off, lunged to her feet, and retreated as far as the links allowed—three short strides from the bed.
Christophe’s eyes, large in the torchlight, offered an apology, but she looked away. Though certain he had been his brother’s unwilling pawn, the trust she had placed in him had proved beyond detrimental to the Saxons awaiting death on the morrow. And looking upon him was too much a reminder of that.
She heard his pained sigh, but kept her gaze averted.
“You must not move overly much, Maxen,” Christophe warned. “If there is any chance of preventing the infection from going to rot, these stitches must stay.” No response. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard,” Pendery mumbled.
“Good. The herbal I am giving you should ease the pain and heat. Can you lift your head?”
Pendery complied, a frown his only reaction to the medicinal pressed upon him.
“Now sleep,” Christophe said and retrieved the torch from the sconce and motioned for Theta to precede him from the chamber.
“I will keep watch over him,” Sir Guy said.
Before Christophe could reply, Pendery said, “I have no need of a keeper. Leave me to my rest.”
“But Rhiannyn—”
“A mere woman. Go!”
Sir Guy threw her a warning look, and he and the others departed.
For long minutes, Rhiannyn did not move where she stood back from the bed. Though the dim light cast by the torches in the hall revealed the shape of Pendery, she could not know if he slept. If he did, she had no wish to awaken him.
When she finally moved—but a slight shifting of her weight—the chain rattled. Pendery did not react, but as she began to relax, a clatter not of her making sounded, and the chain grew taut.
She resisted, the flesh of her ankle chafing from the strain of the iron, but Pendery’s strength in sickness remained greater than hers, and she was reeled toward the bed. Lest he tried to pull her onto it, she dropped to her knees when she came alongside. And there he was, his shadowed face above hers where he had levered onto an elbow.
She thrust her hands against his chest, and as he dropped onto his back, she registered the damp and heat of his body.
“You burn,” she whispered.
She heard his labored breathing, and after some moments, he said in her language, “Most bright. Think you I approach…hell?”
Perhaps he did, for what hope had he of living if the fever did not soon break? How long before the fire consumed him?
“You wished death upon me,” he slurred, “but does it take me, ’twill not save your people. Only I and…the one you protect, can do that.”
Remembrance of the words she had tossed at him jolted her. Was it possible—
Nay, they were but words. As he himself had told in the guise of a monk, no power did she possess to bring them to fruition. If he died, the blame would rest with her, though not because she had wished it on him. No matter his purpose in rescuing her from Dora, he had taken a dagger to save her.
An ache at her center, she touched his shoulder. “Sleep, Maxen.”
“Lights,” he said low. “And colors. Never have I seen so many.”
Did the fever worsen? Might he succumb this night?
She told herself it did not matter. But it did.
A short time later, his breathing deepened. Slowly, and with as little rattling of chain as possible, she lowered herself. Sitting on the hard floor with her back against the bed, she joined her hands before her face and began praying for something it seemed God alone could provide—peace for England and no more deaths upon her conscience. Including that of Maxen Pendery.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The convulsing of Maxen’s body and the rattle of chain pulled Rhiannyn from sleep. She straightened from where she had slumped against the bed and rose to her knees.
The dawn filtering through the windows set high in the wall confirmed the fever had not abated. Maxen was flushed, and so heavily perspiring that moisture beaded on his face, and his undertunic clung like a second
Christophe’s eyes, large in the torchlight, offered an apology, but she looked away. Though certain he had been his brother’s unwilling pawn, the trust she had placed in him had proved beyond detrimental to the Saxons awaiting death on the morrow. And looking upon him was too much a reminder of that.
She heard his pained sigh, but kept her gaze averted.
“You must not move overly much, Maxen,” Christophe warned. “If there is any chance of preventing the infection from going to rot, these stitches must stay.” No response. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard,” Pendery mumbled.
“Good. The herbal I am giving you should ease the pain and heat. Can you lift your head?”
Pendery complied, a frown his only reaction to the medicinal pressed upon him.
“Now sleep,” Christophe said and retrieved the torch from the sconce and motioned for Theta to precede him from the chamber.
“I will keep watch over him,” Sir Guy said.
Before Christophe could reply, Pendery said, “I have no need of a keeper. Leave me to my rest.”
“But Rhiannyn—”
“A mere woman. Go!”
Sir Guy threw her a warning look, and he and the others departed.
For long minutes, Rhiannyn did not move where she stood back from the bed. Though the dim light cast by the torches in the hall revealed the shape of Pendery, she could not know if he slept. If he did, she had no wish to awaken him.
When she finally moved—but a slight shifting of her weight—the chain rattled. Pendery did not react, but as she began to relax, a clatter not of her making sounded, and the chain grew taut.
She resisted, the flesh of her ankle chafing from the strain of the iron, but Pendery’s strength in sickness remained greater than hers, and she was reeled toward the bed. Lest he tried to pull her onto it, she dropped to her knees when she came alongside. And there he was, his shadowed face above hers where he had levered onto an elbow.
She thrust her hands against his chest, and as he dropped onto his back, she registered the damp and heat of his body.
“You burn,” she whispered.
She heard his labored breathing, and after some moments, he said in her language, “Most bright. Think you I approach…hell?”
Perhaps he did, for what hope had he of living if the fever did not soon break? How long before the fire consumed him?
“You wished death upon me,” he slurred, “but does it take me, ’twill not save your people. Only I and…the one you protect, can do that.”
Remembrance of the words she had tossed at him jolted her. Was it possible—
Nay, they were but words. As he himself had told in the guise of a monk, no power did she possess to bring them to fruition. If he died, the blame would rest with her, though not because she had wished it on him. No matter his purpose in rescuing her from Dora, he had taken a dagger to save her.
An ache at her center, she touched his shoulder. “Sleep, Maxen.”
“Lights,” he said low. “And colors. Never have I seen so many.”
Did the fever worsen? Might he succumb this night?
She told herself it did not matter. But it did.
A short time later, his breathing deepened. Slowly, and with as little rattling of chain as possible, she lowered herself. Sitting on the hard floor with her back against the bed, she joined her hands before her face and began praying for something it seemed God alone could provide—peace for England and no more deaths upon her conscience. Including that of Maxen Pendery.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The convulsing of Maxen’s body and the rattle of chain pulled Rhiannyn from sleep. She straightened from where she had slumped against the bed and rose to her knees.
The dawn filtering through the windows set high in the wall confirmed the fever had not abated. Maxen was flushed, and so heavily perspiring that moisture beaded on his face, and his undertunic clung like a second
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