The Woman Inside (24 page)

By his mulish expression he was ready to argue the point, but one look from
Uric quelled his tongue. With a stoic expression, he bent his head and continued
to memorize his spelling words.

Husband and wife exchanged rueful glances. They could only hope their
children weren’t as stubborn.

The inn where they were staying was crowded, but since it was nearly festival
time the crowd was cheerful. The man behind them must have had too much to
drink, for his voice was louder and his laughter more raucous than need be.

“They say his lordship is going to going to lobby the queen to support the
cardinal’s request for more lands,” the man said.

Ceylon glanced at him, wondering who he was talking about.

His bald, dirty companion muttered something.

Food sprayed out of the loud fellow’s mouth as he laughed at his comrade’s
comment. “You said it! I say he’s just running from his shrewish wife and her
brood. Being married to that one would drive any man to a monastery. Good
looking as she is, I’d just take the time to stick it in now and then and then
run out before the nagging started.”

Disgusted, Ceylon turned back around, then stiffened at his next comment.

“Betcha that Tennyson has a mistress squirreled away somewhere in Queenstown.
Money like that can buy the finest. Why bother with a rough-tongued wench when
you can buy a woman with silky legs and soft lips?”

Uric turned around and pinned the drunk with his blue stare. “Enough! My lady
has had enough of your mouth. Shut it and be gone!”

Loudmouth took one look at Uric and gulped. He didn’t even glance at Ceylon.
“Yes, my lord!” Their rickety table rocked as he and his friend scrambled up.
Stooge-like, they stumbled on the bench and fell against each other in their
haste. Cursing each other, they bickered as they retreated like a couple of
beaten dogs.

“Sorry about them.” Uric indicated the fleeing drunks with his head. “Some
men can’t hold their liquor or their tongue.”

A ghost of smile tilted her lips. Ceylon took his hand. “How is it some other
woman didn’t snatch you up?”

His eyes twinkled as he kissed her chilly fingers. “I was saving myself for
you.”

Although she nodded, her vision dulled as she recalled what the men had said.
Lord Tennyson would be in Queenstown, and she didn’t want to be anywhere near
him.

Maybe she’d be lucky and she’d never see him. It was a large town. She might
be able to avoid going to court.

“Let it go,” Uric advised her softly. “You’re my duchess now. No one will
dare to say a word against you, and no one in the land has the right, or power,
to harm you unless you let them.”

Ceylon squeezed his hand, acknowledging his words, even as she fought old
memories, old shame. The past was a cinder burning in her heart, and he said she
was untouchable. Dare she believe him?

* * * *

Uric didn’t like to see his wife so quiet. She’d hardly said a word to him
since the night before, and this morning her expression was strained.

It would get worse. Plans were underway that would make her most unhappy, but
Uric knew that what he was doing was right. Ceylon had to face her past before
she could embrace her future, and her past was eager to make up for wasted
years.

Since the time he’d left Marksheath with Ceylon he’d been in contact with
Lord Tennyson. Via letter he’d kept Tennyson informed of Eville’s activities.
When he could Tennyson had kept his son reined in, but since it had quickly
proven futile Tennyson had put other plans in motion, plans which would benefit
Ceylon and throw the rest of his family into chaos.

Tennyson was going to disinherit Eville.

Maybe he should warn Ceylon, but one glance at her face decided Uric against
it. Tennyson had asked to be the one to tell her, and Uric would respect that.
It would do her no good to fret over it in the meanwhile.

She would be angry. Furious even. Uric knew that, just as he knew she would
need his love and support more than ever.

And once Eville found out what his father was doing, Ceylon was going to need
Uric’s protection even more. Eville would see her dead.

All the more reason for Uric to kill him first.

* * * *

They’d barely been in Queenstown one day when Ceylon was summoned to court.
She and Uric were shown to a private suite, one she’d never seen before. The
walls were done in forest green and painted with murals of dark forests, wolves
and deer. The murals were trimmed in gold leaf moldings. Chairs and sofas were
upholstered in dark leather trimmed in brass tacks. Russet patterned yellow
curtains hung at the windows and there was a tapestry rug on the floor. It was
very masculine, hardly the kind of place where Ceylon would have expected the
elegant queen to receive guests.

An overzealous servant had lit too many incense burners. They made the inside
of her nose tickle with the need to sneeze.

Queen Callion studied Ceylon closely. “I’ve heard that you can cure wasting
diseases.”

Lady Winifred, also known as the infamous Auntie Winnie, sat enthroned near
her niece, the queen. She leveled a faintly challenging look at Callion.

It was the look that jogged Ceylon’s memory. Lady Winnie had worn it the
first time they’d met. She’d asked Ceylon if she knew how to cure tumors.

“It’s mostly a matter of diet,” she said slowly, uncertain what was going on.
“There are herbs, of course, to speed the healing of the sores and tumors. As
long as the flesh isn’t already dead there’s hope.” She grimaced. “I’m no
magician. Once a man came to me with his toes already black from lack of blood.
I cured him of his ailment, but had to call a surgeon to amputate his toes.”
Just the memory made her feel faint. More embarrassingly, she had fainted as the
surgeon worked. “At least I have herbs to induce a deep sleep for those times.
Too bad I lacked the foresight to take some myself that day.”

There was utter silence for a moment.

A hacking cough sounded from behind a curtain.

Ceylon’s eyes narrowed. She hadn’t known they were being observed. “Who is
that?”

No one answered. Even Uric, who sat with one leg crossed over the other,
merely stared at the tip of his boot.

Callion fiddled with a pillow tassel.

The cough came again.

Too curious to remain polite in light of her companion’s odd behavior, Ceylon
stood up and crossed the room. She pulled aside the curtain--and hissed.

The man behind it lay in a bed. The smell of death was so strong about him it
was a wonder she hadn’t noticed it before, even with the clouds of incense.
Tumors made his face appear lumpy, and the pale, bald skin of his head was
covered with sores.

Pity made her swallow hard. This man sorely needed her help. “You must be my
patient.”

Pain clouded brown eyes narrowed on her. “I haven’t said as much.”

The words sounded mushy, but his demeanor gave her check. So much so that she
stared at him for a full minute. She shrugged as if she weren’t dying to lay
hands on him and stuff him full of herbs. “Very well. It’s your body.” Even as
she turned away she was planning her course of treatment.

“Wait!” The croaked words made him cough.

Ceylon turned slightly and looked at him. “Yes?”

“You may examine me. I may let you treat me,” he wheezed.

“Um.” She whisked away his blanket. “What’s your name?”

He remained stubbornly silent.

His toes were black.

Ceylon shut her eyes a moment. This man would need all of her skill to
survive, and as much vinegar as she could inspire if he ever wanted to leave
this bed. Already she could see streaks of red climbing from his feet.

Jaw set, she looked him square in the eye. “The toes have to go.”

“No.”

“Then die.” She dropped the blanket.

“Stop!”

She turned. His eyes begged for a miracle even as his mouth pinched shut.

“Your toes for your life,” she said firmly. She doubted he could even feel
them now.

She knew her face was implacable, but knew he could also see the glaze of
tears that clouded her vision.

She blinked, clearing them. This was no time for weakness.

He seemed to straighten a bit, and his face set. “Get to it, then.”

She made Uric do it. Whoever this man was, he’d all ready been in the care of
the palace doctors, none of which she’d trust to wash a blade or even their
hands.

Even knowing her patient couldn’t feel a thing--she’d given him enough
medicine to ensure a deep sleep--she felt ill as she waited for Uric to
finish.

The first thing she’d done was get rid of the incense and air the rooms. Once
that was done she’d set up a table and sent for Anne to help. There was no one
else she trusted to help in the race for this man’s life.

“Charcoal poultices on his legs to draw the poison.” She had Anne write while
she worked. “Rhubarb root, clover blossom, parsley, burdock, bitter almond,” she
dictated as she mixed her special tea. “And let’s get some chickweed salve on
these sores.”

The first few days would be critical--she was very worried about his blood
poisoning. First she wanted to get some medicinal tea down him, then start him
on a seven day fast.

Lady Winifred was very vocal with her opinion about that. “It’s insanity,”
she snapped. “Look at the man! He’s not even able to sit up and you want to
starve him!”

“Fasting is not starving,” Ceylon said firmly. “Once the body is free from
spending it’s resources on digestion it can concentrate on healing. Marvelous
things happen when the body is freed to heal itself. Even the ancients knew
that.”

“The ancients used to drill holes in the head to relieve headaches,” Lady
Winifred pointed out sourly.

“And the modern doctors use poison medicines and knives,” Ceylon snapped
back, reminding the woman why they had called her.

The elder woman slumped a bit. “You used knives,” she muttered.

About to retort, Ceylon had a sudden flash of insight. This woman cared
deeply what happened to her patient. As the healer in charge, she had to be the
understanding one. She took a deep breath. “I understand your concern. Feel free
to sit by his side day and night. At the first sign of him expiring you have my
permission to stuff him full of food.” She managed a slight smile.

Eyes narrowed, Winifred looked her up and down. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Queen Callion either had more faith in Ceylon’s skill or had completely given
up hope for the man’s recovery, for she never murmured at any of the measures
Ceylon proposed.

Ceylon had little attention to spare for Uric that day, and when he came for
her that night she protested. “I can’t just leave him.”

“What more can you do tonight?” he asked reasonably. “You can be here at dawn
if you wish, but you need a rest first. Say goodnight.” His tone brooked no
argument.

Besides, he was right.

She sighed and glanced at the invalid. “Promise you won’t start eating the
moment I walk out the door.”

Winifred glowered at her.

The man grunted. “Why not?” he said in resignation. “If it doesn’t kill me it
may do me some good in the end.”

It wasn’t a glowing vote of confidence, but Ceylon would take what she could
get. “Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He flicked a hand, dismissing her.

As soon as they were in the hall, she demanded of Uric, “Who is he? He acts
like some royal brat. Is he some secret brother of the queen’s?”

“No.” He looked vaguely amused, and long-suffering as he took her arm and
escorted her down the hall.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“No.”

“How important is it that I save his life?”

Uric studied her. “Should you heal him, it will make for interesting
times.”

She gave up.

* * * *

“I wish you would stop wearing that.” Uric frowned as she put on her locket
the next morning.

Ceylon avoided his gaze. “Would you walk around without your sword?”

“That’s different.” And it annoyed him that she would compare the two.

“How so? They are both for our defense.”

“My sword isn’t likely to do me in,” he growled. “Short of shoving that
poison down someone’s throat, how do you think it’s going to save your
skin?”

“Maybe these would make a better weapon?” she said lightly, and handed him
the steel hair sticks from her dressing table.

He frowned at them. Why hadn’t he realized that’s what she intended to do
with them before? Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that she was better armed
than he’d thought. “Depends how you’d use them. There’s not enough grip to use
them to pierce an organ, and they’re poorly balanced for throwing. The only
thing they’d be good for would be stabbing through the eye into the brain. After
yesterday, I have my doubts that you could do that.” He’d hated wielding the
knife on those blackened toes, and he’d enjoyed even less seeing her white face
afterward. It was the price he paid for marrying a tender-hearted healer.

He smiled. Very well, he liked her soft heart; just not when her life might
be at stake. “You’d be better off wielding a knife.”

“I doubt I could learn enough in a short time to do me any good, I already
carry the dagger you bought me and it could be taken from me.”

Her arguments were rapid and obviously rehearsed, which told him she’d made
up her mind.

He grunted and wrapped his arms around her from behind. Her hair was still
down, and he inhaled its scent as he gave her a little squeeze. “Times like this
I wish you were a little more blood thirsty,” he complained, not meaning it. He
just wanted her safe.

“You’d like the mother of your children to be a warrior maid?” Her eyes were
mysterious and laughing in the mirror.

Was she...? “Are you trying to tell me something?” Hope fluttered in his
chest.