“What, Maybel, no greeting for me?” Lord Cambridge teased her.
“Good day to you, Thomas Bolton,” Maybel said. “And this fine fellow, from the look of him, is the earl’s son.” She curtsied. “My lord. Now, where is Rosamund?”
“She is upstairs, and we are both glad you are here, Maybel,” Tom said. “Come, before you see her, and let us tell you what has transpired. Will you have a bit of ale?”
“I might, if it’s good ale,” Maybel considered as he led her into the house’s small hall and settled her. “Ah, at last a seat that does not rock back and forth. I am not a good traveler, my lords,” she told them. “Now, tell me all.”
Adam Leslie explained what had happened though Rosamund had given Maybel some idea in her message to Friarsgate. Maybel listened and nodded as the tale unfolded.
“Has there been any improvement?” she asked when Adam had finished.
“He hasn’t opened his eyes yet,” Adam said, “but he is awakening. You can tell it. And he is able to drink. Rosamund has been feeding him like an infant. She makes him a drink with wine, eggs, a bit of cream, sugar, and a bit of grated cinnamon stick or vanilla bean. He seems to enjoy it, for he drinks it all each time she gives it to him. She also makes him egg custard, and she gives him milk toast.”
“He is growing stronger?” Maybel said.
“Every day,” came the hopeful reply.
Maybel nodded. “Is the physician bleeding him?”
“Nay. He said it is not necessary and would but weaken my father,” Adam responded.
“I never heard of not bleeding a patient,” Maybel remarked. “Is this a good physician? Have you consulted others?”
“He is the king’s physician,” Tom said. “And so you are not taken unawares, he is a Moor.”
“What is that?” Maybel demanded suspiciously. “Some foreigner, I’ll vow.”
“Aye, he comes from Spain, and the king brought him to lecture at his college,” Adam explained.
“A Jew?” Maybel queried.
“A Mussulman,” Tom answered her, grinning. “An infidel, Maybel.”
“God have mercy on us all,” the old woman said, crossing herself. “Are you absolutely certain he is not out to murder the earl?”
To Maybel’s consternation, both men laughed. “Nay,” they told her with one voice.
“He is the king’s most trusted man, Maybel. I swear it,” Tom said.
“Well,” Maybel allowed, draining the mug of ale a servant had brought her while they talked, “if you says so, my lord, I must believe it.” She stood up. “Now, take me to my child.”
They both escorted her upstairs to the earl’s bedchamber where Rosamund sat. She jumped up when Maybel entered the room, wordlessly hugging her old nursemaid.
“Thank God you have come!” she cried.
“Thank God and his Blessed Mother Mary, indeed!” Maybel agreed. “I have never seen you so pale, so worn. You are to go to bed at once, Rosamund Bolton, and I’ll hear no nonsense about it! I am here now, and I will watch over Lord Leslie myself. You will be no use to the man when he awakens if you continue on as you have. Where is Lucy?”
“With Philippa,” Adam said.
“Have you a servant girl who can help me, my lord?” Maybel asked Tom. “Not one of those flighty lasses with little more wit than a post, but a lass who can follow orders.” She looked at Rosamund. “Are you still here, my lady?”
“I sleep by his side at night in case he should waken,” Rosamund said.
“Well, for now you will sleep in another chamber,” Maybel said firmly.
“Next door,” Tom quickly said to his cousin before she might protest. “And I will find a lass among the servants to help you, Maybel. Come, Rosamund,” he coaxed her, taking her by the arm and leading her from the bedchamber.
“Well, my lord”—Maybel looked straight at Adam—“what think you of this?”
