To Burn (36 page)

Perhaps she had not had cause.

Wulfred stirred in his sleep, and she brushed her hand over his hair. He had such trouble sleeping; the pain gnawed at him and would not let him rest. He had to rest. He had to aid the healing process. He had to defeat those bloodthirsty savages he called brothers.

Stupid tears... what good were they?

Of course, Wulfred, ever obstinate, did not see the need to remain cloistered and prone. He said the solitude added to the pain, that he wanted distraction. She'd laid her knife to his ear and promised him a quick one if he did not obey her in this. Laughing, he'd ceased complaining. For a time.

Not that they were truly alone. No, Hensa would hardly allow that for fear that she would tamper with the bandage, but she had won her way on a minor point by insisting that only Wulfred's men be allowed into his chamber. She saw no reason to have the enemy within while she fought for Wulfred's health.

If only she could persuade Wulfred to help her.

"Crying again?"

So he was awake.

"Is that your clumsy way of telling me that Saxon women don't cry? Because I can easily believe it. I have never seen an animal cry."

Wulfred smiled and carefully shifted his weight on the couch, keeping his bandage high and away from his body. She had wrapped the whole hand and now regretted it; she would have loved to know if his fingers were able to move, and to see their color. All was hidden beneath the bandage.

"I may be clumsy," he said, once settled, "but I don't cry myself sick."

"I am not sick and I am not crying."

It was true. The tears had stopped. She was too irritated to cry.

"Finally," he said, propping his head up with his good hand.

"You are a less than ideal patient," she said, straightening the sheet that covered his hips.

"You mean that I am less than cooperative? Good."

"I mean that if you don't rest, you won't..." She couldn't say it outright. She couldn't even speak about what would happen tomorrow. Tomorrow the wrapping would be removed. Tomorrow was the fifth day.

"Be able to rest some more?" He snorted, pushing himself into a sitting position. For all his care, she could read the pain that streaked across his face. "Come, Melania. I did not sleep so much even as a babe, and my back aches from lying here so long."

"I have never heard you complain about being in my bedchamber or on my couch," she said coolly.

Wulfred's blue eyes sparkled as he accepted her verbal challenge. "As I remember, and it has been long enough for my memory to be challenged, we did not spend much time on the couch."

"Your memory is challenged because of your own intellectual lack, not because of anything I have done."

"Exactly. You have done nothing that would mark my memory."

"You think to insult me? In front of witnesses?"

"Cuthred, turn your face to the wall," Wulfred instantly commanded, and Cuthred instantly obeyed. "Now" —he smiled, his eyes gleaming bright and hot— "do something that will mark my memory."

"A Saxon memory is a feeble thing, obviously," she said, looking askance at Cuthred.

"So obviously you must do something remarkable so that my weak Saxon mind will hold it. Can you do that, Roman?"

"I can beat you at any game, Saxon." She grinned, glad that he seemed distracted from his pain, willing to do anything to keep him smiling. "As you know."

"Prove it to me again. I have forgotten."

"Not surprising," she said, lifting the hem of her stola and placing one foot on the edge of the cot.

She lifted the hem slowly, his eyes a caress that she could almost feel. Tilting her raised knee outward, she edged the length of fabric up over calf, over knee, over thigh... and was rewarded by the blue flame in Wulfred's eyes. He could see her, exposed to him, her black curls moist and twisted. Wulfred licked his lips and groaned, falling to his back.

Melania would have grinned in victory, but she was having trouble breathing and her vision was becoming foggy. Wulfred ran his hand up her leg and she shivered. He did not stop. Did he consider himself the victor? He touched the throbbing between her legs and she swallowed her own groan, closing her eyes against the sensation. He pulled his hand away and his fingers were wet.

"See?" she whispered. "I still weep."

"These are the only tears I want from you," he whispered back, pulling her hem down reluctantly, glancing at Cuthred's back.

Melania sank onto her stool, her legs trembling. Wulfred licked his fingers and she gasped as if he'd stroked her.

"Cuthred," Wulfred said loudly, "bear witness that my wife has burned a memory into my poor brain that I will not forget."

Cuthred, turning back around, grunted in assent. He had little interest in conversation that did not directly relate to battle.

"I have won a small battle here today," Melania added, her breath easing into a normal pattern.

"No battle is small," Cuthred felt compelled to add.

"No," Wulfred smiled, "certainly not, though the adversary may be."

"I am not small," Melania said bristling. "I am of a perfect size by—"

"Yes," Wulfred interrupted, "by Roman standards. Did you ever think, little wife, that there are other standards of measure?"

"No," she said bluntly, "I never did. I have thought that I am certainly big enough for you."

While Wulfred coughed and choked on his spittle, Melania grinned pleasantly.

"I'll bring you wine, Wulfred," Cuthred offered as he quickly left the room.

"We're alone, for the moment," Wulfred said, his breath back.

"Is that significant?" she asked regally.

"I thought you might want to find out how big I can get." He leered.

"Certain parts of you are quite big enough already. Your head, for instance."

"Try another part," he suggested.

"I can't think of any. None has impressed itself on my Roman memory." She yawned.

Wulfred grabbed for her foot and jerked her off the stool where she had sat in superior complacency. She landed with a yelp just as Cuthred returned with the wine.

"Just in time, Cuthred," Wulfred said.

"For you," she muttered, rubbing her bottom. "Cuthred, make certain that Wulfred remains on that couch. Do not let him rise for any reason. Do you understand?"

"Retreating, Melania?" Wulfred grinned.

"No." She smiled sweetly. "Regrouping."

It was wonderfully satisfying to have both the last word and to leave him scowling.

The night of the fifth day eventually came. She didn't know if her stomach rolled with eagerness to have it all over or in dread that the bandage would be removed. She knew that Wulfred was only eager. But his hand pained him still and she did not think that boded well. Still, it could not be put off, and she would not have wished to prolong this agony of suspense.

Melania walked at Wulfred's side, Ceolmund and Cynric at their backs, when they entered the triclinium. She had made certain that Wulfred's hair was combed and his clothing immaculate, though he had hardly cared.

Hensa, that imbecile, was sitting in the seat of honor. Fury rose in her, overwhelming her uneasiness, and she welcomed it. It was still her villa, after all; no matter that Saxon dogs had chosen to make it their summer residence. It pleased her to think of them as guests—rude, uninvited, unwelcome guests. Guests did not take the place belonging to the host. It was entirely possible that an ignorant savage would not know that. She would give Hensa the benefit of the doubt, for Wulfred's sake.

"Please," she said, "don't feel you must give Wulfred his seat. Be at ease at your host's table, as I am sure you have been since you descended upon us so unexpectedly. Tell me, when are you leaving?"

She could hardly have been more pleasant, all things considered.

Hensa gnawed on a joint of pork, the grease lubricating his cheeks, before deigning to answer.

"You must be very certain that the wound is healing cleanly to be so bold."

"I am certain of my own innocence, no one more sure," she answered.

"Except I," Wulfred added, placing his hand around her waist.

Even now, when she tussled with his war leader, he stood by her. Melania looked up at him, her eyes unknowingly blazing forth the contents of her heart for all to see. She would have been humiliated had she known.

Dorcas, seeing love shining forth so brilliantly from Melania's eyes, stumbled in surprise, spilling wine on Hensa. He drew back a casual and brutal hand to strike her for her clumsiness when Cenred spoke from his place behind Hensa.

"Please refrain from striking my intended wife." He had clasped Hensa's hand as he said it and now slowly released his hold, having made his point.

Dorcas, obviously stunned, ran from the room, tears warring with smiles on her face. Cenred grinned at her fleeing back, looked at Melania, and shrugged expressively, his grin comic and wry. Melania grinned back. At least one thing had gone right tonight.

One thing remained, and she could feel Wulfred's anxiety to have the bandage off and the matter settled.

"May I remove the wrapping?" she asked Hensa caustically. "Or would that be a breach of your heathen ethics regarding burn victims?"

Hensa did not bleed under her attack. She decided that he was grossly thick-skinned.

"Come, Wulfred," he commanded kindly. "Come into the room where all may see the decision of the gods. And the innocence or guilt of your wife."

Wulfred did not hesitate. She did. This talk of innocence and guilt was ludicrous; she knew she was innocent, but Wulfred's hand had blazed with pain from the first moment until this. Surely, if he had healed, the pain would have lessened?

"Bring a torch to us, Theras," she instructed, stalling for time. Was there nothing she could do? Her mind was a hideous blank. And the Saxons stood waiting.

"Here is the torch, Melania, and the oil," Theras said calmly, his eyes holding hers.

The oil. Oil. Good Roman olive oil, their last ampule. Theras continued to stare at her, holding the oil out to her as he held the torch. Oil... yes,
oil
! She knew what to do with the oil.

"I am a follower of the Christ who is named Jesus," she declared. "I ask that, without removing the bandage, I be permitted to pour oil over my husband's wounds and pray to my God for him."

"A strange practice," Hensa said, putting down his meat.

"I only follow the Christ's practice, for he was known to anoint a sufferer with oil and heal him in this way. I only ask to follow the example of my God."

It had to work. Hensa had to allow it. Wulfred waited silently. She knew he was willing to allow her anything to ease her mind.

"I ask to practice nothing beyond my faith," she urged.

"It is not our custom," Hensa said, stroking his throat thoughtfully.

"What of my customs?" she raged, stepping away from Wulfred, wanting both to protect him and to throttle Hensa.

"Let her," Cenred said. "The wrapping remains intact, which is our way. What can it matter?"

"It's not as if the oil will actually heal him," Balduff said.

Wulfred stepped to her side and pulled the end of her braid lightly. "It is Melania's guilt that is being judged. Let her own god judge her."

Hensa sat thinking, his inquisitive eyes never leaving Melania's face. She stood up to his scrutiny well, meeting him look for look.

"Agreed," he finally pronounced.

She wanted to cry with relief.

"Father," she began to pray, her voice soft and strong, "I follow you." She held the ampule to her bosom, embracing it, ignoring the men surrounding her to focus her heart, mind, soul, and strength on the one true God. "Take this oil and bless it. Use it to prove your power. Use it to show these people that you are the one God, the only God. And Jesus," she begged, "use it to heal my husband, as you have healed so many. Please, Father. Show yourself in this place."

The triclinium was silent, unnaturally silent. They watched as she uncapped the ampule. Watched as she poured the heavy oil over Wulfred's bandaged hand. Wulfred's eyes widened as the oil covered his hand; the pain that had smoldered there disappeared. Tingling and invigorating warmth bathed his hand and then vanished, leaving no sensation at all. No pain.

Nothing.

The pain he had understood; this...

He clawed at the wrapping, needing to see, dreading the worst. The dirty cloth fell to the floor and he stood staring mutely at his hand.

Impossible.

His head jerked up to look at Melania. She was staring at his hand and crying softly, her tears running into her open mouth, her hand clutching his shoulder.

Impossible.

"Show us," Hensa commanded, his voice revealing his grim expectation.

Wulfred looked at Hensa, at the men surrounding him, at his silently weeping wife... and held his hand aloft with a shout of pure animal joy.

It was a perfect hand.

It was a hand that had never touched fire.

It was a hand unburned.

The tumult that unblemished hand incited would have caused a lesser house to fall to its foundation.

"Is my wife innocent?" Wulfred shouted to them all, his voice a cry of victory.

Weapons pounded against shields as his answer. The roar of approval was thunderous, and he added his cry to theirs. Melania threw herself into his arms and he felt her tears on his chest. More tears. Would the woman never stop?

He knew a way.

"You are now one of us, Melania, accepted by all, proven by the god you serve."

"One of you?" She pulled back in his arms, the din of the clamoring men ringing against their ears. "One of you? I will never be one of the unwashed."

"Perhaps not," he conceded with a smile, "but you will live among them and speak their tongue and eat their food and raise the children of your womb in the Saxon way."

She pushed against his chest and freed herself from his embrace. She glared up at him, her anger lighting a welcome fire in her golden eyes. Her tears were gone.

"Because you say it? Because I have no choice and because you do not need my consent to force me to your will? Think again, Saxon! Think long and hard and perhaps you will recall that you have never yet achieved a victory over me!" Her hands were on her hips and she vibrated like a snake about to strike. "You have not broken my spirit, though I readily admit that I have been sorely pressed with this ever-growing throng of Saxons stinking up my home, but I am as strong today as on the day you crept in—no, stronger because of the indulgent care you have shown me. I did more work as a child of eight than I do here now by your command—"