Bride Of The Tower. Sharon Schulze
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she murmured, then shook her head in disgust at her weakness. “Though that matters not a whit.”
She went back to her room to collect more candles and water. “Who are you?” she mused. “And what were you doing in Sherwood on foot, all alone?”
If he survived his injuries, she’d learn those answers as soon as he could speak, for she scarce dared trust anyone anymore, even those she knew. Strangers—especially well-armed strangers—posed far too great a risk. She refused to permit anyone or anything to threaten her tenuous control over Tuck’s Tower, for she dared not risk losing all she held dear.
However, of late her nerves and resources had been stretched to the limit. If her uncle knew about the recent chaos and suspicious events in the area, he might decide to remove control of Tuck’s Tower from her hands, make it but another minor holding in his succession of manors and keeps spread about the land. He might also decide to carry her off to court or to live with him and his family—to live a noble lady’s life, to be wed to a stranger, to be forced to live someplace far from her home.
The ewer, which should have been full, stood nigh empty, and the candle stubs in the holder from the table were too short to be of use. Another example of recent events; with most of the servants pressed into service for defense and other tasks, many of the usual household chores had fallen by the wayside. She poured the dregs from the pitcher onto a washrag, then stuck her head out into the narrow corridor and shouted for someone to bring more candles, hot water, her box of simples and a maid skilled in healing.
Unwilling to leave her patient alone any longer, she snatched a branch of candles from the table by the hearth, pausing at the sound of heavy footsteps outside the chamber.
“My lady.” Rolf stood in the doorway, her basket of medicines clutched to his brawny chest. “Thought you might need me for something.”
“Aye.” She set aside the cloth and candles from her chamber, arranging them on the floor alongside the pallet. “Help me out of this armor, if you would.” She’d a long night ahead of her, with naught but her own will to overcome her exhaustion. Though the mail hauberk and leggings allowed her to move freely, they weighed heavy upon her after a day’s wear, and they made kneeling for any length of time uncomfortable.
She bent at the waist and gave a groan of relief as Rolf assisted her in drawing the hauberk over her head. She left the armor where it fell and turned away to tug off her boots, then unbuckled the straps at the waist of the mail leggings and slid them off. Her padded undertunic and linen leggings, uncomfortably damp with sweat, clung to her skin, but she would wait until after she took care of her guest—her prisoner?—to change out of them.
Stretching and rolling her shoulders did little to ease the tension holding her within its grip, but her own discomfort mattered little compared to her unknown patient’s wounds. Instead, she pulled off her undertunic and tugged her shirttail loose, rolled up her sleeves and, taking up the candles, lighted them to brighten the small chamber.
Dropping to her knees beside the pallet, she motioned for Rolf to help her remove the stranger’s blood-stained armor. ’Twas much more difficult to free him from his mail than it had been for her to slip out of her own, since he could not stand or help in any way. His wounds made the task nigh impossible. By the time they’d stripped him to his undertunic and braes, while trying to protect his injuries and the makeshift bandages covering them, Julianna was drenched with sweat and felt as though she’d just wrestled an ox into submission.
Blotting her forehead on her sleeve, she settled down beside the still-unconscious man, wincing as her leggings caught on the rough floor boards. She yanked out the large splinter jabbing her backside and muttered a curse, though she wished she could howl out her pain and frustration instead. She was hungry, weary and sore—none of which was likely to change for the better anytime soon—and the servants and supplies she’d called for were nowhere in sight.
Shifting to a more comfortable position, Julianna took up a cloth and wet it, dabbing at the blood covering the man’s brow. He immediately began to shift about and moan. Had she been too rough? Mayhap she was not the best person to care for him. She laid her hand on his shoulder to quiet him and glanced up at Rolf. “Go get Mary—” A sound outside the door made her pause, but ’twas only two maidservants with the water and candles she’d requested. Julianna sat back on her heels and swiped her sleeve absently over her damp face yet again while the girls carried in a bucket, a basin and two short, fat candles. “Bring her to me at once.”
“Aye, milady.” Rolf followed the servants to the door, pausing when Julianna called his name.
“Look in the barracks first,” she told him, not bothering to disguise her displeasure. “If you find her there, I want to know about it. I cannot have her stirring the men to fight each other over her favors yet again. If they’re foolish enough to do so, ’twould normally be their business, but we cannot spare anyone at the moment. Our safety is far more important than their lust.”
Though Rolf’s expression didn’t change, Julianna could see from the look in his eyes that he’d keep Mary away from the barracks one way or another. At this point, she thought wearily, she didn’t much care how he did it. If they hadn’t needed Mary’s skills as a healer, Julianna would have sent the round-heeled wench on her way long since.
“Don’t you worry none, milady. I’ll see to it.” He nodded respectfully and left.
The door had no sooner closed behind Rolf than her patient began to stir. Eyes open wide, he stared up at her, his gaze unfocused and his face twisted into a grimace of pain. “Poor man,” Julianna murmured. “I’ll give you a draught to ease you soon.” She bent over him, smoothing her hand over his brow and shifting sweat-and blood-matted hair away from the large bump above his temple. A bit lower and he’d likely have died from the blow. She could do little to treat that injury save clean it, but she’d do what she could for the others.
She drew her hand down his cheek and along his jaw in a soothing caress, frowning as her callused fingers scraped against his whiskers. ’Twas not a lady’s smooth hand, she reminded herself, but ’twas competent enough to save him, whether it be with sword or simples.
And if she were to care for his wounds, it seemed she’d have to do so without any other help. Giving his face one last stroke, she shifted to get to her feet, then let out a shriek when he clamped his hand hard about her wrist.
“What—” His voice, barely audible despite her nearness, faded away. Licking at his lips, he tugged on her arm and drew Julianna closer. He drew a deep breath and squinted up at her, his blue eyes intense. “What is this place? Is it Birkland?”
Julianna covered his hand and loosened his hold on her wrist, her mind awhirl. Birkland. Could he be one of Richard’s men? There was nothing familiar about him or his garb, but she’d heard rumors that Richard had hired mercenaries to shore up Birkland’s defenses and help him in his quest for power.
By the Virgin, had she brought an enemy within their walls?
His fingers relaxed within her grasp and, moaning, he closed his eyes and slumped onto the pallet. She laid his hand on his chest and sat back on her heels. Enemy or not, he posed no threat at the moment, nor would he in the future, she vowed, for she’d keep him under close guard at all times.
For now, however, she’d more work ahead of her, for she could wait no longer for Mary to arrive. No doubt the wench was the worse for drink again, and would be no use to anyone. Deciding to deal with her later, Julianna poured water into the basin, then reached for her basket of simples.
Shifting the candles for better light, she cast the man one last look. Please don’t be an enemy, she pleaded silently, though she knew in her heart that it mattered not a whit whether he was friend or foe. Now that she’d held him close within her arms, felt the warmth and weight of him against her skin, he’d become real to her—not some anonymous stranger she might wield her sword against in battle.
Her hands steady, she stared at his motionless face and said a swift prayer for guidance as she stripped off the first bandage and began to wash