“Aye,” she whispered. “Hurry and get it over with.”
Up until this moment, Garren had ignored his guilt at having done this to her, however accidental. Now he was seized with remorse. Tending her wound was going to hurt him far more than it would hurt her.
“I brought this, my lord,” Aglette shoved a bottle at him. “If we get her drunk on wine, she’ll not feel a thing.”
Garren knew that wasn’t quite the truth, but he took the bottle from her anyway. “My thanks,” he held it up to Derica. “It might help, my lady.”
Derica took a few large gulps, as if the faster and more she drank, the less the shock and pain. It was strong and tart. Garren watched her take another gulp before moving in on thewound. He would have liked to have taken the time until she was properly fortified, but there was no time to waste.
Some of the material was imbedded deep. Garren used a long pair of tweezers that Aglette had brought to pull out the bits and pieces, listening to Derica gasp and then finally sob softly in pain. More than once, he put his hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing, apologizing for the pain he was causing her. Derica would only nod her head to acknowledge him.
After an agonizing eternity, Garren was finally ready to stitch the wound. He set his tweezers down, apologized again to Derica, and poured some of the ale on the wound to cleanse it. She emitted a piercing shriek and abruptly fell silent. Garren hurriedly put five neat stitches in her soft skin.
“It is over,” he said quietly, taking a strip of clean linen from Aglette to bind Derica’s arm. “Your bravery astounds me, my lady. I have seen battle hardened knights handle pain not a morsel as well as you did.”
Derica was beyond the crying stage. Lying back on the pillows as Garren expertly wrapped her arm, she didn’t respond. The wine had taken its toll and she hovered in fitful unconsciousness.
Garren took longer than he had to tying off the binding. His gaze moved between Derica’s white face and his work. When he was done wrapping the arm, he kissed it softly. His guilt was overtaking him completely and he was deeply sorry for her agony.
“Sleep well, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You have earned it.”
He collected the basin and linen next to the bed, preparing to leave her in peace. But Derica’s weak voice stopped him.
“Do not go,” she whispered.
He handed the bloody rags to Aglette. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Please stay.”
Her face was the color of the linen upon which she rested. Garren sat back down next to her.
“I will not leave you,” he murmured.
“Promise?”
“On my oath. I will never leave you.”
Her eyes opened and her head lolled in his direction. Garren smiled at her as their eyes met. Derica’s only response was to open her hand, slowly, and lift it with great difficulty. Garren saw the gesture meant for him and he quickly took her hand, holding it tightly. With that, Derica closed her eyes once more and sleep claimed her.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Iam inno mood for foolery. My daughter has been injured this night and my patience is at an end.”
“I assure you, I bring no foolery, my lord. Fourteen hundred men have landed at the mouth of the Welland River. Nottingham is a two day’s ride from there. Can you imagine such a force for our cause, my lord?”
A man dressed in shabby clothes and a patched eye sat near the hearth, warming himself. The bugs that found a home in his garments and against his skin were jumping off of him due to the searing heat. Bertram watched small, black things fall onto his stone floor. He moved his foot when a dark dot with legs moved too close.
“You’re sure?” Bertram asked.
The man nodded. “I have eyes everywhere, my lord. I trust their word.”
Bertram digested the information. The man was a spy, someone who had worked for the prince’s cause for several years. He looked and acted like a mad peasant, making him the perfect spy. He could go almost anywhere and glean whatever knowledge he could. His network was laced with relatives and other unscrupulous acquaintances on the prince’s payroll. More often than not, the information they provided was startlingly accurate and Bertram was well aware of the fact.
Which was why he considered the man’s statements carefully. “Teutonic mercenaries,” he muttered. “Fat, evil, well paid murderers.”
“Moving for Nottingham Castle.”
“Then it is up to the Earl of Nottingham to amass them until the prince is prepared to move. Any news of the Irish mercenaries?”