The Wolfe (41 page)

Jordan screamed and cursed and
fought against Paris and William. She was babbling in Gaelic the entire time
and they could not understand a word of it, but William kept talking to her,
hoping she would become rational enough to understand.

“What is she saying, Jemma?” Paris
sputtered as a big splash of water hit him in the mouth.

Jemma shook her head.” Something about
demons. She thinks ye are demons come to get her.”

Jordan’s struggling weakened and she
began to weep. William wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her fears
away, but the cold water was doing her good. The fever had to come down.

The door opened and Byron blew in,
glancing at the residents but not uttering a word about the state the room was
in. He set down his bag and moved to Jordan, putting his hand on her forehead.

“She’s hot,” he stated the obvious. “I
can give her something to take it down. Then I need to get a look at the wound
again.”

He administered a potion made from
boiled willow bark, a task that was most difficult, considering Jordan would
have no part of it. But between Byron and William, they managed to force down a
good portion of it.

“There,” Byron said quietly. “That
should help the fever. Now let’s get her out of there.”

William lifted her out, water
cascading from her all over his leather breeches. Byron wanted her out of the
wet shift, so William held her while the maids and Jemma stripped off the
see-through fabric and placed a fresh surcoat on her.

At first, Jemma was vehemently
opposed to William holding onto her naked cousin, but she had to relent when
she realized they needed his strength to help them. Jordan had passed out cold
and was total dead weight in his arms.

It took all three of the women to
peel off the wet garment, but even as Jemma stripped off the shift, she made
sure that she covered Jordan’s private parts with a large piece of linen that
also served to dry off her skin. William almost laughed; if Jemma only knew
that he had done more than just look at her privates.

Dry and back in the bed, Jordan
started coming around. William tensed when he saw her moving again, preparing
for another go-around, but her eyes opened and she focused lucidly on him.

“English?” she whispered.

He stood over the bed, trying not to
show any more emotion than was absolutely necessary, but it was damn difficult.
“Aye, my lady?”

“What…what are ye doing here?” her
voice was no more than a baby’s whisper.

“Ye’re sick, Jordan,” Jemma stood
next to William. “Ye were delirious. Sir William was the only one who could
control ye.”

“What happened to yer lip, Jemma?”
Jordan demanded, off the subject. She still wasn’t completely sound of mind.

“Nothing, Jordi,” her cousin
replied.

“She cut herself shaving,” Paris
quipped from behind William.

Jemma shot him a nasty look,
fighting off a smile. Jordan looked thoroughly confused by everything.

“I must get to sleep,” she said. “I
am exhausted. Got to go to town tomorrow, ye know. Will ye go with me, Jemma?
Or are ye going back to Langton?”

Jemma looked confused but,
thankfully, did not think anything of the remark. William had yet to tell her
of her fate and had not the desire to get into it with her tonight. Still
babbling, Jordan faded off once again.

Lord de Longley came to Jordan’s
chambers near noon the next day. His old face was wrought with worry when
Deinwald opened the door to admit him, and he pushed directly into Jordan’s bedchamber.

William, Paris, Byron and Jemma were
still there in various positions all over the room. William stood by the long
windows, gazing out over the courtyard. When he glanced at De Longley he was
glad that the man had not come any earlier. He had been beside her bed all
night; ‘twas the first time he had moved from the chair to catch a breath of
air. Somehow being across the room from her made him look a little less
concerned, mayhap a little less suspect.

But every time he looked at her his
heart was squeezed a little tighter and he was closer than ever to losing his
sanity.

De Longley went to the bed, gazing
sadly on Jordan’s blond head.

“How does she fare?” he asked no one
in particular.

“Her fever rises and falls,” Byron
said. “But she weakens.”

De Longley looked at the physician. “Is
she dying?”

Byron shrugged. “I hope not, sire.
But I have done all that I can.”

De Longley looked back at her. He
did not want her to die. How in the hell was he going to explain her death to
the king? With a curt nod, he quit the room and left Lady Jordan’s fate to the
angels.

The day dragged on and still Jordan
did not awaken. Twice more they were forced to submerge her in cool water and Byron
had taken to lancing the wound every hour, then packing it with healing herbs
and mud to draw the poisons out. The willow bark potion kept her fever from
going wild, but she could not shake it and she was weakening steadily. William
was falling deeper and deeper into despair.

It was near dusk when Byron bent
over her, examined her again, and straightened wearily.

“Captain,” he said quietly. “You
might want to consider sending for a priest.”

William, leaning against the far
wall, went rigid. Paris, knowing what was coming and unable to stop it, chased Jemma
and the maids from the room on a hastily thought up pretense. Once they were
gone, what William said or did would matter little to Byron.

“She is not going to die,” William said
through clenched teeth.

Byron looked at him. “A precaution, My
lord.”

“Nay.” William boomed. “I will not
hear of it. She’s going to live, do you hear me? I will not allow her to die.”

Paris stepped in. “Be reasonable,
William. Think with your head and not your heart. If Byron says she needs a priest,
then mayhap we should summon Father Sutton.”

William’s hands shot out and he
grabbed Paris by the tunic, slamming his best friend into the wall so hard that
the entire room shook. He continued to hold him there, gripping him so tightly
that his knuckles were white.

“I said no,” he seethed “No priest.
She’s not going to die.”

Paris was a little startled by the
violent motion but did not fight back. Byron, for his part, had just received
confirmation of what he had already suspected; William was in love with the
fair maiden.  He’d heard the rumors. Now he saw they were justified.

“William,” Paris said helplessly. “I
am not wishing her dead by suggesting a priest. Surely you know that.”

William looked long and hard at him.
The longer he looked, the more despair and anguish he felt. Paris gazed mildly
back at him, afraid to say anything more lest he get his teeth knocked out. After
a moment, William released his friend.

“Get out, both of you,” he growled. “Byron,
leave your medicaments. I shall tend to her myself.”

Not the best idea, but the other two
could do nothing more than comply. Byron shrugged and moved for the door while Paris
lingered.

“What if de Longley asks for you?”
he wanted to know.

“To hell with de Longley,” William
snapped. But he forced himself to calm, turning to Paris. “Tell him I have
retired to my chambers not to be disturbed. Tell him anything. Keep Jemma and
the maids out of sight so he will think that they are with her. I have to do
this, Paris. I cannot stand by and watch her die. If she does…if she does, I
have to know that I did everything in my power to prevent it. She saved my life
once. ‘Tis my turn to return the favor.”

Paris clapped him on the shoulder
sympathetically before moving through the antechamber and to the front door. He
paused a moment before leaving.

“Should you need me, my lord, I
shall be right outside,” he called. Receiving no answer, he quit the room and
paused wearily in the hall outside.

William didn’t even realize when he
had left. His focus was entirely on Jordan. God, he was exhausted.

He spent all night bathing and
tending Jordan, doing exactly what Byron had been doing. She remained
unconscious although he talked to her constantly, hoping beyond hope she would
hear him. Twice his voice began to crack from pure grief, but he forced himself
to overcome and continued on as if she was sitting up responding to him as she
always had.

But eventually the chatter died
down. During the quiet lull he would sit next to her and tell her stories of
his squiring, of his life in Wolverhampton before he came to Northwood. He
spoke of his mother, something he had never done before with anyone. But she could
not hear him, anyway. He would stroke her hair, swab her limbs to keep her
cool. Once he even took to tickling her foot to see if she would react.  It was
the last desperate act of a man drowning in sorrow.

He refused to believe she was dying.
True, she was weak and her wound was raging with infection, but she would pull
through. He had seen men hurt far worse recover. She simply needed rest and
Byron’s potions and she would be fine, and when she had recovered fully he
would take her to Normandy and they would live out the rest of their lives
together.

He had kin in Normandy; in fact his
great-great grandfather had been a general for William the Conqueror, the man
of his namesake. He had been named for the man who had confiscated England from
the Saxons. Aye, he would return to the land of his roots, but just as soon as
he would convince himself that she would improve, he would take one look at her
ghostly face and his hopes would plunge all over again. ‘Twas a vicious,
unending cycle.

Toward dawn her breathing slowed
dramatically and he was seized with dread; he knew her time was drawing near.
He was grief-stricken with the fact that there was nothing more he could do for
her. He would go to his grave knowing he had done everything possible but it
was a bitter pill to swallow for him. He was unused to defeat of any kind, and
he thought it bitterly ironic that with all of his strength and skill, he could
do nothing more for her. If he thought ordering her to live would have done any
good, he would have done so.

But there was nothing more to be
done. Still there was one more thing he could do for her; she would not die
alone. Fighting off a scream of anguish, he pulled off his boots and crawled
into bed beside her, drawing the coverlet over them both and gathering her into
his arms tightly as if he could hide her from the death that was coming to
claim her.

Tears came to his eyes and his
throat constricted painfully. When the tears found their way down his cheeks,
sobs came. He pulled her tighter as if he could will his life-force into her.
His heart was breaking and he could not stand the thought that he was going to
lose her. All he could do was hold her and tell her over and over again how
much he loved her.

Somehow, she was limper than she had
been before, but was still breathing. Strange that she didn’t feel so hot
anymore, but it was probably because her life was slipping away and all of the
energy was gone from it. He closed his eyes tightly, pressing his face into the
top of her head.

“Do not die, Jordan,” he wept
quietly. “Do not leave me. I love you more than my own life.”

He had been awake for nearly two
days. Without realizing it, without wanting to, he fell asleep with Lady Jordan
cradled in his arms.

***

William awoke in the bed and found
himself alone. Seized with a panic, he bolted from the bed like a man
possessed.

“Jordan.” he yelled hoarsely. “God,
no. Do not take her. Paris….”

He surged into the antechamber only
to be met by Paris steadying him, gripping his arms fiercely.

“Keep your voice down,” Paris hissed.
“You’ll wake the whole damn castle.”

William almost tore Paris’ arms off.
“Where is she?” he demanded.

“
She
is here.” Came a soft,
decidedly tired female voice. “She is here and she is famished. I thought ye’d
never wake up, English.”

Had Paris not been holding him,
William would have collapsed. He turned with sheer disbelief in the direction
of the voice and was overwhelmed to see Jordan sitting in the high-back arm
chair, wrapped in a soft blue robe with her feet resting on a cushioned stool.
She was pale and wan, but she smiled at him and he came apart at the seams.

The next thing he realized he was on
his knees in front of her, his face buried in her lap and gripping her legs as
tightly as he could. He was deathly afraid that he was dreaming. Jordan stroked
his dark hair weakly with her good arm, smiling down at him.

“Come, now, English,” she said
softly. “Ye dinna think that I would truly leave ye?”

His head came up and his hands were
all over her face, her hair, touching her body to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

“Are you real?” he whispered
raggedly. “I thought you were dead.”