into her lower lip. Noblewomen spent much of their time embroidering, an easy enough explanation for her words. It wasn’t the same as the sewing of coarser fabrics she’d spent most of her life working on, but hopefully Ansel wouldn’t notice the slip.
“I have stitched men on the battlefield. I can do it again if ye wish.”
“I can do it,” she said quickly. “I want to help.”
He eyed her for a moment, but at last nodded.
With a steeling breath, she lowered the needle to Bertram’s chest and began to set the stitches. To her relief, they were neat and small despite her nerves.
When at last she tied off the final stitch, Mary stood waiting with a damp, steaming strip of linen. Isolda rose, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. Mary set to work placing the yarrow-soaked bandages across Bertram’s chest. Isolda didn’t know if it was a blessing or a bad sign, but Bertram remained unconscious throughout.
“He has a good chance, thanks to ye both,” Ansel said softly as Mary laid the last of the bandages on Bertram’s long wound.
Mary let out a shaky exhale, bringing trembling fingers to her face. The maid looked suddenly older than Isolda had ever seen. She went to where Mary still crouched next to Bertram and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Rest now, Mary.”
Mary looked up at her with wide, tired eyes. “Nay, my lady. I cannot leave Bertram.”
“Then rest here at his side, but we must make sure we are well enough to tend to him,” Isolda said gently.
“But what about you, my lady? You must rest as well.”
“Nay,” she said, her gaze shifting to Ansel, who seemed so tall and large in the small chamber. “I’ll tend to Ansel’s wounds. You rest, and I’ll rouse you when I need you.”
It was a testament to just how exhausted and overwrought Mary was, for the steadfast maid didn’t muster another protest. Instead, she nodded wearily and lowered herself directly onto the rushes next to Bertram. Within moments, her breathing slipped into the even rhythm of sleep.
Isolda moved toward Ansel, but he held up a hand.
“Dinnae concern yerself over me, lass—Lady Isolda.”
She smiled weakly. “And you needn’t concern yourself over my title. But as you said, men can die of small injuries left untended. Please.” Her voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. “Allow me to see to your wounds.”
Perhaps it was because they had to keep their voices low for Mary’s sake, or perhaps it was her softly spoken plea, but suddenly a delicate intimacy hung in the air around them.
He nodded, then pulled a stool from the little dining table and positioned it in front of the kitchen hearth. He sat and slowly began peeling off his bloodied and torn tunic.
The fire cast dancing shadows over first the stacked muscles on his stomach, then the curving slabs of strength on his chest as he slowly lifted the tunic. His head disappeared into the garment for a moment as he lifted his arms with a grunt. Then he was entirely free of the tattered tunic, his skin glowing softly beneath the blood and grime of battle.
Isolda averted her gaze and moved to the caldron over the fire. She fumbled with a spoon to remove another strip of linen from the yarrow-soaked water. Her hands felt like wooden blocks once more, but it had less to do with the blood and cuts marring Ansel’s flesh than the disconcerting intimacy of being so close to his hard, honed form.
She wrung out one of the rags and turned toward him, fortifying herself with a breath. As carefully as she could, she began dabbing the dagger wound on his right arm. At her first touch, he started slightly but didn’t make a sound.
“I ken ye likely dinnae want to think on it, but I need to know more about the man who attacked ye,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur.
Her hand stilled for a moment on his arm before she renewed her ministrations. “What do you wish to know?”
“What specifically did he say about John?”
She had to force
“I have stitched men on the battlefield. I can do it again if ye wish.”
“I can do it,” she said quickly. “I want to help.”
He eyed her for a moment, but at last nodded.
With a steeling breath, she lowered the needle to Bertram’s chest and began to set the stitches. To her relief, they were neat and small despite her nerves.
When at last she tied off the final stitch, Mary stood waiting with a damp, steaming strip of linen. Isolda rose, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. Mary set to work placing the yarrow-soaked bandages across Bertram’s chest. Isolda didn’t know if it was a blessing or a bad sign, but Bertram remained unconscious throughout.
“He has a good chance, thanks to ye both,” Ansel said softly as Mary laid the last of the bandages on Bertram’s long wound.
Mary let out a shaky exhale, bringing trembling fingers to her face. The maid looked suddenly older than Isolda had ever seen. She went to where Mary still crouched next to Bertram and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Rest now, Mary.”
Mary looked up at her with wide, tired eyes. “Nay, my lady. I cannot leave Bertram.”
“Then rest here at his side, but we must make sure we are well enough to tend to him,” Isolda said gently.
“But what about you, my lady? You must rest as well.”
“Nay,” she said, her gaze shifting to Ansel, who seemed so tall and large in the small chamber. “I’ll tend to Ansel’s wounds. You rest, and I’ll rouse you when I need you.”
It was a testament to just how exhausted and overwrought Mary was, for the steadfast maid didn’t muster another protest. Instead, she nodded wearily and lowered herself directly onto the rushes next to Bertram. Within moments, her breathing slipped into the even rhythm of sleep.
Isolda moved toward Ansel, but he held up a hand.
“Dinnae concern yerself over me, lass—Lady Isolda.”
She smiled weakly. “And you needn’t concern yourself over my title. But as you said, men can die of small injuries left untended. Please.” Her voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. “Allow me to see to your wounds.”
Perhaps it was because they had to keep their voices low for Mary’s sake, or perhaps it was her softly spoken plea, but suddenly a delicate intimacy hung in the air around them.
He nodded, then pulled a stool from the little dining table and positioned it in front of the kitchen hearth. He sat and slowly began peeling off his bloodied and torn tunic.
The fire cast dancing shadows over first the stacked muscles on his stomach, then the curving slabs of strength on his chest as he slowly lifted the tunic. His head disappeared into the garment for a moment as he lifted his arms with a grunt. Then he was entirely free of the tattered tunic, his skin glowing softly beneath the blood and grime of battle.
Isolda averted her gaze and moved to the caldron over the fire. She fumbled with a spoon to remove another strip of linen from the yarrow-soaked water. Her hands felt like wooden blocks once more, but it had less to do with the blood and cuts marring Ansel’s flesh than the disconcerting intimacy of being so close to his hard, honed form.
She wrung out one of the rags and turned toward him, fortifying herself with a breath. As carefully as she could, she began dabbing the dagger wound on his right arm. At her first touch, he started slightly but didn’t make a sound.
“I ken ye likely dinnae want to think on it, but I need to know more about the man who attacked ye,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur.
Her hand stilled for a moment on his arm before she renewed her ministrations. “What do you wish to know?”
“What specifically did he say about John?”
She had to force
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