the Saxons—and Rhiannyn—stand triumphant over his grave?
He dropped his feet to the floor and stood, grabbed the bedpost, and staggered against it. Hating himself for his weakness, he bellowed for Christophe.
Beyond the screen arose the sounds of grunting and grumbling, the screech of benches and hurried footsteps.
“My lord?” Guy asked as he came around the screen carrying a torch.
“Where is Christophe?” Maxen demanded.
“Likely tending the Saxons’ injuries.” Guy’s brow furrowed. “What has happened? Are you ill?”
“Send for him!”
Guy turned to the half dozen knights who had followed him around the screen. He repeated his lord’s command to summon Christophe, and the gathering thinned by the two who hastened away.
Maxen, knowing he had revealed too much of his ailing body to knights who were not yet fully under his control, attempted to level his gaze on their wavering faces. “Slaver elsewhere,” he said. “All but Sir Guy!”
They scattered.
As Guy fit the torch in a wall sconce, Maxen released the bedpost and collapsed on the bed.
Christophe must have run with all that was in his lame body, for he soon appeared, the knights sent for him following—Sir Ancel and another Maxen could not put a name to, as well as the servant, Theta.
“There is infection,” Maxen spoke in the language of the Saxons.
Christophe laid a hand to his brother’s arm. “God’s rood! A fire burns in you.”
“Then put it out.”
“I…” Christophe shook his head. “I can but try.”
“Then do!”
Christophe quickly removed the bandages, revealing the diseased flesh. “Aye, infection,” he murmured. “Some of the stitches are torn, and there is much—”
“What say you?” Sir Ancel demanded in Norman French.
“Is he dying?” the other knight asked.
Christophe looked over his shoulder. “It—”
“Do not interpret for them,” Maxen snapped, then ordered the two knights from his chamber.
Though the one complied immediately, Sir Ancel lingered.
Several times, Maxen had glimpsed challenge in the man’s eyes. But this time, it was wide open.
“My lord.” Sir Ancel dipped his head in mock deference, pivoted, and made a leisurely exit.
“I may have to kill him,” Maxen murmured.
“Theta,” Christophe called, “bring my bag.”
Hips swaying, the woman approached and set it on the mattress.
“Guy,” Maxen called.
The knight circled the bed to avoid interfering with Christophe’s ministrations. “My lord?”
“Did you find him?”
Confusion furrowed Guy’s brow before understanding smoothed it. “Regrets, but the Saxon you seek is not amongst those captured in Andredeswald.”
Then the witch’s man had either escaped again or met his death.
Maxen lowered his lids, but feeling himself drift out of consciousness, opened them and called, “Guy! Bring Rhiannyn to me.”
Christophe’s head jerked up. “For what?”
“And a chain,” Maxen continued, “an iron at each end.”
“What do you intend?” Christophe demanded.
“Do it now, Guy!”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What do you?” Christophe asked again following the knight’s departure.
Maxen pushed a hand up his damp brow and plunged quavering fingers into his hair. “So hot. As if I am in hell.”
Christophe leaned near. “You are not going to tell me?”
“You will see.”
“If you hurt her—”
Maxen bolted to sitting, forcing Christophe to step back. “You will do what? Allow me to die?”
Christophe’s eyes widened, and his mouth silently worked before words emerged. “ Non , Maxen! You are my brother. I but wish to know your intentions.”
Maxen dropped back upon the mattress. “You shall,” he rasped. “Soon.”
Rhiannyn did not turn from the cloudy night she stared into. Pendery’s coming was of no surprise. She had heard the stirring within the bailey, the talk upon the walls, the scrape of boots on steps, and the ring of metal on metal. He came for her, though why he wore
He dropped his feet to the floor and stood, grabbed the bedpost, and staggered against it. Hating himself for his weakness, he bellowed for Christophe.
Beyond the screen arose the sounds of grunting and grumbling, the screech of benches and hurried footsteps.
“My lord?” Guy asked as he came around the screen carrying a torch.
“Where is Christophe?” Maxen demanded.
“Likely tending the Saxons’ injuries.” Guy’s brow furrowed. “What has happened? Are you ill?”
“Send for him!”
Guy turned to the half dozen knights who had followed him around the screen. He repeated his lord’s command to summon Christophe, and the gathering thinned by the two who hastened away.
Maxen, knowing he had revealed too much of his ailing body to knights who were not yet fully under his control, attempted to level his gaze on their wavering faces. “Slaver elsewhere,” he said. “All but Sir Guy!”
They scattered.
As Guy fit the torch in a wall sconce, Maxen released the bedpost and collapsed on the bed.
Christophe must have run with all that was in his lame body, for he soon appeared, the knights sent for him following—Sir Ancel and another Maxen could not put a name to, as well as the servant, Theta.
“There is infection,” Maxen spoke in the language of the Saxons.
Christophe laid a hand to his brother’s arm. “God’s rood! A fire burns in you.”
“Then put it out.”
“I…” Christophe shook his head. “I can but try.”
“Then do!”
Christophe quickly removed the bandages, revealing the diseased flesh. “Aye, infection,” he murmured. “Some of the stitches are torn, and there is much—”
“What say you?” Sir Ancel demanded in Norman French.
“Is he dying?” the other knight asked.
Christophe looked over his shoulder. “It—”
“Do not interpret for them,” Maxen snapped, then ordered the two knights from his chamber.
Though the one complied immediately, Sir Ancel lingered.
Several times, Maxen had glimpsed challenge in the man’s eyes. But this time, it was wide open.
“My lord.” Sir Ancel dipped his head in mock deference, pivoted, and made a leisurely exit.
“I may have to kill him,” Maxen murmured.
“Theta,” Christophe called, “bring my bag.”
Hips swaying, the woman approached and set it on the mattress.
“Guy,” Maxen called.
The knight circled the bed to avoid interfering with Christophe’s ministrations. “My lord?”
“Did you find him?”
Confusion furrowed Guy’s brow before understanding smoothed it. “Regrets, but the Saxon you seek is not amongst those captured in Andredeswald.”
Then the witch’s man had either escaped again or met his death.
Maxen lowered his lids, but feeling himself drift out of consciousness, opened them and called, “Guy! Bring Rhiannyn to me.”
Christophe’s head jerked up. “For what?”
“And a chain,” Maxen continued, “an iron at each end.”
“What do you intend?” Christophe demanded.
“Do it now, Guy!”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What do you?” Christophe asked again following the knight’s departure.
Maxen pushed a hand up his damp brow and plunged quavering fingers into his hair. “So hot. As if I am in hell.”
Christophe leaned near. “You are not going to tell me?”
“You will see.”
“If you hurt her—”
Maxen bolted to sitting, forcing Christophe to step back. “You will do what? Allow me to die?”
Christophe’s eyes widened, and his mouth silently worked before words emerged. “ Non , Maxen! You are my brother. I but wish to know your intentions.”
Maxen dropped back upon the mattress. “You shall,” he rasped. “Soon.”
Rhiannyn did not turn from the cloudy night she stared into. Pendery’s coming was of no surprise. She had heard the stirring within the bailey, the talk upon the walls, the scrape of boots on steps, and the ring of metal on metal. He came for her, though why he wore
Similar Books
