she could not hear him.
He shouldn’t be here. Now that she was conscious, it was time to stay away from her. He might know her identity, but he still did not know her motivations and those would take time and distance to discover. But still he lingered idly by her side like some besotted troubadour.
No, this wasn’t an idle feeling, but a deep churning in his blood.
When he entered his chamber, the sight of her had been like the flat of a sword to his gut. She had lain in his bed, propped up with his pillows, her legs bared as if waiting for him. As if she belonged. He was ill-prepared for the lust which had assailed him.
When he tried to find some semblance of control, she refused to answer his questions. Weak as she was, she defied him. She might have been truthful in giving her name, but she withheld something. He could feel it. She had known he wondered where she lived, but had avoided answering him. She’d asked where she was, even though she already knew.
Teague averted his gaze from her sleeping face. It was wrong for him to be here, but she was wrong in hiding something. She could not be allowed secrets. He had an enemy threatening his home. He would discover what she hid from him. He had to. For all their sakes.
‘You have overexerted yourself, I see.’ With long strides, an older woman, wearing voluminous black robes, approached the foot of Anwen’s bed. ‘Take care, girl. I am Sister Ffion and I don’t have time to cater to you and do my duties here.’
Biting her lip to keep from snapping at a woman of God, Anwen watched Ffion pull herbs from her satchel and place them in the mortar on the nearby table.
‘You took a blow to your head.’ Ffion lifted and swirled the matching pitcher before pouring the dark liquid on top of the herbs and mashing them more. ‘I’ll do the best I can, but it is in God’s hands.’
As Ffion ground the concoction, the air turned foul. Anwen’s eyes watered.
‘I’ll have none of your complaints.’ Ffion set the pitcher down and came to her side. ‘You about undid all of my healing. For days this poultice has been placed on your head to help heal your wound.’
Anwen tried to breathe through her mouth, as she lifted her head and concentrated on Ffion’s cold hand supporting her neck. ‘You have been here?’
‘From the beginning.’ Ffion unbound the wrappings. ‘Dear Rhain notified me immediately of your arrival. He knew of my healing abilities. Why, if it wasn’t for him, you would have died.’
Ffion dropped the bandages in a bucket. ‘It’s quite a miracle you pulled through. Rhain was right in notifying me immediately. I was able to prepare the herbs in time for them to take.’
Anwen patted the side of her head. ‘Wasn’t...wasn’t Lord Teague under the tree? Didn’t he save—?’
Ffion seized Anwen’s wrist; her cold fingers dug like claws into her skin. ‘Gwalchdu’s lord saves nothing!’
Anwen jerked her wrist free and Ffion’s lips pursed before she shook her head. ‘I only meant it is better if you don’t touch the wound. You may harm my healing.’
Anwen rubbed her wrist and quickly damped her anger. Ffion was trying to help her. ‘How bad is my wound?’ she asked.
‘You’ll scar.’ Ffion began to clean the wound and the water brought both pain and relief. ‘It’ll be permanent, too. Most likely a disfigurement so no man would have you. But that is probably for the best.’
Ffion slowly rinsed the linen in a bowl, as Anwen processed the Sister’s almost gleeful words. Despite her Welsh-born accent, Anwen knew Ffion would be no ally.
‘But your disfigurement does not seem to keep some men away now, does it?’ Ffion dabbed at the wound. ‘However, the wound is healing according to God’s wishes. You must still be chaste.’
Anwen didn’t want to think about all of Ffion’s words, but she needed to clarify something. ‘It’s healing?’ she asked.
‘Yes. In His great wisdom, God gave me gifts and knowledge of the healing arts. I suspect your healing to take at least another sennight.’
‘Surely it won’t be that long.’ The poultice stung.
‘A few days ago, we didn’t think you’d live. You are staying here for a sennight so you will not undo all my work.’
‘I didn’t mean to stay as long as I have.’ Demanding woman of God or not, Anwen had no intention of staying. She was needed at Brynmor. And not only for Melun’s sake. She wondered if Alinore, her sister, was alive; if Urien, Lord of Brynmor, had hurt her again. It hurt to think of them. She needed a distraction from knowing she wasn’t there to protect either of them now.
‘Have you been here long?’
‘Almost all my life.’ A look of pain crossed Ffion’s face as she added, ‘Many years.’
‘You’ve known the family that long?’
‘I am the family. I am the sister of Teague’s mother and Rhain’s aunt.’
Edith opened the door, her hobbling-and-hopping gait shaking the bread and pitcher on the tray she was carrying.
Ffion’s frown increased. ‘I had requested Greta bring food for you. Pity, for Greta would be better for your healing.’
There was a loud rattle as Edith set the tray on the table at the far end of the room.
Gathering her mortar, pestle and satchel, Ffion said, ‘It will do you well to remember the seventh commandment. Now go with God.’
Edith continued to arrange the tray until the door closed behind Ffion. ‘Go with God, she says. As if that woman walks with the Maker himself! Her lecturing you not to commit adultery, when you’re having trouble eating!’
Edith opened the door and stuck her head through it.
‘But surely she means no harm,’ Anwen said.
‘Oh, don’t mind me, dearie.’ Edith gave her a smile over her shoulder. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m an old woman and tend to talk when I shouldn’t.’
Anwen thought about furthering the conversation when the smell of food wafted in. Edith stepped away from the door and Greta carried a large tray of dried meat and cheeses into her bedroom.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled at Greta, who was setting the tray across the bed.
‘Oh, don’t mind Greta none,’ Edith began, as she checked the fireplace, then straightened the window shutters. ‘Speechies took her voice away a long time ago, but you’ll never find a smarter soul than our Greta.’ Edith paused, then said more reflectively, ‘Maybe the lord and his brother, but certainly nobody kinder.’ For all her small stature, Edith moved and talked like a whirl of dust in a storm. Shaking her head, she added, ‘Simply look her way when you speak, and she’ll get your intention sure enough. Hearing’s good.’
Looking
