Jenna Jaxon - Time Enough to Love 03 (13 page)

She groaned at the touch of the cold water to her burning body, but sat willingly with legs crossed, head laid back against the rim of the tub, exhaustion lining her face. “The water should be heated. Can you make the infusion now?”

“Of course, love.” Damnation. He should not have forgotten the headache remedy. “Tell me what to do.”

In a few minutes, he had the dried peony and rose oil steeping in the hot water. “How long should we let it sit?” If it sat too long would it work better or worse? He knew nothing of such things.

“I will let you know.” Alyse rubbed her neck against the
edge and closed her eyes.

“Did you sleep while I was gone, Alyse?”

“A little. The chill passed, and I was able to sleep awhile. But there were strange dreams. Strange and wonderful dreams.” She looked at him and smiled. He sat down beside the tub, dipped water in a cup then dribbled it over her shoulders and chest. She shivered as the cool water coursed down her hot body. “Both you and Thomas were here with me.”

Geoffrey gently pushed her torso forward that he might cool her back. “Strange indeed. Both of us? What did we do?”

“I…we…ahhh…” Color arose in her cheeks, two red splotches that deepened as she sputtered to an end. “I think ’twas the fever that caused the dream. I remember it only in bits and pieces.”

“’Tis of no consequence.” Best leave the subject, lest it upset her. Mayhap she
had dreamed of them fighting over her. She should forget such things. “’Tis the way with fever. Think not on it. You need your rest still. I am here now to soothe you and perchance ease you into better dreams.”

He rose and checked the peony infusion. It smelled deliciously sweet, though he doubted the taste would match the aroma. “Think you this is ready?”

She nodded, and he brought it back to the tub and held the cup to her mouth. “Drink, my love, to ease your head.”

She clenched the
lip of the tub, but opened her mouth obediently. At the first sip, she frowned, and it took her a moment or two to swallow the brew.

“Is it too hot?”

“Aye, and bitter as gall.” She turned her head away.

“Nay, madam, you must drink it all lest your headache worsen.”

“Even now it feels as though I had drunk two full skins of wine.” She leaned her head back and pressed her neck against the rim again.

Geoffrey chuckled as he blew on the dark liquid. “What know you of such a feat?” Once more he pushed the cup against her tightly clamped lips. “All, my love.”

The evil stare she sent him might have killed a lesser man. Relentlessly, he urged the lip of the cup to her mouth. Her shoulders slumped, and she took another swallow. And another. All the while glaring into is eyes. Mayhap it eased her to do so. As long as she drank, he cared not how much ill will she sent his way. She got almost all of it down before he let her wave the cup away. Pray God it eased her pain. He set about getting her back into the bed for the rest she sorely needed.

* * * *

Geoffrey stood vigil throughout the night, while Alyse dozed. She woke only when chills gripped her or the fever rose, making her throw off the covers. He helped pile blankets on or bathed her with cool cloths, constantly checking to see if the tumors had appeared.

By dawn
, he could barely hold his head up. Sleep would be sweet, but he dare not rest lest the buboes erupt. He stretched, arching his back. Food would help them both. With a glance at the slumbering Alyse, he grabbed a candle and headed out the door, bound for the larder.

He returned shortly, laden with a variety of victuals he hoped would tempt Alyse’s appetite. The first order of business was to start a broth.
He and Thomas had oft shared the task of cooking during their many campaigns with King Edward. The fare he could prepare was not fit for a king’s table, but he prayed ’twas good enough to help strengthen Alyse. When the salt beef was soaking in a pot over the fire, he cut up the rest of the bread and slathered it with the bit of butter he had found in the dairy. There had been another cheese there as well, which he had brought, along with some more wine from the butlery. They would have another feast, if he could only get her to eat it.

Movement from the restless form on the bed drew his attention, and he pressed his hand to her forehead. Hotter than the steeping broth. Damn. How could he bring the fever down?

Alyse stirred beneath his hand. “Thirsty.”

He grabbed the bottle and splashed the rich red wine into her cup. “Drink this, love. And I have prepared food to strengthen you.”

She gulped the wine greedily, but wrinkled her nose at the mention of food. “I am not hungry, Geoffrey.”

“But you must eat.” He eased her back onto the pillows and went to check the broth. The water had turned a deep brown color, the top dotted with oily pools. A salty, beefy scent wafted up. His stomach growled. He dipped some into a cup and set it onto the table to cool. Then he put the bread and butter on a plate and sat beside her once more.

“Here, love. We will start with this.” He held the piece of buttered bread before her mouth, but she turned her head.

“My throat hurts so, only the wine feels good going down.” Her big blue eyes pleaded with him
, and he relented.

“Then try some broth, for my sake.” He got the cup
, and she managed to drink almost half. “Good girl.” His own stomach growled. Best keep up his strength as well. The discarded bread and butter beckoned, so he soaked it in the remaining broth and slipped it into his mouth. It slid effortlessly down his throat.

He grabbed another piece, dipped it in the broth
, and held it to Alyse’s lips. “Try this, my lady. I promise ’twill not pain your throat.”

She sighed and opened her mouth for the morsel. After chewing but slightly, she swallowed, and glanced to him. “May I have another piece?”

Relief poured through him. He scooped up more broth. The room had filled with the light of early morning while they finished the bread and butter. Alyse stretched and pulled the covers close to her chin. “I am so tired, my love. Will you lie beside me, Geoffrey? You need rest too.”

Too weary to argue, he doffed his clothes and crawled into bed beside her.

“I will, but it must be a brief rest only. I must keep a watch for the tumors.” He laid his head on the soft pillow, closed his eyes, and knew no more.

Chapter 14

He stood in the field of lavender near the house at Longford, watching a long line of people shuffling past. Peasants, soldiers, clergy, nobles, men, women, children, in rich garb and poor, all shambling past him into the west as the sun went down in a blood red sky. As they passed, he could see and recognize some of the people: Roland, his father, Sir Robert Bouchier, Sir John , Sir Patrick, many of the other courtiers who had traveled with him to Bordeaux.

At the end of the line, three very distinct figures walked toward him—Thomas, Princess Joanna, and
, last in line, Alyse. He raised his face to hers, however her eyes were not the wonderful crystal blue he so loved to see, but black orbs that reflected the blood of the sky. She raised her hand and beckoned him to join her. Filled with dread and longing, he took a step toward her when….

Geoffrey bolted up in the bed, a cry on his lips. He choked it off and sat up. The nightmare had been so vivid. He passed a
trembling hand down his face. His breathing slowed, and he shook his head to dispel the dream’s evil images.

A hand
gripped his arm, and he jumped, scrambling away from the hot touch of the phantom that still threatened. He could not see, could not remember where he was.

“Geoffrey,
’tis Alyse.” Even though raspy with the fever, the beloved voice acted as an anchor that tethered him to the world of the living. Her hand dropped away, but the ragged breathing continued to sound in his ears.

With a soft curse, he left the bed, fumbling in the full dark as he made for the bedside table. He had slept the day away, God curse him. He finally managed to light a candle, and from it lit the candelabra. Bringing it back to the bed, he drew back Alyse’s covers, and raised the light high to assess his patient.

Her eyes were closed, her cheeks two scarlet spots of color in a white face. He laid his hand to her forehead, but the fever burned so bright it could not linger there. God’s death, would this cursed fever never go away.

“Geoffrey?” She sighed deeply.

“Yes, love, I am here.” He grasped her hand and squeezed.

“You cried out. Are you ill?” Her voice broke.

“Nay, Alyse. Look at me.” She opened her eyes a slit, as though the light hurt them. “I am well, beloved. ’Twas a nightmare, is all. You allowed me to sleep o’er long. Will you eat something?”

Alyse shook her head and shifted in the bed. She
winced when she moved her right arm.

“What is wrong, my love?” He took her hand. Something was not right. “What
…?”

She turned her face from him, but not before he caught sight of her downturned mouth, the hopelessness in her eyes.

He grabbed her chin and pulled it toward him. “Tell me!”

Jerking her face away, she raised her arm. The dark shadow there measured nearly as big as an egg. A buboe. God help him.

He hissed in a breath then swept the covers from Alyse’s body, searching for others. “Damn.” Another one protruded from the right side of her groin. He shook his head and drew his knife from his belt. The blade had crumbs from the loaf of bread clinging to it. “I need to put an edge on this.”

“Why?” Her quiet question crackled in the silent room.

“’Twill hurt less, love.”

His sharpening stone was in his chamber, but Thomas’s should
have been here. He went to the chest pushed against a wall, one he had known well for ten years, and began to rummage inside. The stone was where it had always been kept, in the right corner. The familiar feel of the rough gray surface brought Thomas’s face to mind.

So you will have a hand in saving her too, my friend.

He palmed the stone and shut the chest.

After swishing the knife in the soapy tub water, he sat at the table and raised the blade to the proper angle. With practiced strokes, he swept the blade sideways against the stone, sharpening the edge evenly. When he turned the knife over, he glanced at Alyse. Her face had gone the pallid shade of a marble statue.

“What mean you to do, Geoffrey?” Her gaze never left his hands as they worked the blade.

“I will make it as quick as I can, love.” He tested the blade against the pad of his thumb. A bright red drop welled. No pain. Good.

Two tears welled in her eyes. “Think you this best? Rather than wait for the end? It cannot be long now.” Her voice was a whisper.

“The end will be too late.” He started toward her then grabbed several napkins from the table. “There is likely to be a mess.”

“Oh, Geoffrey.” Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, yet she still stared at him. “I do not want to die.”

“This is the only way, my love. Brother Tomas said
’twas the one thing that helped Brother Michel.” He set the knife and napkins on the coverlet and raised her arm again. The mass was soft to the touch.

She tried to wrest her arm from him, but the effort was feeble. “Brother Tomas? Ouch.
’Tis tender. Who is Brother Tomas that he would bid you kill me?”

“Kill you?” Geoffrey jerked his head up to meet her tearstained face. “Think you I would kill you, madam?” The fever had turned her mind.

“You have a…a sharp knife to hand and…and speak of… making it painless.” She choked back sobs.

“God’s teeth, Alyse. I would as
soon slit my own throat as I would yours. How could you think such a thing?”
I cannot be angry at her. She knows not what she says.
Still, it tore at his heart that she would believe him capable of such an act.

“You told me nothing of Brother Tomas or your journey to the monastery. So I thought you might wish to spare me pain.” She reached out and clasped his hand.

He opened his mouth then stopped and ran a hand through his hair. He had come back and immediately begun to care for her. Not a word of the brothers and their remedies had he told her. He drew their hands toward him and kissed hers. “I crave your pardon, love. I meant not to alarm you. Neither do I mean you harm. You must trust me. This is the information I sought at Montclair.”

She squeezed his hand and
lay back against the pillows.

“At the monastery I saw Brother Tomas, who had nursed Brother Michel. When Brother Michel’s tumors grew too big
, they burst.” Geoffrey winced. “After that, Brother Tomas said Brother Michel recovered.”

He stopped, prepared for an exclamation of joy
. However, she remained silent. “He recovered, Alyse. The only person I have heard of who has survived this cursed pestilence. And I believe ’tis because the sickness in these tumors was expelled. It did not remain to poison him, so he recovered.” He chaffed her hand. “Can you not trust me, my love?”

She gripped his hand as though it
were a lifeline. “Can we not simply wait for them to burst? Like Brother Michel? Why must you cut them open?”

He pressed his face into their clasped hands. “I would open them as soon as possible so the sickness they contain can be removed swiftly from your body. The longer the pestilence remains within, the sicker you will become.
’Tis no worse than lancing a boil to release the pressure and remove the infected matter.”

Alyse met his eyes. “And you have skill in such things?”

Speak the truth and shame the devil. “Nay, I have never done this before, nor have I ever seen it done. But I will do it if there is a chance it will save your life.” His voice became a plea. “Please let me help you, my love.”

She released a breath and nodded.

Her consent gave him relief, yet made him cringe. As he had said, he had never attempted such an operation before. What if he did something wrong? What if he could not stop the bleeding? What if instead of curing her, he killed her?

Geoffrey shook his head. In battle a man had to act boldly, without hesitation. He must do this thing, else Alyse would almost surely die. There was no one else to do it. She met his eyes as she stretched her arm up, allowing him access to the tumor. Like a steady beacon, her trust shone forth.

He placed one of the linen napkins beneath the lump and lifted the knife blade. Alyse squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away.

Blessed Virgin, steady my hand and turn
Your grace toward us.

Geoffrey made the sign of the cross and la
id the sharp blade next to the smooth skin covering the lump. Calmness settled over him, the clarity he always found when facing a foe rising to his aid. Quickly, he punctured the lump and slid the blade cleanly across the mass.

A half-strangled shriek rent the stillness
, and Alyse slumped against the pillows. Good. ’Twould make the next one easier if she remained in a swoon. He busily collected the black ichor that rushed from the wound as soon as it ruptured, gathering it up in a napkin. The stench of it defied description. As though a rotting corpse had been mixed with sickly sweet flowers. He held his breath, glad Alyse lay beyond the reek.

He grabbed another napkin to lay beneath the streaming wound and disposed of the other one, along with its disgusting contents, out the chamber window.
He gasped in a lungful of clean air then returned to the bedside.

Gently
, he pushed on the shrunken mass, producing a moan from Alyse and expelling more of the odorous fluid into the second napkin. He noticed with disgust the flecks of green mixed in with the darkened blood and pus. God alone knew what that matter was.

He discarded this napkin also and brought cloths, basin, soap, and water to the bed. As tenderly as possible
, he cleansed the site of the wound, noting with thanks that it seemed to bleed but little. There was, however, no true way to bind it. He settled, in the end, for placing several thicknesses of cloth over it then slowly brought Alyse’s arm down by her side, effectively putting pressure on the site and sealing it off. This done, he washed his hands, afraid some of the fluid had touched him, and returned to sit beside her.

Geoffrey stroked her hand softly, noting as he did that the fever seemed to be rising again. He had hoped that with the lancing of the tumor it would finally recede, but that seemed not to be the case. Of course, there was still the matter of the other lump to be dealt with. And as painful as the lump under her arm had seemed, the next one, situated in such a very tender part of her body, would likely prove even more agonizing. Best take care of it now, before she regained her senses.

He moved her legs apart to better expose the mass, and lifted the knife. One deep breath then with a swift, almost practiced movement, he slit the lump near its base. There was a strangled cry from Alyse, but nothing else. The stench assailed his nose, and he coughed, disgusted by the reek of rotting flesh. He tended this one as before, and finally closed her legs to keep the padding tightly against the wound.

When he finished, he dabbed his sleeve at the sweat that
drenched his brow. He would rather face King Phillip’s entire army rather than go through that ordeal again. Alyse lay with eyes closed, head turned into the pillow.

“Alyse?” She did not respond. “Alyse?” He shook her. Still no movement. “No!” He laid his head on her chest, straining to hear a heartbeat. “Oh, thank Christ.” The steady
thump, thump
met his ear, and he slumped onto her.

He raised his head almost immediately for her chest fairly scorched his face. Weary, as though he had just fought a battle, he slowly cleared away the traces of his operation. He washed his hands and face,
enjoying the coolness of the water, then took the basin to Alyse’s side and began another an attempt to bring the fever under control. ’Twas in God’s hands.

Time meant nothing now. The night wore on, hurtling toward a day he could not name. How much time had passed since he had broken into their chamber? No matter. His whole world now consisted of cool water, wet cloths
, and smooth hot skin. He kept glancing at Alyse’s face, praying to see the dear eyes open and beckoning, but they remained closed, their lids pale.

As the first streaks of dawn began to show through the window, Geoffrey rose from the chair and put the basin aside. The long, maddening hours of bathing her had sapped his strength. A weariness filled his heart. She had not responded once to his touch or voice.
’Twas as if God had finally spoken.

He stripped once more, letting his clothes fall to the floor where he stood. His display brought no response, unlike the first night they had shared this chamber. So brief a time to have
been happy.

A deep ache had settled in his bones
, and the softness of the bed next to his beloved called its siren song. He crawled beside her and lay down, not touching her lest he disturb her wounds, but as close as he dared. One stroke of his hand to her blazing cheek, and he slept.

* * * *

The sun was well up in the sky when Geoffrey opened his eyes. He stretched lazily at first, enjoying the feel of the soft bed beneath him. Then the events of the night past crashed into his mind, and he twisted around to gaze at Alyse.