“You have been wounded.” She knew she stated the obvious and could hear the high pitch of fear in her voice.
“’Tis but a scratch.”
“A scratch?! You are soaked in blood.”
“Not all of it is mine.” Concerned over how white she looked, he said soothingly, “We won the battle. ’Tis over now. There is no more to fear.”
“No more to fear? You stand before me bleeding like a stuck pig and say there is no more to fear?” She struggled to gain control of herself, to concentrate on the strength in his voice, not the gory sight of him. “Roger, Merlion, bring him to the tent. Water. I need water. And bandages,” she muttered in distraction, then raced back to the tent to get ready.
Margaret caught Edna by the arm, stopping the maid from following Gytha, then looked at the three men. “If your wound is truly not life-threatening, m’lord,” she said to Thayer, “mayhap Edna and I can help others in need of some care.”
“Indeed you can,” Thayer replied. “Merlion, Roger can see me to my tent. Take the women to the wounded.”
Once that order was obeyed and Roger was helping him on his way to the tent, Thayer muttered, “What ails Gytha? She did not carry on so after the last battle, yet in that one she was nearly abducted.”
“In that one her husband was not wounded.”
“Mayhap it was but one battle too many. She might fear being continuously caught up in them.”
Roger sighed in ill-concealed exasperation. “Of course. It could not be that she found you soaked in blood.”
“My wound is not so serious,” Thayer murmured, but Roger made no reply as they entered the tent.
Gytha felt she had gained control over herself until Roger brought Thayer into the tent. Seeing her blood-drenched husband again revived the terror that threatened to choke her. She barely collected her senses enough to hastily spread a cloth over the cot before Thayer lay down on it. Shaking with the fear she battled, she helped Roger strip Thayer to his braies. As she began to wash the blood away, Merlion entered. She knew they would discuss the battle now and bit back the urge to tell Roger and Merlion to leave. Instead, she concentrated on tending Thayer’s wound, fighting the urge to weep over the sight of the gash in his arm as she half-listened to what they said.
“The women are going to see to the wounded?” Thayer asked Merlion, fighting to ignore his pain.
“Aye. They may even save the man I marked as near death. ’Tis the man who sounded the alarm.”
“Thus saving most of us. I pray he does not pay for that with his own life. Any prisoners?”
“Nay. Do not scowl so. The dead told me what we needed to know.”
“How so?”
“I fought one of them in the last attack.”
“You are very certain of this?”
“One does not forget a face as ugly as his.”
“So,” Roger murmured, “Robert and his uncle did not heed your warning.”
“It would seem so, curse their thieving hides. That first attack was no burst of rage.”
“Nay.” Roger sighed, knowing how this battle with his kin would trouble Thayer. “’Tis war. Robert—or more likely his uncle—means to see this fight through to the end.”
It was news that only added to Gytha’s upset. She knew she was losing her battle to overcome the churning emotions afflicting her. Giving a last check to assure herself she had properly tended Thayer’s wound, she bandaged it as she listened to the plans made to stop Robert and his uncle. The grim talk only exacerbated her feelings. She was relieved when Roger and Merlion left.
As she moved to wash up, she stared at her hands when she held them over the basin of water. The sight of Thayer’s blood staining her hands severed what little control she had. Plunging her hands into the water, she furiously scrubbed them as she began to weep. Knowing it was impossible to stop her tears at the moment, she struggled to keep her distress silent. She did not want him to think her some weak-hearted, useless female who could not even tend his wounds as was her duty.
“Gytha,” Thayer murmured after watching her viciously scrub her hands for several moments, “they must be clean by now.”
A jerky nod was her only answer. He frowned as he watched her dry her hands, then dither about putting away what she had used to tend his injury. Her movements lacked their usual grace. He became certain she was weeping, yet he heard little more than an occasional sniff.
The way she was acting confused him. It appeared she was deeply upset because he had been hurt.
“Gytha.”
