Chapter 21 #3
“No, but only by a miracle. And no, he didn’t come running to me about it. But then, he can’t run with a sore foot, can he? I was bound to notice.”
The brows rose. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
She realized that the distance, the shield between them, was evaporating.
It was dangerous—her fast-beating heart told her that—but she would give up her soul, almost, for more moments like this.
“Well you have,” she said, as steadily as she could.
“I expect your wounded men to come to me for treatment.”
“And what,” he asked softly, “if I am wounded?”
After too many heartbeats, she replied, “Then of course I would treat you. Unless you object.”
“On the contrary. You tempt me to be very clumsy with my sword.”
Claire’s breath caught. “Don’t,” she said at last, stepping backward, backward. “Don’t, Renald. The risks are far too great.”
Of course, he didn’t come to her wounded, but others did.
Later that day she poulticed a swollen knee that should have been tended to days before. The next day she treated an inflamed and blackened eye. She found out that these more obvious injuries had been hidden from her, kept in a hut in the village instead of brought back to the hall.
After that, she saw a steady stream of wounded. She still didn’t think it wise for men to spend their time damaging themselves just in case they might be called upon to fight, but she did her duty and didn’t nag.
None of the injuries were on Renald’s body, but then one day he did appear in her herb room. A moment after her heart started to race, she saw he was supporting a burly man who kept one leg curled up off the floor.
“Sword cut,” he said, lowering the man onto a bench. “Days old.”
He helped the man out of his loose braies, exposing a dirty rag over a swollen thigh.
“I thought we had an agreement,” Claire said. “Why wasn’t he brought to me before?”
“This isn’t my doing. He’s been hiding it from me, too.”
Claire shook her head and unwound the disgusting cloth. She had to soak off the last part because it was stuck to the inflamed, pus-filled wound. “You could lose this leg,” she told the middle-aged man. “You could die!”
He hung his head, looking for all the world like an old hound that knew he’d done wrong. Claire took up a knife to lance the wound and saw Renald move closer.
“Don’t you trust me to do this right?”
“Completely. But any man foolish enough to let a wound fester could be foolish enough to strike his healer when it hurts.”
“Nay, lord,” the man protested. “I’d not touch your lovely lady!”
“Then perhaps,” said Renald, “you’ll feel sprightly enough to try to steal a kiss.”
The man chuckled and even winked at Claire, but she saw the sweat on his face, and it wasn’t from fever but fear.
She picked up her sharp lancing knife, still warmed by the way Renald said “completely.” Something held between them, she realized, running like a sturdy thread and growing stronger day by day. It was an acknowledgment of each other’s abilities and a precious resulting trust.
She hoped she could preserve it by saving this leg.
At the first touch of the knife, however, before she’d even cut, the man flinched. Renald stepped forward and held him down. Even then, it was a struggle to make the cuts where she had to.
When it came to cleaning the dirty wound with wine and herbs, it turned into a full, cursing wrestling match. She might have been deafened by the man-at-arm’s bellows if Renald hadn’t gagged him, and despite Renald’s strength, the man managed to kick a bowl of foul water over her.
When she stepped back from the treated, bandaged wound, she was soaked and panting. Her patient, however, was now sheepishly quiet. As soon as Renald released him and gave him a stick, he pulled on his braies, muttered apologies to both of them, and hobbled away.
“Well really!” Claire said, stripping off her soiled tunic and using the clean parts to wipe herself. “Why do you keep such a coward on?”
Renald was rumpled and heated himself. “Rolf’s one of the bravest men I know when his blood runs hot in a fight. In cold blood, he can’t take any pain at all. I usually keep an eye on him and drag him off to be looked after. I’ve been distracted …”
At his tone, his look, Claire realized that only her thin summer kirtle covered her body, and it was damp. She clutched her wet tunic to her as a shield, but still his eyes traveled over her. She thought perhaps she could hear his breaths.
It was no good. Hell was worth it. She took one tiny step toward him.
He turned and left with a slam of the door.
She crossed herself. Sweet Mary, protect them both!
This couldn’t go on. She dressed hastily in clean clothes, and went to compose another letter to the bishop. It was two weeks since the last, and her month was speeding. This time she wasn’t sure how best to send it, so in the end she went to Brother Nils.
The monk seemed quite stricken. “Are you sure, lady?”
“I’ve less than two weeks to go.”
“He’s a good man, lady.”
“I know. Send my letter.”
Nils looked at the rolled parchment, torn, then went to seek his lord. He found Lord Renald up on the palisade, head sunk in hands.
Nils cleared his throat. Instead of snapping back into the lord, the warrior, Renald rose slowly, sucking in a deep breath. “What now?”
Wishing, perhaps, that he’d not come up here, Nils said, “The Lady Claire has asked me to send a letter. To the bishop.”
“I see.” And he clearly did.
After a while, Nils asked, “Shall I send it, my lord?”
“Yes, of course.”
Why won’t you fight? Nils wanted to ask. Why won’t you use your charms and woo her? He’d watched helplessly as they both moved through Summerbourne like leaves caught in different eddies, spinning close but never touching.
He’d watched as well the way they watched each other. He’d never seen such pain in healthy eyes.
Surely something could be done.
He cleared his throat. “Would you like me to read it to you first, my lord?”
“No.” And now the lord and warrior was back. “Send it, Nils, then find the records of that wool factor in Dorchester. You said he might give us a better price.”
Firmly put in his place, Nils went with a heavy heart to follow orders.