Jamie swung up behind his father. Leaning protectively over William, he spurred the horse through the gates, across a narrow bridge, and up the short slope of the outer courtyard to the church. With monks trailing him now, he turned his horse and rode along the side of the church and through an arched doorway.
Stephen ducked his head as he followed Jamie through the arch. With a twinge of uneasiness, he realized they were in the monks’ cloister. God might forgive them for bringing horses into this quiet place, but the monks would not.
“The infirmary is there,” Jamie said, pointing to a doorway off the opposite side of the small courtyard.
Together they cut the ropes and lifted William down. Jamie blanched when William’s head lolled back, revealing the bloody bandage around his neck.
Stephen met his nephew’s frightened eyes. “There is no one stronger. He will make it.” Stephen needed to believe it, too.
“With God’s help.”
Stephen turned to see who had spoken. It was an ancient monk with a bent back and pure white tonsured hair. The monk waved them through the low doorway Jamie had pointed to and followed them inside. As they laid William down on a cot in the corner, he moaned. He did not waken, but he was alive.
“Bring me the lamp,” the monk said as he lowered himself onto a stool beside the cot.
While Jamie fetched a lamp from across the room, the old monk pressed his ear against William’s chest.
“The heart is strong, and he is able to draw air,” the monk said as he straightened. “Remove the bandage.”
Stephen knelt beside the cot. As soon as he cut off the blood-soaked bandage, the old monk cleaned the wound from a basin of water he seemed to pull from the air. The monk snapped his fingers at Jamie and pointed to several pots on a shelf. Faster than seemed possible, he mixed a smelly paste.
“Does he have other injuries?” the monk asked as he spread the paste with flat, bent-back thumbs over the oozing wound.
“Just this one,” Stephen said, “where he took an arrow.”
“Has he wakened since?”
“Once, briefly, more than an hour ago.”
“He awoke a second time,” Isobel said behind him.
Until he heard her voice, Stephen did not realize she had followed them inside. He was grateful for her presence. It comforted him to have her near.
“There was a man I did not see,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “Lord FitzAlan threw a dagger into his heart.”
Stephen reached for her hand and squeezed it, then kissed her icy fingers. “ ’Tis so like William, to wake just when needed to save the day. He is the best man I know.”
Stephen heard a choking sound behind him and got to his feet to put an arm around Jamie.
“ ’Tis my fault he is hurt,” Jamie said in a cracked voice.
“Nay, the blame is mine, not yours,” Stephen said, feeling the full weight of his misdeeds. “I am so sorry.”
The old monk’s ears were still sharp. “ ’Tis God’s will this man was struck,” he said without turning. “And with God’s help, he will survive.”
He turned on his stool and craned his neck to look up at them. “You are all big fellows, are you not? It will take time for this one to get his strength back, but he will heal.”
“He will recover?” Jamie asked.
“He is not out of danger. But aye, I believe he will.” The monk made a shooing motion toward Stephen and Isobel. “Take the woman and leave the lad with me. I need only one pair of helping hands.”
Stephen nodded but said, “I need a word with my nephew first.” Best to get this over with.
“I know what I told you upset you,” he said when he had Jamie in the far corner of the room. “It all happened a long time ago, when your mother was not much older than you are now. ’Tis not my place to tell you the whole of it, but neither is it yours to judge her. She did what she had to do to survive.”
Jamie kept his gaze on the floor and his lips pressed tight together, but he was listening.
“William has been father to you since you were a child of three,” he said. “You’ve always known you do not share his blood, but you are the son of his heart.”