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Saxon Lady. Margo Maguire
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He picked up a lamp and started up the stairs toward the master’s chamber. Sleep would be a welcome amenity just now, but Mathieu did not know if he would be able to rest with Lady Aelia in the room. ’Twould be best if he found himself a bed elsewhere, but—
The rasp of unsheathed steel made Mathieu swing ’round abruptly and reach for his sword. The figure on the landing was swathed in shadow, but his blade gleamed bright in the lamplight, and it was poised to strike between the loosened buckles of Mathieu’s hauberk. Mathieu raised his sword arm in a gesture of resignation.
When the assailant moved slightly into the light, Mathieu saw that he was merely an adolescent boy with the downy fur of his first beard. However, the boy’s age would not keep him from moving in for the kill, Mathieu knew.
“The lady…” the lad said. “You have no right.”
His French was passable, though his accent was thick. His sword hand trembled.
“You would protect Lady Aelia from me?”
“She is lady of Ingelwald,” the boy said. “All men here protect…honor…her.”
All Mathieu had to do was toss the lamp to one side and pull away from the point of the sword. But throwing a candle, even though ’twas enclosed in the lamp, would be a perilous choice. The manor house was made mostly of wood, and the rushes on the floors were extremely combustible.
“Your devotion is admirable.” ’Twould be an easy task to disarm and kill this boy. But his death, when they’d just won peace here, would cause far more trouble than Mathieu wanted. Still, he would not be cowed by a youth with a weapon. “I intend no harm to the lady.”
“Release her!” the boy demanded.
Mathieu felt the sword pierce his flesh, and he gritted his teeth against the pain and eased away. “That will not be possible.”
He made a sudden feint to the right, pulling away from the boy’s blade. Raising his own weapon, he found ’twas an easy feat to knock the boy’s sword from his hand and back him up against the wall.
At the sound of the scuffle, guards from the hall below and the upper floor took to the stairs. When they arrived upon the landing in between, Mathieu already had the situation under control.
“Your loyalty does you credit,” he said, pulling the boy’s arms behind him. “And because of it, your life is spared.”
The Saxon, gone pale either with fury or fear, did not speak.
“What is your name?”
“Halig.”
Mathieu turned him over to the guards. “Lock him up with the others.”
“Lady Aelia is good woman, Norman,” the boy said. “You take her—”
“No harm will come to the woman as long as she behaves.”
Mathieu could not fault Halig for attempting to protect Aelia. ’Twas what he would have done had Queen Mathilda or any other innocent woman been in peril. But Aelia was no innocent. She’d donned armor and raised her bow against his men. Mathieu himself bore a gash upon his face as a result of her arrow.
Yet she had the loyalty and love of her people. Mathieu had taken note of the homage they’d paid her when she’d walked across Ingelwald’s grounds. Old and young alike revered her. ’Twas Aelia’s defeat—more than Selwyn’s—that had won Ingelwald for Mathieu.
He continued up the staircase, more watchful now as he approached the master’s chamber. One of the two guards he’d posted at the door was still on duty. Mathieu passed him and entered the room, half expecting an attack upon his life, even though he’d been careful to leave Lady Aelia no weapon.
Lamplight flickered in the periphery of the room, casting her sleeping form in shadows.
Her head lay upon her crossed arms on the mattress, but her body was curled on the floor at the bedside. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and regular. ’Twas as if she’d sat down beside the bed to await his return, but had fallen asleep instead.
The food on the plate was untouched, and Mathieu wondered when she’d last eaten. Earlier, she’d complained of hunger.
’Twas not his concern. If she refused to eat, he could do naught but watch her starve herself.
But he would put her to bed, then go and deal with his newest wound. Mathieu crouched down to pick her up, and she made a small sound, much like a sigh, yet more. ’Twas the sound of despair.
And there was moisture upon her cheeks.
Mathieu gathered her into his arms and lifted her to the bed, grimacing when her body touched the gash in his side. He didn’t think the boy had done much more than scratch him. Mayhap the wound was worse than that.
He lay Aelia upon the bed, then set the plate of food on the trunk, and covered her with his blanket. When she stirred restlessly, he moved away from her, quietly removing the battle horn that was still strapped over his shoulder. He lowered the heavy hauberk to the floor and walked toward the lamplight, unlacing his thin undertunic. The lower right side was covered with blood.
With a muttered curse, Mathieu pulled the sherte over his head and looked at the wound. ’Twas deep enough to need stitching, though not bad enough to cause him serious worry. He’d had worse, but he was going to need help tending it.
He opened the door and spoke to the guard, sending him to find Sir Auvrai, a man who knew more about healing than any surgeon Mathieu had ever known. Then he closed the door and went to the washstand, where a basin of water and several clean cloths awaited him.
Stitches were likely to chafe and bother him on the journey to London, but there was naught to do about it. He had no intention of putting off his return to William’s court, thereby delaying his betrothal. The sooner he wed Clarise and returned to Ingelwald, the better.
“What happened?”
Mathieu turned and watched Aelia swing her legs over the edge of the bed and stand. Even from across the room, he could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and wary.
“You’re bleeding. Did the mighty Norman knight suffer a mishap with his sword?”
“’Twas a lucky jab from your overzealous swain.” He turned away from her, but heard the floor creak under her feet as she approached. “Why are you not sleeping?”
“I never meant to sleep.”
Mathieu sucked in a breath when she touched the laceration.
“This needs sewing.”
“And what would you know of it?”
“More than I like. Give me that.” She took the cloth from his hand and swabbed the wound carefully.
“You didn’t eat.”
“Having a Norman in my father’s bedchamber turned my stomach.” Mathieu held his breath as she pressed the edges of the cut. Her touch was gentle, yet knowledgeable.
“You have some skill here, demoiselle.”
“Not by my choice, Norman,” she replied. “My father said ’twas a lady’s duty to tend the sick and injured of her estate. I learned all I know from Erlina—the old woman who lay dead in my father’s courtyard. She was a fine healer before her mind turned.” Aelia took a clean cloth and dropped it in the basin of water. “Whoever speared you missed anything important.”
“’Twas one of your admirers, defending your honor.”
Aelia’s hand stilled and she gazed up at Mathieu with contempt. “Did you kill him?”
“He