fine, light-coloured hair and the impression of a grey dress filled his mind: the girl from the inn who had been half-terrified to death by their appearance.
Lucy Carew. He hoped it was she who was nursing him. He remembered her mouth, hot against his, resisting at first in alarm, but quickly giving in to his kiss and meeting him with as much fire as he was exuding. It would be pleasant indeed if it were she.
Lucy—Roger would assume it was until evidence proved otherwise—removed the cloth from his forehead and put it to his cheeks, freshly damp. She began to bathe his neck and chest, lifting each arm to wipe it before moving down towards his waist, which sent shivers of bliss cascading over him. The sensation was so unbearably erotic Roger felt he would be consumed by the sheer pleasure of it. However, when he gave himself up to the indulgence, he realised the reaction was in his mind alone. His body was refusing to acknowledge anything was happening to rouse him. Perhaps he was closer to death than he had realised after all. He lapsed into sleep with this troubling thought.
* * *
He woke again to find himself being bathed still. Or perhaps a second time because now the room was darker. The hands moved over his body as before, but shifted now to his right shoulder. As they probed the wound searing pain shot through him, obliterating any thoughts beyond making the torment end. He cried out, but his voice rasped painfully.
‘Thirsty...’ he managed to croak.
Those bewitching fingers stroked his brow once more. He felt the back of his head cradled and lifted, firm fingers burrowing deep into his thick hair. A cup was put to his lips.
‘Not too fast,’ a soft voice instructed.
It was ale. Cool and thirst-quenching. Roger could not remember the arrow being removed, or Thomas returning, but the pain in his shoulder was so intense it must be from the brand that sealed the wound. Panic filled him once again and he twisted his head from the cup. Lucy’s firm hands guided it back and the cup was put to his lips once more.
‘Drink this,’ she commanded, her voice allowing no possibility of disobedience. ‘It will ease the pain.’
Her voice brooked no argument. If it meant those delicate fingers exploring his body once more he would do anything she asked.
It was not the same cup. This brew was sickly and bitter at the same time. He was being drugged.
He groaned with relief. Wonderful woman, to ease his pain in such a way.
His head began to swim once more. Oh, he’d thank her indeed when he was back to strength with everything working as it should. He could think of so many ways to show his gratitude that did not even involve leaving this bed.
‘The arrow?’ he mumbled. His mouth now felt too small to hold his tongue.
She drew a sharp breath and the hand at the back of his skull tightened briefly. She muttered something to herself and Roger caught Thomas’s name.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. It’s still in your shoulder.’
He felt her move away and shortly the door closed, leaving him alone.
The news was bad, but the matter was out of Roger’s hands for now. However hard he tried, he could do nothing to fight the sleep that was claiming him.
He fell into a deep slumber and dreamed of Lucy.
* * *
When Roger next achieved full awareness, it was night once more and opening his eyes did not require the effort it had earlier in the day. The air that kissed his skin was cold, deliciously so, for his flesh felt hotter than he would expect, especially one spot just above his heart. His vision began to clear. He craned his head to search for Lucy, but he was alone. He shivered and pain surged through him, radiating from the wound outwards. The God-rotted arrow was still there, wasn’t it? He bit down on his lip to stop the sudden trembling that began as he thought of what removing it would entail.
His stomach growled and he became aware of another discomfort; a clenching ache in his belly that demanded to be filled. He had barely eaten yesterday and by all accounts had slept the whole day away. No wonder his limbs felt leaden and his body weak.
‘Hello! Is anyone there?’ he called. His throat rasped painfully. He coughed and tried once more. ‘Woman? Dove? Where are you? I’m hungry.’
Roger waited for her to arrive with increasing irritation. Possibly the wench would be serving in the room downstairs and could not spare the time immediately. The inn was unusually silent compared to those Roger had been in before. Perhaps that wasn’t the reason. He would have to go in search.
He tried to move his arms, but they would not lift from beside his body. The right arm he expected to be weaker, but the left had nothing to hinder it. With mounting anxiety he tried again. Something was preventing him. He took a deep breath and tried to fight down his fear, but visions filled him of a life of paralysis, his body useless and relying on the goodwill of others to survive. A puppet being fed and wiped like a babe.
His father’s form swam before Roger, his puckered eyes gazing sightlessly on Roger’s face and his twisted arm hanging limply by his side.
‘At least you have your sight. Be thankful for that.’
Roger moaned, remembering his father bellowing a warning, the lance splintering. Was a similar incapacity to be Roger’s penance? He clutched at the rough blankets covering him. The relief that flooded him as he felt his hands curl about the homespun cloth was incomparable. He tried once more to bring his hands together and this time he succeeded in lifting them both, but bringing them together was impossible. A tugging at his wrists was confusing, but the last dregs of the painkilling draught Lucy had given him were wearing off and as a result his head felt less clouded.
Concentrating on what he felt, he came to the conclusion that he had not lost the use of his limbs. He was being restrained by something tied around his wrists holding him to the bed. He tilted his head to look at his arms. Cold sweat broke out across his body as he confirmed it.
The bitch had tied him down!
He jerked his left arm up and his right was wrenched from the bed, hitting the floor with a loud thump and bashing his knuckles. The movement caused further pain in his shoulder and he gritted his teeth to stop from crying out. He eased his hand upward to the sore spot above his heart that had mystified him earlier and his fingers touched blistered flesh. Someone had burned him.
Had he been subject to torture and blocked out the memory? He cast his mind back to Lucy’s pale, frightened face that had filled his vision the previous night as she cut his clothes from him. In his earlier befuddled state he knew Lucy had bathed him, given him water, and soothed his pain away with her gentle hands and soft words. She had done all that knowing he was bound. Would the next thing she did be to slip a dagger between his ribs or slit his throat? It seemed unlikely. He could not imagine the quivering girl would have dared do something so rash as take him captive alone, so she must have been instructed to do it by someone else. If she was not responsible for his situation, who was, and was Lucy being mistreated also?
Roger’s fists clenched. The worry for Lucy’s wellbeing was so unexpected it brought him up sharp. He gave a wry smile. He had often been accused of dishonour. What a pity those who had laid the charge at his feet would never know how he had spared a thought for the girl before they both died. Memories of battles in France threw themselves about his
