Fire Dance (30 page)

"Your blessing, lord. I die now."

Whether Ivo willed it to happen, or it just did, she could not tell. As his life slipped away, the Norman lord committed the knight's soul to God, and closed the man's eyelids.

"It is more than some receive on a battlefield," he said, as if that somehow explained it to her.

Below on the road, knights waited with the war horses, her long-legged courser, and the carts with their supplies. She called for the assembly of litters to bring the dead down from the cave to the carts and carry the living to the motte.

Both joy and sadness infected the troop as it moved toward the motte at the pace of the men who walked and carried the litters. Melisande gave her courser to the Saxon because of its gentle gait, and walked beside Robert. Only when she was persuaded his wounds would not reopen did she dare succumb to the lord's request and ride behind his saddle on the great white stallion.

The day had warmed. Mayhap because of the priest's prayers.

"Could you not dispense with that cloak for a while, lord?"

"Dispense with it? Why?"

"I do not like it."

"So you have said. But I cannot fathom that."

"It does not become you."

"Does it not?"

"It makes you look pale as a maid. And it is too short. It was made for a woman, not a large man."

"Then it becomes me well, for I am not one to wear my garments to drag in the mud."

"It smells, lord. Do you not feel the chalkiness of the dye? It makes me want to sneeze."

"Ah, is that it? Well, the day is warm enough."

He unfastened the brooch and draped the cloak over his horse in front of the high cantle of his saddle, and Melisande sighed her relief. Grateful that she did not have to press her nose into the evil thing, she wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling his breathing beneath his mail.

For a while she daydreamed of this Norman lord, this man, his lips descending to claim hers. He held her, carried her to his bed, caressed her. . .

Ah, just for now, she could pretend. The future would come soon enough. Why let fear of it destroy the pleasure she had now?

"I do not understand why a lady would wish to press her cheek against chain mail," he said.

"I do not."

"You do."

"Well, mayhap I am a little tired."

His deep-throated chuckle felt like the rumbling purring of her great red tabby, and he lapped his hand over hers. Let him laugh. It felt good against her hands.

* * *

They saw the new motte across the valley long before they reached it. Located on a natural low hill, its new palisade circled the old manor and the new mound atop the hill, to dominate the valley surrounding it. Great piles of logs lay nearby, the materials for the tower that would soon rise in its midst.

Melisande looked back over her shoulder. The Saxon still rode the courser, though he looked ready to fall. Pain etched Robert's face, but she saw no fresh blood on his windings.

"The Saxon must rest," she said to the Norman lord, who turned to see the man wavering in the saddle.

"Aye. "Tis but a little way."

The lord pointed to a knight, who rode up next to the Saxon and steadied him. Melisande breathed out a sigh, glad they had not moved him to a jarring cart. The lord had not said for what purpose he wanted the Saxon, but she guessed he meant to divine Anwealda's plans. But Anwealda had always been as secretive as Fyren, and probably had not shared them with his men. The diabolical Saxon now thought of himself as inheritor of Fyren's schemes, and even lord in the dead earl's place.

Had the Normans not come when Fyren died, Melisande's future would have been limited to marriage to that hated man, or death, for Anwealda would not have allowed her to hold the castle alone.

But in that case, Fyren would not have died.

Melisande shuddered, as if a chill wind had suddenly risen and frozen her, soul and all. She clung more tightly to the Norman.

The heavy log gate swung open to admit the Norman and his contingent, and Hugh, with his arm still in its sling, hurried forth to greet them. The lord reached around and lowered Melisande from her place behind his saddle, then jumped down to greet Hugh with great slaps on the back.

"Lord, it is good to see you– and the lady. But I am surprised. Is it not– "

"Aye," answered the lord, cutting in. "She has assisted us in surprising ways. She has come along to attend the injured. She has an unusual skill."

Melisande did not think of herself that way. She had done nothing uncommon. Her salve was comforting, and seemed even to prevent festering. But she had not saved the dying, nor improved the living. Where was skill in that? Still, she said nothing, beyond accepting Hugh's gracious hospitality.

"There is little of luxury here, lady," Hugh said, and his brows raised slightly as they wrinkled. "Yet the bed in the chamber is good."

"My thanks, but I have no need of luxury. The bed is better used for Robert, for he must be kept still, lest the wound open again, or the ribs prick his lungs."

"It shall be, then," Hugh declared, and motioned to have Robert taken into the chamber.

Melisande followed to see Robert settled. With better light, she studied the wound across the side of Robert's chest more thoroughly, and washed it clean of dried blood. The imprint of the mail dug deeply into in his skin around the great slash. By feel, she determined that his ribs indeed indented where the blow had struck. If there were only some way of lifting them back into place.

She sighed. There were a lot of things she wished she could do. Mayhap many of them were actually possible, if she only knew how. But she was no surgeon. She left the chamber to find the other wounded knights.

The Saxon was weak from loss of blood. She cleaned his wound and stitched it with horsehair, then gave him a potion for his pain. Save for those injured just today, the knights had already gone past the time when the wounds could be stitched, and she could only hope for proud flesh to form safely.

"What think you, lady?" asked the lord.

So absorbed had she been in her thoughts and her task, she had not heard him come up behind her. She washed her hands in a basin, then dried them on a rough towel before leading the lord away, out of the hall.

"All will heal, if they do not fester. It is Robert who worries me," she replied at last. "He may live. But the wound will cripple him."

"How so? I had thought he might die, but if he lives, why would he be crippled?"

"The ribs will heal wrongly. The mail no doubt saved his life, but it also turned the sword into a hammer. His ribs are caved in to his lungs, broken rather neatly about a knuckle's length away from the wound on both sides. If they heal that way, he will never be able to breathe deeply without great pain, or risk of puncture to his lungs."

"His father wants him home. Mayhap it is best."

"Even at home a man must defend what is his. You have said yourself men will always war against other men."

"Yet, what else can be done?"

"I know not. If only I could go beneath his ribs and lift them back into place. I pictured something in my mind, mayhap like the curved bone needle I use for sewing heavy cloth or hides, something that might draw a length of sinew or thread beneath the bone, that then could be pulled upward. But I do not know how to do it."

"If you did, what would hold it in place while it healed?"

"Mayhap the sinew could be tied to a small, flat board? Mayhap a board with holes drilled in it at the right spots, and the sinew pulled through the board? If it happened the way I imagine it, the ribs would be pulled up, and held in place by the board."

"Would you try it, then?"

"I know not. I do not know enough to decide."

"Let us talk with Robert."

She gave a cautious, solemn nod. It was a fantasy, not a real thing. She knew nothing of the tissue beneath the ribs, or whether her efforts might cause more harm.

Once again in the bed chamber behind the dais, the Norman lord woke Robert, who had been dozing fretfully.

"We have an idea, Robert, and we must ask you about it."

Robert gave a sleepy grunt, and attempted to roll to his back, but Melisande stopped him.

"The lady thinks your injury will cripple you if it is not repaired properly."

"Aye, I have no doubt. A man is not much if he cannot breathe well."

"Tell him," the Norman said.

Melisande explained her thoughts, carefully including all the envisioned drawbacks.

"If you open the wound, can you see what you need to do?"

"I would not know until I did it. And I could not stitch it closed. You could bleed to death. But I fear accidentally puncturing your lung more."

"It was already punctured and is healing."

"Mayhap if it is re-opened, it would not heal again. And I cannot figure out how I could fasten the sinew to the board. I think it is all too clumsy, and will do more harm than good."

"I would have you do it, anyway."

"I will think some more on it."

The Norman lord followed her from the chamber, and walked beside her through the bailey of the old fort. He kept his silence as they walked. Melisande engrossed herself in the puzzle. She could envision the sinews passing through the board and tying, to brace the ribs against the flat board. But how could she get the sinews through the board without dangerously disrupting the wound? And how would she know where to place the holes? They could not be done randomly. It must be precisely prepared, ahead of her surgery.

"I could lay a cloth onto the wound area, and mark on it where I want the holes and the ribs to be. Mayhap a carpenter could make the board and the holes where I want them."

"Shall I find someone?"

"There are other problems. This will be very painful. There is an herb, wild lettuce, that will make him sleep, but I have only a little of it left. Nor can it be found this time of year. Yet if he moves, anything could go wrong, and at the least, I will not be able to do it."

"We must hold him still, then."

"You still do not see. I am no surgeon. There is too much I do not know. I know not if the lungs are connected to the ribs, nor what sort of tissue might lie between the two. Or if I prick his lungs, will the air leak out?"

"Do you want me to do it instead, then?"

Aye, she did. She wanted it done by any but her. But she studied his large, thick-fingered hands and wondered if he had ever held a needle in them.

"If it were me instead of you, Melisande, would it be you urging me to act?"

Aye. She would. "You ask too much of me, lord."

"Aye, I know. But it means much to me. Robert is not merely my knight, but my friend, as well. I cannot willingly consign him to the fate of a cripple. I know him. He would rather be dead."

"But he puts his death on my hands."

"Aye."

How could she do it?

How could she not?