ached, and she felt tired enough to sleep for a week. When she did sleep, her slumber was troubled and she felt hot under the furs, throwing half of them off by morning.
Jonet woke her early, exclaiming over her flushed complexion and the dark circles beneath her eyes, but Alys ordered her to cease her fretting. “You only make my head ache worse,” she snapped. “Leave be. We will be gone soon, and I shall sleep better tonight, and better than ever when we reach London.”
The mist was gone when they emerged from the tent, and the sun shone brightly upon the landscape, purple and green now with heather and bracken. Wooded areas to the south, outskirts of the vast, legendary Sherwood Forest, made darker splashes of green, and although Alys had never traveled that way, she knew that beyond the forest lay Newark and Nottingham Castle, the latter long a stronghold of the Plantagenets but probably now, like the rest, in the Tudor’s hands. Nearby to the east flowed the river Trent, wide, deep, and blue, hurrying north to join the Humber. Beyond sprawled the fens and marshlands of Lincolnshire, but the sight, though she once had loved it, held no interest today.
Breakfast was only dried meat and ale, for there was no more bread, but she didn’t care. The thought of food was an unwelcome one. No doubt, she thought, her stomach still writhed at the evil she had brought upon young Ian the night before.
Thinking of him now, she gathered both her strength and her courage and went to find Sir Nicholas. “Where is Ian MacDougal?”
“In the tent I shared,” he replied briefly. “He will remain there until we are ready to strike camp.”
“Is he a prisoner?”
“No, but he is too stiff to be useful. He is still in pain, as you might guess.” He peered suddenly into her eyes and frowned. “Are you well, my lady? You do not look so.”
“I am well enough,” she retorted, conscious again of her aching head and her fatigue. “Have you sought out a priest?”
“Aye, there are two monks from the priory at Bawtry who are caring for the sick in nearby villages. One has agreed to speak the service for the dead. He will be along soon.”
“I want to see Ian MacDougal first.”
Sir Nicholas nodded. “As you wish. Tom will take you.” He shouted for his squire.
After one look at Ian, a wiry lad with russet-colored hair, who lay on his stomach with his bare back still exposed for the simple reason that he could not bear anything to touch it, Alys sent for Jonet. “Fetch your herbal salve,” she commanded. Then, to Ian, she said, “It will soothe the pain and make you better.”
He managed a wan smile. “I niver thought tae see the day when I’d bid a bonny wooman tae keep her hands from me, but i’ faith, I canna bear it. Ye musna touch me, mistress.”
But when Jonet returned, Alys ordered her and Tom to hold Ian while she smoothed the salve directly onto his wounds with her own hands. Though she was as gentle as she knew how to be, she knew how much she hurt him, and so heavy was her guilt that every gasp and groan sent a slice of pain through her own body.
“I am sorry, Ian,” she whispered with tears in her eyes. “’Twas my fault. I am as sorry as I can be.”
He protested weakly, and although she did not know whether his protest was at her words or at her touch, she did not stop until his wounds were covered with the aromatic salve.
“He can wear a shirt now,” she said to Tom. “Not armor or a jacket, but the day promises to be warm, and by nightfall he will be better able to endure the weight of heavier material.”
Tom, who had watched her every move with undisguised curiosity, went at once to fetch a shirt. When he returned, Alys stood to leave. “Sleep, Ian, if you can, till it is time to go. Riding will be unbearable if you are still exhausted.”
“Aye, mistress,” he murmured. “I thank you.”
She left, discovering when she emerged from the tent that preparations had begun for the
Jonet woke her early, exclaiming over her flushed complexion and the dark circles beneath her eyes, but Alys ordered her to cease her fretting. “You only make my head ache worse,” she snapped. “Leave be. We will be gone soon, and I shall sleep better tonight, and better than ever when we reach London.”
The mist was gone when they emerged from the tent, and the sun shone brightly upon the landscape, purple and green now with heather and bracken. Wooded areas to the south, outskirts of the vast, legendary Sherwood Forest, made darker splashes of green, and although Alys had never traveled that way, she knew that beyond the forest lay Newark and Nottingham Castle, the latter long a stronghold of the Plantagenets but probably now, like the rest, in the Tudor’s hands. Nearby to the east flowed the river Trent, wide, deep, and blue, hurrying north to join the Humber. Beyond sprawled the fens and marshlands of Lincolnshire, but the sight, though she once had loved it, held no interest today.
Breakfast was only dried meat and ale, for there was no more bread, but she didn’t care. The thought of food was an unwelcome one. No doubt, she thought, her stomach still writhed at the evil she had brought upon young Ian the night before.
Thinking of him now, she gathered both her strength and her courage and went to find Sir Nicholas. “Where is Ian MacDougal?”
“In the tent I shared,” he replied briefly. “He will remain there until we are ready to strike camp.”
“Is he a prisoner?”
“No, but he is too stiff to be useful. He is still in pain, as you might guess.” He peered suddenly into her eyes and frowned. “Are you well, my lady? You do not look so.”
“I am well enough,” she retorted, conscious again of her aching head and her fatigue. “Have you sought out a priest?”
“Aye, there are two monks from the priory at Bawtry who are caring for the sick in nearby villages. One has agreed to speak the service for the dead. He will be along soon.”
“I want to see Ian MacDougal first.”
Sir Nicholas nodded. “As you wish. Tom will take you.” He shouted for his squire.
After one look at Ian, a wiry lad with russet-colored hair, who lay on his stomach with his bare back still exposed for the simple reason that he could not bear anything to touch it, Alys sent for Jonet. “Fetch your herbal salve,” she commanded. Then, to Ian, she said, “It will soothe the pain and make you better.”
He managed a wan smile. “I niver thought tae see the day when I’d bid a bonny wooman tae keep her hands from me, but i’ faith, I canna bear it. Ye musna touch me, mistress.”
But when Jonet returned, Alys ordered her and Tom to hold Ian while she smoothed the salve directly onto his wounds with her own hands. Though she was as gentle as she knew how to be, she knew how much she hurt him, and so heavy was her guilt that every gasp and groan sent a slice of pain through her own body.
“I am sorry, Ian,” she whispered with tears in her eyes. “’Twas my fault. I am as sorry as I can be.”
He protested weakly, and although she did not know whether his protest was at her words or at her touch, she did not stop until his wounds were covered with the aromatic salve.
“He can wear a shirt now,” she said to Tom. “Not armor or a jacket, but the day promises to be warm, and by nightfall he will be better able to endure the weight of heavier material.”
Tom, who had watched her every move with undisguised curiosity, went at once to fetch a shirt. When he returned, Alys stood to leave. “Sleep, Ian, if you can, till it is time to go. Riding will be unbearable if you are still exhausted.”
“Aye, mistress,” he murmured. “I thank you.”
She left, discovering when she emerged from the tent that preparations had begun for the
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