Joan Wolf - The Poisoned Serpent

“Here comes Rufus,” Cristen said briskly.

The white stallion was led up to Hugh and Alan held the bridle while Thomas and Bernard lifted Hugh onto the horse’s unsaddled back.

“Lead on,” Bernard commanded Alan, who began to gently lead Rufus forward. Thomas and Bernard walked on either side of Hugh to hold him upright.

“I can stay on Rufus by myself,” Hugh protested with annoyance.

“We are not in the least interested in your opinion,” Cristen informed him in the same brisk tone as before.

“Oh,” Hugh said. His voice sounded meek, but there was a brief glint of amusement in his eyes.

At Ralf’s house they were greeted by an ecstatic Nicholas and Iseult. Cristen issued a few short, crisp orders, and Hugh found himself being guided upstairs to his old bedroom by Bernard and Thomas. He sat on a chest by the window and impassively awaited his fate.

She arrived shortly, followed by Mabel carrying a tray that held a water jug, a bowl, more linen bandage, a scissors, a needle, thread, and an ointment jar. Hugh eyed these items warily.

Mabel put down the tray on the chest next to him, and Cristen drew up a stool and sat down. “This will hurt,” she warned him.

His arm was already on fire with pain and he was feeling sick and dizzy. “Really?” he managed to say.

To his great relief, she dismissed Bernard and Thomas before she went to work, cutting away sleeve and bandage to expose the long ugly gash in his forearm.

“Can you make a fist, Hugh?” she asked.

Resolutely ignoring the pain it caused, he closed his fingers into a fist.

“Good.” Relief sounded in her voice. “Nothing vital is severed.”

“That is good news.”

Cautiously he moved his head from side to side. It had begun to ache shortly after the duel, and now there was a tight band of pain around the base of his skull.

It’s just because of the wound , he told himself firmly. It’s not a headache .

Cristen said, “The first thing I am going to do is clean it.”

Hugh stared at the corner of his bed and maintained a resolute silence as she washed his injury with warm water and soap. He made no sound all the time it took her to stitch the edges of the wound together and to anoint it with an ointment of centaury.

As she worked on his arm, the band of pain around his skull kept getting fiercer, and he could no longer ignore the fact that he was getting a headache.

Blood of Christ! he thought, half in anger and half in despair. Will I never be free of this crippling ailment?

Cristen was bandaging his arm once more.

He felt the pain begin to move into his forehead.

“Cristen,” he said. “Do you have any of your betony elixir with you?”

She looked at him and knew instantly what was the matter. “Aye,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

She stood and instructed her assistant, “Thank you for your help, Mabel. You may take the tray down to the kitchen.”

The door closed behind the girl. “Another headache?” Cristen asked.

“So it seems,” he said.

“Oh, Hugh.” Her voice ached with compassion. Then, more matter-of-factly, “Let me get you out of these filthy clothes and into bed. Then I will get the elixir for you.”

“All right.”

His lips formed the words but scarcely any sound came out.

Cristen had kept her scissors, and took care of his sweat-stained tunic and shirt by simply cutting them from top to bottom and sliding them off of his shoulders. Then she easily slipped his hose off his legs and feet. Once she had him stripped to his drawers, Hugh got under the blankets, which she had turned down for him.

By now the pain in his head was a furnace of agony.

Cristen pulled his blankets over him. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

He rested his head against his pillow, shut his eyes, and tried to think of something else beside the agony in his head.

Time passed.

“Hugh.”

It was Cristen again, the only person he could bear to have near him at such a time.

“The betony has never relieved you that much,” she said. “Let me give you some poppy juice instead. It will help the pain and perhaps put you to sleep.”

He squinted up into her large brown eyes. Cristen knew what she was doing, he thought. She would never give him anything that could harm him.

“All right,” he said and pushed himself up on his good elbow to drink from the cup she was holding out.

He lay back down and closed his eyes. His stomach began to churn.

He opened his eyes. “I need a basin.”

She had one ready, and held it for him as he vomited up the stew he had eaten for dinner.

The pounding in his head was sheer anguish. How could he endure hours more of this?

He felt her take his hand.

Time passed with excruciating slowness.

Then, slowly, the sharp edge of the pain began to dull. His head still throbbed, but it was not as unbearable as it had been.

“It is feeling a little better,” he said to her.

“Good.”

He was actually feeling sleepy. His stomach heaved again, but he forced it down.

Breathe , he thought. Think about breathing. In and out, in and out, in and out …

Suddenly he felt a strange humming sensation along all of his nerve endings. Then nothing.

He woke in the middle of the night. His mouth tasted terrible and his brain felt sluggish. His arm still hurt but the pain in his head was gone.

“Hugh?”

A shaded candle was burning and he saw her sitting in a chair next to his bed.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. His tongue felt thick and the words were hard to pronounce.

“Is the headache gone?”

“Aye. But my brain feels soggy.”

She smiled. “The aftereffect of the poppy juice, I’m afraid. Would you like some water?”

“Please.”

She brought him a cup and he finished it thirstily.

“How much poppy juice did you give me?” he demanded.

“A bit.”

“Even my arm doesn’t feel too bad.”

“Good.” She gave him more water and he drained the second cup.

“It’s after midnight,” she informed him. “Go back to sleep. Your brain will be back to normal in the morning.”

If Cristen said it would be so, then it would be so. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

When he awoke in the morning he was alone. His mouth still tasted terrible, but his head was clear.

His arm hurt, but the pain was negligible compared to the pain of a headache.

Cristen had left him a pitcher of water and a cup. He got out of bed and drank the entire contents of the pitcher, which made him feel much better.

He was regarding his pile of torn clothes when his bedroom door opened slightly and Alan Stanham peeked in. When he saw that Hugh was up, he opened the door farther and said, “How are you feeling, Lord Hugh? Would you like me to help you dress?”

“I would,” Hugh replied, “if I had anything to dress in.”

Alan carried Adela’s old wooden wash tub into the room. “I went around to the sheriff’s house earlier and asked one of the kitchen boys to pack up your clothing for me,” he said. “I’ll bring it to you after you have bathed.”

“Alan,” Hugh said appreciatively. “You are a gem of a squire.”

Alan looked bleak. “A squire who has lost his lord,” he said.

Hugh flicked him a look, but did not reply.

After his bath, Hugh dressed in clean clothes and went downstairs to break his fast.

He was only just beginning to realize that his long conflict with Richard was over. Richard the brilliant athlete, the charming lover, the deadly friend-Richard was dead.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and listened.

She was in the kitchen.