Page 34 of The Unwilling Bride
Beatrice was surely safe from Sir Ranulf, too. Even if he had nefarious designs on her—which Constance doubted—any man who disparaged the tales of the Round Table would never get far with her cousin.
Constance wondered if Merrick had ever had a mistress, but surely if Beatrice knew, she would have told her already. She would consider that information Constance should know. Since she hadn’t, she either didn’t know or thought he must not.
A clatter of hooves and shouting male voices arose from the courtyard. Beatrice immediately jumped to her feet, smiling with delight. “They’re back!”
Constance pushed her embroidery frame to one side and likewise rose, albeit a bit more sedately. “They weren’t gone very long. I hope nothing—”
The doors to the hall burst open and Merrick, his hair disheveled, his face a mask of stern annoyance, came striding into the hall, his right sleeve covered in blood, with more dripping onto the rushes as he passed.
“What happened?” Constance cried as she ran toward him while the rest of the hunting party came into the hall. “Were you attacked?”
“No,” Merrick snapped as he continued past her without so much as a pause or a glance in her direction.
A hunting accident, then—perhaps from the tusks of an enraged boar. “I’ll fetch my medicines to tend to your wound.”
That brought him to an abrupt halt. “No.” He turned eyes as fierce as any angry beast’s onto her. “I’ll tend to my wound myself,” he growled before going on his way.
As Constance stood motionless, stunned by his harsh reply, Henry appeared at her side. “We cornered a boar, and in the excitement, Talek struck Merrick’s arm with his spear. I don’t think the wound’s serious. You wouldn’t, either, if you’d heard Merrick shouting for his horse and cursing Talek and anybody else who got within five feet of him.”
Even while she told herself that men like Henry had been in enough tournaments to know when a wound was serious or not, she closed her eyes and remembered another man’s shouts and curses.
Henry lightly touched her arm. “Don’t be upset, my lady. I assure you, he’s not badly hurt and he’s always like this when he’s sick or injured. He hates having people fuss over him.”
“Henry’s quite right,” Ranulf confirmed. “That’s his way. But he’s no fool. If he thought himself seriously hurt, he would seek a leech.”
Beatrice stepped forward shakily. “You’re bleeding, too,” she said, pointing at Sir Ranulf’s blood-spattered tunic.
“That’s the boar’s blood,” he replied dismissively before addressing Constance again. “My lady, if there’s a leech in the castle, you could try summoning him, although that would be more for your comfort than for any good it might do Merrick. He’ll likely just send the fellow away.”
Constance was too aware of her duty as chatelaine to leave the care of a wounded man—any wounded man—to fate or the dubious skill of a leech.
And there was another reason she wouldn’t leave Merrick to nurse his wound alone. She’d spent most of her life tiptoeing around one man’s moods. She wasn’t going to do so again.
“I’ll tend to Lord Merrick’s injury,” she said, her tone implying that she would whether he liked it or not, which was precisely what she meant.
“He’s very angry, Constance,” Lord Algernon said warily, “and if his friends think he’s better left alone—”
“It’s my duty to see that my guests receive the best care possible.”
The garrison commander, paler than she’d ever seen him, hurried up to her. “Please make sure he understands it was an accident, my lady,” Talek pleaded. “I was aiming for the boar and he moved and got in my way.”
Constance put a comforting hand on the faithful soldier’s shoulder. “I will. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
In time, and if he truly wasn’t like his father, who held a grudge over the smallest thing for months.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kiernan and hisfather enter the hall. Kiernan immediately started toward her, but she ignored him.
At least he hadn’t been the one to wound Merrick, although that kind of underhanded attack wouldn’t be Kiernan’s way. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, he’d probably challenge Merrick to combat. He would surely consider anything less the act of a coward.
Leaving the hall before Kiernan reached her, Constance hurried to her bedchamber to fetch her medicines, including fine needles and thread for stitching wounds. From a chest near her bed she filled a basket with clean linen, some already in strips for bandaging, as well as a sicklewort ointment that helped stop bleeding and took away pain.
An anxious Beatrice hovered in the doorway. “Is there anything I can do?”
This might be a good chance for her cousin to learn a little about caring for wounded men. “Have a servant fetch some hot water from the kitchen and bring it to Lord Merrick’s chamber right away.”
With a nod, Beatrice ran off.
When Constance strode back through the hall, she noted that Henry, Ranulf and Lord Algernon were already enjoying wine by the hearth, even though they were still in their dirty, bloody and mud-bespattered clothes. Sir Jowan was in the courtyard, shouting something about his horse; Kiernan was nowhere to be seen.
