Chapter Thirteen #3
Sean reached over the old man and lifted Sheridan into his arms. Sobbing, she threw her arms around his neck and held on tightly.
He cradled her, thinking that his best laid plans had failed to remove her from the Tower.
She was still here and so was the king. More than that, the opposing armies were fast approaching.
The situation was going from bad to worse, but all he could think of at the moment was tending to his wife. The need seemed to block out all else.
“That man,” he snapped to the soldiers around him, indicating de Braose. “Someone bring him. And be mindful of his injuries.”
Leaving de Vere standing next to the cart scratching his head, Sean carried Sheridan across the darkened yard toward the apartments they had so recently vacated.
Gilby was shuffling behind him and even further back, two soldiers carried de Braose between them.
They made a strange procession across the dark and eerie courtyard with the smell of smoke in the air from the approaching battle.
The quarters were just the same as they had left them and the fire had long since died in the hearth. Sean ordered one of the soldiers to relight the flame as he carried Sheridan into the bedchamber. As de Braose was deposited into one of the chairs, Gilby followed Sean into the room.
“Lay her down,” the old man instructed. “I must sew the gash before it begins sealing itself too much.”
Sean tried to lay Sheridan down but she clung to him. She was scared and hurt, finding comfort in the arms of the husband she was so glad to see. When he realized she wasn’t about to let him go, he squeezed her gently.
“Release me, sweetling,” he said softly. “Gilby needs to see to your leg.”
She shook her head, still buried against his neck. “No,” she wept. “I want to stay with you.”
Sean and the physic passed glances. “I will not leave you,” Sean promised. “I shall stay right here until he is done.”
After a few encouraging kisses to her forehead and more words of reassurance, Sheridan eventually let him go and he laid her upon the bare mattress. He could see how terrified she was just by looking at her; the luminous blue eyes were edgy. His heart ached for her.
So he sat down and held her hand as Gilby gave her a bitter potion to drink and put seven fast, small stitches into the soft white flesh of her right thigh.
Sean remembered that thigh from his brief taste of her, remembering its texture against his hands and feeling warmth in his loins from the mere thought.
So he distracted himself by stroking Sheridan’s head, comforting her as Gilby finished the last of the stitches.
She had, remarkably, kept quiet the entire time, mostly due to the potion Gilby had given her.
It had calmed her sufficiently to the point of putting her to sleep.
When it was finally over, Sean watched her sleep for a few moments before casting a long glance at Gilby.
“Remember the last time you gave her a potion?” he asked pointed. “We could not wake her for hours.”
Gilby glanced at the lady as he put his things away. “This is not the same stuff. She will sleep through the night, no doubt, but it should not have the same effect on her.”
Sean returned his gaze to his wife, sighing heavily at the sight of her pale, sleeping face. He was relieved that the crisis, for the moment, was over. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. “It has already been an eventful evening and it is not even half over with.”
Gilby tied up his bag. “What are you doing upon the walls? I thought you were going to the Marches.”
Sean stroked her soft cheek with a big finger. “The king has changed his mind. He wants me here, at the Tower, leading her defenses.”
Gilby nodded casually, putting his bag to the floor. “The Marshall should be pleased.”
Sean looked at him. “Do you know where he has gone?”
The old man shook his head. “I have been with young de Braose and your wife. I have no knowledge. You’d best check with the priest.”
Sean returned his gaze to Sheridan, breathing heavily as her sleep deepened. “I had to kill Gerard,” he muttered.
Gilby looked up at him, watching emotions play across the usually emotionless face. He thought of the ghastly bear of a man who was always at Sean’s side.
“Is that so?” he lifted his eyebrows. “It must have been an excellent fight.”
Sean sighed again, his gaze on his wife as he spoke. “The king demanded I bring him Sheridan. When I refused, he ordered Gerard to do it. So I killed him.”
Gilby shook his head. “Feel no remorse, de Lara. The man was a beast.”
“I do not feel guilty. But I have signed my death warrant.”
“Why?”
Sean suddenly seemed weary; some of the strength went out of his voice as he spoke.
“Because the king’s trust in me was already dangerously brittle,” he let out a blustery sigh and wiped his hands over his face.
“In killing Gerard, I killed the only other bodyguard that the king permits such close access to him. Now it is only me and the king has already seen me disobey him this night. If I know the man, and I believe that I do, he now fears me as well as distrusts me. Although he can live with distrust, he cannot live with fear and, like any creature, will do what is necessary to alleviate the threat.”
“So he will have you killed?”
“More than likely, he will try.”
“But he loves you, de Lara. He has taken great pride in your horrific reputation. Are you so sure he will turn on you?”