The King's Witch by Cecelia Holland Page B

but after a while his shuddering lessened under her hands. She rubbed his muscles flat and smooth, all up and down his back, until he was quiet and the spasm passed.
    Suddenly he said, “I have to piss.”
    She went for a pot and brought it to the side of the bed; he was trying to push himself up, but his arms buckled. She put one arm around his waist and heaved his upper half against her. He swung his legs off the bed, one on either side of the pot, and leaning on her, he reached down and sent his stream into the pot. He sighed at the release.
    He said, “It’s a bad thing . . . when a man can’t even stand up to piss.” It took all his breath to say it.
    She laughed; she thought it was true, and also that the act of will to say it was a good sign. When he was done, she dabbed at the end of his penis with a cloth she then tossed aside. He was falling out of her grip, lying down again, his arms under his head. She swung his legs up onto the bed and wrapped him in the blankets.
    She took the pot to the front flap of the tent, where there was light from a torch outside. She sniffed at the urine and looked at it in the light; it was very dark but there was a lot of it, and it smelled clean and sharp. She tossed it out the door, startling the two guards drowsing on either side.
    She closed the flap and went back to the pallet. The King was awake. He lay on his stomach, his head turned to one side, and his eyes gleamed at her. When she sat down on the edge of the pallet, he said, in a whispery voice, “Where’s Rouquin?”
    “I hope he’s sleeping. King Conrad is coming.”
    “Ooh, is he. Well, things were too simple.” His body was cool, almost without fever. She began to rub his arms and shoulders, to get his humors moving. His skin was scaly.
    “Could you keep down some broth?”
    He dragged in a deep breath. “I could keep down half a cow. Who’s been here?” His voice was stronger.
    “Johanna has never left.” She gestured toward the far side of the tent, where the other women slept on. “She told me that King Guy came, while I was asleep.” She hoped Berengaria was at least praying for him.
    “Good for Guy. He’s not a coward, at least.”
    She got up and went across the tent to the brazier, where a pot of bones had been cooking all night; she drew off some of the juice into a cup. The cup was hot, and she wrapped a corner of her skirt around her hand to hold it. When she came back, he tried to sit up. She helped him and, gasping at the heat, he gulped down the broth, which seemed to make him stronger.
    “Johanna said also Humphrey de Toron was here,” she said.
    “Humphrey,” he said. He lay back down on the bed, his head turned to watch her. By the way he spoke the name she knew how it was with him. He must have seen it in her face, because he said, “You think I am a monster.”
    “My lord,” she said, surprised. He was hers, now, whatever his sins; she loved him. “Do you want more?”
    “Yes.”
    She went for the rest of the broth. What men did together, making women of each other, that was sinful, cursed, and apparently very common, to judge from jokes and stories. Those who said it was evil agreed also that she was evil. That set their righteousness at nothing. What Richard did was Richard’s humor. She sat down beside him and helped him drink again. His color was better. His head still wobbled.
    He pushed away the cup, then lay down again, and his gaze poked at her. “Who are you?”
    She sat back away from him in a little jerk of warning. She had loved him too soon. She folded her hands in her lap, her back straight. “Edythe. I’m one of—”
    He rolled onto his side toward her, one arm bent under his head; the light from the front of the tent shone on his face. He said, “I mean, who are you really?”
    “My lord, I don’t understand. I will fetch some wine.” She started up.
    He grabbed her skirt. “No, stay. My mother sent you?”
    She sat down. Her hands knotted together