself drifting in and out of the stories and, after a few hours, found herself exhausted and a little dizzy.
“I’m so sorry, but I may have to leave you,” she said, looking at her sad, small pile of folded bedding compared to Catherine’s towering stack.
Catherine stopped one of her tales mid-sentence and looked up. “Goodness, you look a might pale. Have you eaten today?”
“I had breakfast,” Fay said, the thought of food making her shudder. “I had a bit of exercise this morning. I probably overexerted myself.”
“Go lie down,” Catherine said, waving her away. “I’m almost done thanks to you.”
She stretched her back as she rubbed her belly. Fay shriveled with shame for abandoning a pregnant woman to hard labor just because she’d done a few too many pushups. But she really did feel shaky and weak. She headed back toward the tower and, when she got to the stairs, she wished Gunther would appear to help her. She actually felt poorly enough that she closed her eyes and wished it.
When she opened them, instead of Gunther, Lord Drayton stood in front of her, clasping her elbow and peering at her with a concerned look in his grass green eyes. She smiled, thinking it was a good step that she’d thought of something to compare his eyes to. He wavered in her vision and she wondered if she’d made it to her room without remembering it, and now she was dreaming about him. That was a good step, too. Dreaming about someone meant you had feelings for them.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Fay? Did you say something about dreams?”
She blinked and shook her head. She was still in front of the stairs, waiting for someone to help her up. Well, it couldn’t be Lord Drayton.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel a bit unwell.”
“You look a bit unwell,” he said.
That was rather uncharitable and she frowned at him, moving away abruptly. Alarmed, he let go of her elbow and she crashed to the floor, her mind finally emptying of all thoughts, the thing she’d been working so hard to achieve.
*
She was dying. She cracked open her eyes to see Sir Walter sitting at her bedside, his face aged ten years with fear and worry. There were tear stains on his weathered cheeks. That’s how she knew she was dying. She would have cried herself except she was too weak. He reached for her hand and she tried to squeeze, but nothing happened. Her hand refused to do what her mind told it.
“Sweet Fay,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can’t lose you. You must fight, do you hear me?”
She nodded, or she hoped she did. She couldn’t feel anything right now, which was a relief from the spine twisting pain she’d been feeling for … she wasn’t sure how long. Long enough.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispered. She heard a sob from the far side of the room and managed to turn her head enough to see Batty standing in the corner with her head in her hands. “Where’s Anne?”
“Here, dear, right here.”
Another hand reached for her, smoothing her hair away from her face. She could feel it sticking to her cheek. It stung a little as it got peeled away and Anne hissed quietly at having caused her discomfort.
“What happened to her? What caused this? Could it have been poison?” her father asked.
Batty rushed forward. “I was with her at breakfast. We ate the exact same foods.”
Fay tried to point, knowing all of a sudden what had gone wrong. She felt a perverse gladness that her death might end the curse and no one else would end up in her predicament, but wondered if she should find a way to write a final warning in the book, just in case it didn’t work like that.
All in capital letters, with a page full of exclamation points and multiple underlinings. Do. Not. Drink. The. Water. She was going to die from medieval Montezuma’s revenge. So unfair.
The water that was mostly used in the castle came from the river, which flowed for miles, passing through farmland and villages, picking up all and sundry as it ran, including all the waste that fell from their garderobes. Since the water in her pitcher was meant for washing, it might have been sitting in a pot for days, or been recycled from other washing. She knew these things, but had forgotten in her post workout thirst. There was a well that provided the water used to make their ale, and she’d seen people drink from it, but it was done sparingly. Still, they didn’t die, so maybe it was safe for her to drink and rehydrate.
“Batty, send for Edgar at once. He’ll get to the bottom of it,” her father said.
Edgar, the physician. Her great-uncle, according to Catherine’s intel. And she didn’t want him anywhere near her. “I’m fine. I don’t want him,” she said, trying to sit up.
The slight movement made her stomach cramp up and she looked desperately toward her garderobe. It felt like she was wrung inside out and then exploded, and she would have been embarrassed if it hadn’t hurt so much.
“I’m bringing the physician,” her father bellowed, standing up. “No more arguments.”
She prayed he’d leave, prayed he’d stay away. She was in no fit state to be seen. As soon as he was gone, Batty tearfully tried to help her get clean. Anne briskly removed the soiled linens and replaced them, then sat at her side, patting her hand and brushing back her hair.
“I’m going to die,” Fay said, feeling like she was crying, but no tears came out due to her dehydration. “I’m going to die of pooping.”
“Shush,” Anne said, but there was no harshness to her voice. “The physician will be here and you’ll be well.”
“Don’t let him put a leech on me,” she begged. “I’m already dehydrated. I really will die if he does that.”
Anne looked at her intently, and Fay struggled to think through the pain and weakness. There was no proper medicine for this, not even a banana. No good water to replenish her lost fluids. Why had she been so stupid? She was going to die of pooping and stupidity.
“Bring me dry bread,” she said. “And … and apples. Not baked or in a pie. Raw apples. And the weakest ale we have. I’ll get better, I promise. You have to listen to me, Anne. Please. And please bring me some well water.”
She curled up in a ball, a new bout of pain drawing her legs upward. Thankfully, nothing happened that time and, after what felt like an eternity later, she lay panting in a pool of sweat. She closed her eyes, but tried to reach for Anne’s hand. She felt Anne grab it and hang on.
“Please, Anne,” she managed before she slipped into a merciful sleep.