Page 53 of Hers To Command
“Until later, then,” Henry replied. “Now come along, my friends. We have a battle to plan, and I daresay Roald will attack upon the morrow. The man lacks any kind of patience—or intelligence.”
THAT NIGHT,Mathilde stood by the window in her bedchamber, looking at the surrounding land and the small, bright fires in the enemy’s camp. Some of the buildings in the village had obviously been occupied, and occasionally raucous voices shouting and singing told her that they’d found the tavern and the wine and ale the tavern keeper had optimistically left behind.
She wondered if the tavern keeper heard them, too, and was sorry he’d abandoned his stock. On the other hand, he’d probably heard about the nature of Roald’s army and wasn’t sorry he was safely in the castle. Word had spread from the soldiers on the wall to the villagers inside of the type of force in control of the village, and she had had to reassure them all that neither Sir Henry, nor Cerdic, nor Sir Ranulf thought this fortress could be conquered.
It had been easy to say that at the time, and she’d believed it, but now, when she stood awake and alone in the dark, with her slumbering sister nearby and Roald’s army outside the gates…now she feared she had been wrong to oppose her cousin. Wrong to insist they should fight him. Wrong to put her sister, her people and Henry, his friends and his family at risk. Perhaps she should have surrendered. As Sir Ranulf had said, she and Giselle could have sought sanctuary at a convent until the matter of the inheritance was decided. They could have abandoned their home.
What of Henry? Did he regret agreeing to help them? Was he awake and pacing in his chamber, cursing himself for a fool and wishing there was an honorable way he could extricate himself?
He had not given a hint of any such doubts either on the wall walk or later, as they ate the evening meal, blessed by Father Thomas, in the crowded hall. He had seemed more anxious to have the battle begin, the sooner to have a victory. Indeed, he had been excited, almost…passionate…in his anticipation.
Was he too excited to sleep? Had he even tried to rest?
He would need to be rested if he wasn’t to be hurt or killed during the battle.
Surely he would not actually beinthe battle. He was to direct her men and that would keep him out of danger.
Except that he hated Roald so much, might he not be tempted to seek him out and fight him? And if he did, and he was tired from lack of sleep….
She drew her bedrobe over her shift, belting it loosely with her girdle, then went to her sister’s medicine box resting on the table. Giselle had a potion that made it easier to sleep; she’d offered it to Mathilde more than once after Roald had attacked her. At first, she’d accepted it, although even it couldn’t keep the dreams at bay.
She reached into the box and found the small jar covered with waxed cloth. She lifted it and sniffed the contents. A familiar scent of poppies filled her nostrils. Yes, this was the one.
Taking it, she went to the door and quietly eased down the latch and opened it. Just as she’d suspected, a dim light shone from beneath the door of Henry’s chamber. She would offer the potion to him, tell him how much to take, then return to her bedchamber and her restless vigil. She would not enter Henry’s chamber and she would knock softly on his door in case she was wrong and he was already asleep.
Holding the jar, she crept quietly down the corridor. Once outside Henry’s door, she hesitated, but only for a moment before she carried out her plan.
Despite the quietness of her knock, the door opened in an instant to reveal Henry on the threshold, clad in his breeches and an unbelted, open-necked shirt, his feet bare. “Have they attacked?” he demanded, her gaze anxiously searching her face.
She shook her head. “No. I feared you couldn’t sleep and came to give you this.”
He glanced down at the sealed vessel she held out to him. “What is it?”
“Giselle makes it from poppies. It will help you sleep.”
“I notice you’re still awake.”
“I won’t be leading men into battle tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “I thank you, but it would take a heavy dose to make me sleep, and I would be sluggish come the dawn. If you really want to help me, keep me company awhile.” He opened the door wider.
She hesitated. She had on only a shift and bedrobe; he was clad in breeches and a shirt loose and unlaced, exposing his muscular chest.
His brow furrowed. “I merely wish to talk, my lady. Nothing more, I promise you.”
If only he knew the yearning coursing through her now, he would realize this was no simple request. Yet how could she deny him when he asked so little of her in return for all his help?
She forced her feet across the threshold and into his chamber. In the corner, a round stand with twenty candles lit the room. A heel of bread was on the table, along with a goblet and carafe for wine. His chain mail lay spread out upon the bed, his helmet gleaming dully beside it.
“I was checking my mail for tears or bent links,” he explained as she came farther into the room. “Sir Leonard impressed upon us that it was best for us to check ourselves, since our lives could be at risk if our mail was damaged.”
Suddenly she saw, with her mind’s eye, not Roald’s mocking face that usually intruded unwelcome into her waking thoughts, but Henry’s handsome visage, wide-eyed with pain as he fell on the battlefield.
She put the jar on the table and spoke without looking at him. “Your life shouldn’t be at risk.” She clasped her hands and faced him. “You must stay out of the fighting. You must not be hurt or killed.”
“Although there are those who would surely curse me for admitting this—minstrels and troubadors, especially—I have no intention of being hurt, or dying, for that matter. I plan to be very much alive when we claim the victory.”
His cheerfully spoken admission acted like a balm to her heart, and when he gestured at the chair beside the table near the arched window, she wrapped her bedrobe more tightly about her and lowered herself onto the seat. He sat on the end of the bed, causing the ropes under the featherbed to creak.
