Chapter Ten #3
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, she 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.