speed. Edgar and another had gone to watch and make sure he was safe, for it was all too common for a youngster to fall asleep and drown in his own vomit, but Wat had seemed fine-except he had refused to acknowledge any of the pleasantries hurled in his direction. And then he had been sick. Edgar had been quite surprised at the volume emanating from such a slight figure.
Wat had been carried to the trough and forced to swill his mouth and wash before being sent off to his bed. There was a maid who usually slept by the fire in the kitchen, and she took it upon herself to watch over him for the night.
“He’ll have to clear up all his puke before anything else,” Edgar noted. “But he slept all right. He looks very pale, though. I thought it would be kinder to him to let him rest a little longer. Anyway, he looked as though he was liable to throw up again when I looked in on him just now. I didn’t fancy getting him to try to blow the fire into light, not if he was going to spew all over it.”
“I suppose we’d better wake our masters,” Hugh grunted, stretching luxuriously. He set his feet on the ground, then winced at the pain in his head.
Cocking an eyebrow at him, Edgar grinned. “Wat wasn’t the only one had too much last night.”
He set the pan, ready filled with water, over the flames, and wandered through to the solar where Baldwin lay sleeping. Opening the door quietly, he was welcomed by a low grumbling. When he clicked his tongue, the noise stopped and the tawny dog padded over the floor on his massive paws, his tail wagging berserkly. It caught at the top of a chest as he passed, and swept a dagger, Baldwin’s purse, and a goblet clattering onto the floor.
“Christ’s Blood!”
“Good morning, Sir Baldwin,” said Edgar suavely. “I am glad Chops managed to waken you so quickly.”
Baldwin peered at him wearily. “There are times, Edgar, when I wonder why I don’t look for a new steward of my household.”
“It’s morning, sir, and you asked to be woken early so that you could get back to Crediton.”
“Oh!” Baldwin clutched at his head as he sat up. He closed his eyes, then daringly opened one into a slit. “I think I drank more wine than usual last night.”
“I think that is a fair comment, sir.”
“I remember now why I prefer not to drink too much,” Baldwin muttered as he came to his feet.
“But the evening went very well,” said Edgar, spreading out the knight’s tunic and inspecting it doubtfully. “This is torn.”
“The dog caught it last night.”
Edgar left his master to dress himself. Out in the hall once more, he saw that the fire was blossoming flames, and set more logs alongside to dry thoroughly. Returning from the log store, he met Hugh coming through after waking his own master, and the pair of them entered the hall to find Emma leaving it.
She glowered at them. There was no proof, but she was convinced that these men were responsible for her confinement the previous night. That dog had been left outside her room to prevent her protecting her mistress.
Emma was not interested in her mistress’ attraction to Sir Baldwin. To the maid, one man was pretty much the same as any other, although she had respected and felt sympathy for Sir Ralph de Liddinstone. It was the comparison between the two that made her feel such disgust for the knight of Furnshill. Ralph would never have invited all his bondsmen and freeholders to a feast such as Baldwin had held the night before; the idea was laughable. No, Sir Ralph was a real nobleman, in Emma’s eye. He was strong, and demonstrated his strength by imposing his will on his tenants, whereas the feeble Furnshill knight thought it better to pander to them.
In truth, the virulence of her loathing for Baldwin was based on the simple conviction that once her mistress had enjoyed a true, honorable, powerful knight, she would demean the memory of the man by wedding herself to a weakly article like Baldwin. That was why Emma was determined to prevent any possibility of a match between the two; and why she was seized with rage at having been effectively locked in her room the night before, with that slavering hound wandering outside her door. It had stopped her from walking with her mistress and protecting her from Sir Baldwin’s pathetic attempts at courtly lovemaking.
It was the first time in a long while that Emma had been so effectively thwarted, and she was furious that these two uncultured, common peasants could have succeeded. And now she had to bring the reward to the knight. It made her gorge rise.
Hugh quailed under her piercing gaze, and dropped back so that Edgar was a little in front and shielding him. She looked Edgar up and down contemptuously. In her hand was a rough bundle. After a moment’s silence, she thrust it into his hands.
He looked at it with some surprise. “What’s this?”
“It’s for your master. From my lady. She asked me to tell you to give it to him.”
Edgar took the light package straight to his master. Baldwin was about to leave his room, and gave his servant a surprised glance when he appeared.
“What?”
“This, sir. It’s for you, apparently.”
Baldwin frowned at it, then motioned Edgar into his room. The servant took it to the bed and untied the cord that bound it. Inside, he found a bright crimson cloth. Shaking it out, he stared.
“A new tunic?”
Baldwin felt the fine woollen cloth. “Do you remember? She said she would make me a new tunic last year at Tavistock.” He glanced down ruefully at his old white, stained and worn robe. “I think I had better get changed,” he sighed.
His head felt as if it was about to fall from his shoulders. When he opened his eyes, everything was misted and befogged, as if he was looking through a badly finished glass window. Movement of any sort was agony; even blinking brought a stab of pain to his temples.
Gradually, as he recovered his senses, John realized where he was. He was lying on the floor of his room, beside the fire he had been trying to build. He reached out a hand, and slowly, with infinite care, eased himself onto his belly. As he tried to lever himself up, simultaneous bolts like white-hot brands seared his head and leg. Gasping, he had to let himself flop to the ground, and passed out.
It was not until the sun was already up and shining in through the open door that he could take any interest in his surroundings again. From the light coming in, he could survey the room. It was clear that someone had ransacked the place. All his belongings were all over the floor, his trunk was opened, and his chairs and tables upset. It made him give a wry grin. “Too late, lads!” he whispered.
At last he could make a second attempt to move. He gradually forced himself into a position from which he could crawl, and inched his way toward the door, sweat beading his brow. It took all his strength to do so without screaming. It was ironic, he thought, that the only thing he had brought with him from Ireland was this: his stoicism.
Outside the door was his little rainbutt, and beside that his stool. He stared at them, teeth gritted. It seemed an immense distance, but he was determined to get there; he needed water, and he had to get into the daylight to inspect his wounds. The ground was hard, and each time his leg dragged over a pebble or scraped over a rough patch of dried mud, he bit his lip to keep from swearing.
It took the very last atom of his energy to hoist himself on to the stool. Then, before he looked at his leg, he forced himself to thrust his head under the freezing water. Coming up blowing and panting, the liquid streaming from his face, he felt quickly nauseous, and had to swallow hard to keep the bile at bay, but the feeling soon passed, and he could sink back on the stool with a grunt and a gasp.
Only then did he look down at his leg. The foot was twisted, and he couldn’t bear to touch his knee, much less move it. When he gingerly touched his head, it felt as if someone had been beating it like a bolt of iron on an anvil. Both sides of his skull were bruised and swollen. Wincing and shaking with pain and reaction, he squinted at his gate: it hung open. Behind him was the storage shed where he kept his ale, and he felt his mouth water at the thought of a strong draft, but he rejected it as being beyond his power.
His leg was broken, near the knee. He stared at it grimly. His head felt as if it was being ruthlessly sawn in two, and the sensation wasn’t helped by the occasional impression that his vision was doubling. He wanted to throw up, but couldn’t afford the luxury; he must get help, go and see a surgeon or a monk, and get his leg mended. But to do that he must somehow get into town, and he couldn’t crawl the whole way. If he lived down toward the center of town, he could simply call from his door-but if he had lived in the town itself, he wouldn’t have been
