CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I’ve heard it said that many of the infidels in the Holy Land have more than one wife. I can now see the logic of it.”
Taken aback by Laoghaire’s remark, Galen’s head swiveled in her direction.
They rode side by side near the front of the caravan, their two horses easily keeping abreast, both stallion and jennet maintaining a measured pace.
Due to the heavily loaded carts, the procession moved through the countryside in an exasperatingly slow fashion.
“So you would have me husbanded to an entire harīm of women?” Galen’s lips curved in a wry, manly smile.
“Of course, we’d have to draw straws each night to decide whose bed you would share,” Laoghaire said matter-of-factly, her blue eyes twinkling brightly with obvious mirth.
Extending a hand in her direction, Galen caught hold of a flyaway curl that had escaped her braid, and he tucked the errant tendril behind her ear.
Although she was attired in men’s clothing, Galen thought, with her flushed cheeks and loose ringlets, his lady wife appeared utterly beguiling.
“And what if you drew the short stick? What then? Would you not be jealous?”
“Not in the least,” Laoghaire retorted, waving away the notion with an airy slash of the hand. “If I could share the burden with a few others, I wouldn’t be so exhausted come morning.”
“I think you make mock of me, lady wife.” Galen paused a moment, if for no other reason than to ensure he had Laoghaire’s full attention before he continued and said, “There have been plenty of nights when you took your pleasure astride me. And nearly rode me into the ground, as I recall.”
“Luckily, ye’re a stout-hearted warrior.”
“And hardy as well,” he declared with unabashed pride.
Laoghaire cast a sly, sidelong glance at his crotch. “I’ve grown particularly fond of yer hard part.”
Throwing back his head, Galen boomed a laugh that was rich and deep, and which caused more than a few of his knights to shoot him a questioning glance.
“I do not think yer men-at-arms are accustomed to hearing their liege lord make such jovial sounds,” Laoghaire remarked with an amused chuckle.
Galen urged the stallion closer to the jennet, their stirrups gently colliding. Then, leaning toward Laoghaire, he whispered in her ear, “Mayhap that is because their liege lord is besotted with his beautiful countess.”
Laoghaire’s mouth parted with surprise, and two vivid splotches of color stained her elegant cheekbones.
Because he couldn’t spare the men-at-arms to escort Laoghaire back to Castle Airlie, he’d been forced to relent and to allow his wife to accompany him to the king’s council. Though not part of his original plan, now that she was here, he was delighted to have her at his side.
Certainly, he’d been delighted last night when they slept entwined in one another’s arms, spent from their lovemaking.
He’d also enjoyed the quiet interlude that followed their loveplay.
’Twas then the whole of the world seemed to have contracted to the distance that separated his mouth from hers, Laoghaire’s warm breath having caressed his face as they spoke in hushed whispers.
While he and Laoghaire continued to ride in companionable silence, Galen peered toward the sun and gauged the time.
At a glance, he could see that they still had a few hours to go before they could make camp for the evening.
Earlier they stopped to eat a quick supper, a simple meal of bread and cheese that was washed down with ale.
He had assured Laoghaire that once they arrived at Castle Balloch, they would dine on geese, drink imported wine, and sleep on a feather mattress.
He was particularly looking forward to the latter; a pallet in a field tent was hardly a fitting place to make love to one’s wife.
Reaching for the leather costrel that hung from his saddle, Galen untied the straps.
After removing the stopper, he wordlessly offered Laoghaire a drink of wine from the vessel.
With a shake of the head and a sweetly endearing smile, she declined.
As Galen raised the costrel to his lips, he was suddenly put in mind of a troubadour’s song he’d recently heard about a fair lady, and how, with only a single glance, she could send a burning spark through her lover’s heart.
He’d always thought such lyrics played false with one’s emotions, conjuring a kind of bond that was unobtainable in the world of men.
Yet whenever Laoghaire graces me with her smile, I feel a burst of welcoming heat.
He pondered the notion further, and it dawned on him that what he felt in those attenuated moments harkened not only to a yearning of the body, but one of the—
“Christ’s blood,” Galen blurted suddenly, hit with a burst of pain in his belly so excruciating he could barely keep upright in the saddle.
I must be suffering the ill effects of our earlier repast, he thought, as he drew in a sharp breath.
“Galen, are you all right?”
With a grimace, he peered over at Laoghaire. “’Twas something I ate,” he rasped through clenched teeth. Alarmingly, the pain had migrated upward, and it now felt as if his heart was being violently wrung by a pair of powerful hands.
In the next instant, seized with an agonizing jolt, his entire body jerked. A few heartbeats later, Galen slid from the saddle, his spurs jingling merrily as his booted feet hit the ground.
The next sound he heard was Laoghaire screaming his name . . . just before everything fell into darkness.
“Galen, can ye hear me?” Laoghaire whispered, desperate for a response.
Unable to detect any sign that Galen heard her, she bit back a sob.
When, in the next instant, the coach hit a rut, she lurched gracelessly against the side of the conveyance.
Despite being jostled by the swaying vehicle, Galen made no sound.
Had it not been for the rise and fall of his chest, she might have thought his body had given up the ghost.
Thank God he is still among the living!
Although just barely she acknowledged with a fearful heart as she removed the woolen plaid from her shoulders and draped the length of fabric across Galen’s prone figure.
Rendered corpse-like by the mysterious ailment, it was as if he’d been plunged into a dark stupor.
Several hours had passed since the initial onset, with no improvement in his condition.
No sooner had Galen fallen from his horse than Dame Winifred had assumed command of the situation, much to Laoghaire’s relief.
The older woman, clearly wise in such matters, had suggested they take Galen to a nearby monastery—St. Dunstan’s—where there was an infirmary for the care of the sick; as well as an herbalist, who was well-versed in the healing arts.
Knowing they could not reach St. Dunstan’s before nightfall, Laoghaire, concerned that Galen’s condition might worsen during the course of the trip, had suggested they instead summon the herbalist to come to them.
But Dame Winifred had been insistent that Galen would receive far better care at the abbey hospital.
“Will he live, mistress?” Laoghaire had asked Dame Winifred in those anxious moments right after Galen had collapsed onto the ground.
“I fear, milady, his fate is now in God’s hands.”
“And I am begging ye, Almighty Father,” Laoghaire beseeched, steepling her hands in a prayerful pose, “to cure this mysterious ailment that has stricken my husband.”
Anxious to arrive at the monastery, she peered out the window of the coach.
Twilight had just come upon them, and with it a sliver of moon had arisen, a gleaming sickle that seemed inexplicably malevolent to her.
Because the waning moon shed little light, Piers Burnett held a torch aloft as he and Sir William de Graham led the small procession down the lane.
In the far distance, she could make out the outline of a bell tower silhouetted against the deep indigo-blue sky.
Praise the saints! We are almost there!
“Please, my beloved, open yer eyes,” Laoghaire implored, as she gently cupped Galen’s cheek.
While she willed his recovery with great fervency, Galen did not so much as twitch a muscle.
To see her stalwart husband so helpless, so vulnerable, tore at her heart.
Whatever it was that rendered him insensible, no one else in their entourage had been stricken with the ailment.
Compounding the mystery further, just before he fell from his horse, Galen had uttered, “’Twas something I ate. ”
But he and I ate the very same food when we stopped for supper, and I feel no symptoms.
Indeed, everyone in their party had eaten the same bread and cheese, and imbibed the same ale. But only Galen had fallen ill from it.
As they approached the abbey gatehouse, she prayed the resident herbalist would solve the mystery; and that he would more importantly administer a restorative tonic.
After the coach came to a shuddering halt, Laoghaire wasted no time in disembarking from the conveyance. Well aware that in her current disheveled state she must look more like a churl than an earl’s wife, she hurriedly smoothed a hand over her hair, tucking in flyaway tresses as best she could.
She then took note of their surroundings, able to see in the twilight that the monastery was set within a circle of pine trees that lent an air of dark foreboding, with long, sinewy branches swaying to and fro in the evening breeze.
The gloomy atmosphere was reinforced by the twelve foot high wall that completely enclosed the compound.
And though the wall was not as high as the curtain at Castle Airlie, it was tall enough to create a sense of seclusion.
From which she surmised that uninvited guests were not altogether welcome.