style="font-size:15px;"> Lucy ignored him, but blushed. Half insensible and wounded, the man was still fixated on lovemaking. In full health she dreaded to think what he would be like. She hoped he would be gone before she had to discover it. She lowered Robbie into his cot with trembling arms.
Thomas dropped the fletch of the arrow to the floor.
‘We will remove the arrow now,’ Thomas muttered. He mimed pulling the head towards him. ‘There will be blood that needs stemming. Fetch your poker from the fire.’
Sir Roger groaned and his left hand curled into a fist. For the first time he looked genuinely fearful rather than in pain or intent on seduction. ‘Do what he says. And bring more wine while you’re about it.’
Lucy glanced towards Robbie’s cot. He was sleeping and would be no bother to the men. She ran down the stairs, heart in her mouth, hoping the poker would be heated enough for the purpose that turned her stomach to think of it.
* * *
Roger closed his eyes and listened to the rapid footsteps. The girl would be quick. She had already proven to be biddable when it came to doing what needed to be done. He clenched his fists. His left was strong, but his right curled limply and seemed reluctant to obey his commands. He lifted his hand to the wound and probed gingerly with his fingers. The blood had congealed and a crust had formed across his breast where it had trickled. He had lost less than he feared, but that would change when Thomas pulled the arrow free. He explored further, relieved to discover the arrow had missed bones, passing through the muscle between his arm and collarbone.
Roger’s head swam with weariness and cold. He reached for the blanket, pulling it up to his neck once more. There was something important he needed to do. He could not lie here waiting for the girl to come back to his bed, however appealing she was with her hungry lips and wide blue-grey eyes, so like another pair and with an equally familiar expression.
‘She looks on me with fear,’ he murmured.
‘Did you speak, Sir Roger?’
Roger opened one eye. Thomas was peering down at him, Thomas who had started the day with his ill-considered swiving. Curse him for bringing Lord Harpur’s men upon them.
‘This is your fault.’ Was he speaking? His voice was deep and bold, not a husky whisper. ‘It was you they wanted.’
Thomas fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me. It was weakness. Madness! But I will make amends. I’ll pay their due. Tell me what to do to right the wrong I have done.’
What had the lad done? Roger was finding it hard to think. He licked his lips. They tasted strangely bitter. He’d drunk something to ease his pain, but it had dulled his thoughts. Ah, yes. A woman was the cause of it all. They always were. Was it the wide-eyed girl in grey; the dove whose fingers had been cool against his aching muscles? No, she was someone else. Someone here.
‘She’s taking too long.’
He’d seen on the fields of France what lay ahead for him once she returned with the heated iron and the longer she delayed the less his nerves would bear it.
‘I’ll go see,’ Thomas replied.
‘Can we trust her?’ Roger reached for his arm.
‘I think so. She won’t betray her brother. My only family now!’ Thomas sighed. ‘Poor Lucy, she looked half out of her mind with terror.’
Clarity broke through the clouds surrounding Roger’s mind. He clutched Thomas’s arm. ‘Is the message from King Edward safe?’
‘In your saddlebag, still on your horse,’ Thomas answered.
‘Good. Hugh Calveley must receive the summons from His Majesty and send troops to France,’ Roger cautioned Thomas.
If he did—and if he lived to claim his fee—Roger would be rich. He could return to Wharram and pour coins into his father’s hands. Finally he would have the means to show he was a success.
He listened to the hammering of the blood in his veins. Through the fog of the wine and Thomas’s drugs he understood the noise was not within his head. Someone was beating at the door of the inn and there was nothing to stop the girl admitting whoever was knocking.
‘Go,’ he instructed Thomas. He let go his grip, his mind struggling to remain clear. ‘Take your sword. Leave without me if you must. King Edward’s message must be delivered, without me if necessary.’
He tried to keep his eyes open as Thomas left the room, but he found it impossible. Unable to fight the demands of his body, he slipped into unconsciousness.
The embers of the fire glowed a dull red and gave off little heat. It did not seem possible it would be fierce enough to heat the poker to the required temperature to seal the wound. Though she really could not spare the wood, Lucy added a little kindling along with a handful of old rush stalks from the floor to wake the flames a little. She buried the poker deep, causing sparks to fly on to the floor. She stamped them out urgently before they caused the rushes to catch, letting the floor bear the brunt of her anxiety.
Lucy put two knives on the countertop, thinking they might be useful. She slid on to the stool beside the hearth and closed her eyes, her legs feeling hollow as straw as she imagined the additional pain the poker would cause when the iron tip seared Sir Roger’s flesh. The sooner she returned with the poker, the sooner the deed would be done and the men would be on their way.
She knew it was a comforting lie. Even assuming Thomas was not home to stay, the injured man would not be going anywhere until morning. He must be close to reaching the limits of endurance now and a wave of sympathy rippled through Lucy. Leaving aside his continual innuendo, she decided on balance she would rather he lived than leave her with his corpse and an agitated brother.
She pushed herself from the stool and began to hunt in the cupboard beneath the counter for the bottle of eye-wateringly strong spirit her father had kept for when the canker in his gut ached him beyond endurance. She also found a clay pot of powdered pain-killing draught that she had bought from the surgeon in Mattonfield.
Bought! Her nose wrinkled at the description of the transaction. No money had exchanged hands, but she had paid for it dearly, indeed. Mixed together, the brew always sent her father into a deep sleep in which he would experience much less pain and from which Lucy could gain an afternoon of peace from his continual censure of her for producing a baseborn child. Sir Roger would no doubt benefit from the same remedy and Lucy would appreciate the silence.
She had her head beneath the counter, feeling her way in the near blackness when three loud thumps on the door made her jump in alarm and she banged her temple sharply on the edge of the counter. Dazed, she sat on the floor and was hidden from view when Thomas appeared from the floor above.
‘Where are you, Lucy?’ he muttered, his voice low and urgent, and laden with anxiety. He raised his sword before him. ‘Show yourself quickly.’
His voice was unexpectedly vicious. Whatever he had done in four years had given him a tough attitude, but Lucy could see the desperation in his eyes. She raised a hand to her forehead, which felt tender from the bump. She stood and placed the bottle on top of the counter
