Chapter 22 A Captive Knight #2
“I’ll see what can be done for you,” she said softly. “May I know your name?”
“Bradhan. Of Ashbrin,” the knight said.
“Out,” the soldier commanded.
“I’m going,” Ayla said, for the knight’s benefit, since he couldn’t see.
She kept her head bowed the whole way to the kitchen, wondering what it meant that Niel had set her ransom as a man from Ashbrin, only for another Ashbrin to turn up inside Blackfell’s walls.
She was still mulling the connection over when she ascended the stairs to Ditmar’s rooms. Ayla carried a mug of willowbark tea and a bowl of watered gruel on a tray, in case he wanted something simpler to eat than their luncheon.
She balanced the tray one handed when she reached the door to the sitting room, knocked, and opened it.
The door to Ditmar’s bed chamber, through the sitting room, was an open shadow.
Ayla froze outside it, her breathing shallow and her nostrils flaring slightly.
Nothing to it. The man she was going to go see was too weak to hurt her, she expected.
It was just a room, and the things inside it were just furniture, and memories could not harm her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, firmed her resolve, and stepped over the threshold.
The window’s shutters were closed, keeping the room dark.
“The knight you captured,” she started as she walked in.
She stopped two steps into the room, the thick, swampy fear of her memories dulled under the weight of her annoyance.
The room was cold. There was no flame in the hearth, just cooling embers from the overnight fire.
The knight lay in the bed, the furs and quilted down blankets pulled up only to his hips, revealing he still had plate armor on his torso.
His eyes were shut, and did not open at her approach.
“Honestly,” Ayla muttered. She set the tray down on Ditmar’s side table, in reach of Lord Niel. The knight still hadn’t stirred. Crouching in front of the hearth, she dragged the basket of kindling closer to her and coaxed the embers back into a tiny flicker of flame.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” the knight croaked from behind her.
“And you shouldn’t be lying in the freezing cold,” she countered, as she nurtured the flame and finally balanced a thin log across it. “Don’t tell me you sleep in your armor.”
“No,” he admitted.
“Then take it off.”
“Not falling for that.”
“What?” She added a hunk of Kettalist fir and stood, dusting her hands. The flames seared gold for a moment as the fire ate into the vein of the fir. Warmth flared into the room, and light, illuminating the violent hunting tapestries on Ditmar’s walls and the ornate black-wood furniture.
“You’re going to stab me,” the knight said, his low voice weak. “Why bother with poison when a knife will do fine.”
“I have never stabbed, and will never stab, anyone,” Ayla informed him. “I’ll get one of your men to help you.” She turned towards the door.
“No.”
“It’ll only be a moment.”
“No. Please,” he said, and struggled upright.
She stared at him, warring inside herself.
She wanted to leave the room, and not step foot back into it.
But the man was sitting up now, braced on one hand.
His long dark hair was mussed and falling around his pained face, exhaustion under his eyes.
He stared right at her, as pitiful as a puppy.
A sheen of sweat coated his brow despite the cold.
“There’s no shame in being sick, you know.”
“I cannot be weak around them.”
“I’m sure they'll still respect you.”
“Please. Don’t,” he said, his voice bordering as close to begging as she’d ever heard. “Do not let them near me. Not like this.”
He was being foolish. But there was something in his voice, a deep fear that she understood in her heart. She wavered, then at last sighed heavily and turned back towards him.
“Can you get that armor off yourself?”
“‘Course,” he said, and reached up to fumble with the straps on his shoulder. He wobbled, looking like even sitting down he was about to lose balance and topple over, and she wondered at the fact that he’d managed to walk himself into the room minutes ago. Much less run the wall that morning.
“Oh, enough,” Ayla said sternly. She forced her stomach to quell and approached the bed.
He’d taken off his cloak, at least, though his hair tangled in with the clasps of his armor.
Barely breathing, she reached forward to gather his long hair back.
The knight flinched when her fingers brushed against his muscled neck, pulling the smooth strands of his hair back over his shoulders so she could get at the clasps.
She did the one nearest to her first, then hesitated.
She wasn’t going to crawl onto Ditmar’s bed; that was a line she would not cross.
But it was too wide for her to approach from the other side.
Nothing to do but to reach around him for his other shoulder. She bent behind the knight, clenching her stomach to stay upright without having to touch the bed she was leaning over, and manipulated the leather strap through the buckle that clasped it.
“Are you aware there’s a knight from Ashbrin, blindfolded in your infirmary?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a little much, don’t you think? The blindfold?” She pulled the clasp free and straightened.
“Well. Unless you know where the dungeon key is…”
“Do you think a man who just lost his leg is at great threat of running away?” she asked, ignoring the suggestion. But while she preferred in most circumstances for the dungeons to go unused, it occurred to her it might be less cruel than leaving the man blindfolded and bound.
“Don’t care.”
“Can you take it off now?” she asked of his armor.
Perhaps it was good she had merely left the keys in the chapel, and not tossed them down the privy.
Perhaps she ought to have the knight moved to the dungeon, so he could at least see his surroundings and use his hands.
A dungeon cell might even be made comfortable, with enough blankets and pillows and a good lantern. And perhaps some books.
“Need the side unbuckled, too,” Niel said, and weakly moved his arms forward. She clucked her tongue. But at least he was no longer pretending he could do it himself.
“You wouldn’t have this problem if you didn’t wear your armor all day, every day.”
“Have to.”
“Do you, though?” she asked, and bent over to tug at the strap on the side of his chest. She was inches from his bicep, which was practically as wide as her face, and every inch of her body was aware of it.
She could not think the last time she had willingly put herself so close to a man.
And yet, something about the intimacy here made her heart feel fire-warm.
The knight was being a stubborn ass, but for once, she wasn't afraid of him.
She had to remind herself not to trust him. Remind herself he was a killer, and temperamental. But just now it was hard to remember that. He wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself.
“They broke in just yesterday.”
“Well, that’s true,” she admitted as she dug a finger into the side of the armor’s casing. Attached only on the other side of his chest, the cuirass opened like a clam shell when she pried at it. He shrugged it off. “But did any of them even land a blow?”
“As if. Don’t insult me,” he said.
She peered at his shirt, and was certain she could see the outline of two knives strapped to his side, odd as it seemed to wear them beneath his armor. Was Niel that unwilling to be caught defenseless?
“You sweated through your shirt. Do you have a clean one?”
He didn’t answer, except to weakly shove the armor away from himself and collapse back onto the pillows, eyes shut and damp, dark hair fanning out around him on the pale linen.
Ayla frowned and tentatively pressed a hand to his slick forehead.
The knight was burning up. He shivered at her touch, and she drew a deep breath before pulling her hand away.
A quick look around the room revealed a set of laundered rough clothes folded on top of Ditmar’s clothing chest. She unfolded the shirt, shook it out, and knew instantly it was not her husband’s. Apart from the simple, worn, dark choice of fabric, Ditmar would have drowned in the shirt.
“Here. Sit up,” she commanded. The knight made a noise in the back of his throat, but didn’t move. Ayla tugged at his wrist; his eyes flew open, and he struggled back upright.
She reached towards his hips and grabbed the fabric of his shirt in one hand.
With a sharp hiss of breath, Niel blocked her arm and pushed her hard off him, twisting away from her. She stumbled back. Her heart surged up into her throat.
“Don’t,” he rasped.
But he didn’t hit her or grab her, like she’d thought for a moment he might. He just hadn’t wanted to be touched. She huffed in annoyance, even though her heart pounded.
“You need to change.” Her voice came out shaking.
“No. I will not be stripped.” He stared at her, but his eyes were distant, his lips twisted in an ugly snarl that chilled her deeply to the bone.
Still, she wasn't worried for her own sake—what could he possibly do, when he could barely sit up straight—but frightened for him; frightened of the wild, wounded savagery in his eyes.
“Lord Niel…”
“Get out.”
She stared at him, her brow furrowed. He was hunched forward, breathing hard, glaring at her, or past her, like a cornered wolf that was about to bite.
“Can you do it yourself, or should I call one of your men?” she asked stiffly.
“Myself. Don't touch me.”
“Good. Fine.” She folded her arms and stared at him, not sure what to do with this overgrown man who belonged in an infirmary and refused to be helped. “I’ll check on you later. Drink your tea. It’s good for fever.”
“Poison,” Niel said.
“Oh, Mercy.” Ayla picked up the mug and took a sip as he watched. Setting it down hard, she picked up the porridge and took a bite. “There. I’m not going to poison you. Now change, drink, and sleep.”
“Again. You’re not going to poison me again,” he said.
“The fever’s made you delirious,” she informed him airily, and left.