Page 110 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Mildred worked beside her. She rinsed the gaping wound and the slash down his chest with a pinkish lotion. “St. John’s wort, betony, and goose-grass to staunch the bleeding and to heal,” she said, in answer to Elizabeth’s questioning glance.

“And that?” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the odorous ointment the healer rubbed into the wounds.

“Betony and nettle.”

Geoffrey did not stir.

The matron dropped her pot of ointment into the basket. “I must gather ingredients for a fresh poultice, and bring more blankets, too. The fever will start soon.”

“Fever?”

“’Tis a grave wound. ’Tis a miracle he still breathes.”

“That is a good sign, is it not?” Elizabeth said, clinging to the spark of hope.

Heading to the door, Mildred begrudged a smile. “I suppose ’tis.”

Taking Geoffrey’s hand, Elizabeth squeezed it to let him know she was beside him, waiting for him to recover.

Waiting to tell him how much she loved him.

She sat on the bed’s edge, keeping watch, her fingers cradling Geoffrey’s, until the matron returned with fresh nettle leaves. She crushed them using a mortar and pestle and pressed them over the wound.

Sick with worry, Elizabeth rubbed her hands over her arms. Geoffrey still had not stirred, and his breathing seemed shallower than before.

“The fever has started,” Mildred said.

Elizabeth scooped up the wool blanket the matron had brought and spread it over Geoffrey, and tucked the edges under the mattress to keep in his body heat.

Frowning, Mildred reached into her collection of bottles and drew out a flask of pale liquid. She motioned for Elizabeth to move to the end of the bed and popped the lid of the flask. “Lift his head.”

“What are you giving him?”

“Feverfew and burdock root in wine. ’Twill help control the fever. And,” Mildred added with a wry smile, “to dull his pain, a touch of monkshood.”

Elizabeth gasped. “Are you certain the quantity⁠—?”

“Not enough to do him harm, I promise.”

As instructed, Elizabeth cradled Geoffrey’s head in her hands. Mildred forced her finger between his teeth and pried open his jaw. His mouth went slack. With care, she poured in a few drops of the liquid.

The tonic drizzled from the corner of his lips and dripped onto the blanket. “He did not drink it,” Elizabeth said.

“He cannot swallow.” The healer pressed closer. “Tilt his head a bit more. I will try again.”

This time, when Mildred sloshed in more of the elixir, she ran her fingers inside his mouth and depressed his tongue. The liquid vanished down his throat, and she nodded. “There.”

Exhaling a shuddered breath, Elizabeth returned Geoffrey’s head to the pillow. She trailed her fingers through his silky hair. He had liked that tender caress, most of all after lovemaking. He had once said it reminded him of his mother, of the way she had soothed his stubbed toes and bruises when he was a boy.

“You love him?” Mildred asked.

Elizabeth would not deny the emotion that had rooted deep in her heart. “I do. Very much.”

The matron set the flask on the table beside the bed. “I cannot excuse what he has done, but he would have made you a fine husband.”

“Not would, Mildred. Will.”

Some time later, Elizabeth admitted two menservants lugging a straw pallet. Both appeared flushed and tipsy. In the brief moment the chamber door stayed open, she noted that despite the late hour, the raucous celebration in the hall continued.