Chapter 8
Leicester
“’Ere now sir. You’re injured.”
“No,” Prescott protested, struggling against the hands lifting him from the ground. He was unspeakably cold and a thousand blacksmith’s pounded iron in his head.
“We’re just trying to help. You been lying in the snow for the lord knows how long.”
“The snow? I was on a horse. Where’s my horse?”
“Be this your mount?” a second voice asked.
He turned his head toward the sound and nearly toppled back into the snowy road.
The gelding spun crazily nearby.
Strong arms steadied him.
“Go gentle sir. You got big bump on your forehead and hair’s all matted with frozen blood. Probably a blessing or you might a bled to death before we found you.”
“Yes, my horse.”
“You just come with us, now. We’ll get you to the infirmary. ‘Tis but a short way from here.”
“No.” Prescott struggled again and this time broke free. “I must get to St. Martin’s Church.”
“Well, you’re standing beside it.” The first man gestured to a wall bordering one side of the alley.
“Excellent. Thank you. Hold my horse, and I’ll give you a crown when I return.” He stumbled toward the front of the building.
“Here, you can’t go in there. Duke of Leigh’s got a wedding’s in progress.” The men caught him one on each side where the alley joined the street.
“Even if you got inside, the servants will toss you back out again.”
“You don’t understand. I’m the groom.”
Two faces peered at him, looking him up and down. “Your loony. Groom’s been in the church for more than two hours. Bride just got here. Folks was beginning to wonder if she changed her mind.”
Prescott blinked, and finally recognized the blurred shapes lining the street for a crowd of onlookers. As he watched the organ could be heard playing Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.
I can’t delay longer.
Strength born of determination allowed him to throw off his captors and he pelted up the church steps. At the top he hit a patch of ice and hurtled unbalanced toward the closed door. The force of impact with the portal, pushed it open. Prescott along with a heavy gust of wind flew into the nave.
“You there, get out of here.”
He was running down the aisle passing the last of the pews when someone’s foot shot out in front of him and tripped. Momentum lifted him into the air and he spun, his entire world spinning. In the moment before he landed, Betts’ face, her beautiful face, filled his vision.
The prelate stopped speaking.
Then his back hit the carpeted marble and all the air in his lung whooshed out. He opened his mouth trying to breath but his muscles seemed frozen. Like a landed fish he flailed his arms and legs in a vain attempt to right himself.
“Hold him,” said a voice.
How many manhandled him he could not say. Indeed, he had no time to say before a fist thumped the center of his chest and he sucked in air.
“You can let go now,” the voice said.
Prescott lay there breathing. In, out, in, out until he felt steady enough to gain his feet.
The prelate resumed speaking. “Therefore, if any man can show any just cause…”
He stood, but a hand reached out from the nearest pew and drew him to a seat.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
Prescott turned his face and looked into the eyes of His Grace of Leigh.
“As you can see,” he coughed. “I am not yet departed.”
“…Why they may not lawfully be joined…”
Behind him quiet murmurs filled the air.
“Are you ill?” the duke asked.
“Explanations can wait. I must…” Prescott stood but swayed his head still spinning. He hoped he would not empty his stomach at this solemn moment.
“…Together let him now speak, or else…”
“I can show just cause,” Prescott shouted. At least he though he shouted, but the prelate continued.
“…Forever hold his peace.”
His Grace stood beside Prescott, a steadying arm around his shoulders. “My Lord Bishop, stop!”
The command echoed through the nave. A silence nearly as loud followed.
“Come with me.”
The duke took Prescott’s arm and approached the altar.
“Now say your piece, Captain Drake.”
“Prescott,” Betts whispered, but he heard her.
“Drake, by all that’s holy,” Tellus murmured.
He too was heard.
“My Lord Bishop,” Prescott said. “I can show just cause why this man and this woman should not lawfully joined.”
“Your Grace,” the bishop gave Prescott a scathing glance. “This is most irregular.”
“Agreed,” the duke said. “However, I believe this gentleman, Captain Prescott A. Drake, has a prior claim to Miss Feddleston’s hand.”
“Harrumphf. Is that true young man?”
“Yes, My Lord Bishop. Miss Feddleston and I were betrothed three years past in July.”
“Miss Feddleston?” The bishop turned to Prescott’s beloved.
“It is,” she confirmed.
“Do you wish at this time to dissolve your betrothal to Sir Tellus Leigh?”
“Yes. I’m sorry Tellus.”
He grinned at her. “I’m not. I have ever wanted your happiness and now you shall have it.”
“You are still willing to marry me?” Prescott asked.
Her once quiet smile broadened. “With all my heart.”
Nearby by the duke conversed with the bishop.
“Since the Bishop approves, I recommend,” the duke said. “That we continue with the ceremony, but exchange Captain Drake for my brother. Will that meet with your approval?”
The entire group nodded.
His Grace turned and made the announcement to the congregation. Then he and Lord Voltunus Leigh returned to the family pew.
Tellus stood beside Prescott, in bedraggled coat, worn shirt and trowsers, who joined hands with Betts before the bishop.
When the time came for the rings, Tellus offered the one he had intended to use, but Prescott shook his head. From an inner pocket of his torn, weathered coat he withdrew a small gold circlet.
“With this ring I thee wed with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow….”
Soon they knelt before the bishop who instructed the congregation. “Let us pray…
They held hands throughout the prayers, the psalms, the recitational, the readings of saints Paul and Peter and at last the blessing.
As man and wife they rose and faced the congregation then made their way from the church. The Duke’s carriage awaited them. Prescott handed Betts in and sat beside her.
“Now you can kiss me properly,” his wife said.
He replied with action. The bliss of that kiss sustained them through the long wedding breakfast, but Prescott began to cough. First a little, then deeper and longer.
His Grace noticed and sent them to the apartment set aside for their use. “I will send for the doctor then explain to our guests.
By the time the doctor arrived, Betts had Prescott tucked into bed with a compress on his chest.
The doctor sent her from the room and spent a great deal of time examining her husband.
Ladies Blythe and Bella came to sit with her joined later by Tellus and his grace.
Finally, the doctor emerged.
Betts stood to hear his diagnosis.
“Mrs. Drake,” he spoke solemnly. “I believe your husband to be dying.”
“No.” Her hand went to her chest. She could feel the blood drain from her face and the room spun, but she forced herself to steady.
“There is a slim chance that with careful nursing he might recover. The problem is not so much the infection in his lungs but rather that his exhaustion is so great he has no strength left to fight the inflammation.”
“Surely with rest, he can recover.”
“Possibly. I will write out instructions for his care before I leave then I will return every day to check on his progress. We should know within the week if he will survive or not.”
The doctor left with the duke who promised to deliver the instructions once written.
“I will not let him die.” Betts stamped her foot and fisted her hands.
“We’ll help you,” Bella said.
“Everyone at Leigh Chase will help,” Blythe confirmed. “Though Cynedroit and I will return home as soon as the weather permits.
“Then we’d best get to work. I know from experience with my mother that plenty of hot water is needed as well as herbs for the best compresses.”
They planned carefully. Bella and Blythe left to order all that was needed for the sickroom. Betts went to sit beside her sleeping husband, tucking her hand into his.
“I’ve just gotten you back. You cannot leave me again.” Then she bowed her head in prayer.