face, her mouth, and fill her eyes with tears.
She went to him, gentle, careful, and he bent his face to hers. She kissed his lips lightly. She was too afraid to put her arms around him.
“Can you walk to the study?”
He nodded and she expected him to use her shoulder to lean on, but he walked under his own power, then sank down beside the fire.
“I will get Peter Jack to call Maggie.”
He started to protest, but she ignored him and walked out of the room to the kitchen.
Peter Jack was already yawning and stumbling out of his room, roused by the sound of voices at the door.
“Fetch Maggie.”
He froze mid-stretch and his gaze went to the passageway. “Bad?”
“Bad enough.” Susanna went straight to the hearth and took a jug to scoop up some hot water from the pot in the embers.
Peter Jack had his boots on and his cloak about him by the time she had stoked the fire.
“Bolt wound?” he asked.
She shook her head, viciously stamping down the wail inside her, pressing her lips together and gulping as it tried to claw its way up.
“Broken bottle.”
The door slammed behind Peter Jack as he ran out, and she took a deep breath, trying to still her hands as she fumbled through a drawer for some clean cloths.
Then she picked up the jug of water and walked carefully out of the room, watching to make sure she did not spill.
There would be no more spilling tonight. No water, no tears.
No blood.
19
Every one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are, and those few dare not oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who have the majesty of the state to defend them; and in the actions of all men, and especially of princes, which it is not prudent to challenge, one judges by the result.
—Machiavelli , The Prince, chapter 25
I t was like old days, Parker thought. He would get into trouble, and Maggie would patch him up.
She glared at him now, stirring something with a little pestle. “I thought this kind of thing was over, when you became a fine gentleman for the King.”
Parker looked down at his shirt lying on the floor, cut to ribbons, and at the deep cuts in his shoulder. “The King’s business is not all courtly dances and days at the joust.”
Maggie snorted. Her tiny sylph of an assistant stepped forward with a jug of water, and Maggie held the mortar out for her to pour in a splash.
“Will it heal well?” Susanna sounded as though she were fighting something when she spoke. Every word was measured.
“Aye.” Maggie looked disgusted, as if she’d hoped it were otherwise. “Nothing important was damaged, and he can feel down his arm to his fingertips, so he should make a full recovery if he keeps it clean.” She lifted up some of the mixture in the mortar with a spoon and dropped a little onto Parker’s shoulder.
It was hot and it stung, and Parker swallowed a curse.
“Keep putting this on every few hours,” Maggie told Susanna. She packed her things in quick, deft movements. “I get far too much business from this house.” She sniffed, and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Lock him up if you have to.” Then, with her assistant in tow, she sailed from the room.
Parker closed his eyes, riding out the sting of the herb paste on his wound. He heard Maggie go through the kitchen and have a word with Mistress Greene, who’d woken when Peter Jack had returned with the healer. The house was a blaze of light, and it was not yet matins. The bells of St. Michael’s would not ring for a few more hours.
The room was silent. The small sounds Susanna made as she gathered the jug of water and cloths she’d used to mop the blood from his shoulder had ceased, and he opened his eyes.
She stood in the middle of the room, her hands full, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He felt his heart rip.
“My love.” He pushed out of his chair, forgetting his shoulder and staggering under the sudden stab of pain.
Susanna dropped the jug with a clatter, pressing her hands to her
She went to him, gentle, careful, and he bent his face to hers. She kissed his lips lightly. She was too afraid to put her arms around him.
“Can you walk to the study?”
He nodded and she expected him to use her shoulder to lean on, but he walked under his own power, then sank down beside the fire.
“I will get Peter Jack to call Maggie.”
He started to protest, but she ignored him and walked out of the room to the kitchen.
Peter Jack was already yawning and stumbling out of his room, roused by the sound of voices at the door.
“Fetch Maggie.”
He froze mid-stretch and his gaze went to the passageway. “Bad?”
“Bad enough.” Susanna went straight to the hearth and took a jug to scoop up some hot water from the pot in the embers.
Peter Jack had his boots on and his cloak about him by the time she had stoked the fire.
“Bolt wound?” he asked.
She shook her head, viciously stamping down the wail inside her, pressing her lips together and gulping as it tried to claw its way up.
“Broken bottle.”
The door slammed behind Peter Jack as he ran out, and she took a deep breath, trying to still her hands as she fumbled through a drawer for some clean cloths.
Then she picked up the jug of water and walked carefully out of the room, watching to make sure she did not spill.
There would be no more spilling tonight. No water, no tears.
No blood.
19
Every one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are, and those few dare not oppose themselves to the opinion of the many, who have the majesty of the state to defend them; and in the actions of all men, and especially of princes, which it is not prudent to challenge, one judges by the result.
—Machiavelli , The Prince, chapter 25
I t was like old days, Parker thought. He would get into trouble, and Maggie would patch him up.
She glared at him now, stirring something with a little pestle. “I thought this kind of thing was over, when you became a fine gentleman for the King.”
Parker looked down at his shirt lying on the floor, cut to ribbons, and at the deep cuts in his shoulder. “The King’s business is not all courtly dances and days at the joust.”
Maggie snorted. Her tiny sylph of an assistant stepped forward with a jug of water, and Maggie held the mortar out for her to pour in a splash.
“Will it heal well?” Susanna sounded as though she were fighting something when she spoke. Every word was measured.
“Aye.” Maggie looked disgusted, as if she’d hoped it were otherwise. “Nothing important was damaged, and he can feel down his arm to his fingertips, so he should make a full recovery if he keeps it clean.” She lifted up some of the mixture in the mortar with a spoon and dropped a little onto Parker’s shoulder.
It was hot and it stung, and Parker swallowed a curse.
“Keep putting this on every few hours,” Maggie told Susanna. She packed her things in quick, deft movements. “I get far too much business from this house.” She sniffed, and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Lock him up if you have to.” Then, with her assistant in tow, she sailed from the room.
Parker closed his eyes, riding out the sting of the herb paste on his wound. He heard Maggie go through the kitchen and have a word with Mistress Greene, who’d woken when Peter Jack had returned with the healer. The house was a blaze of light, and it was not yet matins. The bells of St. Michael’s would not ring for a few more hours.
The room was silent. The small sounds Susanna made as she gathered the jug of water and cloths she’d used to mop the blood from his shoulder had ceased, and he opened his eyes.
She stood in the middle of the room, her hands full, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He felt his heart rip.
“My love.” He pushed out of his chair, forgetting his shoulder and staggering under the sudden stab of pain.
Susanna dropped the jug with a clatter, pressing her hands to her
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