Medieval Ever After (26 page)

Entering the chamber, Stephen began to rip off pieces of armor, tossing the protection into the corner with a great ruckus. He tore his gloves off, reaching out to carefully take his wife from Tate. Between the two of them, they managed to turn her around and lay her on her stomach. Stephen fell to his knees beside the bed, demanding his medicament bag, which someone put next to him. His hands went to the arrow that was embedded just beneath his wife’s right shoulder blade.

It was in a bad spot. Stephen knew just by looking at it and his heart sank. Many vital veins ran through the area and his concerns multiplied. He struggled to compose himself, to maintain his control, as he carefully began to peel away the material around the wound to gain a better look. After several long moments of close examination, he finally let out a heavy sigh and raked his fingers through his dark hair in a frustrated gesture.

“What is it?” Tate was standing next to him. “What do you need, Stephen?”

Stephen had to shake his head to clear his vision, his mind. He rubbed at his eyes, struggling to think clearly. “The wound is not bleeding much, which concerns me,” his voice was raspy. “This is a very vital area with a good deal of blood flow, so I suspect the arrow is acting like a barrier and preventing her from bleeding to death. Removing the head will be like undamming a river; everything will flow.”

Tate crouched down next to him, watching the man’s big fingers dance gently over Joselyn’s slender back. He could feel the man’s grief as it radiated out of every pore of his body. “What will you do?” he asked.

Stephen inhaled deeply, clearing the last of the panic from his mind. He had to think clearly if Joselyn had any hope of surviving. He knew what had to be done, as he had done this kind of thing before, many times. But never on someone he loved.

“Send for your surgeon,” he said. “I will need an experienced assistant. And find the serving women and tell them I need boiled linen, all they can manage, and hot water.”

Tate relayed the orders to Lane, standing just inside the door, and the man went on the run. Meanwhile, Stephen continued peeling back the torn and bloodied material away from the wound, trying to think professionally about the injury and not from the position of the emotional husband. It was extremely difficult. When the material was pulled away sufficiently and he touched the arrow shaft again just to see how deeply it was buried, Joselyn suddenly let out a groan.

Stephen was down beside her in an instant, his face looming next to hers. “Jo-Jo?” he asked gently. “Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

Her pale blue eyes remained shut but her lower lip began to tremble. Tears began flowing from her eyes.

“It hurts,” she whispered.

Stephen thought he could very well cry himself at her declaration. “I know,” he kissed her wet face gently. “I’m so sorry. I know it hurts.”

“What happened?” she breathed.

He wiped the tears from her face. “An arrow,” he murmured. “We were ambushed.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am.”

She sighed faintly. “Then I am content,” she whispered. “But I am sorry. I… brought this about. I should not have… I should have told you….”

She faded off and he kissed her cheek again, her limp hand. “Not to worry,” he said softly. “It was not your fault. I will heal you as good as new.”

She twitched, crying out softly when excruciating pain radiated throughout her body. The tears fell faster. “Please,” she breathed. “It hurts so much. Please… remove it.”

Stephen kissed her hand, her face. “I will, love, I promise.”

He began to rummage about in his bag, blinking back tears as he looked for one of the mysterious powders he used from his days as a Hospitaller. It was a powder derived from a flower that was grown far to the east, expensive and rare, but with astounding medicinal qualities. He kept it in a bladder envelope, tightly sealed. He found it carefully wedged at the bottom of his bag and he drew it forth, asking for a cup of wine. Someone handed him a wooden cup, half-full, and he poured some of it out on the floor before dispensing a careful measure of the white powder. He stirred it with his finger and tasted it.

“Tate,” he looked over his shoulder. “Pull her up so that she can drink this. Gently, please.”

Tate’s capable hands reached down and, at Stephen’s direction, grasped her carefully by the torso. Joselyn wept in pain as he lifted her with extreme care, struggling to drink the liquid that Stephen was tenderly attempting to administer to her. She was in so much pain that she could hardly think, but Stephen’s gentle coaxing helped her drink the contents of the cup. Once the bitter brew was down, Tate lowered her carefully back to the mattress.

“There,” Stephen set the cup down and stroked her dark head. “Soon the pain will fade and you will sleep.”

Eyes closed, she licked her lips, tasting the last of the brew. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Stephen?”

“Aye, love?”

“Please tell me that you do not hate me for not telling you the truth.”

He couldn’t stop the tears then. He put his lips on her cheek, eyes closed as his tears gently fell on her dark hair. His head against hers, he spoke.

“I love you more than my own life,” he admitted against her flesh. “I know you were not being deliberately malicious. I know you thought you were trying to help.”

She began to cry again, pitiful sobs as he gently shushed her. His big hand stroked her dark hair as he kissed her temple, whispering words of comfort that only she could hear. Eventually, the tears faded and she drifted into a heavy sleep. Stephen continued to stroke her hair until he heard her heavy, steady breathing.

Silently, he began to assemble what he would need to remove the arrow. Tate pulled up a stool next to the bed and sat, watching Stephen as the man focused on what he must do. He could only imagine the turmoil he must be feeling.

“What more do you want me to do?” he asked quietly.

Stephen glanced at his sleeping wife. “You have tended battle wounds before.”

“I have.”

“I am going to need you to hold her still while I operate.”

“Operate?”

Stephen nodded, removing a tiny razor-sharp dagger from a leather sheath. “I need to work very quickly so I need for her to stay very still. You must hold her down by the shoulders so she cannot move her upper body. I am fearful that if I do not sew quickly enough, she will bleed to death. And I cannot sew if she is thrashing about.”

Tate watched him carefully lay out his instruments. Tate had known the man for almost twenty years and knew him to be perpetually stoic and confidently in control. He’d never seen him otherwise until the past few days. The introduction of a wife had rattled Stephen to the core and Tate felt a good deal of pity for him. He knew, from experience, how a woman could unbalance a man’s normally calm character.

“I am sorry, Stephen,” he said after a moment. “Sorry that your post as Guardian Protector has been nothing as you expected.”

Stephen looked up at him, the blue eyes bright. “Nothing as I expected but better than I could have dreamed,” he forced a smile. “Make no mistake; Joselyn is the biggest prize of all. Had I known I was to marry her, I would have insisted we make much shorter work of the siege of Berwick.”

Tate smiled faintly. “I am pleased to hear that. You and I have been through much together, have we not? I am pleased that you found a woman that you are fond of.”

Stephen scowled gently. “Fond of? I love her.”

Tate laughed softly, scratching his chin as the heady mood lightened, if only for a moment. “Then you understand how I feel about my wife. Love is a whole new world to experience.”

Stephen’s eyes twinkled dully as his gaze moved to the sleeping form on the bed. “Do you remember that before you married Elizabetha, I tried to woo her from you?”

“I do.”

Stephen looked at him, then. “I am glad I did not.”

“So am I.”

They laughed softly, remembering those days of love and war and competition. But it was a fond memory, one that made their friendship stronger. Tate and Stephen, and Kenneth who was off on the Welsh border, had a stronger bond than even most brothers. As they shared a quiet moment before the storm to come, Lane reappeared with a small, gray-haired man. Kelvin of Gloucester had been a physic for many years but not long in the service of the Earl of Carlisle. Still, he had a strong reputation, almost as strong as Stephen’s. One look at the woman on the bed with the arrow protruding out of her back and he went straight to Stephen.

“How can I assist, my lord?” he set his ratty satchel down next to Stephen’s neat and organized bag.

As Stephen and the old physic conferred, Lane made a few attempts to quietly get Tate’s attention. The fourth attempt worked and Tate left his stool to go to Lane.

“What is it?” he asked.

Lane cast Stephen a glance before answering. “Rebels are in the town once again,” he said quietly. “They are beginning to burn to the south. The castle is sealed and the battlements are preparing. Sir Alan and Sir Ian have seen to it.”

Tate hissed, knowing why Lane was keeping his voice down. Stephen had enough to worry over. If he knew the rebels were on the move again, he would be extremely torn between aiding his wife and doing his duty as Guardian Protector. Before Tate could reply, however, Stephen turned to them both from his crouched position on the floor.

“Probably the same rebels who ambushed us,” he said. “If they are burning to the south, then they are more than likely moving north from the church where we were attacked.”

Tate lifted an eyebrow. “You must have the hearing of God to have heard the sergeant’s report.”

Stephen nodded faintly although there was no room in his expression for humor. His gaze moved to Joselyn, sleeping deeply on the bed, before looking down to his instruments carefully laid out on the floor.

“It should take me a few minutes to remove this arrow and stitch the wound,” he sounded firm, decisive. “Have my charger readied. Mount one hundred men and wait for me in the bailey.”

“I shall go,” Tate countered. “You must stay here with your wife. She needs you more than Berwick does.”

“And I shall do my duty to both,” Stephen still would not look at him, more focused on what he was about to do with Joselyn. “De Norville, get my soldiers mounted. Have Ian join the party and wait for me in the bailey. Those are your orders.”

Lane looked at de Lara, who nodded faintly. When the sergeant left to carry out Stephen’s orders, Tate moved towards the bed where Stephen and the physic were preparing to begin their operation.

“Do you still want me to hold her?” Tate asked quietly.

Stephen nodded. “Aye,” he finally looked up at Tate and the turmoil in the man’s eyes was unfathomable. “Hold her tightly. She’ll not like this in the least.”

Old Mereld arrived with steaming water and hot, boiled linen just as they were preparing to cut into Joselyn. The old woman whimpered at the sight of an arrow protruding out of her mistress’ back but kept her head. She’d heard the rumors of Lady Joselyn’s injury but the reality was sickening. She busied herself with the linens and hearth as the operation began. The mood grew serious, critical, as Stephen went to work.

He had been right. At the first jostling of the arrow, Joselyn awoke with a howl. She screamed into the mattress as Tate held her down and Stephen’s skilled hands worked quickly and steadily. Stephen blocked the screaming from his mind, focusing on what he needed to do in order to save her life. He had to push it all aside and detach himself. But it was the hardest thing he ever had to do. Had he let himself feel her screams, it would have cut him to shreds.

As the war party gathered below in the bailey, they could hear the screaming from the Guardian Protector’s third story window. It went on for what seemed like hours, abruptly stopping as if whoever were doing the screaming had been suddenly silenced. The men looked at each other uneasily, knowing the sound had been coming from Lady Pembury. Lane and Ian exchanged apprehensive glances, especially when the sound abruptly stopped. In uncomfortable silence, they waited.

When Stephen made his appearance in full battle armor minutes later, no one dared say a word. De Lara was right behind him and the two of them mounted their chargers, very business-like, and led the war party out to meet the rebels as if nothing else in the world mattered.

Some wondered if Lady Pembury’s agony had affected her professional-knight husband. He seemed completely unmoved. But in truth, the lowered visor prevented anyone from seeing the tears covering Stephen’s face.

He was devastated.