Chapter Ten #2
Uncertain and fidgety bordering on panic, he closed the door to the alcove and was horrified when he could still hear her coughing through the closed door.
He wondered if any of the faithful would hear her and report to his superior that he had allowed a woman in the place during his absence. He would be whipped for sure.
The two orphans, boys around ten and twelve years of age, had begun to light the tapers around the small, barren sanctuary.
The weak light from the setting sun permeated the thin lancet windows carved all around the top of the sanctuary.
Even with the glow of the candles, it was a gloomy place.
A crude wooden altar served as the divine brokerage for God’s holy blessings.
The monk donned his crude service robe and went to stand in the sanctuary as the faithful began to trickle in.
It was mostly elderly, crossing themselves at the door before wandering further into the chapel for their prayers.
They were the poor, the servants of the nobles that comprised the congregation of his poverty-ridden church.
The monk had dreams long ago of being a great bishop in a great cathedral, but his dreams had only brought him here.
Sometimes he was angry at God for placing him in this destitute place, but in truth, he had become fond of his parishioners.
He stood next to the door, watching them filter in, hearing the faint coughing of the lady in the room behind him.
It got to the point when she would cough, he would cough, hoping to cover up her sounds.
More people began to enter as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. When he was sure most of the faithful had arrived, he moved to close the door. But blocking his path was an armored man so massive, so terrifying, that he filled up the entire entry.
The monk screamed like a woman. Then he slapped a hand over his mouth to silence himself as the helmed head turned in his direction.
“You.” A massive gloved finger was beckoning to him. “Come here.”
The monk forced his quaking legs to move. “Yes, my lord?”
The knight’s armor creaked and groaned as he moved towards him. He sounded, and looked, like the Devil himself.
“I am looking for a woman,” he said. “She may have passed through this church, or possibly this town. Have you seen any strange women about, well dressed and fine?”
The monk thought of the lady’s orders to him earlier: tell no one you have seen me.
But even as he mulled over her command, thoughts of the massive knight snapping his skinny neck came on far more strongly.
He had no intention of dying for a woman he did not know.
With a squeak in his voice, he threw his arm in the general direction of the alcove.
“In there,” he croaked.
The enormous knight blew past him, practically kicking open the door. The small, cramped room displayed the lady in the middle of it as if a light shined directly down on her, pointing her out. The knight threw back his visor as he went down on one knee beside her.
Alixandrea’s face was flushed, beads of sweat on her forehead. Gaston could see that she was gravely ill. He ripped off a gauntlet and put a hand to her face.
“Christ,” he hissed.
“Yes?” The monk replied, hovering back in the doorway.
Gaston shot him an irritated glare. “Not you,” he hissed. “I meant her; she’s burning up. How long has she been like this?”
The monk was wringing his hands. The faithful, having seen the knight enter, now began to crowd up behind the monk. It was a nervous little group.
“I… I do not know, my lord,” he said truthfully. “She came to me early this morning and told me that she was in trouble. I allowed her to come in and dry herself.”
Gaston had heard enough. Looking around, he spied some manner of blanket thrown in a heap in the corner.
It was filthy but it would have to do. He grabbed the material and tossed it around the lady’s shoulders.
Gently pulling her up into a seated position, he tried to wrap her in it but she awoke, groggy and disoriented.
“Hands off me,” she did not recognize Gaston and slapped him straight across the face. “Unhand me this moment!”
Her strike stung, but he did not flinch. He knew she wasn’t thinking clearly.
“’Tis all right, Lady Wellesbourne,” he said quietly. “I am taking you home to your husband.”
Her eyes were wide, unfocused, as he swept her up into his arms. “Husband?” she repeated as if she did not recognize the word. By the time Gaston had her out into the sanctuary, she began to struggle. “I cannot go home. No! Put me down!”
“You must go home,” Gaston said calmly. “Matthew is worried sick.”
“No,” she gasped. “Please do not take me home. I cannot go!”
The monk found his voice, and for some reason, his courage. He tagged after them. “Where are you taking her?”
“Home,” Gaston ducked a hand that came at his face. “To Rosehill.”
“You… you will not punish her, will you?”
Gaston merely cocked an eyebrow at the monk, as if the man were insane.
It was enough to stop the monk in his tracks, watching as the massive knight took the struggling lady from the church.
He was going to follow but thought better of it.
His guilt began to grow; as a man of God, he should have stopped this.
But as a mortal man, he valued his life more and had no wish to tangle with the enormous warrior. He let them go.
A few men, including Patrick de Russe, were waiting outside when Gaston burst through the door with the lady in his arms. Patrick’s eyes bugged out at the sight of Lady Wellesbourne.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, leaping off his steed to assist his cousin. “You found her!”
“Aye, I found her,” Gaston grunted as she pushed against his neck. “She’s ill and requires a physic. Ride for Rosehill and make sure one is waiting for us. And for God’s Sake, send someone to bring Matthew back. Tell him we have his wife.”
Patrick snapped orders to the nearest soldier, who went on the run.
He carefully took the squirming lady from Gaston so that Gaston could mount his charger.
Lady Wellesbourne smacked him a few times, too, for good measure.
She had nearly gouged his eyes out by the time he handed her back up to Gaston.
“She’s on fire, Gaston,” he said quietly. “I could feel her heat against me, even through this mail.”
Gaston’s expression was grim. “I know.”
He gathered his reins and tore off without another word. Patrick leapt onto his destrier and the entire party followed The Dark Knight at a raging pace.
*
She never did tell him why she could not go home.
All Gaston could get out of her was crying and coughing, and finally silence.
She slept against him heavily, like a boneless body, which made it tricky when he dismounted his charger with her in his arms once he reached Rosehill.
She was dead weight and he was very careful not to drop her.
Having been notified by an advance soldier from Gaston’s party, Caroline and Lady Livia met them at the door, screeching over Alixandrea’s condition.
The entire house and hold was in an uproar as Livia directed Gaston to take her upstairs to the first bedroom on the right.
Even as he mounted the stairs, servants raced around him, carrying all manner of healing medicaments and other implements.
By the time he reached the bedroom with the massive carved bed, it was full of people. It looked like a convention.
Gaston exploded. “Everyone out,” he bellowed. “Only the physic and Lady Caroline will remain. The rest of you; be gone!”
Orders from The Dark Knight were not meant to be disobeyed.
Aunt Livia tittered like a hysterical bird as her ladies escorted her from the room.
Caroline stood on the opposite side of the bed with the same physic that had tended Adam after his accident.
She was surprisingly composed. Gaston approached the bed and gently lay Alixandrea upon the goose-stuffed mattress.
She was incoherent as Caroline began to gently remove the dirty blanket that covered her.
“Where did you find her, my lord?” she asked as she peeled back the cloth.
Gaston stood back as the physic went to work on her. “At a church in Oakley.”
Caroline slipped the blanket off as the physic held the patient up off the bed. “What in God’s name was she doing there?” she asked, baffled. “What happened?”
Gaston went to stand at the end of the bed.
“I do not know, my lady. She has been confused since I found her.” He watched them toss aside the blanket and fumble with the coarse monk’s robe she wore.
“I will be waiting outside, Lady Caroline. I would speak with you when you have Lady Wellesbourne settled.”
He left the room, closing the door softly behind him. A quick perusal showed a corridor crowded with people. Aunt Livia was seated upon a small silken chair with one of her ladies fanning her face.
“Gaston,” she gasped. “Where did you find her? Do you know that Matthew has been in a panic?”
“I do indeed, Lady St. James,” he said. “I found her in a church in Oakley, a few miles from here. I do not know how she came to the place. The lady is quite incoherent, as you saw. I could not get an explanation out of her.”
“She’s going to die,” Livia suddenly began bawling into her fine silk kerchief. “She’s going to die and Matthew will have no heirs! Oh, the pity!”
Gaston had known Lady Livia for many years. She had always been the supreme example of over dramatics, but they tolerated her because she had a kind and generous heart. Matthew thought a good deal of her; therefore, so did Gaston. But her hysterics were trying his patience.
“She is not going to die,” he said steadily. “She should be well in a day or two.”
The door from the chamber suddenly flew open and Caroline stood in the opening. She began snapping orders at the servants hovering about.