stiffened linen.
I tried not to show my unease at this development, and resolved that, three days hence, should the redness increase, I would cut away the plaster and splints to treat the wound with egg albumin so as to draw out the poison.
I was not successful at disguising my concern. On the fourth day, as I inspected her injury late in the afternoon, she confronted me. “You observe something which troubles you, is that not so, Master Hugh?”
“’Tis but a small matter,” I lied. “Some discoloration of your hand.”
“I saw it appear two days past. I knew it to be worrisome, for I recall your words that discoloration or swelling point to misfortune.”
“I thought…I am sorry, m’lady…I thought the draught had done its work, and you were sleeping.”
“The draught did cause me to doze, but not so deeply that I could not hear you speak to my brother. I have been watchful since for the signs you warned against. I see but little swelling, and the redness. There has been little change since yesterday.”
“I agree. The color does not deepen.”
“Is that good, or ill?” she asked.
“Good, m’lady. Very good. It means the toxin does not increase. If it does not advance tomorrow, it will then soon fade.”
“I am reassured. Will you take a cup of wine before you go?” she asked. Foolish question. Any excuse to remain longer in her presence was sufficient, a taste of Lord Gilbert’s wine all the more so.
“Agnes,” Lady Joan turned to her maid. “Fetch wine from the buttery…a flagon…enough for two.”
The girl darted off and left us alone. Lady Joan turned in her chair, looked me in the eye, and spoke quietly: “I wish to thank you privily for your care.”
I shrugged. “I am pleased to be of service, m’lady.” That was no simple pleasantry. I really was.
“A woman of my state is never alone, to speak what she pleases to whom she will and no other.”
I knew that was true. Great lords and ladies pay for their position in the coin of privacy. They can neither live nor die alone. Most gentlefolk, I am sure, think this a fair bargain. I could think of no rejoinder to Lady Joan’s remark, so remained silent, awaiting illumination. I have learned that when I have nothing to say it is best not to say it.
“My brother would hear of no other surgeon but you to deal with this,” she lifted her right arm to punctuate the assertion. “I protested that I wished not to impose such a winter journey on you.”
I nodded understanding and said something deprecating the hardships of the journey.
“But,” she continued, “my heart was delighted when he insisted, and again when you came.”
“I am satisfied if my poor talents may serve you, m’lady.”
“Your talents seem to me splendid. Do not belittle yourself so. Modesty is a virtue only when it is honest. I think you know your worth to we who may be ill or injured. And I do not speak only of your talents as a surgeon.”
“I have few others,” I laughed.
“Ah…you have a talent I think you know not of,” she smiled.
This was a puzzle to me. I would have made a witty reply but could think of none. Lady Joan seemed always to have that effect on me. When in her presence I did not think well, and the repartee I should have said came to me only after I was gone from her presence for an hour. “I do?” I muttered.
“Aye. You are a thief of great skill.”
“Not so, m’lady. I take from no man what is his,” I protested. “Is something from the castle missing? Am I blamed for this? I have heard of no theft!” I protested the accusation with perhaps more warmth than was seemly. She raised the index finger of her uninjured hand to quiet me.
“I do not accuse you of common thievery. Your trespass is of another sort. You steal from ladies.”
“But I never…I have not…” I spluttered.
“You mistake me, Master Hugh,” she smiled. “You steal only that which they wish to give anon; you steal hearts.”
Her words shocked me to renewed silence. I am certain I appeared discomfited. Lady Joan smiled at my stupefaction. I was about to reply when Agnes returned with a tray. Upon it was a pitcher of wine and two goblets. It was well the maid returned just then, else I am sure I should have said something foolish. Why? Because I felt foolish.
Agnes poured wine and we sipped it in silence. I sorted through responses I might make to Lady Joan’s assertion but could find none with the combination of wit and solemnity I sought.
“Agnes,” Lady Joan called. “Go fetch John and tell him I would have more wood for the fire.”
I thought the fire quite suitable, but realized heat was not her goal, although her words warmed me more than the blaze when the girl was again absent.
“You are silent, Master Hugh. Are you offended?”
“Oh, no, m’lady. I…I am often struck dumb in the presence of a beautiful lady.”
“You have little opportunity to practice such speech in Bampton,” Lady Joan agreed.
“Aye. Nor are scholars at Oxford trained to be students of witty repartee.”
“You think my words call for wit,” she pouted, “and nothing more?”
“No, m’lady. Such was not my meaning. I…”
“Pray, tell your meaning…your true meaning.” She leaned to me as she spoke, and gazed unblinking into my eyes. I blinked.
I thought to change the subject. “Who are these ladies whose hearts I have stolen? None have protested to me, or asked the return.”
“They are not few, I am sure, but I know only three of a certainty.”
“Are these ladies known to me?” I asked. This was becoming an interesting conversation. I began to see through the fog of metaphor a possible end to my loneliness and single condition.
“They are.”
“I would know who I have robbed thusly. Will you tell me?”
“Perhaps I should not. The others might take my words as betrayal.” Her hand flew to her lips, and I then realized the significance of the word “others”. “And, in truth,” she continued, once again composed, “not all are ladies.” She smiled at me.
“I am at a loss, and you toy with me,” I protested.
“I am sorry,” she said. “You would know of whom I speak? Truly?”
“I would, for I have observed no sign of this effect you claim for me over female hearts.”
“Well…” she began slowly. “I overheard the new scullery maid say to Cicily that Master Hugh was a grand man and she hoped for a husband like him.”
“Alice? A child! And a cotter’s daughter. This is a heart I have stolen?”
“Do not belittle her, Master Hugh. A child she may be, but she is woman enough to see what others have seen, but child enough to speak it without reserve.”
“I am well rebuked. Alice is a pleasant child…but a child, nonetheless.”
“And a cotter’s child,” Lady Joan reminded me. “Heaven knows we must not wed outside our station. You, Master Hugh, must find a wife from the gentry, or perhaps the daughter of some landless knight. Is this not so?”
I agreed that convention so limited my choice. “But the others; are they of the station you identified?”
“One is,” she admitted. Before I could ask she spoke again.
“There is a merchant in Bampton who has a daughter who thinks highly of you.”
I knew of but one merchant in the town who had a daughter of marriageable age. The girl was moderately attractive, but seemed dull of wit. I had never found myself attracted to her.
“And the third lady,” I asked, “is she known to me also?”
“She is. She would be better known did not barriers hinder the apprehension.”
“And these barriers, may they be overcome?”
Lady Joan sighed. “Perhaps. But the lady cannot surmount such an impediment alone.”
“I create no impediment,” I protested. “I would seek a consort. I would beat down barriers did I know what they were.”
