My Beloved (13 page)

“I
will send Sister Agnes with you,” the abbess said. “She has a gift of healing.”

“My lord will be grateful for your assistance,” Jerard said.

The young man bowed, and she smiled. Twice, she had told him that she required no deference and twice he had nodded but had forgotten just as soon. She frightened him, she knew. Not because of the influence her family wielded—reason enough in her secular years—but because she was the abbess of the Sisters of Charity, a post she'd held for nearly twenty years and had hopes of retaining until her death.

She had been born Gertrude of Bachian, coming to Sisters of Charity initially as a novice uncertain of either her future or her devotion. Thirty years later she was assured of both. She'd found at the convent a place in need of her talents, and in her students the children she'd never bear.

Not all the girls within her care were disposed to accept the guidance she gave them. Yet, with each girl who did, she gave an appreciation for learning, a thirst for knowledge. With each she'd been strict and to each she'd given affection. But the greatest
legacy she gave the fostered girls of Sisters of Charity was the gift of self-knowledge. Before they left the convent, they each knew their greatest blessing and how to share it with the world.

Some were possessed of healing abilities, some with the capacity to turn a garden green and lush. Some were endowed with organizational genius and their estates would be managed ably. Too, there were a few who had been blessed with the gift of laughter and little else, but the world could be brightened by humor, she'd reasoned. Sometimes, there was a special girl who passed her time at Sisters of Charity. Her aptitude was such that even Gertrude had been awed. A few years ago it had been Anne Nursia. She had, gentle Anne, been given the ability to create pictures of unimaginable beauty from the most humble of materials. With each girl, the abbess had felt a paradoxical relief and sadness when they'd left the Sisters of Charity.

Juliana had been one of her most miserable failures. Gertrude had never been able to discern the girl's true blessing. Juliana had been possessed of stubbornness, and she had been determined to learn the skills necessary in a scriptorium. It was this strong will, more than natural ability, that had made her a success at it. She was not easily amused, but smiled when coaxed. Gertrude knew that she would chatelaine Langlinais with grace and poise, but it would be because of her training more than inclination. She was too quiet, too reserved, a tapped spring or a dammed brook. A mystery, this girl, and had always been.

Yet she did not hesitate to send aid to her the moment she'd learned of the accident. By such good deeds were the Sisters of Charity known.

Gertrude turned from the grille that separated her
from visitors, and spoke to a novice who stood waiting for direction. Sister Agnes would be summoned and together with her case of unguents and salves and other decoctions of a medicinal nature, sent to Langlinais.

“What is being done for her now?” she asked the young man.

“I do not know, Abbess, I was sent right away to you. But my lord suspects her right hand is broken. It is swollen badly.”

She brushed her hands down the front of her habit. “I am not talented in such things, but Sister Agnes is.”

“Thank you, Abbess.”

She waved him away, turned and went in search of the healing sister.

 

It was still raining. Moisture sheeted the glass, made it appear as if the room was a watery cave. The light wavered on the floor, even the air seemed misted.

“I thought it was a very brave thing you did, my lord. Everyone saw it,” Grazide said. He turned and glanced at her. Her smile twisted something within him. He only nodded in response.

“Her poor hands.” Grazide sat on the edge of the bed. Juliana lay beneath the sheet, her hands on the outside, folded at the wrist. Too much like an effigy for his peace of mind.

He could not touch her in order to set her bones and Grazide did not know how. He searched his memory for someone at Langlinais with the degree of skill necessary to aid Juliana.

“I've sent Jerard to the convent,” he said, offering the explanation as an excuse for his inaction. His words seemed to satisfy her, a surprising occurrence.
He had rarely spoken to Grazide, or any of his people, for months. Yet her interest was not in him, it was in Juliana's well-being. Such loyalty to his wife only increased his fondness for Grazide.

They watched her together for nearly an hour until he asked that she leave him alone with his wife. She acceded with no further conversation, a rare and well-timed silence on her part.

Juliana sighed, turned her head. Sebastian watched her carefully to ensure it was not just wishful thinking on his part.

He walked to the end of the bed, his arms at his sides. He had, over the last hour, rarely turned his gaze from her, becoming so attuned to the frequency and nature of her breathing that he waited for her next breath. He wondered if she dreamed as she lay insensible. Did she wander through the corridors of a pain-induced nightmare? Her black hair was spread out upon her pillow, her face too pale. There was darkness beneath her eyes, a soft bruising of her flesh that made him want to stroke his finger across her skin, place a kiss there.

Foolish dreams. Even more insane, the wish to lean over her and brush her hair back from her face, place a cool cloth over her brow. Whisper to her that all would be well. He prayed that it would be.

She opened her eyes at that moment. They appeared tired, the whites tinted pink, as if pain had colored them in her sleep.

He felt as he had the moment his father had knighted him. The collee, the accolade against his neck strong enough to topple him to the floor. There was no hatred in Juliana's look. Instead, her eyes seemed to grant him a view of her soul. And in that generous spirit was understanding, compassion, warmth.

Surely he was mistaken. Perhaps he only saw those things because he needed her forgiveness, because his soul ached for it. He had hidden so many things from her. How could she be so open in her emotions? Was it that she was simply befuddled?

He would have said something, but at that moment, Juliana smiled. Not a broad smile, but a soft lifting of pale lips. His vision wavered as if he saw her through the glass of the rain-glistened window.

Then the smile slowly faded. In its place was a furrow above her brow. And a surprising curiosity. “Why did you not tell me?”

“How does one tell a bride such a thing?”

Everything he had done had been to protect Langlinais and himself. The Templars wanted Langlinais for their own, and the Church would have gladly stripped him of the castle. The entire future of Langlinais had balanced on a delicate fulcrum. Because of her, because she'd stayed, he'd banished one fear. Now, there were only the Templars to worry about.

He turned back, determined to give her honesty in this thing at least. “Would you have remained if you had known?”

She seemed to consider it a moment. “I don't know.”

“I do,” he said. “You would have run screaming for the door.”

Her slight smile seemed to lighten some dark place within him.

“Did you send for me only so that no one would question why I was still at the convent after your return?”

He had always thought her intelligent. He smiled at the evidence of it. “It was one of my very great fears. The Church might have sent a cleric to investigate.” That representative, had he learned of Se
bastian's disease, had the power to banish him from his home. Lepers could not own property.

“But that was only part of it,” he said, admitting the whole of the truth. “I wanted to provide for the future of my home and the people here,” he said. “My wife could hold Langlinais, protect it from seizure even if the Church tried to take it from me.”

“How did such a thing happen to you, Sebastian?”

“Does it matter? There are a thousand answers to that question,” he said, “all dependent upon whom you ask. Bad water or goat's milk or the light of a certain moon.” He looked away. “By the time I was released from prison, I knew my fate. One I would prevent for you.”

“By burning me.”

He looked away. “If it would protect you, I would have done it.”

“Is there no other way?”

“If there had been, I would have found it. I have made a study of such things.”

“And no cure, Sebastian?” The softness in her eyes was his undoing. The sadness in her voice made him want to turn away. But he did not. He stood where he was, looking down at her. Had he thought the scene in the forge the most profound in his life? He'd not foreseen this moment, with Juliana's somber smile and her green eyes hinting at unshed tears.

“None,” he said. One word, it told of all his reading and all his research and all the nights when he'd used his education to attempt to find a way to heal himself.

“There is nothing we can do, is there, Sebastian? Nothing at all.”

It did not seem to be a question that needed an answer.

 

Jerard returned from the Sisters of Charity sooner than expected. The abbess had done more than send salves for Juliana; she had sent Sister Agnes, who was supposed to have a healing touch.

Sebastian did not demur as the short and rotund nun bustled into the chamber, her jaw set at an angle that warned any onlooker that she was determined to see success in her mission. He would have done anything at that point to spare Juliana pain, and if the presence of a religieuse would aid her, he did not care that it placed him close to danger. The nun could, if she knew of his condition, banish him to a leprosarium as ably as any friar or priest. But it no longer mattered. His time of freedom was nearly at an end. His seclusion would last the rest of his life. At least during these last days, he could assure himself of Juliana's well-being.

Sister Agnes pointed to the bench with one finger, and Jerard moved it to the side of the bed, then left the room to fetch the warm water she requested. The nun placed her box upon the bench, then sat down, tenderly examining Juliana's hands. Juliana only closed her eyes at the nun's probing, her lips clenched tight. Almost as tight as Sebastian's fists.

Jerard arrived with the water and was immediately sent on another errand, this time to procure a glass of wine.

“I needn't ask if that pains you,” Sister Agnes said, when Juliana gasped. “I've no doubt you've broken a few bones in your hand, child.” The nun finally released her hands, and reaching inside her box, pulled out a covered jar.

She applied the leeches to Juliana's right hand.

“The swelling prevents any further treatment,” she explained, as Sebastian moved closer to the edge
of the bed. After the leeches were bloated and had sluggishly dropped off, she lifted Juliana's hands by the wrists, gently placing them in a pan of water into which she'd poured a fragrant mixture that smelled of flowers.

When she removed them, she sprinkled a yellow powder upon the cuts of the left hand and proceeded to bandage it swiftly.

“I will warn you, child, this next will be painful for you.”

Sebastian drew closer, glancing down at Juliana. Her face was too pale, but she smiled at his look.

He sat on the edge of the bed opposite the short militant nun.

“I have searched my library for this Catullus of yours and can find nothing of him,” he said to Juliana, hoping to take her mind from the pain to come.

“I doubt he is greatly known, Sebastian,” she said, keeping her eyes steadily on him. Sister Agnes bent one finger and Juliana's lashes fluttered shut. A gasp, no more than a breath, was all the evidence of the pain she was experiencing.

“I broke my leg once,” he said. As a distraction it was a puny offering, but she opened her eyes once more, smiling at him again.

He wanted to tilt her chin up and place a kiss upon her lips. A soft one in reward for her bravery, for the look in her eyes. Not aversion or revulsion, but affection and fondness and something too deep comfortably to name.

“Grazide told me you were a wild child, Sebastian. That breaking your leg changed you.” The last two words were nearly gasped. She bit down on her lip as the nun pressed a bone back into place.

He did not think it possible, but she grew even
more pale. He turned to Sister Agnes. “Is there nothing you can do to spare her pain?”

She frowned. “It is God who heals, I only aid Him.” The nun looked pointedly at his clothing, as if the wearing of it should have prevented him from asking such an idiotic question. But she did not ask why the Lord of Langlinais was dressed in the rough wool garb of a monk.

“Then can you not aid Him with more gentleness?” He frowned at her and she frowned back.

“She
is
being gentle, Sebastian,” Juliana said. “Tell me about how you came to break your leg. Is it a better tale than how I almost fell into the river?” Her smile was wry, his heart seemed to expand as he watched her.

“I was hiding from Gregory,” he said. “We were playing some game, no doubt some reenactment of the Punic Wars. I was stationed in the perfect defensive position, waiting for him to attack.”

“In the north tower,” Juliana added.

He nodded. “Only Gregory was waiting for me to attack him. He never came. I grew tired of waiting for him and decided to find another strategic position. But I took the steps too quickly, and found myself at the bottom of them.”

“Rash behavior often leads to rash consequences,” Sister Agnes contributed.

He would have said something to the little nun had not Juliana screamed then. Not a full-throated sound, but almost as if she'd been startled into it.

“Do something for her pain!” he demanded, turning to the nun.

“I can do nothing for the pain until I align the bones in her hand. Would you have me leave her crippled?”

They stared at each other. Sebastian recognized
that it was a battle of wills, but she'd said the proper words to silence him. Juliana must be allowed the use of her hands; it was the only thing left her. Her work, and Langlinais.