Page 75 of Hers To Command
“Sir Ranulf is unharmed,” Mathilde said as she put the goblet to his lips. “Please, drink this.”
That wasn’t what he meant. He wanted to hear about the battle from his friend. But he couldn’t avoid drinking the draft.
“Roald…?”
The name came out in a long sigh, and his eyes closed and he didn’t hear her answer. He was dimly aware that someone was bandaging his ruined face, and then he knew no more.
THE NEXT TIMEHenry awoke, sunlight streamed into the chamber window and Mathilde was seated on a stool beside his bed, her head laid beside him, her eyes closed in slumber.
How long had he been sleeping? How long had Mathilde been there, keeping a vigil at his bedside? What had happened with Roald? Was the battle over? Had they won?
Obviously the castle had not been taken, and it wasn’t under attack right now, or Mathilde would not be here and it wouldn’t be so quiet.
Either they had won—please God!—or there was a lull in the fighting.
Since there was little he could do in either case, he allowed himself to watch Mathilde sleep. How he loved her. Needed her. But now he had nothing to offer a wife. No land, no wealth, not even a handsome face and decent shield arm. His body was ruined, and his hopes for winning land and wealth dashed. He would have to depend on the charity of others, and he wouldn’t ask a wife to live that way.
He must have made a sound, because Mathilde stirred and raised her head. She smiled—and how that broke his heart. “You’re awake. Are you in much pain?”
He was in agony, his heartache more painful than the physical blows he’d suffered. “A little,” he replied, his swollen cheek making it difficult for him to speak clearly, but at least his throat was not so dry and sore.
She started to rise, until he put his good right hand over hers to make her wait. “Not yet. No more medicine until I speak with Ranulf.”
“Then you should eat. I will fetch something—”
“Later.” For now, he just wanted to look at her. “Please?”
She returned to the stool and gave him a smile, although there were tears in her eyes. “You weren’t supposed to fight,” she reminded him. “And after what you said about Cerdic running heedlessly into battle. If you’d been killed—” Her words ended with a strangled sound, as if what she’d been about to say had choked her.
He reached up to stroke her hair. How tired she looked, how weary. She had dark circles beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in days. So much responsibility, so much trouble in her life. He would gladly have died in her service. He wished he had. “Have we defeated Roald?”
Her eyes gave him the answer.
“How long since I was wounded?” he asked before she spoke and confirmed what he already knew.
“Three days.”
“Fetch Ranulf. Please.”
She nodded and rose, but he kept hold of her hand and pressed a kiss upon it before she gave him a woeful smile and left him alone.
Disfigured as he surely was, he had better get used to being alone. Never more would he be greeted with smiling and speculative glances from the ladies. No longer would they vie for his attention or men linger to hear his stories. He would be stared at, or people would avert their eyes when he came within view.
The door opened. Ranulf, his face streaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his head from the pressure of his helmet, entered the chamber followed by Cerdic, tall and grim behind him. They both looked—and smelled—as if they hadn’t been out of their clothes in days.
He wondered why Mathilde had not returned with them. No doubt she had many other things to do.
“Rather an extreme effort to get out of a fight, isn’t it?” Ranulf remarked, giving Henry one of his cynical smiles as he stood at the end of the bed.
That was so like Ranulf, Henry felt for a moment as if nothing had changed, and for that, he was grateful. “Roald is still here?”
Ranulf nodded and grew grave. “Unfortunately.”
“Has he attacked again?”
“Not yet. It seems he’s decided to try to undermine the wall.”
That was not unexpected when there was only one wall, and the moat was dry. Roald would set his men to digging at the bottom of a portion of the wall. They’d use wooden props to support the masonry above them, until they had passed more than half its width. Then they’d fill the hole with dry branches and underbrush and set it on fire. When the props burned, the wall would collapse. “Can you stop them?”
