Chapter Eleven #2
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.