“Not likely,” Wharton retorted.
“He needs to breathe,” she argued.
Wharton flushed indignant red. “Ye just want t’ look on his face an’ betray him.”
The big knight spoke. “Do it.”
Wharton dropped back to his knees and reached for the helm. Deliberately, Edlyn turned her back and busied herself with stirring the poultice. After all, she didn’t want to provoke Wharton.
Behind her, the wounded warrior said, “Water.”
Freed of the helm’s confinement, his voice rumbled like a great ocean wave breaking on the rocks. Edlyn thought it matched the size of him.
“Aye, master.”
Wharton rushed to the pitcher, but Edlyn stopped him. “Give him this.” From the shelf above her head, she brought down a bottle and uncorked it, then poured a cup full and handed it to Wharton.
He sniffed it suspiciously, then wrinkled his nose.
Anticipating his question, she said, “’Tis spring tonic. It will give him strength.”
With a grimace, Wharton carried it back to his master.
Half turning, Edlyn glanced at the prone figure as she tested the warmth of the herbs on her wrist. Even without his helm, he was unrecognizable. Of course, how could he be otherwise? Beneath the hollow metal headgear he wore a chain-mail coif that swathed his neck and head and revealed only the dim oval of his face. She watched Wharton slide his arm under the knight’s head and lift it with the greatest of care. The warrior drank, and Wharton seemed to know without being told when his master was satisfied.
They’d been together a long time, Edlyn realized, and Wharton’s devotion was nothing less than complete.
As Wharton lowered his master back onto the floor, he shot her an infuriated glare, and she spun back to her work. Sorting through the basket that held her clean rags, she selected a soft linen to use as a pad and returned to the outstretched figure of the warrior. She kept her gaze down, hoping Wharton read humble submission in her stance, and knelt at the warrior’s side. With her fingers, she smeared the green paste across the pad, then placed it over the wound. Only then did she risk a closer glance at the warrior’s face.
Sweat, dirt, and blood had mixed and congealed on his skin, creating a mask of battle horrors. Edlyn released her pent-up breath in a rush. “Look at him! His own mother couldn’t recognize him.”
Wharton grinned, cheered by the news.
“Wash my face,” the warrior said. “It itches.”
The grin disappeared, but Wharton reached for the wet cloth without question.
Edlyn caught his wrist. “First he needs to have his armor removed, and most of the aketon.” She ducked under the table and brought out a pallet, stuffed with straw and covered with tightly woven wool. “If we could undress him, then roll him onto the pallet and pull him into the corner by the oven, he’d remain warmer.”
Wharton stared at her, patently unconvinced.
“’Twould be easier to conceal him,” she added.
Wharton glanced at the corner by the oven. “There’s a table.”
“We’ll move it.” Wharton still seemed unconvinced, and she said impatiently, “There’s nowhere else in here to hide him.”
“Keep everyone out,” Wharton answered.
“I can’t do that. I dispense the herbs and potions for the infirmary.”
Wharton stared, recalcitrant.
“Men will die if I don’t!”
Wharton might have been made of stone. “I don’t care about th’ other men.”
The warrior again interrupted. “I do.”
Wharton’s indignation subsided, and Edlyn sighed in relief. “Besides,” she added, “if I try to keep the nuns out, they’ll be suspicious. Now let’s remove the armor—”
“The coif first,” the warrior said. “Remove it.”
His lips tightened as Wharton eased off the chain-mail headgear. Each movement pained him, Edlyn realized, and the links caught in his lank blond hair and tugged at his scalp. Wharton muttered apologies as he worked, but the warrior uttered no reproach to his servant. He simply lay still and panted softly, and when he could he said, “Now my face. Wash it.” Wharton took up the wet cloth again, but the warrior said, “Nay. Her.”
Startled, Edlyn found herself the recipient of a scowl from Wharton and a damp washing cloth.
She didn’t understand it. The two men had been so protective of the warrior’s identity, and now the warrior took the chance she would identify him by demanding she clean his face.
And the possibility existed she would recognize him. When she had been the countess of Jagger, legions of knights and noblemen had visited, seeking favors and offering support. They’d all vanished when Robin had been killed, of course.
She held the cloth and looked down at the filth-encrusted face of the warrior. Had he perhaps recognized her?
“What are you waiting for?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. She just bent her head and smoothed the cloth over his forehead.
A broad forehead, fair but marked with the creases of experience. Then the area around his eyes, where she saw wrinkles that came from squinting against the sun. Too, she saw hazel eyes that watched her closely.
She hesitated, her hand poised above him. What did he behold in her face that so interested him?
Wharton snatched the cloth from her and rinsed the grime and blood from it, then shoved it back into her fingers.
The dark smudges had successfully camouflaged the warrior’s features, changing the shape by creating false shadows. His cheekbones, she discovered as she washed, were high and sharp and matched his outthrust chin. Before a series of breaks had mutilated his nose, it had been a blade of bone. His lips, even when not swollen and bruised, were generous, the type a young girl would dream of kissing.
Her hand began to shake as she stared.
A young girl might well see this man through an infatuated gaze. She might fall headlong in love with him and imagine in him every virtue. And if that young girl had to go off to be married to a man old enough to be her grandfather, she would carry his image before her like a shining icon. For years she would think he, and only he, was the man who could excite her passions.
She would have been wrong. Wrong about so many things. And now that young girl had grown up, and now she would pay the price for her foolishness.
Aye, she recognized him. How could she not? Not even the ravages of time and distance could disguise this man’s masculine beauty.
Thrusting the cloth at Wharton, Edlyn wiped her palms across her skirt as if to wipe away the stain of touching him. “Hugh,” she said in a cold, clear voice. “You are Hugh de Florisoun.”
2
“And you are Edlyn, duchess of Cleere.”
Dear God, Hugh remembered.
Hastily, she stood up and moved away from him. “I was the duchess of Cleere. I am not any longer.”
He waited for her to identify herself and, when she didn’t, said, “Your duke died.”
“He was an old man.”
“And you remarried?”
She didn’t answer; she only turned her face away from the eyes that observed her too closely. Years ago, she would have given anything for Hugh to look at her that way, or in any way.
Now it was too late.
Her disquietude only seemed to amuse him, for he mocked, “You are still Edlyn, I hope.”
“You may call me Edlyn,” she answered.
“Lady Edlyn?”
He probed like a badger after a rat, and she didn’t relish being the rat. “Just call me Edlyn.”
His interrogation would have gone on until she told him what he wanted to know, or until she said something she would regret, but he turned his head to rest his ear on the dirt floor, then announced, “Someone approaches.”
Wharton drew his dagger so quickly she had no time to step away. “Get rid o’ him,” he said to her.
“Wharton, put it away.” Hugh’s voice sounded fainter and more weary now that
he realized he wouldn’t get the information he wanted from her. “Edlyn won’t betray me.”
His certainty humiliated her. Had he seen evidence of her infatuation for him all those years ago? Did he think it so deep she would still protect him with her life?
She snorted. Only two people existed for whom she would sacrifice so much.
The point of the dagger jabbed her side. “I’ll personally see t’ yer death if ye do betray him,” Wharton whispered.
She’d been mortified and bullied enough. Control snapped. “Get that away from me.” She knocked his arm with her fist, and her attack so startled Wharton he dropped the knife. “And don’t you ever point it at me again!”
On the ground, Hugh chuckled. “That’s my Edlyn,” he said in a patronizing tone that made her want to pound him senseless. “You always were spirited.”
“I am not your Edlyn.” Then to Wharton, “And I am not in the habit of betraying anyone who comes to me for succor or sanctuary.” With a final glare at both the speechless servant and his amused master, she turned on her heel and stalked to the closed door.
She swung it open on its leather hinges and stepped into the garden just as Lady Blanche and her toady of a servant approached the door.
“Lady Edlyn! Lady Edlyn!” Lady Blanche’s squeaky voice matched her diminutive height. “We need some syrup of poppies at once. We have a noble lord in pain.”
Once, long ago when Edlyn had been the greatest lady in the neighborhood and the patroness of Eastbury Abbey, Lady Blanche’s rosy apple cheeks and bow-mouthed smile had pleased her. She had thought Lady Blanche to be a dear, sweet nun dedicated to the fulfillment of her holy vows.
She knew better now. “Do you speak of Baron Sadynton?”
Lady Blanche stopped in the path. Adda halted behind her. Their identical glares made Edlyn aware, once again, of their shared heritage. “Are you questioning my judgment?” Lady Blanche demanded.
“Never.” Edlyn lied smoothly. “Nevertheless, the noble lord will have to suffer, I fear.” She pulled the door shut behind her. “As I told you yester morn, we have used all our syrup of poppies.”
“Tut, tut, my dear.” Lady Blanche trotted forward, pressing too close to Edlyn for comfort. “We know you keep a reserve for emergencies, and this is an emergency.”
“But I am glad you and your servant came by.” Edlyn nodded at the woman who stood behind Lady Blanche. “I need someone to carry firewood for me.”
If anything could have chased Lady Blanche from the premises, it should have been this threat. Adda devoted her life to creating comfort for Lady Blanche, and Lady Blanche insisted Adda reserve her strength for just that purpose.
To Edlyn’s surprise and dismay, Lady Blanche only nodded genially. “Help Lady Edlyn, Adda.”
Adda’s glare might have shriveled a lesser woman, but Edlyn had more to worry about than a simple scowl.
Like a wounded man stretched out on the floor of the dispensary.
Like a knife-happy Wharton.
Like the scandal Lady Blanche longed to perpetuate in Edlyn’s name.
“Let me show you the wood I require,” Edlyn said, stalling for time.
“Wood is wood.” Lady Blanche took Edlyn’s arm and tried to lead her toward the dispensary while Adda walked with dragging feet toward the woodpile.
Edlyn had frequently mourned her lack of height, but she was taller than Lady Blanche and she dug in her heels now. “Wood is not just wood,” she answered. “Not to me. Oak burns slow and sure. Pine burns quick and hot. Walnut burns—”
“I know,” Lady Blanche said sharply. “What has that to do with anything?”
“An herbalist must prepare her tonics at just the right temperature.”
“Please, Lady Edlyn, don’t pretend with me.” Lady Blanche’s mouth formed a deprecating moue. “We both know you’re not an herbalist. You’re only a dispossessed noblewoman living on the abbey’s charity.”
Edlyn’s fury, already stirred by Wharton, easily ignited again. “I endowed this abbey.”
Lady Blanche began to tremble like an ash leaf in the wind of indignation. “A fine endowment that requires such a payback. You bring the taint of your treason here to stain our reputation. If I were abbess here—”
“Lady Corliss is abbess here, and long may she endure.” Edlyn’s devout prayer came from the heart. Never had Lady Corliss uttered a reproach when Edlyn had fallen from patroness to supplicant. She had been the vessel that had carried Edlyn through the turbulent seas of despair, and Edlyn worshiped the abbess.
As did Lady Blanche. Her pursed lips softened as she echoed, “Long may she endure.” Then her small eyes, pressed like raisins into the dumplings of her cheeks, sharpened. “As prioress, it is my duty to protect the abbess from undue aggravation, and you, Lady Edlyn, have proved to be nothing but a disappointment.”
“Lady Corliss said that to you?” Edlyn didn’t believe it, but even the suggestion hurt. Hurt because she knew it was true. She’d struggled this last year, building on her natural talent to become a competent herbalist and to be of use to the abbey. But always she knew she took another’s place, and that added to the misery that crept on silent feet into her barren bedchamber every night.
Lady Blanche had struck a telling blow, and she followed it with a stab to the heart. “Lady Corliss is too kind.”
This day, Edlyn decided, could not improve enough to become bearable.
Wrapped in triumph, Lady Blanche trotted back up the walk and out the gate.
Edlyn glanced at the dispensary and prayed the two men hadn’t heard the bitter exchange. Hugh would want to know everything about her situation, and she didn’t intend to explain. Not now. Not ever.
Stiffening her spine, she reentered the dispensary and halted in surprise. Hugh had disappeared, as had Wharton and all traces of armor. Edlyn blinked. Had worry and distress finally snapped her hard-fought hold on sanity? Had there been no wounded knight, no threatening servant?
But nay, the bottle of spring tonic remained open on the table, and a bloody rag had been shoved behind the wooden boxes where she stored her dried herbs. The table by the oven had been moved along the wall, and the mat had disappeared. Looking closely, she saw the marks on the floor where Wharton had dragged the pallet with Hugh’s body weighing it down.
In a flurry of activity, the men had done as she suggested and moved to the best hiding place in the room.
“At least someone is showing good sense,” she said as she swept toward the oven.
“To whom are you speaking?”
With a squeak, Edlyn turned to the door. At first she believed Lady Blanche had returned. Then the short figure moved into the room, and Edlyn saw the branches piled high in her arms.
Adda. She’d forgotten about Adda. How foolish of her to think she had routed Lady Blanche when she’d only repelled the first guard.
“I was speaking to myself,” Edlyn said.
“Ah.” The one syllable rang rich with significance. Adda thought Edlyn touched.
“Let me take the wood,” Edlyn said.
Adda swung it away from Edlyn’s reaching arms. “Where do you want it?”
The woodpile stood in front of Hugh’s hiding place, and the logs, as Wharton had observed, had dwindled down to almost nothing. “Right here in front of the oven,” Edlyn instructed.
Adda’s gaze swept the area, then she walked forward until Edlyn gave way. “Don’t!” Edlyn said sharply, sure Adda’s nosiness would earn her the point of Wharton’s blade.
Dropping the branches atop the measly twigs that marked the woodpile, Adda said, “Don’t, indeed. You’ve made an incredible mess of the dispensary, and Lady Corliss will hear of it.”
Frightened and incredulous, Edlyn stared into the corner. Her basket of rags had been dumped. The rags had been arranged to look like clutter, and the upended wicker covered more than one questionable lump.
Quick thinking on someone’s part. It wouldn’t fool anyone with the eyes to
see, but Adda shared everything with her sister, including myopia.
Edlyn used the edge of her wimple to dab an out-break of sweat on her forehead, but she wasn’t about to allow this toxic imitation of Lady Blanche to reprimand her. “My dispensary is none of your concern, but you make it so, no doubt, so that I will release the syrup of poppies to your care. It will not happen, so return to your mistress and report your failure.”
Adda leaned forward until her nose almost met Edlyn’s skirt. “You have blood on your apron.”
Edlyn glanced down. Blood did indeed stain the apron she wore to protect her thin wool cotte, and she brushed at the marks futilely. “I went to the infirmary at first light,” she said. “I must have touched one of the men.”
A falsehood, easily traced, but Edlyn never had lied well. “I couldn’t sleep,” she added hastily.
“The result of a burdened conscience, I suspect.” Adda gloated at her own striking rejoinder.
“Get out.” Edlyn spoke softly. She didn’t realize it, but her voice carried the same element of command that characterized Hugh’s. “Get out and don’t come back lest your insolence tempt me to the sin of speaking ill of one of God’s servants.”
“And whom might that be?”
Edlyn walked to the door and pushed it wide. Gesturing to the out of doors, she said, “You.” She watched Adda skitter out the door and up the walk, cackling like an offended chicken all the way.
Then she shut the door with a bang. The noise cleared her head; she had to regain control.
Wharton rose from the corner and brushed the clinging rags off his body. Glowering, he fingered his knife. “I told ye t’ keep them out.”
“And I told you that was impossible.” She stared as he cleared the rags from the long metal-clad problem stretched out on her floor and wished fervently they were anywhere but here. “Remove his armor,” she said. “He needs to rest comfortably, and he can’t do that trapped in a pile of rusty metal.”
“Rusty?” Wharton squawked.
“Pile?” Hugh sounded as insulted as his servant.
Pleased to have offended them, she said, “He needs a gown.” She stared at Wharton. “I don’t suppose you brought one?”