Page 109 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“You wish for a soothing draught?” The matron beamed and nodded. “It has been an emotional few days. A touch of poppy and valerian will help you sleep. Come in. I will dress and fetch you a tonic straight away.”

“’Tis not for me.”

“Who, then?” Mildred’s puzzled gaze lit with understanding. “Ah, de Lanceau.”

“We must save him. We must.”

The healer’s eyes misted. Drawing Elizabeth inside, she closed the door. “I left his side not long ago. As I told your father earlier, Geoffrey is so near death, ’twill be a miracle if he lives to the morning, and an even greater miracle if he can swallow even a drop of tonic.”

“He will die?” Elizabeth’s heart shriveled, dying too.

Mildred shook her damp hair. “I can only help the body to heal,” she said, helplessness in her voice. “I cannot mend flesh that is torn beyond repair.” She walked over to the linen chest and removed a prim gray wool bliaut.

“I beg you,” Elizabeth cried. “Bring whatever ointments you have. Please. We cannot give up on him, not until he is d—” She could not say the awful word.

“As I told the maid who watches over him now, I intended to cleanse his wounds again after my bath.” The matron shook her head and smiled. “I must admit, I have developed a fondness for the rogue.”

Elizabeth ran and hugged her. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when he lives, milady.” Mildred pulled on the crisp wool. “If we can keep him alive to the morning, he might have a chance.”

Elizabeth hesitated outside the guest chamber. Geoffrey lay beyond the stout wooden door. Her father had ordered him ensconced here, in the wing reserved for the privileged guests of the lord and his family. Although the solar now belonged to Geoffrey, ’twas clear her father did not expect Geoffrey to live to assume tenure of Wode.

Quelling a surge of panic, she entered the chamber. The candles on the bedside table sputtered at the draught. Mildred hurried in behind her and shut the door, then spoke in hushed tones to the maid who rose from a chair near the bed. The air in the room was warm, though not stuffy, and bore the odors of well water, pungent herbs, and blood.

Geoffrey lay on the bed near the window, his lean, muscled body stretched out beneath linen sheets and wool blankets. Elizabeth walked to the side of the bed. Her silk gown whispered in the room’s stillness.

As the door clicked shut behind the maid, tears flooded Elizabeth’s eyes. He looked so pale—paler even than when he lay in the wagon, his profile washed in harsh sunlight. His eyelids were closed, his lashes thick and dark against his cheeks. His lips were parted. She leaned over him, hoping to feel his breath on her skin. So very, very faint.

She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. Fear and terror gripped her, for he felt so cold.

“Mildred,” Elizabeth sobbed.

“Hush, milady.” The matron set her willow basket on the floor, and it creaked with the weight of the ointments and stoppered bottles. “Come and help me.”

“Tell me what to do.”

Mildred glanced at Elizabeth. The matron paused a moment, then shook her head. Curling her fingers over the edge of the sheet, the matron whipped it down to Geoffrey’s bare waist. With gentle hands, she removed a second sheet folded across his chest.

Blood stained the linen and welled past the thick poultice covering the wound. Eyes burning, Elizabeth stared at the magnificent torso that had invited her touch, now slashed and smeared with dried blood and blackened, macerated herbs. Memories taunted her, of his skin flexing and gleaming in the firelight. Of his chest hairs tickling her palm. Of his sweat-slicked skin sliding beneath her fingertips. He was still beautiful, so beautiful. Yet, his skin lacked its former luster.

“Are you certain you wish to watch?” Mildred asked, as she worked at the poultice.

“A-aye.”

Even so, when Elizabeth saw the state of the wound, her stomach roiled.

With light fingers, the matron touched the wound. “Mercy,” she muttered. “I now understand why the Pope issued an edict to ban the use of the crossbow.” She leaned closer and inspected the shattered flesh. “Thank God we had time to seal the wound.”

Elizabeth shuddered. For the rest of her days, she would remember the soldiers wrenching the bolt from Geoffrey’s limp body. Had he felt pain? Had he felt the blood spurt when⁠—?

“Do not faint,” Mildred said sharply. “I cannot spare the time to cut mint and revive you.”

Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open. She had not realized they had closed, or that she swayed on her feet. Straightening her shoulders, she forced her fear to the back of her mind.

Rummaging in her basket, the healer withdrew a small earthenware flask of cooled, boiled water. She added greenish oil that smelled of rosemary and lavender. “Bathe him, milady. Start with the crossbow wound.”

Elizabeth took the linen cloth and washed his chest with great tenderness. The water soon turned crimson, but she tossed the bowl’s contents into the fire and resumed with fresh water. When finished, she swabbed the grime from his face.