Page 56 of Warrior Queen
Taking a deep breath, I reached for the buckle of his sword belt, to undo it.
His hand came down on mine in a vice-like grip, hot and rough.
I raised my eyes to his face. At least now he was looking at me. Interacting. But the desperate pain in his eyes nearly sent me reeling backward.
I bit my lip. “You need to get undressed. Once you’re clean you’ll feel better.” That I was spouting lies wrenched my heart. How could anyone who’d taken part in that bloodbath, that maelstrom of mud and death I’d watched from the walls, ever feel better? I didn’t think I could myself, and I’d only viewed it from afar.
He removed my hand, and both his own went to his belt. They were shaking.
Compressing my lips, I stood back as he finally got the buckle undone, letting belt and sword clatter to the mosaic tiles.
“Let me help you with your mail shirt.” My own voice quavered. The sight of him like this tore at my heart, bringing tears perilously close to being shed. Tears of both sympathy and shock. This was my bold, brave husband standing here, hands shaking so much he could hardly undress himself.
He remained silent as I pulled his mail shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor beside his sword, in a muddy heap. Underneath, a second belt secured his tunic at the waist. I waited while with still shaking hands he fumbled with the buckle, taking several attempts to get it unfastened. That, too, fell to the ground.
His tunic, at least, was cleaner than the rest of him as it had been covered by the mail shirt, but the cuffs and neckline were stiff with a mixture of mud and blood, and beneath the tunic so were the extremities of his cream undershirt. With still trembling fingers, he undid the laces at his neck, and I helped him out of the tunic.
“Sit down on this chair,” I said, common sense keeping my voice gentle and low, as though I were speaking to a child.
He sat. Like an automaton.
I knelt and pulled off his filthy boots. He must have fought on foot at some point for them to have got this badly caked with mud. The question rose again in my head. Where was Llamrei? The horse on which he’d returned had been bay beneath the dirt, not white.
I had to ask. “Where’s Llamrei?”
“Gone.”
My heart twisted for him. He’d loved that horse.Allthe warriors loved their horses– some more than they loved their wives. A warrior’s horse was part of him: his partner, his servant, his faithful friend. To lose that horse would be as big a wrench for him as losing a child, almost.
And yet I sensed that was not the reason for his– what was it? Shellshock? Battle fatigue? PTSD? Surely possible even in a time when no explosives existed. But he was a veteran of many battles– so what had made this one so different? The urge to enfold him in my arms and kiss away his horror nearly overwhelmed me, but the same sense that told me it wasn’t caused by the loss of his horse, told me to bide my time.
I touched his shoulder. “Let’s get your shirt off.”
He let me pull it off. Underneath, his skin was marked with red blotches across his chest and back and down his arms, that by tomorrow would be purpling. A sword fight doesn’t just result in cuts or stab wounds– blows from the flat of a sword, from a spear butt, or from the edge of an opponent’s shield, could leave a warrior black and blue. I’d seen him bruised so many times. But never like this after a battle– shut off, silent, brooding.
“Braccae. You’ll need to stand up.”
He did as he was told, but brushed my hand away as I went to undo the lacing. His hands still shook. He heaved a deep breath, fisted his hands, stretched his fingers, tried again. The second time, he got the laces undone and slid out of his leather braccae to stand naked before me.
“Into the bath.”
In silence, he stepped into the short, linen-lined tub and sat down in the hot water, knees bent. I picked up the sponge the servants had left and sluiced the water over him, starting with his head and filthy, mud-encrusted hair. Fresh blood ran down his face where I knocked the newly formed scab from a cut, and a new worry about mud in wounds and the possibility of tetanus raised its ugly head. I shoved it away. No time to think of that right now, and nothing I could do about it, anyway.
He sat still, shoulders hunched, as I washed him clean of the mud, and the blood that mostly wasn’t his, thank goodness. Apart from the bruises, he only seemed to have the one cut high in his hairline on his forehead, not bad enough to stitch. As I worked, he sat with his hands clasped together– to still the shaking? I watched him closely, afraid of what I was seeing, the fleeting relief at having him back safely, vanished.
At last, when the water had turned a murky brown, he stepped out to stand dripping on the mosaic floor. As if he were a child, like Amhar, I took a rough linen cloth and toweled him dry, while he stood as though not even noticing my presence.
That something terrible had happened, I didn’t have to ask. Something worse than just the battle. He hadn’t said a word since his apology to Ystradwel.
“Bed,” I said, my hand on his naked, still damp back, pushing him toward it. He sat down on the edge. I pushed him again, and he lay down, hands fisted by his sides, staring up at the ceiling. Instinct told me what he needed was the familiar, and here in Ebrauc that was me. I took off my tunic and boots and lay down beside him in just my undershirt and braccae.
He lay still, staring without seeing.
I waited in silence for a while, afraid to touch him, perhaps hoping he’d close his eyes and sleep, but he didn’t. Eventually, I took the plunge. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
He blinked. Were those tears sparkling on his thick dark lashes? I’d never seen him cry.
I put my hand on his balled fist. “Talking can help, you know.”
