Chapter Four #2
“So you do not like that, do you?” he whispered. “Good. Perhaps if I do it enough, you will wake from the unpleasant state.”
He ran the cloth over her neck, unconsciously inspecting her as he did so. She had a beautiful neck and shoulders. The shift was relatively modest, so there was no glimpse of the swell of her bosom, but he could only imagine that it was as delicious as the rest of her.
He put the cloth back into the water and squeezed it out. Sitting down carefully on the side of the bed, he gently lifted her head up with one hand and put the cloth on the back of her neck with the other. The cold sensation received more of a reaction than he had expected; her eyes flew open.
“To the devil with you,” she gasped. “Why must you torment me so?”
She wasn’t in her right mind; the words were coming out slurred, dreamlike, and her eyes closed once again.
He removed the cloth and lay her head down on the pillow, all the while thinking how soft her hair had been.
His thoughts were misplaced and he knew it, feeling rather caddish.
The woman was gravely ill and all he could think of was how beautiful her hair was.
Ailsa came running back into the room, sliding to an unsteady stop. “Is she dead yet?” she panted.
Tate calmly swabbed Toby’s left arm. “Nay, she is not. I told you that she is not going to die.”
Ailsa slowed down and approached the bed, her little face full of fear. “But she looks so ill.”
“She is,” Tate said. “But Sir Stephen is a great healer. He shall pull her through this.”
Ailsa’s eyes were big as she watched Tate methodically bathe her sister’s face.
Her gaze trailed to Tate, studying his strong features, wondering if she should believe him when he said that Toby was not going to die.
As with all children, however, her attention span was finite and thoughts completely disassociated from her sister began to roll through her head.
“Are you married?”
Tate paused in his duties to look at her. She was innocent, and it was an innocent question. He’d long since gotten over the pain the question had once provoked.
“I was once.”
“What happened?”
“She passed away giving birth to my daughter.”
“Oh. Did your daughter die, too?”
“Aye.”
Ailsa began to toy with the bed linens, her sister’s limp hand. “My mother nearly died giving birth to me, too. I do not think I shall ever have any children.”
He smiled faintly. “Why not?”
“Because it will kill me.”
“Not always. As with anything else, one’s fate is in the hands of God.”
“Did God kill your wife and daughter, then?”
He shook his head slowly. “He did not, little one.”
“But why does He allow bad things to happen?”
“I do not know. I have often asked myself that question. I would suppose that everything happens for a reason, though we do not know what that reason might be at the time.”
Ailsa chewed her lip as she thought about it. He made sense and little made sense in her life; a distant father, an invalid mother, and a sister who was haunted by enormous responsibility. Tate seemed strong and certain.
“May I ask another question?”
He lifted an eyebrow at her. “I suspect you will no matter what I say.”
“Is it wrong to ask why you are called Dragonblade?”
His eyes twinkled. “I suppose not.”
“Then why?”
He lay down the arm he had been swabbing and picked up the other. “Your question will be answered when you see the hilt of my sword.”
She tried to picture what he meant. “Is there a dragon on it?”
“When you see it, you shall know.”
The thoughts were whirling in Ailsa’s mind. Tate could almost see them. She was a lovely child and seemed sweet. He didn’t mind talking to her.
A pair of men ushered through the door with a large copper tub between them.
A female servant, an old woman with white hair piled atop her head, directed them to set it down.
She had the voice of a crow, screeching at the horse dung that one of the men had tracked on the floor.
Behind her, several house servants followed with great buckets of water and began emptying them in the tub with great splashes.
Tate continued to swab Toby’s arms as Ailsa stood out of the way while the tub was filled.
Stephen returned after a short time, leather satchel in hand, and ordered the fire in the hearth stoked.
When he began to pull out his medicines, Ailsa could not resist standing next to him and watching curiously.
It would seem she was intensely curious about everything.
Stephen ignored her for the most part but inevitably she began asking questions and he was obliged to respond.
She wanted to know about everything and he patiently explained the willow bark, the crushed poppy, the foxglove extract and so forth.
Soon, there was a fine brew rising in the small iron pot hanging deep in the hearth.
With his ingredients cooking, Stephen went over to his patient.
“She is still burning,” Tate murmured so that Ailsa would not hear.
Stephen ran his hands across her forehead and opened each eye in turn. “She will not survive much longer at this temperature,” he said quietly. “We must get her into the water now.”
The tub was half-full with water that was barely warm.
Tate put the rag aside and took Toby into his arms, picking her limp body off the bed.
She was hot, sweating and overwhelmingly delicious.
He silently cursed himself for his perverse thoughts as he took her over to the tub. The servants were filling it furiously.
“Get her into the water,” Stephen directed. “Hold on to her so that she does not slide under.”
“We will lose our grip on her in the water,” Tate didn’t want to have to hold her by her hair as she slipped around in the tub. “Like so much dead weight.”
“Have a better idea?”
Tate’s solution was to step into the tub, fully clothed, and sit down in the water.
Stephen helped him adjust Toby so that she was lying on top of him and he had a good grip around her waist. The servants continued to pour water and with the next cold dousing, Toby went rigid and a hoarse cry escaped her lips.
“My God,” she rasped. “They are trying to kill me.”
Tate’s mouth was against her right ear. “Nay, mistress,” he said softly. “We are trying to help you. Your fever is out of control and we must get you cool.”
She was semi-lucid, unsure of what was happening to her. She looked at Stephen, unrecognizing, and began to panic.
“Let me out,” she struggled against Tate’s iron grip. “Let me out!”
Stephen gently but firmly pushed her back. Getting a good grip around her waist, Tate put a hand over her forehead and held her back against his shoulder.
“Calm, Elizabetha,” he murmured against her ear. “No one is going to harm you, I swear it.”
Ailsa ran up to the tub, putting her little hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Be quiet, Toby. You must not be upset!”
Toby focused on Ailsa, the only face she recognized. “Wha… what devilry is this?” she panted.
Ailsa shook her head. “You are ill. The knights are trying to help you.”
Toby grasped the front of Ailsa’s gown with one hand as if the little girl would save her, but her struggles eventually eased and her grip relaxed.
Breathing quickly, like a dog panting on a hot summer day, she closed her eyes and surrendered against Tate’s powerful body. The strength to fight was leaving her.
Tate felt her go limp. He and Stephen passed concerned glances as the servants continued to fill the tub. Stephen had a grip on her wrist, feeling her fast, weak pulse. He didn’t like it. As the tub filled and her blood continued to race, he shook his head.
“This is not a good sign,” he murmured. “She is not calming.”
“What about your brew?” Tate was genuinely concerned. Stephen did not raise an alarm for no reason.
“Another minute or so for full potency.”
Tate fell silent but it was apparent that he was searching quickly for a solution. His mind was never idle nor was he familiar with surrender.
It was deathly quiet in the room but for the pouring of water.
Then, Ailsa thought she was hearing things.
There was a low hum in the air that would rise and fall in rhythm.
She was so concerned with her sister that it took her a few moments to realize that Tate was singing.
His lips were pressed against Toby’s right ear, his soft baritone filtering through her fever-hazed mind.
It was a miraculous sound and Ailsa was entranced; her sweet little face lit with a smile as the air was filled with the gentle sound of Tate’s voice.
To the sky, my sweet babe;
The night is alive, my sweet babe.
Your dreams are filled with raindrops from heaven;
Sleep, my sweet babe, and cry no more.
It was a lullaby, sung from mother to child. Ailsa had heard Toby sing it before, though it hadn’t sounded nearly as beautiful as when Tate sang it. Tate glanced up at Ailsa when he had finished the verse and, seeing her smile, gave forth the second stanza.
Your heart is light, my sweet babe;
Your slumber is divine, my sweet babe.
The angels hold you, my arms enfold you;
Be at rest, my love, for you are ever mine.
A peaceful hush had settled over the room. Like an attempt to quiet a fussy baby, there was a fragile spell in the air. Ailsa’s voice shattered it.
“Sing the fairy song!” she cried.
Startled, the knights shushed her in unison. Justifiably contrite, it did not deter her enthusiasm. She whispered loudly this time. “Sing the fairy song!”
Tate gave her a reproving look. The singing excited Ailsa and thankfully seemed to soothe Toby. He launched into the old folk ballad, normally a lively dance. He wasn’t surprised when Ailsa dropped her sister’s hand and began to leap around the floor.
Dilly, dilly, lady fairy, how shall you fly? Long to the day as slumber grows nigh;
On gossamer wings, you touch the stars.
On the wings of angels, you steal our hearts.
Come touch my heart, O fairy dove,