Pride wins this time. “No. I was riding toward it ... when I fell. Something hit my head.”
“Low branches can be a challenge when you ride too fast here.” Isabeau offers me a wry twist of a smile. “You would laugh if you knewhow many times a branch parted me from Woede.” She again pats the horse, who still lingers behind her like an attentive shadow. “You need a horse that stays waiting for you when you tumble, or you need to ride slower, love.”
“Don’t.” My heart twists at the familiar note in her voice. “I accept you using my given name, but notthat, not now. I am owed more respect than to be called by the words you use to excuse not remembering your paramours’ names.”
Her temper prickles, and I hear the resonance of it as she says, “Lady Gabrielle, then?”
The throbbing in my head grows more insistent by the moment. “My arm is cut, and my head drips blood onto my back. Can we not spar right now?”
Her entire expression changes. “Those are not the things one describes as ‘fine,’ Gabrielle. Let me see.” She reaches out as she moves too close to me, ignoring the sword still clutched in my hand. “Can you move your arm?”
“Which one?” I huff.
“The one that was cut.” She rips the tear already in my sleeve, parting the fabric and exposing the cut.
Though I am squeamish at the scent and sight of death, my own injuries evoke no such reaction. I glance over. The cut is not even as long as my longest finger. It bleeds freely, making it seem rather more grotesque, but the depth is shallow. I stare at it far more dispassionately than my volatile former beloved.
“This will need stitching.” Isabeau pulls out a muslin handkerchief, laundered until it has become silken in texture. She folds it and then wraps it snugly around the cut, covering the wound.
“I am aware.”
Silently, she steps behind me. I hear her gasp as she notices the mass of bloody hair. “This looks far worse than it is, I think. What is the purplish substance in it and on your dress?”
Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder, as if to steady me or herself. I feel as if her touch sears me, and I force myself not to lean toward her. I know Isabeau is both capricious and protective; this means nothing.
“I will see the physician when I am home,” I offer, feeling vaguely apologetic for my injury, though it was not my fault. Not really. What else could I do but investigate when I heard that scream?
“I will escort you and—”
“You will not.” I spin to face her, and the world spins faster than I do. I reach out to steady myself, catching her elbow with my blood-caked hand, noticing the purple on my hand as I do so. The odd fluid gives me pause. I stare at the ground. We burned a body here. There are no berries, fruits, or flowers left in the area that could be responsible for the purple.
“Whoa!” Isabeau wraps an arm around my waist, and for a flicker of a moment, I almost wish we were dancing.
“This wasn’t a ruse to get into your arms,” I mutter, embarrassed by my own thoughts and admitting that the blows to my head have muddled my mind a bit.
“No ruses ever needed, love.” She looks down at me. Before I can object to her calling me that, she adds, “I have called only one person ‘love,’ Gabrielle. One. In all my life.”
Later I can blame the wave of weakened knees on my blood loss or head injury, but in the moment, I will admit to myself that I avoid her because of this very reaction, this weakness that steals over me when she smiles at me as if I am the only woman in the world. Aloud I admit nothing. Instead, I say, “I would appreciate your assistance in taking the saddle.”
She sighs, expression falling. “I will see you safely home unless you want to return with me to—”
“I cannot intrude on your family when His Grace is ill.” I don’t say “dying,” although we both know that’s what I mean.
She nods at me. “Of course.”
“Can you ...” I feel awkward asking. “Stand still a moment.”
She does, and I pull out my bag of salt and pour it on her arm where I gripped her, then on my skirt and my hands. Hating the thought of the pain about to flood me, I whisper, “I need you to hold me steady a moment.”
I don’t warn her why. I let her think I am simply dizzy, and then I take a liberal handful of salt in my palm. Bracing for the pain, I bow my head and reach back to release the granules over my wound.
The stinging makes my knees weaken and my stomach rebel.
“What are you doing?” Isabeau holds on to me as I bite back a sound.
“Contaminants,” I manage to say in a wavering voice. “I’d rather pain than ...” I shrug. I’m not going to start listing the horrors I fear. “I didn’t think you’d do it for me.”
To that, she says nothing.
