repeated dryly. “When all you have to tell us are lies? If there is no one to ransom you, merely say so.”
Selig had no more strength for this. The dizziness was coming on again, and he was not even moving to cause it this time. He feared the fever he had sensed earlier was returning also. Nor was he sure who his antagonist was from one moment to the next, just that she was so lovely—and he hadn’t tried her yet.
He could barely concentrate to say, “You and I are not enemies, could never be enemies. Release me, wench. I am in need of a bed, yours if you like.”
Erika’s temper exploded this time, for him to be so crudely insulting, and in front of her men. “You dare! Mayhap a lashing will give you a civil tongue by the time I question youagain, if I question you again. I am more of a mind to let you rot in here!”
He didn’t notice the shadow that followed her out of his prison. All he saw was the malicious smile of the captain of the guard before he gave in to the pain and let the blessed blackness claim him once more.
Chapter 8
E RIKA HAD MARCHED no more than twenty paces when the horror of what she had just done broke through her fury and she stopped abruptly. Turgeis would have run into her if he didn’t know her so well. But he had hung back, expecting her to reverse her decision.
She was not cruel. Had the insult been dealt another of her station, she would have let the decision stand—it was warranted. But for herself she would turn the other cheek, just as she would take the blame unto herself. He wished she wouldn’t do that also, but she would.
He was correct. She was appalled by her actions. She had lost control.
The prisoner had made her lose it, but still, she was ultimately at fault for letting him. Yet no one had ever offended her like that Celt had done, and done so repeatedly. He deserved a lashing for that, truly he did, but she would swallow her gall and reverse her order. Nor would she hand him or anyone else over to Wulnoth for punishment. Even when a lashing was necessary, she ordered that another administer it. Wulnoth simply took too much pleasure in inflicting pain.
She turned to have Turgeis see to the matter, for she didn’t trust herself to deal with the Celt again. Her emotions turned to mush in his presence, her reactions beyond the norm, and that was unacceptable for someone in her position. But a shout from the hall drew her attention there first.
“Milady, come quick! ’Tis Thurston. He took a fall and I fear broke his arm.”
All else was instantly forgotten. Her nephew had been hers to care for since he was a babe of only two winters. Her motherly instincts took over, had her running toward the hall and through the doors, her heart slamming against her ribs, her complexion gone white, and whiter still when she heard the boy’s screams as she neared the bedchamber that was his.
He was on the bed. Two of the servants were trying to still his thrashing about. Their healer was already at his side, trying to soothe him. But this was Thurston’s first experience with serious pain. He continued to scream, holding the arm that was bent oddly, and Erika wished fervently that she could take the pain unto herself for him, but she couldn’t. All she could do was ease his fear of it, and she went immediately to his side to do that.
“Hush, now, my lad,” she said softly, cupping his dear face, a miniature of her brother’s, in her hands. “It hurts now, but in a few days you will be showing it off to your friends and telling them how brave you were.”
“But—but I am not!” Thurston wailed.
“But you will be now that you knowElfwina will fix it good as new.” She turned to the healer. “Is that not so?” Her tone and expression positively dared the old woman to deny it.
“I will splint it—” Elfwina began.
“You will straighten it first,” Erika snapped at the woman. “’Tis his sword arm—will be his sword arm. He must have full use of it,
Selig had no more strength for this. The dizziness was coming on again, and he was not even moving to cause it this time. He feared the fever he had sensed earlier was returning also. Nor was he sure who his antagonist was from one moment to the next, just that she was so lovely—and he hadn’t tried her yet.
He could barely concentrate to say, “You and I are not enemies, could never be enemies. Release me, wench. I am in need of a bed, yours if you like.”
Erika’s temper exploded this time, for him to be so crudely insulting, and in front of her men. “You dare! Mayhap a lashing will give you a civil tongue by the time I question youagain, if I question you again. I am more of a mind to let you rot in here!”
He didn’t notice the shadow that followed her out of his prison. All he saw was the malicious smile of the captain of the guard before he gave in to the pain and let the blessed blackness claim him once more.
Chapter 8
E RIKA HAD MARCHED no more than twenty paces when the horror of what she had just done broke through her fury and she stopped abruptly. Turgeis would have run into her if he didn’t know her so well. But he had hung back, expecting her to reverse her decision.
She was not cruel. Had the insult been dealt another of her station, she would have let the decision stand—it was warranted. But for herself she would turn the other cheek, just as she would take the blame unto herself. He wished she wouldn’t do that also, but she would.
He was correct. She was appalled by her actions. She had lost control.
The prisoner had made her lose it, but still, she was ultimately at fault for letting him. Yet no one had ever offended her like that Celt had done, and done so repeatedly. He deserved a lashing for that, truly he did, but she would swallow her gall and reverse her order. Nor would she hand him or anyone else over to Wulnoth for punishment. Even when a lashing was necessary, she ordered that another administer it. Wulnoth simply took too much pleasure in inflicting pain.
She turned to have Turgeis see to the matter, for she didn’t trust herself to deal with the Celt again. Her emotions turned to mush in his presence, her reactions beyond the norm, and that was unacceptable for someone in her position. But a shout from the hall drew her attention there first.
“Milady, come quick! ’Tis Thurston. He took a fall and I fear broke his arm.”
All else was instantly forgotten. Her nephew had been hers to care for since he was a babe of only two winters. Her motherly instincts took over, had her running toward the hall and through the doors, her heart slamming against her ribs, her complexion gone white, and whiter still when she heard the boy’s screams as she neared the bedchamber that was his.
He was on the bed. Two of the servants were trying to still his thrashing about. Their healer was already at his side, trying to soothe him. But this was Thurston’s first experience with serious pain. He continued to scream, holding the arm that was bent oddly, and Erika wished fervently that she could take the pain unto herself for him, but she couldn’t. All she could do was ease his fear of it, and she went immediately to his side to do that.
“Hush, now, my lad,” she said softly, cupping his dear face, a miniature of her brother’s, in her hands. “It hurts now, but in a few days you will be showing it off to your friends and telling them how brave you were.”
“But—but I am not!” Thurston wailed.
“But you will be now that you knowElfwina will fix it good as new.” She turned to the healer. “Is that not so?” Her tone and expression positively dared the old woman to deny it.
“I will splint it—” Elfwina began.
“You will straighten it first,” Erika snapped at the woman. “’Tis his sword arm—will be his sword arm. He must have full use of it,
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