The Brat(27)
Author: Lynsay Sands

"Nay, it made me sleepy the last time," he protested, waving it away. "Why would our room reek of onions?"

"Because there are onions in our room," she answered simply, and held the tankard out again. " ‘Tis not the same brew as last time. ‘Tis a special concoction to strengthen you. It will not make you sleep. Drink it."

Balan scowled, but took the tankard and drank half of it in one gulp, only to pause and make a face. "This is worse than the last one. What is in it?"

"Rosemary, sage and St. John’s wort – among other things," she answered evasively.

"Hmmph." Balan scowled but drank more of the liquid before asking, "Why are there onions in our room?"

"They will help prevent your getting an infection or fever," was Murie’s answer.

"Humph," Balan muttered. He gulped the rest of the vile drink down, then handed back the tankard.

"Are you hungry?" Murie asked, taking it.

"Aye," he admitted. "I do not suppose there is any boar left?"

"Of course there is," Murie assured him, standing and moving to place the tankard on one of her chests that had been moved beside the bed to be used as a table. There was a trencher on it, which she picked up to carry back. "They saved you the choicest bits. Clement brought it up before the others sat down to eat. It has been waiting here for you to wake."

"Mmm." Balan sat up as she handed him the trencher. Murie settled on the bed as he began to eat, but shook her head when he offered her some.

He ate in silence for several minutes before she asked, "Balan?

Do you remember what happened?"

"Aye. We went down to the river, washed our clothes and laid them out to dry on the rocks, then bathed. Osgoode was done quicker than I and left to head back to the castle. I had just got out and re-donned my clothes when someone cracked me over the head. I must have fallen into the river."

She was silent as he ate some more. Then: "You did not hear or see anything ere they hit you over the head?"

"Nay. There are small rapids just up from where we swam. The sound of the water rushing over the rocks would have covered for any sound of an approach," he pointed out.

"Aye," Murie murmured. "I passed Osgoode on my way down to the river. His clothes were wet."

"Aye. They did not get a chance to dry ere our getting out. Mine were still wet too when I donned them," Balan said absently, his concentration on his food. Clement had outdone himself. The boar was juicy and well-seasoned, and the man had indeed saved him the choicest bits.

"So, he was not wet from dragging you into the water?" Murie asked.

Balan stiffened, the food forgotten. Raising startled eyes, he said, "What?"

"You do not think he …" She paused and bit her lip, looking uncomfortable, and blinked in surprise when Balan burst out laughing.

"Nay, wife," he said when his laughter had slowed. "Osgoode did not cosh me over the head and throw me in the river to drown."

She gave a half-relieved smile, but asked, "You are sure? I have had it pointed out to me that he would inherit everything if you were to die."

Balan frowned as he realized that truth, but shook his head.

"Nay. Osgoode has watched my back since we were children. He saved my life countless times while in France. And I his, for that matter. I trust him with my life. Nay, ’twas not Osgoode," he assured her, but found it amusing that each seemed to think the other was trying to kill him. Turning his gaze back to his trencher, he reached for more meat, then paused in surprise when he realized he’d eaten it all.

"Would you like more?" Murie asked, noting his expression.

"Nay," Balan answered, and instead broke off a piece of bread from the trencher and popped it in his mouth. The hollowed out and stale bread had been softened and flavored by the meat juices, and was almost as good as the meat itself.

Catching his wife glancing toward the dress she’d been working on, he said, "Finish what you were doing. Do not let me stop you."

Murie smiled and shook her head. "I would rather visit with you."

Balan shifted restlessly in the bed. "We could play that game of chess you promised me."

His wife’s eyes brightened at the suggestion, and she stood at once and started toward the door, saying, "I shall fetch it right away. Do you wish me to fetch you something to drink while I am below stairs?"

"Aye, a tankard of ale, if you would," he said, and then changed his mind. "Nay, fetch wine for us both." Murie grinned at the suggestion and teased, "Hoping that I will imbibe too much and give you a better chance of winning, my lord?"

Balan just chuckled and shook his head.

As she slipped out of the room, he lay back to await her return, then scowled as the scent of onions immediately became stronger. Shifting onto one elbow, he peered over the side of the mattress, his eyes widening at the sight of the onions lined up on the floor beside him. There must’ve been two or three dozen, cleaned, peeled and halved, just lying there lined up like a small fence. His gaze drifted past them to see there were more in each corner of the room and along the walls, but these were interspersed with various other items. He recognized clover and ash leaves as well as ash-keys, but had no idea about the branches and twigs strewn throughout.

No doubt they were something considered lucky. His wife did seem to have a penchant for superstitious nonsense. Balan had never seen the like. While he was watching over Murie’s sick bed at Reynard as she recovered from the poisoning, Reginald had told him that Emilie had told him that Murie had been superstitious ever since her arrival at court. Emilie seemed to think it was Murie’s way of dealing with the uncertainty of life and had to do with the death of her parents. One moment she’d been the happy, laughing child of Lord and Lady Somerdale, and the next she was their orphaned daughter, living at court and being made as miserable as a child could be. Emilie suspected that Murie’s penchant for superstition was her way of trying to be prepared for whatever life threw her way.. . and to combat it. That being the case, Balan supposed he should be happy she was placing lucky charms about the room and not decorating their chamber with the white maney flower of the hawthorne, which he knew was unlucky. It was said that, when brought into a home, death followed. Except on May Day, of course.

Smiling faintly, he lay back in the bed and then glanced toward the door as it opened. Murie bustled back in, bearing the chessboard. She was followed by Cecily, who was bearing wine.

"Thank you, Cecily," Murie murmured as she set the board on the bed and began to open the leather bag that held the chess pieces. "You may go to bed if you wish. I will not need you again tonight."

"Aye, my lady," Cecily replied, and slipped out of the room after setting the wine and chalices down by the straw mattress.

"Who taught you to play chess?" Balan asked as he helped Murie set up the pieces. "The king?"

Murie hesitated, then admitted, "Nay. My father taught me. But the king also offered to teach me, and rather than hurt his feelings, I let him think I did not know how to play." Balan grinned. Catching his expression, Murie raised an eyebrow.

"What are you smiling about?"

"I was just thinking that you are so wonderfully tenderhearted," he said, his smile widening as she blushed. He then added, "And that I am going to slaughter you at this game." When she stiffened in surprise, he shrugged and added, "You simply cannot possibly have the killing instinct needed to beat me." Balan swallowed those words two hours later as his wife proceeded to take his king and win her third game. He hadn’t seen it coming. Shaking his head with bewilderment, he lay back in bed and peered at her. "I am impressed, my lady wife. I can see why the king will no longer play with you."

"Oh?" She looked alarmed. "Does this mean you will not play with me, either? I could lose once in a while if it would please you," she offered. Then she added, "I am sure you only lost because of your head injury. No doubt it is paining you." Balan made a face. "My head is not paining me. You won fair and square. And of course I shall play with you again. I am not so proud I must win at everything. Mayhap you can teach me a thing or two."

Murie stared at him, wide-eyed. "Really?"

"Aye, really." He smiled, but it turned into a yawn at the end, and Murie quickly began to gather the chess pieces.

"You should sleep, my lord," she murmured.

"I slept all afternoon," Balan said irritably.

"Aye, but you sustained a terrible head wound," she pointed out. She paused to ask, "Are you sure it is not paining you? I could fetch you more – "

"Nay!" he interrupted quickly. The very idea of having to drink more of her special tea was enough to scare away any pain he might have felt. "I am fine. But I think I shall sleep now." He settled back on the mattress as she removed the chess game and pieces, then scowled when she moved back toward the fire.

"Are you not coming to bed?" he asked.

"I thought to work on the dress for a little bit before I retire," she replied.

"Come to bed," he ordered. Balan was too weary to make love, but for some reason he wanted the comfort of her near.

Murie hesitated, then turned back and quickly stripped down to her undertunic. She climbed onto the mattress next to him. The moment she was within reach, Balan turned on his side and snaked his arm around her waist, drawing her against him.

"Good night, husband," she whispered as he closed his eyes. Balan’s answer was a grunt as he drifted off to sleep.

He didn’t wake when Murie slipped away and only knew she had because when he woke up several hours later, she was sleeping on the fur before the fire, the crumpled pale yellow dress a pillow beneath her cheek. Grumbling under his breath, Balan pushed the linens and furs aside and crawled off the mattress. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten about the onions around the bed and planted his foot on one as he rose, lost his balance and fell back to the straw mattress hard enough to draw a groan from his lips.

Cursing now, he crawled to his hands and knees and then got up again, moving more carefully this time to avoid the onions. Muttering about his wife, her foolish superstitions and basically just women in general, Balan crossed the room to scoop Murie up off the floor and carry her back to bed.

The woman sighed in her sleep, but other than that she did not stir as he stripped off her clothes and settled her beneath the linens and furs. It wasn’t until he crawled into bed beside her and pulled her against his chest that she showed any sign of waking. Murmuring his name, she started to lift her head, but he pressed it back down onto his chest and whispered, "Sleep." Balan was sure he would not fall back to sleep himself. He’d slept all afternoon and a good portion of the evening, after all; but he’d barely pressed her head back to his chest and closed his eyes when sleep claimed him once again.

When next he opened his eyes, Balan could see sunlight creeping around the furs covering the windows, and Murie was missing from the bed again. This time, however, she was not on the fur before the fire. In fact, she was nowhere in the room. Sighing in exasperation, Balan pushed the linens and furs aside to climb to his feet. Of course, he again forgot about the onions. This time, rather than fall backward, he stumbled forward, crashing to the hard wooden floor just as the bedchamber door opened and his wife entered.

"Husband! What are you doing out of bed?" Murie cried, rushing across the room to his side. "You should not be out of bed. You are obviously still too weak from your injury."

"It is not weakness that saw me on the floor, wife," he said through gritted teeth. "It is your blasted onions. I stepped on the damn things, and my foot went out from under me."

"Oh." Biting her lip, she glanced toward the crushed wild onions he’d stepped on and sighed. "Well you still should not be out of bed."

" ‘Tis not a bed, Murie. ‘Tis a bloody straw mattress on the bloody floor," he pointed out with irritation. "Speaking of which, we really have to either get the men to fix this bed frame or make a new one. A new mattress would not go amiss, either. And a chair. Two of them to set by the fire," Balan said, scowling, as he regained his feet.

"Husband." Murie caught his arms and tried to turn him back toward the bed. "You should not be up. You took a terrible head injury."

"I am fine," he assured her, and really he did feel fine, although all this movement was beginning to make his head ache again. Ignoring it, he added, "Besides, I wish to take some of the dower I received on our marriage and go out in search of livestock and more servants. Osgoode and I are riding to Carlisle in the hopes of finding what we need there."

"Carlisle?" she asked with amazement, following as he moved around the bed to collect his clothes from where they were folded and set on one of the chests. "But that is a day’s ride away."

"Osgoode and I can cover the distance quickly on the way there, but will be slower coming back. I expect we shall be back the morning after next – or early afternoon at the latest," he assured her, tugging on his doublet. Pausing as he saw the grass stains and small holes in it from its use in rescuing him, he scowled, but then reached for his leggings.

"But, you cannot travel now. You sustained a terrible injury to your head," she repeated, trying to take the leggings from him.

"You should rest another day at least. Pray, husband, get back into bed. I – "

"I am fine, Murie," he insisted firmly. "And this needs to be done."

She fell silent, no longer protesting, but not looking pleased, either. Finally, she said, "Please, at least promise me you shall be careful."

"Aye," he muttered, shifting his leggings in his hands. They had fared worse than his doublet and now had several large holes. Shaking his head, he donned the items, thinking he would have to go fetch clothes from the garrison and change into his other pair of leggings and the blue doublet that had been his father’s; these were now ruined.