Read Online A Pitiful Remnant by Judith B. Glad - Free Book Online
Authors: Judith B. Glad
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someone was drawing a breath to sh--
"Hold! Hold the line, damn you!"
Something struck her a great blow across the chest, driving
the breath from her.
"Get back. I'll kill any man who runs."
As she gasped for air, the covers were pulled away. Quickly
she rolled to the side, nearly fell off the edge of the mattress.
"Here they come. Stand, men! Stand for England!"
Fumbling on the small table beside the bed, she found the
candlestick, but where-- Ah, there was the china box holding spills.
She struck steel to flint again and again, as the shouts slowly died
into inchoate mumblings. Finally a spill caught and she lit the
candle.
Her husband was sitting straight upright, his face buried in
his hands, sobbing hoarsely. She scrambled up the steps and into the
bed, for the first time wishing it were less wide, less roomy.
Tentatively she laid a hand on his shoulder, unsure if he would
recognize her as a friend. Surely he had been in the midst of a
remembered battle.
He stiffened, but did not otherwise react. Slowly she stroked
across his shoulders, gradually deepening the strokes until they
became soothing rubs. After a few minutes, when she felt him relax
minutely, she changed the motion of her hand, moving it up and
down the line of his spine.
She murmured soothingly, not words but the sorts of sounds
she'd have made to a terrified horse, an injured dog.
"They are dead." His whisper was so soft she barely heard
the first words. "All those brave boys. All dead. Damn the French.
Damn them to hell!" The last sentence was a shout, echoing around
the room.
Lisanor shared his rage, having wanted to speak the same
syllables more than once. Yet how could she pretend that her losses
to the wars were anything compared to what they must have cost
this man? She slid her arms around him and pulled him close. For a
long time she held him, while the candle guttered and his tears
dampened her nightrail.
Eventually he slept. She did not, for she had much to
consider, not the least of which was that marriage might be more
than an agreement for conservation of property.
* * * *
On the fourth morning since her marriage, Nettles emerged
from the bathing room, beaming. "I'd'a not believed it, m'lady. His
ar-- Ahem. His wound is healing clean."
Lisanor looked up from the letter she was writing. "I am not
surprised. Hot salt water is often efficacious in drawing pus from
deep wounds." That was as near to saying I told you so as she
felt it politic to go. "Having a facility in which his lordship can
immerse his wound is far better than merely applying hot salt
compresses. He is fortunate that you were diligent in keeping his
dressings clean and that the surgeon was able to remove all foreign
matter from his wound."
If possible, the man's smile widened. "I done me best,
m'lady."
"And his lordship is aware of it. It is largely due to your care
of him that he is recovering without further complications." She
turned back to her letter, hoping he would go away and stop looking
at her as if she had performed a miracle.
Alanna had writ that Uncle Percival had returned and was
attempting to order Tumos Hakon around. He'd been unsuccessful,
but Alanna suspected that her uncle was going behind Tumos' back
and dealing directly with some of the customers for Ackerslea dairy
products. He had brought his nephew with him, and Darius was
attempting to court Alanna.
She read one paragraph again. He frightens me, sister. I
believe he will use force if charm fails him. I have taken to locking my
door at night, and keeping Tamsen with me at all times during the
day.
Tamsen was a force to be reckoned with, having been first
Lisanor's nurse, and then Alanna's. She was as protective of them
both as any mother hen, and would have come to Guillemot had not
Lisanor pointed out that Alanna would need her more. Tapping the
feather against her lips, she pondered.
A characteristic knock signaled Nettles' return.
"Enter." She paid him no attention as he crossed the
"Hold! Hold the line, damn you!"
Something struck her a great blow across the chest, driving
the breath from her.
"Get back. I'll kill any man who runs."
As she gasped for air, the covers were pulled away. Quickly
she rolled to the side, nearly fell off the edge of the mattress.
"Here they come. Stand, men! Stand for England!"
Fumbling on the small table beside the bed, she found the
candlestick, but where-- Ah, there was the china box holding spills.
She struck steel to flint again and again, as the shouts slowly died
into inchoate mumblings. Finally a spill caught and she lit the
candle.
Her husband was sitting straight upright, his face buried in
his hands, sobbing hoarsely. She scrambled up the steps and into the
bed, for the first time wishing it were less wide, less roomy.
Tentatively she laid a hand on his shoulder, unsure if he would
recognize her as a friend. Surely he had been in the midst of a
remembered battle.
He stiffened, but did not otherwise react. Slowly she stroked
across his shoulders, gradually deepening the strokes until they
became soothing rubs. After a few minutes, when she felt him relax
minutely, she changed the motion of her hand, moving it up and
down the line of his spine.
She murmured soothingly, not words but the sorts of sounds
she'd have made to a terrified horse, an injured dog.
"They are dead." His whisper was so soft she barely heard
the first words. "All those brave boys. All dead. Damn the French.
Damn them to hell!" The last sentence was a shout, echoing around
the room.
Lisanor shared his rage, having wanted to speak the same
syllables more than once. Yet how could she pretend that her losses
to the wars were anything compared to what they must have cost
this man? She slid her arms around him and pulled him close. For a
long time she held him, while the candle guttered and his tears
dampened her nightrail.
Eventually he slept. She did not, for she had much to
consider, not the least of which was that marriage might be more
than an agreement for conservation of property.
* * * *
On the fourth morning since her marriage, Nettles emerged
from the bathing room, beaming. "I'd'a not believed it, m'lady. His
ar-- Ahem. His wound is healing clean."
Lisanor looked up from the letter she was writing. "I am not
surprised. Hot salt water is often efficacious in drawing pus from
deep wounds." That was as near to saying I told you so as she
felt it politic to go. "Having a facility in which his lordship can
immerse his wound is far better than merely applying hot salt
compresses. He is fortunate that you were diligent in keeping his
dressings clean and that the surgeon was able to remove all foreign
matter from his wound."
If possible, the man's smile widened. "I done me best,
m'lady."
"And his lordship is aware of it. It is largely due to your care
of him that he is recovering without further complications." She
turned back to her letter, hoping he would go away and stop looking
at her as if she had performed a miracle.
Alanna had writ that Uncle Percival had returned and was
attempting to order Tumos Hakon around. He'd been unsuccessful,
but Alanna suspected that her uncle was going behind Tumos' back
and dealing directly with some of the customers for Ackerslea dairy
products. He had brought his nephew with him, and Darius was
attempting to court Alanna.
She read one paragraph again. He frightens me, sister. I
believe he will use force if charm fails him. I have taken to locking my
door at night, and keeping Tamsen with me at all times during the
day.
Tamsen was a force to be reckoned with, having been first
Lisanor's nurse, and then Alanna's. She was as protective of them
both as any mother hen, and would have come to Guillemot had not
Lisanor pointed out that Alanna would need her more. Tapping the
feather against her lips, she pondered.
A characteristic knock signaled Nettles' return.
"Enter." She paid him no attention as he crossed the
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