And as the darkness closed in on him, Gray tensed every muscle with whatever strength was left in him and slammed his fist right into the middle of Eduard’s sneering face.
Catherine bit the inside of her cheek, reminding herself to stay calm and in control as the men laid Gray on a pallet in a chamber off of the great hall. But from the moment that Eduard had attacked her husband, all she’d wanted to do was scream until she went hoarse.
“Bring me some water, hot wine, clean cloths, and my needles,” she managed to command.
Some of the servants departed to do her bidding, and she began the task of loosening Grayson’s clothing.Hurry. Her mind raged in frustration as she fumbled with the unfamiliar knots and clasps of his armor.
“Here, my lady, allow me,” said the knight who’d helped to carry Gray from the field. Grateful, she took over holding the cloth he’d kept pressed hard against Gray’s wounded side, while he made quick work of removing Gray’s bloodied surcoat, hauberk, and tunic. Then he stood and carried the ruined garments from the chamber. Everyone else had already rushed out in search of a priest and Sir Alban.
She was left alone with her husband for the moment. Shock and fear made every second seem like an hour, heightening her senses. Catherine looked down at Gray, her heart wrenching at the sight of him lying so still, eyes closed, his handsome face drawn and pale. The powerful muscles of his chest and arms were smeared with blood. Even with the pressure she exerted against it, the dagger wound still seeped. She knew that they needed to stop the flow or risk his dying from it.
A sob began to build in her throat, and she pressed harder against the puncture. Gray groaned and turned his head, though his eyes remained closed. His massive chest rose and fell in barely perceptible movement.
“Quickly!” she shouted as two squires came running in with the hot wine and linens she’d requested.
“How bad is it?” Alban asked when he burst into the chamber a moment later, followed by another squire who carried her needles. Blood covered Alban’s face, and she saw that his right hand was wrapped in bandages. He rushed to kneel next to the pallet. “Holy Mother Mary, he’s unconscious.”
“Take this,” Catherine commanded, and Alban pressed his weight into the cloth at Gray’s side so that she could more easily dip the linen in hot wine. “You,” she nodded to the third squire, “Heat the metal rod near the hearth. Then hold this needle to a flame until it’s blackened. Let it cool, and thread it with that silk there. I need someone else to fetch herb pots. Marjoram and fennel will do. And bring some nettle juice as well.”
Everyone scrambled to obey. One of the servants put more wood on the fire, making the room heat to an almost unbearable temperature. Catherine used her shoulder to wipe the sweat from her eyes as she waited for the iron to be prepared. She knew that there’d be no time to dally once the pressure was removed from Gray’s side.
Finally, all was ready. At her signal, Alban released the cloth, and she used the wine-soaked linen to catch the flow of blood and swab it away, revealing the extent of the wound. When it was clear enough to see, she poured hot wine over and into the two-inch wide puncture. Gray came awake then, cursing and thrashing. Alban held his friend still as Catherine murmured a prayer and then an apology; she hefted the wool-wrapped handle of the iron rod, glowing red-hot now, and pressed it into the bleeding gash.
Gray roared in agony and tried to throw himself from the pallet, but Alban pinned him down, cursing along with him. “Get him something to ease the pain,” he barked at a squire, who nearly tripped in his effort to fetch a goblet and strong, herbed wine.
“Nay,” Gray muttered at first, turning his head aside when the cup was brought to his lips. Someone pressed it to him again, and he dashed it aside, growling, “No wine! Just some water.”
A beaker was brought. Gray sipped from it and then fell back, his face ashen, mouth tight. “Saints, Alban, did you need to scorch me with the iron?”
“If you wish an honest answer, my lord, yes,” murmured Catherine, nudging Alban aside to inspect the cauterized area. “The wound was bleeding heavily enough to take your wits from you, and we had to stop the flow.” She saw now that the flesh around it looked red and sore, but the puncture itself had turned to a blackened scab. Nodding in satisfaction, she stepped aside and began to prepare a poultice for it from the herbs the serving boy had fetched for her.
Now that the worst of the danger seemed past, a weakness flooded her limbs. Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to blink back tears of relief. Concerned that someone might notice her reaction, she moved farther from the pallet and sat at a stool to work the poultice.
From that position, Alban blocked much of her view, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing toward her husband as she mashed the marjoram and fennel together. Gray showed improvement already. He had Alban prop him to a half-sitting position with cushions, and though ’twas obvious that his wounds still pained him, he was managing to carry on a hushed conversation. Someone brought more water, and Catherine was surprised to see her husband dutifully sipping from the beaker. When he’d emptied it, he handed it back to his friend.
“You’re being almost agreeable for a change,” Alban chuckled. “Mayhap I ought to arrange for you to be knocked about the field more frequently if I can get such cooperation from you afterward.”
“Knocked about? Ambushed is more like. Where did they take the whoreson after he stabbed me?”
“They carried him, senseless, from the field; he’s being tended in another chamber, bleeding from nigh on a half dozen slices. ’Tis said you broke his nose for him, too.”
Gray scoffed. “He deserved no less. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”
Catherine looked down with deliberate concentration as she poured hot wine over the herbs she’d crushed, but she saw from the corner of her vision as Alban gestured toward her with a murmur.
Her husband fell silent, obviously not wishing to offend her, and her heart welled with regret and grief. More than anything she wanted to beg his forgiveness for staying his hand on the field. But unless she exposed the lie of her identity, ’twould be impossible. She could never tell him that she hated Eduard even more than he did, but that his death would have placed her children’s lives at greater risk.
“Aye, well, I owe you thanks for seeing to my wounds, friend. I’ll not forget it,” Gray finally said.
“’Twas not my doing. Your wife made the decisions for your treatment before I knew which direction to turn. ’Tis she who saved your skin this day.”
Silence reigned again. Alban stood and moved toward the door, and suddenly Catherine felt Gray’s stare on her.
“My lady?”
She looked up, meeting her husband’s penetrating gaze and telling herself that the sudden heat in her cheeks was only from the warmth of the chamber. “Aye, my lord?” Catherine kept her gaze constant, though the sight of Grayson reclining nearly naked on the pallet was most unsettling. Some of the usual glint had returned to his eyes, and she tried not to notice the way his powerful muscles rippled as he shifted to a more comfortable position.
“I require your assistance, wife. And more of your tending, if it so please you.”
