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Authors: The Outlaw Knight
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was sick and in need of tending?” She spoke the Norman French of the court with a lilting cadence that curled around the words and made them seductive. Her eyes were a clear, sharp blue and the color of her lips matched the deep rose of her gown. Advancing to the pallet, she looked down at the supine Theobald.
Fulke swallowed. “He has the seasickness but it won’t abate. Who are you?” The question blurted out of him like a splash of ink on a clean vellum page. All the blood in his body seemed to have left his head and traveled rapidly south.
As if aware of his discomfort, she gave him a knowing smile: a little scornful, gently amused. “My name is Oonagh FitzGerald, widow of Robert FitzGerald of Docionell in Limerick. Since my husband died in the winter, my home has been here, and since I also have some small knowledge of healing, it has become my duty to tend the unwell.” She wrapped one of her braids around her forefinger and considered him. “And who are you?”
Fulke managed a clumsy bow. “Fulke FitzWarin of Lambourn and Whittington, squire to Lord Walter.” She looked far too young to be a widow. Her skin bore the flawless bloom and rounded outline that suggested she was not much older than he was. He wondered if he should offer condolences on her husband’s death, then decided it was better not to say anything.
“And you did not suffer the seasickness yourself, Fulke FitzWarin?” Approaching the bed, she laid her hand across Theobald’s brow and gave him a reassuring murmur.
“No, my lady, or only a little at the beginning.”
“You are one of the fortunate ones then, like your liege lord the Prince.”
“You have met him, my lady?” Fulke spoke without inflection.
“Indeed I have.” Her own voice was neutral. “He was in the hall when I was asked to attend your master.” Reaching into the satchel at her shoulder, she withdrew a small linen pouch. “Give him as much as will cover your thumbnail dissolved in hot wine. One cup now, another at compline, and a third in the morning.”
Theobald weakly lifted his head. “How soon can I rise from my bed?”
“As soon as the room ceases to sway and you stop vomiting,” she said. “Although I think you could have answered that for yourself,” she added as Theobald laid back, his color ashen and his throat working as he swallowed a retch.
“I feel like a puling infant,” he groaned.
“Aye, well, that is the state of man from cradle to grave.” Her smile took the sting from the words. “You must eat only dry bread and light broth for two days after you rise, lest the purging begins again.”
Fulke opened the pouch, sniffed the contents, and turned aside to sneeze.
“Mint and ginger, not suitable for inhaling,” she laughed and went to the door. Another word in Gaelic brought the massive dog to its feet.
“How much does it eat?” Fulke asked.
Oonagh gave him a teasing look. “That depends on how hungry she is, and if anyone has been foolhardy enough to take liberties.” She gestured. “Stroke her if you wish. She won’t bite unless I say.”
Fulke was fond of dogs. Indeed, he was more afraid that Oonagh would bite him than the bitch. He went forward confidently, let the dog sniff his hand and swipe it with a long, pink tongue. He scratched her beneath the chin and braced his knees as she leaned on him, an expression of canine bliss in her eyes.
Oonagh watched him thoughtfully. “You have gentle hands,” she said.
Fulke felt his ears begin to burn. “I don’t know about that, my lady.”
“I do. There are not many men thus gifted.” Another command in Gaelic brought the dog from her ecstatic trance to instant obedience and she followed her mistress.
“Doubtless I will see you again, Fulke FitzWarin,” Oonagh FitzGerald said and, with a brief nod, went on her way.
Moments later there was a warning snarl and the sound of her voice sharply raised as she called the bitch to heel. Fulke ran out and met Jean on his
Fulke swallowed. “He has the seasickness but it won’t abate. Who are you?” The question blurted out of him like a splash of ink on a clean vellum page. All the blood in his body seemed to have left his head and traveled rapidly south.
As if aware of his discomfort, she gave him a knowing smile: a little scornful, gently amused. “My name is Oonagh FitzGerald, widow of Robert FitzGerald of Docionell in Limerick. Since my husband died in the winter, my home has been here, and since I also have some small knowledge of healing, it has become my duty to tend the unwell.” She wrapped one of her braids around her forefinger and considered him. “And who are you?”
Fulke managed a clumsy bow. “Fulke FitzWarin of Lambourn and Whittington, squire to Lord Walter.” She looked far too young to be a widow. Her skin bore the flawless bloom and rounded outline that suggested she was not much older than he was. He wondered if he should offer condolences on her husband’s death, then decided it was better not to say anything.
“And you did not suffer the seasickness yourself, Fulke FitzWarin?” Approaching the bed, she laid her hand across Theobald’s brow and gave him a reassuring murmur.
“No, my lady, or only a little at the beginning.”
“You are one of the fortunate ones then, like your liege lord the Prince.”
“You have met him, my lady?” Fulke spoke without inflection.
“Indeed I have.” Her own voice was neutral. “He was in the hall when I was asked to attend your master.” Reaching into the satchel at her shoulder, she withdrew a small linen pouch. “Give him as much as will cover your thumbnail dissolved in hot wine. One cup now, another at compline, and a third in the morning.”
Theobald weakly lifted his head. “How soon can I rise from my bed?”
“As soon as the room ceases to sway and you stop vomiting,” she said. “Although I think you could have answered that for yourself,” she added as Theobald laid back, his color ashen and his throat working as he swallowed a retch.
“I feel like a puling infant,” he groaned.
“Aye, well, that is the state of man from cradle to grave.” Her smile took the sting from the words. “You must eat only dry bread and light broth for two days after you rise, lest the purging begins again.”
Fulke opened the pouch, sniffed the contents, and turned aside to sneeze.
“Mint and ginger, not suitable for inhaling,” she laughed and went to the door. Another word in Gaelic brought the massive dog to its feet.
“How much does it eat?” Fulke asked.
Oonagh gave him a teasing look. “That depends on how hungry she is, and if anyone has been foolhardy enough to take liberties.” She gestured. “Stroke her if you wish. She won’t bite unless I say.”
Fulke was fond of dogs. Indeed, he was more afraid that Oonagh would bite him than the bitch. He went forward confidently, let the dog sniff his hand and swipe it with a long, pink tongue. He scratched her beneath the chin and braced his knees as she leaned on him, an expression of canine bliss in her eyes.
Oonagh watched him thoughtfully. “You have gentle hands,” she said.
Fulke felt his ears begin to burn. “I don’t know about that, my lady.”
“I do. There are not many men thus gifted.” Another command in Gaelic brought the dog from her ecstatic trance to instant obedience and she followed her mistress.
“Doubtless I will see you again, Fulke FitzWarin,” Oonagh FitzGerald said and, with a brief nod, went on her way.
Moments later there was a warning snarl and the sound of her voice sharply raised as she called the bitch to heel. Fulke ran out and met Jean on his
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