The More I See You (17 page)

Though it was likely a far sight less painful than having his head stuck on a pike by his villagers.

Hugh took another reinforcing swallow from his wineskin, then continued doggedly on his way.

He couldn’t do anything else.

Jessica woke to the sound of soft moans. Her first thought was that perhaps Richard had invited company over for a slumber party. She almost put her head under the pillow, then she realized that those weren’t moans of pleasure.

Her next thought was that perhaps he was suffering the aftereffects of his apology. She had spent a good deal of the night thinking about his words and wondering just what it was that had really thrown him into such a tizzy, his excuses aside. There was a great deal more to the story of what he’d seen. She reminded herself that it was really none of her business, she was not an armchair psychologist, and medieval men did not have the benefit of hours of
Oprah
watching to aid them in expressing their feelings. She had the feeling grunts and dismissive waves just might be all she would get on his background.

The longer she lay there, the clearer came the realization that those were not comfortable moans she was hearing at present. She kept on the linen underdress she’d worn to bed, pulled her medieval gown off the little table she’d appropriated for a nightstand, and dressed before she felt her way to the window to open the shutters. Then she turned to survey the damage.

The fire had burned out. Richard was lying on the floor in front of the cold hearth, unmoving. In fact, he’d even ceased to moan. She crossed the room and quickly knelt down by him. She put a hand to his forehead and almost jerked it back. He was on fire.

Great. He was sick and there was no telephone near the bed for her to use to call a doctor. It wasn’t as if she had a nursing degree either. Why hadn’t she thought to stick some antibiotics in her pocket before she’d walked out into Henry’s garden? Heaven only knew what sorts of home remedies these people used. All she knew was that they’d better be using them fast.

She ran to the door and threw it open.

“Help!” she shouted. “Warren, somebody!
Hurry!
”

She turned back to Richard and knelt at his side. It had to be his arm. She pulled the material away and winced at the angry red puckering that greeted her eyes. Maybe she should have given him that lecture on germs. That, and she should have offered to sew up his wound.

“Don’t touch him!” a voice bellowed from behind her.

She jerked around in time to see one of Richard’s guardsmen pointing at her. He didn’t look very happy.

“Take her. Keep her away from my lord.”

“Wait a minute,” she began.

Two men took her by the arms and dragged her away from the hearth.

“Hey, stop that,” she exclaimed. “I was trying to help him!”

“You likely poisoned him,” the first man snapped.

“I didn’t! Warren, help me!”

Warren burst into the room and skidded to a halt next to the bed. “Captain John, I’m sure she didn’t—”

“Silence, whelp,” John said, pushing Warren back. “Make yourself useful by fetching the leech.”

“Leeches? You’re crazy,” Jessica said, trying to pull away from her captors. She’d seen enough period movies to know what they were up to and what would be the result. “You’ll bleed him dry!”

“Take her away,” John said, gesturing impatiently toward
the door. “Do it now, before she disturbs him further—”

“
Let her go
,” Richard roared suddenly. He lurched up into a sitting position, weaving drunkenly. He pushed away his blankets, leaving nothing to the imagination. “Now!”

Jessica found herself freed immediately. She gave John a wide berth and knelt down next to Richard. She encouraged him to lie back with a hand firmly on his chest. It was obvious that no one here had any clue what to do, so she would just have to manage the best she could. If nothing else, she would get the wound clean and hope Richard’s immune system would take care of the rest. She sincerely hoped the medicine she’d learned from late-night television dramas would suffice her. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if it didn’t.

She took a deep breath and unwrapped the cloth around Richard’s arm. Well, it might have started out as a little scratch, but someone had sewn it up in a very haphazard fashion—probably with a dirty needle and heaven only knew what for thread. All Jessica knew was that the wound was a fiery red and the redness was spreading upward.

This was not good.

“Get me clean water,” she ordered no one in particular, “soft cloths, and a needle and thread.”

No one moved.

“Do it!” she shouted. “Do you want him to die?”

John continued to stare down at Richard as if he’d never seen him before.

Jessica covered Richard up, then pointed at the guardsmen who had held her a few moments before. “You, there, go get me clean water and a clean kettle to boil it in. You, go get me clean linen. Warren, go find me a needle and thread. And find out who the idiot was who let him walk off without cleaning his arm first!”

“’Twas I,” John said hoarsely.

“Great. I’ll blame you when he dies. Now get out of my way. I think you’ve done enough for now.” She
looked over her shoulder. “I don’t see anyone moving.” She stood and pulled Richard’s knife off the table, then turned and waved it at the guardsmen. “Don’t make me use this!”

They turned and bolted from the room. At least someone had some sense. She handed the knife back to John.

“Go put this in the fire and burn all the germs off the end. I imagine cauterizing the wound would probably be better than trying to sew it up anyway.”

“Germs?”

Apparently, John knew even less about being a doctor than she did.

“Germs,” she repeated. “You can’t see them, but trust me, they’re there. They’re causing his fever. We just have to get rid of them, then he’ll be fine.”

She tried to sound flippant, but in reality, she was scared to death. It was one thing to watch terrible things happen to an actor. It was quite another to watch someone you knew be that sick. There was only one thing she knew: if she didn’t do something to lower Richard’s fever, he’d be nothing but a vegetable. If he lived at all.

“John, get me a wooden tub and enough water to fill it. Make it lukewarm and find some clean, cold water. We have to get his fever down.”

She looked over her shoulder in time to see John shove his knife into a freshly built fire. He was doing what she’d told him to do and seemed to have given up on the idea of hanging her, at least temporarily.

Richard moaned.

Jessica took a deep breath. “Relax,” she said confidently. “I know what I’m doing.”

Richard, fortunately, seemed to have no strength to contradict her.

“We’ll get you in a nice cool bath, then you’ll feel better,” she continued. She looked at John. “Get moving on that tub. We haven’t got all day.”

“Aye, lady,” John said, sounding very strained. His footsteps receded quickly from the chamber.

Richard kicked off his blanket and groaned again, but
his voice was weaker. Jessica didn’t bother trying to cover him up again. She found his tunic, then began drying his face with it. Apparently that didn’t feel very good.

“Cease,” he muttered crossly, pushing her hand away.

“Lady Jessica, the tub is coming,” Warren said breathlessly, sliding to a stop next to her. He looked down at his brother and his blue eyes were wide with fear. “Will he die?”

“Of course not,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “He’s strong and we’re going to take very good care of him. I hope you got a good night’s rest last night because I’m going to need your help. Richard’s going to need you,” she amended. “Now go see that the tub is half filled with lukewarm water. Do you know what lukewarm is?”

“Of course,” Warren said, all injured pride.

“Then you’re in charge of the bath. We’re going to cool the water slowly and Richard’s body will cool right along with it.
Slowly
,” she stressed. “Too fast and you’ll kill him.” She wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but it was certainly making an impression on Warren. “Got that?”

“Aye.” Warren nodded.

It took four men to move Richard into the tub. He cried out the moment his body hit the tepid water and Jessica winced at the looks she received from Richard’s men.

“It will work,” she said to them defensively. “Give it time. And somebody come help me hold his arm. This wound needs to be taken care of. John, perhaps you’d like to help,” she said, casting Richard’s captain a pointed look.

John accepted the helping of guilt without complaint. He held Richard’s arm still while Jessica cleaned the deep gash. Richard slurred out hearty curses, but she ignored him. He’d thank her later.

She made John close the wound. She couldn’t sew a straight seam and she had no intention of improving her skill on Richard’s flesh. When the sewing was finished, she had Warren add a bucket of cooler water. Richard’s
teeth started to chatter. Jessica put her hand to his head, then frowned. Still burning.

“Another,” she ordered Warren.

He obeyed and Richard shivered harder. He struggled to get out of the tub.

And then he began to scream.

And the things he screamed were not things she suspected he would want anyone to hear.

She turned to tell everyone to leave only to find John apparently had the same idea. He shoved everyone out of the room except her. His face was ashen, but he said nothing. He came back across the room and, without being asked, helped Jessica hold Richard in the tub.

Richard apparently did not want to be there any more than he had when there were four of them to hold him down.

Jessica managed to avoid his fist in her nose. He caught her eye, though, and she knew she would have one hell of a shiner as a result. John wasn’t so fortunate. He took Richard’s knuckles directly in the nose, then another time in the eye. His head snapped back twice with cracks loud enough to make Jessica wonder if Richard hadn’t unwittingly broken his captain’s neck.

Apparently not, though, because John was quickly back across the tub from her, holding Richard down. Jessica didn’t look at him.

“We’ll say nothing,” she said, almost shouting to be heard over Richard’s continued yelling.

“Of course not,” John agreed.

“He’s having bad dreams.”

“Out of his head with fever,” John added.

Slowly the fight seemed to drain out of Richard. It took another hour, but finally he was only moaning softly. John pulled him from the tub and she dried him off as best she could.

Half an hour later she tucked the covers up under the chin of a much cooler Richard. She smoothed his hair back from his face and sat down on the side of the bed, drained. She looked up at John.

“Empty the tub and get more water ready.”

“Again?” he asked, aghast. “He cannot bear it!”

“He’ll have to.”

“
I
cannot bear it,” John said, his face haggard. “By the saints, I don’t think I can hear any of that again.”

“If we don’t keep him cool, the fever will ravage his brain. I think we can both agree we don’t want that.”

John looked at her. “You’re either a powerfully knowledgeable healer or a witch.”

“I’m neither.”

He sighed. “I’ll go see to the water.”

“And the men.”

“And the men,” he agreed. “They’ll believe what I tell them.”

“Good.”

She listened to John leave, then looked down at Richard. His skin was a pasty white. The thin scar that ran down his cheek stood out in stark relief against his skin. The day’s growth of beard that might have looked rugged and appealing another time now only made him look unkempt.

Being busy had kept her from thinking, but now she couldn’t help but indulge. She wasn’t good with healing. Would she lower his fever only to give him a healthy case of pneumonia? She knew that he’d risk brain damage if his fever went too high, but how could she tell how high it was going? Her palm against his forehead wasn’t exactly an accurate thermometer.

She sighed and leaned over to press her cheek against his. He was cooler. That couldn’t be bad. As long as he didn’t catch a chill, he’d be fine. He was strong, wasn’t he? He had most likely survived much worse than this and bounced back. Those scars on his chest had probably put him out of commission at the time. He’d survived them; he’d survive a scratch.

She rested her head next to his on the pillow and closed her eyes. Just a little rest, then she’d make sure Richard was okay. And once he was back on his feet, she was
going to give the entire place a series of lectures on the importance of cleanliness.

It would give her something to do besides think on the things she’d heard Richard cry out.

Those were enough to break her heart as it was.

Richard tried to pull away as heavy hands grasped at him. His body ached—from his last beating likely. Damn his father to hell! The man could wield a whip like no other, leaving nothing but bruised flesh. No broken skin. No proof of what he’d done. Richard gritted his teeth, trying to summon the anger that had seen him through innumerable nights of torment.

The anger wouldn’t come. He was so weary. If he could just rest for a moment, then he would have the strength to flee. Just a moment of rest . . .

Strong hands were everywhere, holding him in a grip from which he could not escape. He struggled as he felt cold air hit him.

“Nay,” he croaked. “Father, nay!”

His sire wasn’t speaking to him. Richard fought back the black terror that threatened to choke him. It was always worse when Berwick was silent. It meant he was completely past reason.

The chill increased. Richard felt himself being lowered and he fought back.

“I’ll not go!” he cried out. “Not again!” He could see the shackles on the wall, feel them biting into his
wrists. He could feel the aches in his toes from trying to stand tall enough to keep the weight of his slender body from resting completely on his hands. Trembles wracked him. He couldn’t bear it again. It hadn’t been his fault!