Chapter 7

                                    

                                          
Richard
What a sorry sight I make as they carry me awkwardly up the stairs of the West tower. Geoffrey's so pale with fright that his freckles stand out like a rash. Little wonder, though, with Gilbert frowning so fiercely, doing his best to make everyone feel guilty. 
I could protest and insist on walking, but truth be told, I'm dizzy as a mayfly and fear to collapse in front of them all. So, I feign a faint, and while doing so, I listen—and I learn more of how things stand at Castle Waltham.
As I'm brought into a chamber, Gilbert thrusts his way to the fore. "Mend him," he commands the ladies. "If your skills aren't sufficient, tell me straightway, and I'll have the Flemish apothecary sent for."
The Lady Dorigen sends a servant scurrying off to fetch herbs, bandages and water, while I'm transferred to a raised pallet. Who else is in the room? I don't want to open my eyes until Gilbert's gone, but I thought I just caught a familiar scent—the sweet, sensual perfume of the Lady Elena. But I'm not that lucky, am I?
"He must be undressed and his limbs tested for any breaks," Gilbert orders. "The squire will disrobe him for you, while you probe his bones. I entrust him to your skill."
I keep still. Is he talking to Dorigen, or Elena? The idea of those soft hands on my body unleashes a legion of unchaste thoughts. Not very chivalrous of me, I know.
I peep through my eyelashes as Gilbert leaves the room, and see him grasp Elena's shoulders, turning her to face the wall. There she remains as I'm disrobed and laid on the bed beneath a sheet. I should be grateful—I wouldn't want her to watch me being undressed like a child's mommet. 
Or would I? 
"I don't know why you're forbidden to look on this man's nakedness when you've tended many another without his shirt on," Dorigen says to Elena. "Could it be that Gilbert is jealous of his cousin?" 
I hide my smile. Gilbert's so full of himself that I can't imagine he knows the meaning of the word. 
"Jealous!" exclaims Elena. "No. Possessive of me, mayhap. He wouldn't want to lose control of my lands. No one would be interested in me for my sake alone. Bad blood, you see."
"Nought but superstitious nonsense," Dorigen replies, and I silently applaud her. "There's not a bad bone in your body, Elena. Don't let Gilbert treat you like a child—he has no right. Now, come and help me with this pretty fellow."
I tense, and close my eyes tightly as the ladies move towards the bed. "Oh!" cries Elena. "He looks so ill!" 
I've known far worse. But for now, I'll wallow in the pleasure of her sympathy.
"Yet, he lives, so he must have some luck after all." Dorigen smooths my hair back from my face. "There's a lump on his head the size of a hen's egg, but hopefully no fracture. I don't think there are any limbs broken—the main injury will be to his pride. Fortunately, these warriors are made tough. There's no blood, so I wager he'll recover quickly, but you'd better fetch a bowl for me, dear, in case he vomits."
I fight the urge to complain as Dorigen's ungentle hands investigate my injury. I also fight the urge to protest that I would never empty my stomach in the presence of ladies, no matter how sick I felt. 
After a while, some remedies are brought, and my head is raised on a bolster and bathed with—so I gather—a decoction of knapweed. Saying she means to mash up some more of the herb in wine for me to drink when I come to, Lady Dorigen leaves the room. So, I am now alone with the delectable Elena.
She hovers awkwardly nearby. I can feel her scrutinising me, and pray I come up to her expectations. She moves closer, emboldened, and I see her examining the puckered scar on my shoulder. I peep at her, thrilled by her proximity as she pores over a yellowing bruise on my collarbone and an angry red blister on my arm. I imagine her pale hair loosened, brushing across my exposed chest, and my loins tighten. 
"Well, you've certainly been in the wars, Sir Knight," she whispers, then pulls back abruptly as she sees my eyes are open.
"What happened?" I quaver, trying to sound like a man just awakened from unconsciousness.
"The quintain broke. The weight hit you while you were off-balance. Then you fell. They decided to treat you in the castle rather than in your pavilion."
"Where's Geoffrey? What of Charlemagne?"
"Your squire can be sent for if you want him. If Charlemagne's your horse, be assured that no ill has befallen him. We were watching from the solar window—he nosed you where you lay, concerned for you. I will tell him it wasn't his fault."
She pauses, then flushes, but I smile encouragingly, willing her to continue. 
"It was very unlucky that you were struck, but a complete accident—nothing to do with a lack of skill I'm certain, for you looked very skilled." 
Her flush deepens, turning her cheeks a becoming rose. Maybe she thinks she's chattering too much, that it's unbecoming in a lady—but the sound of her voice is like the richest honey. I trap her gaze with my own. 
"Aye, my ill-luck follows me wherever I go. Well, most times. Because if you are to nurse me, Lady Elena, perchance my luck has changed."
"Oh, no." Her almost-violet eyes widen. "The Lady Dorigen has more healing skill than I. She's just gone to fetch a nostrum. How do you feel?"
I decide to be honest. I'm sure I can trust Elena to keep her own counsel. "Angered. Resentful, a little. Such a public humiliation, and to think you were watching me! I know not how I shall bear the shame." 
She shakes her head. "I meant how do you feel in your body? Your head? There's a great bump upon it."
Suddenly Dorigen is in the room, and Elena backs swiftly away, looking guilty. 
"Here's your decoction," says the interloper. "Knapweed roots in white wine—very good for severe blows such as that quintain gave you. Elena, help me raise him."
Elena is about to touch me and my heart thunders. But my lascivious thoughts are cut short by nausea as the potion is poured down my throat. Even so, I manage to find some chivalrous words. "It tastes well. I thank you, Lady Dorigen."
"How's your stomach? A blow such as you've taken is like to unsettle it."
Don't I know it! I grit my teeth, then assure her that I'll be well enough to get up and join the company at their feasting later.
She bustles around, clinking jars and bottles. "I'll make you an ointment of arnica and goose-fat for your bruises. Meanwhile, the Lady Elena can fetch anything you need. Can't you, dear?"
We are alone again, thank the gods. The sun has moved round; 'tis dimmer in here than it was, and the chamber seems to grow smaller, bringing us closer together. When Elena takes the emptied goblet from my hand, her fingers are trembling, and I long to clasp and still them with my own.
There must be something in my face, for she starts back as if I'd burned her.
A beautiful faun, shy and skittish. If I want to know her better, I must tread softly.
And I most certainly do want to know more of her.

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