Chapter Nine #2
“I am not saying anything other than the truth,” he snarled. “You allowed her to speak with father when you knew what might happen. You allowed her to provoke him into this… this madness. And see what has happened?”
“I was there when she spoke to him. She said nothing that you and I have not said over the past twelve years. He was, in fact, responding to her far better than he ever responded to us. I will not allow you to blame her for this.”
The punches began to fly then. John wisely stopped trying to prevent such a thing and yanked himself out of harm’s way.
“Stop it!” he shouted. “You’ll hurt each other! You’ll hurt father!”
Matthew slowed his actions but he still had a good grip on Mark.
Mark, for his part, had given Matthew a lovely bloodied lip.
Rather than throwing any more punches near their father’s convalescent bed, Matthew started pulling Mark from the room; he was so much stronger than his brother that the battle was a little one-sided.
But Mark was a scrapper and would not surrender easily.
John saw what was happening and once again tried to intervene. He rushed forward, attempting to remove Matthew’s hands from Mark’s body.
“Stop it,” he pleaded. “Now is not the time for this. Father is injured and we do not need either one of you injured, too. Stop it, I say!”
By now, the commotion had roused part of the house. A few Rosehill servants stood in the hall, fearfully watching the tussle going on inside. Caroline, having been tending Aunt Livia, had been summoned by a frightened maid. When she came to the doorway, she shrieked in dismay.
“Matthew!” she gasped. “Mark! Stop it this instant!”
Matthew and Mark stood just inside the doorway, wrestling with each other more than actually fighting.
Neither one of them was listening to reason; they seemed more intent to see who could wrangle the other to the floor and Matthew had a substantial advantage.
Mark finally stumbled and bumped his father’s bed; Adam’s body jolted.
More grunting and struggling between the brothers ensued until a familiar voice drifted upon the air.
“Matthew,” Adam rasped. “Mark, cease this folly. Have you both gone mad?”
In mid-battle, the brothers froze and stared at their father. Struggles instantly forgotten, they went to his bedside.
“Father,” Matthew said quietly, wiping the blood from his lip. “You had us very concerned. How do you feel?”
Adam’s eyes were barely open, his lips pale as he spoke. “I can see how concerned you were, fighting at my bedside. What idiots I have raised.”
The brothers did not even bother looking at each other, knowing he was right but neither one willing to admit it. Mark put his hand on his father’s arm.
“Thank God you have survived,” he said, sounding more like a frightened child than a man. “What on earth possessed you to throw yourself in front of a carriage? How could you do that?”
Though barely lucid, Adam managed to give a good attempt at a scowl. “Dolt, I did not throw myself in front of the carriage. I just did not see it.”
Matthew did look at his brother, then. For all of the awful things Mark had said, Matthew almost shouted his relief that Alixandrea had nothing to do with it. But Mark did not look at his brother; his attention remained focused on his father.
“Then… it was just an…?” He could not seem to say the words. It did not make sense to him. “How could you not see a racing carriage?”
Adam’s eyes closed. “Easy enough when the mind is elsewhere,” he murmured. “I must have wandered into its path, for I remember little but a strong blow. How badly am I hurt?”
“A few broken ribs, a broken leg,” Matthew said. “What had you so distracted that you would wander into the path of a moving carriage?”
Adam did not open his eyes. “Many things, Matthew. You heard your wife; she had much to say to me. Am I going to recover?”
It was apparent he did not want to elaborate on what had him so distracted that he would put himself in danger. Matthew let it go, for now. Frankly, he was relieved on so many levels that it was difficult to focus. “The physic says you will heal.”
“I shall heal if you two will stop fighting in my chamber,” Adam muttered. “Get out of here, both of you. When I am well enough, I shall beat you both severely.”
He drifted off to sleep without another word. With a lingering, hostile glare at his brother, Matthew quit the room. He found Caroline standing in the hall.
“Where is my wife?” he asked her.
The redhead shook her head. “I do not know, Matt. I have been with Aunt Livia for some time.”
Unworried in the least, Matthew set off to find his wife.
In the doorway, Mark watched him go, now more than ever determined not to tell him what he knew.
The woman had been the cause of too much misery in their lives.
They were better off without her. Moreover, there was some sick sense in Mark that did not want to see Matthew happy.
Why should Matthew be happy with his wife when Mark was, in fact, not?
There was too much jealousy and bitterness in Mark to be kind to Matthew at the moment. He wanted to see his brother suffer.
An hour later, Matthew still had not found Alixandrea. Mark got his wish; Matthew was indeed suffering.
*
When she awoke with her face pressed against the wet grass, it was night.
In the sky overhead, a night bird sang somewhere and all was still across the land.
Unsteadily, she pushed herself up, disoriented.
The moon cast some light on the landscape but she did not recognize any of it.
She remembered Adam’s accident and she remembered walking in the rain, but little else.
Her legs were weak and wobbly as she stood up, wondering where to go. Off to her right were a few outbuildings in the distance and what looked like a church. She could see the rise of the bell tower. Deciding that would be the best place to go, she staggered in the general direction.
The field stopped and she ended up on a road.
The church was further than she had thought and it took her some time to reach it.
Her delicate slippers were not made for the water, dirt and walking that she had forced upon them and they were nearly falling off her feet by the time she reached the church.
She banged on the door, as much as her strength would allow.
The door was a long time in opening. The great iron hinges that held the oak door to the masonry structure creaked and groaned as the panel opened slightly.
A suspicious head appeared, the crown shaved, indicating a monk.
He was small, pale, and dirty. Alixandrea opened her mouth to speak but ended up coughing instead.
“Brother,” she rasped. “I am in need of shelter for the night. Will you help me?”
The monk peered at her. “We are not an inn, my lady.”
“I am not looking for an inn. I am in trouble and in need of your help.”
“What manner of trouble?”
“Please. I am lost.”
He took another look at her, noticing she was wet, disheveled, and looked as if she had met with some misfortune. After a reluctant moment, he stepped back and opened the door wider.
“Come in,” he said.
She stumbled in the door. The sanctuary was cavernous and dark, smelling of mold. The monk held the only taper in the entire place. After he bolted the door, he looked at her rather curiously. She was shivering and pale.
“Now what, lady?” he asked.
He was either very stupid or very annoyed. She guessed the latter. “A fire might be nice. And something to dry myself with, if it is not too much trouble.”
If he heard the sarcasm in her voice, he did not let on and motioned for her to follow.
There was an alcove on the west end of the church that was apparently used for a common room of sorts.
It was very small, with a table in the middle, a weak fire in the hearth, and clutter all around.
The monk indicated for her to sit, which she did so gratefully, pulling the stool near the fire so that she could warm herself.
The monk just stood there, staring at her.
Then he disappeared. Alixandrea coughed and shivered, relishing the blissful warmth from the blaze.
She almost did not care where the monk went so long as she was out of the cold.
He was a bit of a snip, but it was of no matter.
Her harsh thoughts were quelled when he returned shortly with a massive pile of material, very course linen in a bunch. He held it out to her.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes, my lady, or you’ll catch your death,” he said. “You may wear this while your clothes dry.”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to take her clothes off, but upon reflection, decided he was correct. She was already coughing. She accepted the garment from him.
“Thank you for your kindness, Brother.”
She swore he blushed as he left the room, closing the heavy door behind him.
The door groaned in protest, poorly hung, and jammed against the floor as he finally yanked it shut.
When he was gone and she looked around to make sure there were no holes by which to watch her, she gingerly unrolled the garment he had handed her.
It was a robe like the monks wore with a hole for the head, long sleeves, and yards of course fabric.
Very quickly, she stripped off her wet garments and practically jumped into the robe, more from modesty than from the chill of the room.
The rough material scratched her skin, but it was warm and dry, and to the Devil with comfort.
She hung her heavy surcoat and under-things around the hearth so that the warmth would soon dry them.
Reclaiming her seat on the small stool, she huddled near the fire, continuing the process of drying herself out.