Chapter 6
What had he done? What had he done? Tristan paced the large chamber, denigrating himself, angry enough to break something, but not willing to act a further savage. What had he done? He’d almost stolen the virtue of his new liege lord’s youngest daughter, is what he’d almost done. With nothing to break, he smacked the side of his head, rattling the contents but not satisfying his guilt and shame.
The poor girl was probably not right in the head and he’d taken sickening advantage of her. It was worse that she’d seemed so smitten with him, even worse that he found her so attractive, suspecting as he did that she wasn’t well. Worst of all was that even now, as disgusted as he was with himself, he still couldn’t keep his twisted mind from returning to her soft caresses, her lusty sighs. Those hands of hers had driven him mad, to the point where he’d convinced himself she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But she wasn’t a tavern wench up for the taking.
He’d dragged her into the tub on top of him. Instead of giving him his due, which would have been an earsplitting scream and a smack in the mouth, she’d given him something quite different. He groaned and paced more vigorously, trying to wipe out the recollection of her hands and lips and body as she’d ground against him.
“Why did she do that?” he wondered aloud. He felt ashamed all over again to think she was, in some way, an accomplice to his depraved actions.
The poor thing couldn’t know what she was doing. She had probably been ordered to do whatever he asked and look at what he’d done! Had he been out in battle so long he’d lost all sense of chivalry? Common decency?
Brom burst into his chamber with an offhanded bow. Tristan had wanted to find Lady Fay and beg her forgiveness but now that Brom was here, he got some of his equilibrium back. Of course, that would be stupid and only make things worse. Nothing had really happened. Perhaps her gown was ruined, but her chastity remained unsullied. A few gropes and kisses? That was all it had been, really. He’d spent the last ten minutes overreacting. He didn’t owe anyone anything. In fact, he’d make a point to stay far away from her until this visit was over. He chuckled softly to himself, wondering if the daft darling would even remember what had happened. He felt instantly contrite at such a thought, his bad mood returning. He was a monster.
“Let’s get you stitched up,” Brom said, holding up the sewing case he carried with him at all times.
“It took you long enough to recall your lord was injured,” he snarled.
Brom raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “Well, the lads here like their wine. You can learn a lot from people who’ve had too much to drink.”
“I hope you haven’t told too much,” he said. “It appears you’re quite drunk.”
“It appears that you aren’t drunk enough, my lord,” Brom replied. “It would have helped with the mending of your shoulder and, perhaps, sweeten your sour mood.”
“What of your injuries?” he asked, ignoring the impertinent tone.
It was true enough he was in a bad mood and had taken it out on Brom, who had probably learned every secret worth knowing in his time in the great hall. Brom rolled up his sleeve to show a neat line of stitches going across his forearm where he’d been sliced.
“One of the lady’s maids did it, and a good job, too. Wasn’t a bit squeamish. Really very pretty as well.” He squinted, then smiled triumphantly. “Batilda was her name. Really very pretty.”
“Then best you call Batilda in here to take care of my shoulder,” Tristan said. “You’re drunker than I first thought.”
Brom sighed. “I am sorry it’s taken me so long to see to you,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But when that sweet lass was showing me so much concern, how could I not stay and show my gratitude?” He gathered up the candles for more light and took Tristan’s shoulder. “Ask me anything you like about this place. You’ll see my time was not wasted.”
Tristan winced as the needle slid through his ragged skin, hating the pull of the thread. He honestly didn’t mind getting sliced and stabbed as much as he minded the fixing of those wounds. He’d learned to shut up about such things at a very young age, as it earned him nothing but teasing. To take his mind off it, he began to question Brom.
“What did you learn of the daughters?” he asked. “The second one, is she …” he trailed off, waiting for Brom to fill him in. It rankled him that he was so curious, but it was better than hearing the squeak of the stitches as Brom yanked and knotted.
“The younger one. That would be Lady Fay, right?” Brom asked, squinting down at Tristan’s shoulder and shaking his head. “This is a nasty one, this time.”
“Yes, Fay,” Tristan said, trying not to show his impatience for answers.
“She’s twenty-three if you can believe it. Looks a might bit younger if you ask me. The poor elder one is twenty-five and, with that cough of hers, it’s most likely she’ll stay a spinster.”
Tristan didn’t give a damn about their ages. When he saw a man his age and older marrying a twelve year old, he wondered what they found to talk about. He couldn’t bring himself to wonder what they did when they weren’t talking. Now he was thinking about Fay’s kneading touches, how it had made some muscles limp, another not so much.
“But what is she like?” he demanded. “Sorry, bit tender there.”
Brom nodded. “I tell you this is about to go septic. You’ll need to see the physician here tomorrow.” He swore quietly. “We shouldn’t have waited so long to mend it.”
“Quit acting like an old woman and answer my questions.”
“What Lady Fay is like? Ah, well, she knows how to read. Has a passion for it. Her maid Batilda said she always has her head in the clouds due to some story or other.”
Tristan found it impressive that she knew how to read, but didn’t understand how she could enjoy such a thing. He himself knew a few bible verses to keep out of trouble with any priests he came across, and he could recognize and sign his name. Sir Andrew had hired him the best tutors, but none of their teaching had stuck. He’d eventually grown tired of the beatings and scared them all away when he was big enough.
“That might explain it,” he muttered, shaking his head at Brom’s questioning look. “There’s no word of her being simple, dull-witted, then?”
“Quite the opposite, it seems. But I’ve heard that too much reading, any kind of learning really, can be bad for a lady’s health. Blocks up their humors or some such, and can lead to madness. Why? Did you notice something amiss about her when she was bathing you?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, feeling strangely uncomfortable speaking about her to Brom like this.
And even more strangely, he found himself worrying for her health. If the thing she enjoyed doing so much was wreaking havoc with her humors, shouldn’t her father put a stop to it? While Sir Walter seemed to take care of his lands with a firm hand, he did seem awfully lax when it came to his daughters. It was one thing to indulge a loved one, but at the risk of their health and sanity? That such a beautiful young lady might be wasting away due to negligence tore at him worse than Brom’s needle. As much as it now ate at him, he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. He certainly couldn’t tell Sir Walter how to raise his children. But if one of those children was Tristan’s wife, then he could intervene. He’d burn what few books were at Dernier Keep if it meant—
A particularly harsh stab of the needle brought him out of his harried thoughts. Had he actually been so worried about Lady Fay that he considered marrying her to save her health?
“I must have a fever,” he said. “Am I feverish, Brom?”
Brom looked at him askance. “You might be, a bit. Should I call for the physician tonight?”
Tristan normally didn’t worry overmuch about his health. He’d had countless injuries and none had killed him yet. But he couldn’t think of another reason why he’d be so worked up about Lady Fay unless he was growing weak with fever.
“Perhaps you should, Brom,” he said, unable to shake his unease. “Perhaps you should at that.”