Knight Triumphant. Heather GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
has taken your child.” She wanted to add that she was sorry, so very sorry, because his agony was such a terrible thing, almost palpable on the air.
But she dared not. He stared at her with red-rimmed eyes of loathing.
“You will keep Him from taking my wife,” he said bitterly.
She thought he would leave the room, but he did not. He brought one of the heavy wooden chairs from the window to the bed and sat there, taking his wife’s ashen hand in his own, and looking upon her face.
“She is as hot as fire.”
“Then you must move so that I can cool her.”
Jennie had left fresh cool water on the marble-topped table near the bed. Igrainia first set the kettle upon the hearth where a poor fire burned, then began dousing clothes in the water. When she turned back to the woman she found that he was frowning, his eyes blue blades again, so sharp as to cut into her.
“You’ve gone so far as to steal the rags of clothing from her back?”
“She is swaddled, sir, because the only way to ease the fever is to cool her skin from head to toe. I will brew herbs with wine as well, for some have the power to heal, as surely you know.”
“If you poison her, you will die very slowly. There are some interesting torture devices to be found in the foul dungeons below where we were kept.”
“There is no real threat you can give me. But since I pray that you don’t set forth upon a bloodbath and murder the men and women who live in this castle, I can promise you, I have no intention of poisoning your wife. Nor sir, would I ever do such a thing. You malign my husband, who is now judged by God alone. If you were blessed with half the intelligence of your brute strength, sir, you would have realized that when you were brought in.”
She didn’t look at him as she spoke, but gave her entire attention to the task at hand, bathing the woman to slake the fever.
As the day wore on, he saw what she did, and tried to help. When he realized her dismay at the poor flames in the hearth, he went to fetch wood, and when she dropped each herb into the mulling wine, she had to give him a detailed explanation of just what she used, and why.
During the long afternoon his men came to the door and gave him reports on what was being done to secure the castle or who had lived, and who had died. Father MacKinley came, and flagons were filled from the great kettle of mulling wine so that he could treat the others as well. Except to fetch wood and kindling for the fire when it was needed, the rebel Scot did not leave the room at all, and when he was not working to bring down his wife’s fever, he sat by her side, holding her hand. What emotion he felt he did not display, other than in the ticking of a blood vessel at his throat, and in the tension in his muscled forearms, and the tightening of his hands.
“Have you suffered the fever yourself, ever?” she asked him once.
His cold Nordic blue eyes touched hers. “No.”
“You are at great risk.”
“We have been at great risk.”
“From where had you come to bring this fever with you?”
He scowled at her, as if talking to her was an extreme bother, but he gave her a reply. “I don’t know where this fever came from. We found a man at sea . . . his shipmates had apparently perished. We thought to save his life. Instead, he has taken all ours.”
“Perhaps,” she said, changing the cloth on the woman’s forehead, “it was God’s judgment.”
“Perhaps it was God’s judgment that the English should seize upon women and children and bring them here, and so kill many more English than Scots,” he said sharply. “And what makes you think I honor your God?”
She started. “The God of England is the God of Scotland.”
“But I am not entirely a Scotsman, lady. So don’t think that I will stop at anything because of Christianity or a fear of Hell.”
“I have no doubts that you would kill as brutally as any man alive.”
“No man alive is more brutal than Edward of England.”
That was difficult to argue. Not a man, woman, or child alive had not heard tales of the king’s fury when he sacked Berwick. Orders had been given that none should be spared, and women, children and infants had been struck down as they ran in terror. Only the slaying of a mother at the moment of giving birth at last brought the king’s own horror home to him, and only then did the carnage come to an end.
“Edward is merciless against those he considers to be traitors,” she said.
“I am merciless against those I consider to be traitors—or murderers,” he replied.
A knock sounded at the door and he went to answer the summons. A man he had called Patrick stood there, and spoke to him in quiet tones. A moment later, he closed the door and returned to the room, showing Igrainia a parchment.
“There lies the love of your king! It’s an order delivered at the end of an arrow shot far from the gates, warning that we must not spread the plague from Langley. How intriguing. It seems that the troops who swept down upon women and children, refusing to believe in the illness, managed to depart your husband’s castle at the first sign we were telling the truth. They have crossed the border, and are ordered to remain in an abbey there until they are certain they will not bring this contagion into England. It’s a pity that none of the king’s lackeys could have delivered it straight into Edward’s bosom. The Earl of Pembroke, that illustrious battle arm of Edward, has sent word that none should leave here until all are certain that the illness will not be spread beyond these gates. There is lengthy rhetoric here, which you are welcome to read, but in truth, it says that all must die with the Scottish rebel prisoners rather than risk infesting the land. Of course, the message has been sent to your late husband. Apparently, no one has received word of his demise. But you must be grateful, of course, that I waylaid you before you were able to disobey an order from the long arm of your king.”
“No reasonable man would want this plague spread. It came to Langley through your people. It is an enemy to you, and to me. Any ruler, mindful of his subjects, would give such an order.”
“Madam, you are very understanding. What would your father think, however, knowing that his child must be sacrificed along with all the others!”
“My father, sir, cannot share his thoughts on the matter. He has been dead some months now.”
“Ah! So the king can cast you to your fate with no fear of reparation among his greatest barons. Ah, but, surely, there is someone to claim the title now?”
“My brother.”
“And, pray tell, does he fight for Edward?”
“He is expected to ride with him soon. He just turned seventeen.”
“Just seventeen? Do you know how many young men of that age litter not just the battlefields here, but the farmsteads and villages as well?”
“Justin is an excellent horseman and swordsman. The king has taken a keen interest in his training, and has been intent that he should be fully prepared to command his elders.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Poor lad. He is an earl. He can’t be taking orders from lesser men. Yet I wonder if he is aware of what has occurred here, news can travel so slowly. And if he knew . . . what could he do? Orders have been given. So his dear sister must stay here . . . languishing among the doomed!”
“By the time my brother hears of the situation here, it will be over.”
“And how shall it all end?” he asked lightly, and she realized that he didn’t want an answer. He was watching his wife where she lay upon the bed. He leaned toward her, then told Igrainia tensely, “Her fever does not lessen.”
“I am afraid she has fallen very ill.”
“You