With one arm extended above him, Tristan clenched his hand into a fist and leaned his head on his forearm.
“’Tis only that the sun is too bright,” he managed.
“I shall fetch the physician.”
From the corner of his eye, Tristan saw his manservant turn to leave.
“Nay,” he shot out, even though the effort made his head spin all the more. “Bring me something to drink. I am parched.”
Tristan closed his eyes against the lilting of the walls, but could hear by his footsteps that Alfred was approaching.
“I have a small ale for you, my lord.”
Tristan reached out. “Put it in my hands.”
His fingers closed around the smoothness of a cup and he drank deeply, knowing from experience that this would sooth the ravages of his head.
“I do not need the services of a physician, Alfred,” he croaked. “My ill health is a result of my own bad decisions and the passing of the hours shall be my healer.” Feeling slightly better already, he straightened his spine and tentatively peeredat his manservant. “But if I did need a physician, I would counsel you to look elsewhere than he who bled my father half to death.”
Alfred bowed his dark head. “As you wish.”
Tristan took another swig of ale. “I must seek another castle physician. But first, tell me, how fares my father this morn?”
“The earl has already broken his fast.” Relief shone through Alfred’s words. “The countess is with him. She has ordered the next service at chapel should be one of thanksgiving.”
“Aye.” Tristan nodded his approval, ignoring the stab of pain in his temples. “I shall go to him myself, once I am dressed.”
“You are sure you would not prefer to spend the day at rest?” Alfred raised his eyebrows questioningly. “These last days have been most taxing, my lord.”
“I thank you for your concern, but I am my father’s heir and there are jobs to be done.” Tristan’s vision was clearing. He placed his cup down on Alfred’s silver tray and realised, for the first time, that he was still wearing yesterday’s tunic. “Pray, fetch me water with which to wash and a change of clothes. Then I shall be about my day.”
Not long later, Tristan was striding along the echoing corridors to his father’s chamber, averting his gaze from the beams of light pouring in through a series of high narrow windows carved into the plastered walls.
He was not prepared to meet the dark-haired maiden waiting for him at a turn of the stairs.
“Milord.” Juliana dropped into a curtsy.
“Juliana.” He touched her elbow to raise her up, ignoring the frisson of connection that rippled through him. He had not seen her since quitting the great hall last night. Did he owe her an apology for all that had occurred?
Juliana smiled as if she could read the maze of thoughts in his mind.
“I have come to wish you farewell.”
“You are leaving?” He steadied himself against a wall, drawing her closer to him to avoid a servant carrying an armful of linens.
“It is time.”
He cleared his throat. “I shall ensure you are properly rewarded for all you have done here. And, of course, one of our guards will see you safely back to the camp.”
Juliana raised her dark eyebrows as if something had amused her. “I do not require a guard.”
“But you will require a horse,” he countered. “Speak with the grooms and all shall be arranged.”
“You are a good man, Tristan de Neville. I know you will do what is right.”
“Will I see you again?” As soon as he had asked the question, he regretted it. Hadn’t he sworn just moments ago to mend his relationship with Mirrie?
Juliana dipped her head. “Who can say, milord? I hope we might see one another in the fullness of time. But for now, our paths must diverge.”
