The Brat(25)
Author: Lynsay Sands

"Mayhap," Murie said thoughtfully. "But then you would have had more mouths to feed and no fish to feed them." The maid looked startled, and Murie shrugged. "Who is to say there would have been enough people here to tend the animals and keep them from wandering or being stolen? We are close to the border of Scotland up here, and they are famed for reaving. Mayhap it was more fortunate than you think that Lord Gaynor put in the new pond. Fish may get tiresome in a hurry, but they are good for keeping up one’s strength." Her gaze slid across the great hall as the door to the kitchens opened and Clement reappeared. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must tend Juliana’s hair and then tour the kitchens and gardens."

Murie was no expert on cutting hair. In fact, she’d never cut hair before in her life, but there was simply no way she could make more of a mess of the child’s –  no doubt once beautiful –  chestnut locks than Juliana had made herself, so Murie approached the task with more enthusiasm than was probably warranted. The project turned out surprisingly well. She managed to turn the hacked mass of hair into an even bob of sorts. She was most pleased with the results, and Juliana seemed so as well. After showing absolutely everyone she could find –

which turned out to be only Clement, Thibault, Gatty and Frederick – the child rushed upstairs to change into her new dress. Aware of the day slipping away, Murie worked quickly at pinning up the gown, then sent the girl off to change again while she herself headed for the kitchens. Once she’d inspected, she moved on to the gardens outside. And while she’d only intended to look, the sight of parsley made her gasp in alarm and immediately drop to her knees. She was tearing the plants from the ground when an alarmed cry rose up behind her.

Glancing over her shoulder, she stared in amazement at the horrified expression on the cook’s face.

"My lady!" Clement bellowed, finally finding his voice as he charged toward her. "What in God’s name are you doing?"

"I am removing the parsley," Murie said soothingly. " ‘Tis all right. I shall replant it outside the gates."

"But I do not want it outside the gates. I needs must have it close by to cook with," he protested.

" ‘Twill be little enough effort to walk a ways to get it rather than risk a death in the castle."

"What?" he asked with bewilderment.

"Do you not know that growing parsley in the garden means there will be a death in the house before the end of the year?" she asked with exasperation. "Honestly, you are practically ensuring my husband’s death with such nonsense. Well, I will not have it! I am moving the parsley outside the gate, and you can just walk that little distance to get it when you need it."

Clement simply stared with a sort of befuddled expression, seemingly at a loss for what to say. His gaze was mournful as he peered at the parsley she was gathering.

"Did you come out here for a reason, Clement?" she asked.

"Aye," he breathed after a moment, then seemed to give himself a shake. "His lordship and Osgoode returned with a boar from their hunt, and I came to find the herbs I should like to stuff it with."

"Oh." She smiled brightly. "Stuffed boar for sup! That shall be lovely."

"Aye," he agreed.

"Is my husband in the great hall, then?" she asked, gathering the plants she’d uprooted. She could finally speak to the man – or so she thought. Clement soon disabused her of that possibility.

"He was," the cook said. "But I gather the boar put up a battle and both men were bloodied. They rode down to the river to bathe rather than trouble me to boil water and haul it above stairs for them."

"Oh." Murie shifted from one foot to the other and asked, "Is the river far?"

"Nay. Not far," Clement said, his gaze locked on the parsley. His look made her nervous. She very much suspected he would like to wrest the plants from her and put them back exactly where she’d taken them from, despite being warned of their horrible effects.

Easing a wary step away, she turned and headed out of the garden. "Well, I shall simply walk down to the river after replanting the parsley. I should like to have a word with my husband."

Murie could hear the cook’s sigh as she walked away, but she ignored it. Honestly, how he could fret over having to walk a little distance when it might save a life, she didn’t know. Still. .. she didn’t end up planting the parsley outside the gate. The saying was only that growing it in the garden was bad, so she planted it nearby, on the edge of a short row of apple trees. Satisfied that it wasn’t in the garden, but Clement might be a little less distressed that it was not so very far away, she straightened and brushed off her hands and headed out of the bailey to find Balan.

She was most grateful that he’d spent the morning hunting. Truly, stuffed boar sounded a nice treat. Murie had never cared much for fish, and the idea of being forced to eat it three times a day was a terrible trial. Actually, it was making her feel rather ill, which it had never done before, but there it was. That was the reason it had been no hardship for her to miss the meal last eve, and why she’d found herself "forgetting" to break her fast this morning in all the fuss of cutting Juliana’s hair and touring the kitchens.

She’d been quite pleased with the kitchens, actually. Clement had done a wonderful job of keeping them up. While everywhere else seemed to need whitewashing and new rushes and even new furniture, the kitchens were in tip-top shape, simply needing supplies and some servants to bring it back to life. Murie had expressed her pleasure to Clement. The man had said stiffly that it was his job, but he’d also blushed, and she’d seen the spark of pleasure in his eyes. She suspected that everyone had been so busy tiptoeing around him all these years, they had neglected to compliment his efforts as well. A little credit where credit was due might make the man a bit more bearable. He would never be as dear and cheerful as Thibault, but she thought his personality might improve with some work.

"Murie."

Pausing, she glanced up with surprise as Osgoode appeared on the path ahead. He was walking toward her; wet hair slicked back from his face and damp clothes clinging to his body. Smiling, she said, "I see you saved the ladies some work and washed your clothes along with your bodies. Is my husband still bathing?"

"Aye." Osgoode grinned. "Balan likes water. The man will sit in a bath until the water is cold while bathing indoors, and he’s even worse outdoors. Not me," he added. "I like to get in and out."

Murie smiled faintly, but refrained from pointing out his in-and-out method left much to be desired –  he still had blood on his neck below his ear. Then she realized it was a graze, and she frowned. "Clement said the boar gave you a battle. You were hurt."

"What? This?" He wiped at his neck and shrugged. " ‘Tis naught. The boar was stubborn and did not wish to land on our table."

"Was Balan hurt as well?" Murie asked.

"Nay. He is swifter of foot than I. Besides, he was on top of the boar. I was foolish enough to dismount in front of the beast before he was quite down. Balan had to leap off his mount onto the animal’s back and slit its throat. This is from me running away  – right into a branch while looking behind me to see how close the beast was," he admitted, laughing and rubbing the spot. Murie shook her head. Boar hunting was one of the most dangerous sports. Boars often did not go down right away, and the arrow or spear that pierced them usually just made them angry and stronger.

"Well, I am off. I want to be sure Clement has all he needs for dinner. A fine beast like that boar deserves to be cooked properly."

Murmuring farewell, Murie watched Balan’s cousin off and then turned to continue on to the river. She had no idea how far it was, but suspected she must be close. At least, that was what she thought at first, but after five minutes, she realized it was farther than she’d expected. Not far, exactly, just not as close as she’d thought. Still, she enjoyed the walk, noting a birch tree here and an ash tree there, and even a clump of wild onions and a small carpet of clover. These were all very good luck when carried on a person. Determining that her husband needed all the luck he could get, she stopped to pluck a twig from the birch and then an ash-key from the ash tree before spending several moments hunting until she found an even ash leaf. She searched the clover for a four-leafed one, but after several minutes gave up for another time and continued along the path, eventually coming to the river.

Much to her dismay, the clearing was empty. Murie paused and frowned, wondering if she’d missed her husband and he’d walked right by her while she was on her knees in the clover. The sound of splashing from farther downriver answered that question; obviously the men had moved from the main clearing to ensure they didn’t startle any of the castle women who might unsuspectingly approach.

Clucking her tongue, Murie moved to the edge of the river and peered in the direction from which the sound had come. Her heart stopped when she saw a bit of blue cloth floating on the surface of the water… the same color as the new doublet she’d had made for Balan’s wedding and which he’d worn since. Staggering quickly along the water’s edge, Murie hurried to the shore directly beside it… and found herself staring at her husband’s back. He was half submerged under the water.

Screaming his name in fear and horror, she charged into the river, cursing as her gown immediately grew wet and heavy, clinging to her legs and slowing her down. It seemed like hours passed before she managed to gain his side. Grabbing him by the back of his doublet, she turned him quickly in the water and slipped a hand under his head to lift it up, then peered at her husband’s pale face with dismay. He wasn’t breathing; she was too late, she thought with alarm, but then ground her teeth and started to rise, intending to drag him toward shore.

She paused when she spotted blood on the hand she’d had beneath his head. Lifting his head further, she shifted the wet strands and gasped at the sight of the deep, wide gash. Someone had hit him on the back of his head with … something. Her eyes examined the shoreline, and her mouth tightened. There were several likely rocks on shore that could have managed the job. Someone had tried to kill her husband again!

Standing abruptly in the water, she caught Balan by the shoulders and dragged him toward land.

Moving him was easy in the river, where the water helped buoy him up and all she had to do was pull and direct him, but once she reached shore, the task became almost impossible. Murie would never know where she found the strength to draw him out of the water, but she did, alternating between pulling and pushing at various parts of his body. She pulled his arms out first, then ran around to grab his ankles to drag those so that he ended bowed backward on his side, his stomach and chest still mostly in the water. Murie then moved to his torso and placed one hand on his belly and one on his upper chest and began shoving with all her strength, trying to push him completely out of the water. She wasn’t sure how many times she’d pushed at him when he suddenly gagged and coughed up what appeared to be half the river. He followed that with several more coughs, then rolled onto his back with a groan and fell silent.

"Husband?" Murie whispered, hardly believing he lived. Dropping to her knees, she brushed the damp hair back from his face and looked him over. His coloring seemed a little better; less gray, and with a tinge of pink to it now. But he was still unconscious.

Biting her lip, she tapped his cheek a couple of times and then sucked in a deep breath and gave him a sound whack across the face. She’d hoped that would wake him, but it didn’t have the desired effect.

Sighing, she sank back on her heels and peered around, trying to think of what to do. Instinct was yelling at her to run and get help, that she couldn’t possibly get him back by herself, but her instincts were also telling her that whoever had done this might yet be lurking, awaiting an opportunity to finish the job. She would not leave Balan alone … but she needed to get him back to the keep.

How? Her mind screamed the question, and then her gaze landed on the doublet she was unconsciously clutching. She stared at the cloth hard for a moment, then shifted her gaze to her own gown and finally to the uneven ground. There were two branches almost large enough. . . .

Murie shook her head. Nay. She could not; not even for her husband would she . . .

But the idea had taken hold, and she didn’t have a better one. Finally, admitting with much regret that there was nothing else for it, Murie stood and began to strip.

Chapter Fourteen

"She what?" Balan roared, but his head was immediately pierced by a thousand sharp needles of pain. He’d woken in his collapsed bed just moments ago, not to find his caring wife there tending him with adoration, but Osgoode sitting on one side and his wife’s maid, Cecily, on the other. Cecily had told him that Murie had saved his life after finding him unconscious in the river. Osgoode had told him how.

Holding his throbbing head and squeezing, in an effort to press back the pain as well as ensure his head didn’t explode, Balan repeated a little more quietly, "She what?"

"She stripped nak*d and then stripped you nak*d and used the clothing and two branches she found nearby to make a sort of litter, then dragged you all the way back to the castle," Osgoode repeated, eyes shining.

"Dear God," Balan breathed.

"Aye." Osgoode nodded solemnly. " ‘Twas the most incredible thing I have ever seen."

"You saw?" Balan asked with horror.

"Everyone saw," Osgoode replied. "Without your clothes, the men were not sure who was approaching and sent for Anselm, and then Anselm called me."

"Surely you recognized us?" Balan asked with disbelief, but Osgoode shook his head.

"Nay. Understand, you were crumpled and rolled up in a ball on a multicolored litter.. . and Murie’s hair was damp from both sweat and river water, and plastered to her face, obscuring her features. We all just thought her a mad woman dragging something around at first." He pursed his lips and added,

"Everyone was on the wall staring, and she had nearly reached the drawbridge before Cecily gasped that it was her ladyship."