The Brat(31)
Author: Lynsay Sands

Leaning his back against the door, he peered around the room. He couldn’t see anything in all this smoke, but he was trying to recall the cottage in his mind’s eye, trying to place where the windows were, or what might be available to use to break down the door.

"I bumped into a table while still standing. It seemed heavy –

solid oak, I think. If we rammed the door with it, we might be able to break it down," Osgoode panted.

"Aye," Balan agreed, thinking it worth a try. The two men crawled silently away from the door,finding the table easily. It was indeed solid and heavy. They turned it on its side and each knelt by its legs; Osgoode at the back and Balan at the front, staying as close to the floor as possible until they had to rise and charge forward.

"I will count to three," Balan said. "At three, take a deep breath and then stand and charge the door."

Osgoode’s answer was another coughing fit. Balan started to count, had to pause at two to cough, then gritted his teeth and shouted, "Three!"

He did not suck in a deep breath. Afraid he would fall into another coughing fit, he took as shallow a breath as he could, held it and rose up to charge. They had taken three steps and nearly reached the door when it was flung open and he heard Murie shout, "Husband!"

He tried to stop their forward momentum, but Osgoode had no idea what was before them and wasn’t slowing. Balan shouted a warning to his wife, but it was too late. There was a cry of pain as they rammed into her, then the faint form he’d barely been able to see through the light gray smoke by the door disappeared under the table as they ran her over.

"You are not getting up."

Murie made a face at her scowling maid.

"I am fine, Cecily," she muttered, pushing the linens and furs away and slipping her feet off the bed.

"You are not fine," Cecily argued. "You got yourself run over by two men and a table."

"Two men with a table bumped into me and knocked me to the ground," she corrected with exasperation. "All I have is a little lump on the head."

"Gatty had to stitch you up," her maid reminded her, as if she might have forgotten that painful experience. It had been more painful than gaining the injury itself.

In truth, Murie only had a vague recollection of the actual event. She’d raced that horse down to the village, left him by Balan and Osgoode’s mounts, and rushed to the door of the cottage. It had been jammed shut, a heavy piece of wood stuck firmly into the dirt and wedged against it so well that it had taken some effort for her to remove it. She’d heard shouting inside as she’d worked at the wood, and also coughing. The shouting had reassured her at first, but the coughing that followed was so violent and deep and wretched that it had erased her relief and left her frantic to free her husband and his cousin from what could have been their fiery tomb.

Finally freeing the wood, she’d thrown the door open and called out as she started inside .. . and the next thing she knew, a great misshapen mass hurtled out of the smoke at her. Murie hadn’t had time to even raise her hands in front of her, let alone step out of the way. One moment she was running forward; the next, the entire front of her body was vibrating with pain, and she was hurtling toward the ground.

Murie had been told that Balan and Osgoode had tossed the table aside and rushed to her at once. Her husband had lifted her in his arms, mounted his horse and ridden for the castle as if the devil were on his heels – though it was actually only Osgoode. The two men had passed Anselm and his soldiers on their way down to the village without even slowing to explain, but there’d apparently been little to explain. The head wound she’d received had bled copiously, and her face was covered in gore. Anselm and the men had turned at once to follow their lord to the keep. According to Juliana, who’d told her that tale with wide anxious eyes, once in the bailey everyone thought Balan would ride his mount right up the keep stairs and into the great hall to get her inside. Gatty had apparently been so sure of this that she’d rushed up from the wagons to throw the keep doors open for him. But he’d brought his mount to a rearing halt at the foot of the steps and leapt off, shouting for Gatty to follow as he raced up the stairs and past her into the keep.

Gatty had been the one to sew Murie up. Juliana had informed her that she’d had to be cleaned up just to find the wound. According to the child, she had been awash in blood, her face almost unrecognizable.

That was where the narrative of events had ended, however. There was no need for her to tell more. The stinging pain of the needle in the thin skin of her forehead had roused Murie from unconsciousness and brought her back to screaming life. Balan had been holding her at the time, and had simply kept her still and murmured soothing words as Gatty finished the job. He hadn’t really needed to hold her after the first few seconds, as she’d regained her wits and realized what was happening, but he’d done so anyway. While Murie had been feeling weak and trembly by the end of the ordeal, Balan had actually been gray-faced and sick-looking, and had muttered an excuse, then fled the room the moment it was done.

Murie had hardly noticed. Gatty had been busy helping her to remove her gown and setting her into the bed, and she’d been distracted as both her body and head protested any movement. While her head was the only bleeding wound, bruises were beginning to form down the front of her chest to her thighs where the table had struck her. She was going to be extremely sore soon if did she not keep moving. That was the only way she knew to ease pain – movement, so muscles didn’t get the chance to stiffen and set. This was part of the reason she was now getting up despite Cecily’s scowls and growls. The other part was that she’d had plans for her husband’s return. She’d intended to greet him with the joyful news that she loved him. The incident at the village had rather ruined that, and she silently cursed her husband’s attacker to hell for it.

"My lady, please," Cecily begged. "His lordship shall no doubt blame me for your being up, and then – "

"Guilt will not work either, Cecily," Murie said mildly, managing not to wince as she gained her feet and her body protested. The maid had been with her for ten years. It was Cecily who’d had the unenviable task of tending Murie when she was ill since her parents’ death, and she’d tried many different ways to keep her abed through flus and colds and various other childhood ailments. None of them had ever worked, but the woman kept trying.

"Why do you not get back in bed and let me fetch you some of the ale his lordship brought back from Carlisle?" Cecily said. "It may ease your aching head."

"Bribery will not work either," Murie assured her, "Only time will cure the aching in my head."

She moved to the chest to find some clothes, determined not to show how weak she really felt by asking the maid to fetch them. While she’d not felt bad other than aches and pains in bed, now that she was up, her head was showing a distressing tendency to spin on her neck .. . either that, or the room was doing the spinning. But she felt sure Cecily would have mentioned the fact if it were, so she knew it must be her head.

"You are the most obstinate woman I know," Cecily announced with irritation. She rushed over to grab her mistress by the arm to steady her.

"Aye," Murie agreed easily. She supposed she must have been swaying, for the woman to think she needed support. Shrugging inwardly, she allowed Cecily to help her kneel by the chest, then sat back as the maid began to sift through the clothing inside.

"What do you wish to wear?" the woman asked, still sounding annoyed.

"It matters little," Murie said. "Whatever is clean and available."

"Hmph. The maid pulled out a pale cream gown and brown surcoat to go over it. "You cannot work in this gown without ruining it, so at least I know you will not be able to be that foolish."

Murie bit her lip, but did not ask her to choose something else. She really wasn’t feeling up to working. She just did not wish to be trapped in the chamber all day like an invalid. Whether she was one or not.

Cecily alternated between muttering under her breath about Murie’s obstinacy and lecturing that she wasn’t to do anything more strenuous than sitting at the trestle tables below as she helped Murie dress. She then insisted on helping her out of the room and down the stairs, so that she wouldn’t "go faint and tumble down the stairs and break her neck."

Murie felt so weak and unsteady that she didn’t argue. Truly, she was beginning to think getting out of bed had been a poor idea by the time Cecily saw her settled at the trestle table. Of course, she was too proud to say so to the maid and simply promised to remain where she was so the woman could return above stairs and retrieve the gown she’d been wearing to see if she could wash out the blood.

Murie watched Cecily go with affection, knowing from experience that the maid would be muttering the entire time she walked upstairs, collected the gown, and no doubt would still be muttering even as she washed it.

Once the maid was out of sight, Murie peered around the empty great hall in search of something to distract herself. Unfortunately, there was no one and nothing there to keep her attention, and she soon found herself drumming her fingertips on the table and trying to think of something to do. There was plenty of mending she could turn her attention to. Balan’s doublet and her gown and surcoat had taken a terrible beating the day she’d used them to make a litter and then dragged him back to the castle. His leggings were, unfortunately, beyond repair, but she might be able to mend the gown and doublet.

However, she hadn’t thought to bring them down and had no intention of going up after them.

She peered around the hall again, then got carefully to her feet. When the room did not begin spinning as it had above stairs, she released a little sigh of relief and started toward the kitchens. Now that she had nothing to distract her, she was aware of a dry, bitter taste in her mouth, no doubt a result of both her head wound and the vile liquid Gatty had made her drink. A nice mug of some of that ale Cecily had mentioned sounded nice about now.

Moving at a sedate pace to keep the dizziness from returning, Murie had only crossed half the hall to the door when it opened. A woman she thought she’d seen on the wagon earlier in the day started to walk out, but paused abruptly at the sight of her and hurried back into the kitchens. A moment later, the door swung open once more and Clement was striding toward her, his expression the grimmest she’d yet seen. Thibault was hard on his heels, wringing his hands agitatedly as they hurried to her side. Clement did not even speak. His mouth merely tightened, and he caught her arm, turned Murie and walked her firmly back to the trestle tables.

"You should not be out of bed," he said once he had her seated.

"Perhaps not," Murie allowed. "But – "

"There are no buts," Clement informed her. "You took a terrible blow to the head. You scared us all silly, and if you had any sense at all, you would be tucked up in your bed allowing your body to recover."

Murie noticed Cecily hurrying down the stairs and into the kitchen, but most of her attention was on the man before her. No one had spoken to her in such a manner since her father’s death. Not even the king, her godfather. There was both concern and fear on the man’s face, and it made her feel cared for.

"He is right, my lady," Thibault agreed. "You lost a great deal of blood from the knock on your head and still look quite pale. I really think you should be back up in bed."

"Aye, but…" Murie hesitated as Clement arched an eyebrow. His expression seemed to suggest she had best have a good excuse, so she let her breath out on a sigh and admitted, "I was hoping to have some of the ale my husband brought back from Carlisle and perhaps something to eat."

Apparently it was the right thing to say; the cook relaxed at once, but chided, "You should have sent someone to fetch it for you. I sacrificed one of the chickens to make soup, and it has been simmering these last two hours since you were injured. It could use more simmering, but should do well enough for now.

‘Twill help you rebuild your strength." He turned back to head into the kitchens announcing, "I shall bring some out at once and some ale as well. See she stays seated, Thibault." The steward watched him go, then settled on the bench beside Murie with a sigh.

"It will be delicious, my lady," he assured her sadly. "His lordship brought back some vegetables as well from Carlisle, and Clement makes the best soup in the county. The smell has been permeating the keep and driving me wild for the last hour at least, but he will not let any of us near. Not even to sample it for him. He insists it is for you and you alone." He smiled at her and added, "I think Clement likes you."

Murie raised her eyebrows in doubt. The man was rarely anything but short and surly with everyone, including herself. She found it hard to imagine he liked anyone. She asked, "What makes you say that? Because of the soup?"

"Nay. Because he said so," Thibault explained. "When his lordship learned that you had given suggestions on how better to set up the kitchens and had removed the parsley from his gardens without the man throwing a fit, he asked Clement why he would allow such with you when he’d had fits at the tiniest suggestions from his own father, and Clement said, "Because I like your wife, my lord.’

"He did not care much for Lord Balan’s father," the man went on. "He didn’t like the way he neglected our Juliana. He is really very soft at heart, is our Clement. He seems tough and gruff, but I have seen him feeding birds and squirrels out in the garden. He is softer than he likes us to think."

"He is not softer than he likes you to think," Clement snapped behind them, making them both jump and turn to face him guiltily. The cook glared at Thibault for a moment, then added, "I simply prefer squirrels and birds to people."

Murie bit her lip as Thibault’s expression fell, then sat a little straighter when the cook turned to her.

"Your soup." He set the steaming bread bowl he carried on the table. " ‘Tis not as flavorful as ’twill be later in the day, but I will have you eat every last drop. ‘Tis good for you. Estrelda is bringing your ale and shall be here momentarily."