“Thank God,” she said simply.
He moved his head back and forth on the pillow, testing to see whether or not the pain would return.
Nothing.
He drew in a deep, unsteady breath and let it out again.
“You will be all right now,” the girl said. “I have seen these headaches before. When the pain finally goes away, it does not come back.”
She reached out and removed the cold cloth that was still lying on his forehead.
Hugh looked up, and for the first time he really saw the girl who had been taking care of him.
She was young, sixteen perhaps, and she was lovely. Her face was a perfect, delicate oval, her nose was small and straight, her mouth was tender and yet it looked as if it could also be stern. But it was her eyes that caught and held him; huge brown eyes that looked at him with such directness, such honesty.
She looked at him as if she could see into his very soul.
And Hugh, who revealed himself to no one, looked back.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember your name.”
“My name is Cristen.”
He swung his feet to the floor and, slowly and carefully, stood up. She was small; the top of her head reached only to his mouth and he was not a tall man. Her shining brown hair was center-parted and hung rain-straight to her waist. It had the texture of fine silk.
“What is the time?” he asked. For some reason, he knew he did not have to make polite conversation with this girl.
“It is late, after nine o’clock.”
He ran his fingers through his hair, which was damp from the cold, wet cloths. “What must your father think of me?”
“He thinks you were sick, and he will be happy to hear that you are better.” She bent to lift a basket full of cloths from the floor. “Would you like me to send him to see you or would you rather wait until the morning?”
Hugh would much rather wait until the morning.
“If he wishes me to come to the hall, of course I will do so,” he said.
She gave him a severe look. “You are not going into the hall tonight. If you wish to see my father, he will come to you.”
“I shall be happy to see him if that is what he would like,” Hugh responded stoically.
She read him unerringly. “Father Adolphus from Malmesbury Abbey is visiting us, so we will begin the day tomorrow with mass in the chapel at seven. I will tell Father you will see him then.”
“Thank you,” Hugh said. He did not try to disguise his relief. “You have been very kind.”
“I will send a boy with water so you can wash,” she said. “Do you wish something to eat?”
He shook his head, astonished that he felt no pain with the movement. “My stomach is still somewhat uneasy.”
“Would you like me to fix you a potion for it?”
“Thank you, but no. I think all that I need is some sleep.”
She nodded agreement. “I shall wish you a good night, then.”
“My name is Hugh,” he said gravely.
At that, she smiled. “Good night, Hugh.”
And he, who so rarely smiled himself, felt his own lips curve in reply. “Good night,” he said. “Cristen.”
Hugh slept deeply and dreamlessly, only waking when a squire came into his bedroom with water and fresh clothes. He put on his linen drawers while he was still in bed and then he rose to wash in the basin of cold water the boy had brought.
After washing, he put on a clean shirt and hose. Over these went a crimson wool surcoat, with Adela’s handiwork embroidered on its hem and the edges of its long, tight sleeves. Around his waist he buckled a plain leather belt and on his feet he slipped the soft leather shoes that were the proper footwear for indoors. He ran Adela’s fine wooden comb quickly through his short black hair, then said to the squire, “Can you direct me to the chapel?”
“It is up the stairs,” the boy told him. “If you will come with me, I will take you.”
“Thank you,” Hugh said, and allowed Nigel’s squire to lead him out of the bedroom and into a room that looked as if it might be the family solar. They passed through another door that took them into the great hall. As he crossed the rush-strewn wooden floor in the wake of the servant, Hugh made himself look around, trying to distract himself from his dread of going into the chapel.
The hall was a large room with decent-sized windows thrown open to the summer air. Colorful rugs hung on the stone walls to keep out drafts. There was a large fireplace set into one wall, and two balls of gray fur lay curled in the rushes in front of the empty grate.
The castle cats were taking a rest from their rodent-catching duties, Hugh thought.
The high table was already in place for the morning’s breaking fast, but the trestle tables for the lesser folk were still stacked along the walls.
The room smelled clean. Adela would have approved, Hugh thought.
“This way,” the squire said, and Hugh put his foot on the sturdy wooden staircase that would take him to the third level of the castle.
He saw the open door of the chapel as soon as he reached the top of the stairs. Servants were filing in, but Hugh scarcely noticed them. He was too busy trying to repress the feeling he always got in his stomach whenever he entered a castle chapel.
“The master and Lady Cristen are already seated in the front,” his youthful escort murmured, and obediently Hugh made his way down the narrow aisle. He stepped into the carved wooden pew next to Nigel.
His host gave him a grave smile and then turned his attention to the altar.
Hugh stared straight ahead, first at the carved crucifix that hung on the wall over the altar, then at the altar itself, covered with an embroidered linen cloth and topped with gold candlesticks and a carved wooden tabernacle.
The too-familiar feeling began to creep over him again: part terror, part anger, part utter desolation.
He was all right in a large church, but in a chapel…
Why do I always feel like this?
Instinctively he knew that he did not want to learn the answer to that question.
The earl was killed in a chapel.
He did not want to think about that, either. It was fruitless to think about that. He couldn’t remember.
The priest had come out onto the altar. He faced the tabernacle, raised his hands and began to intone the prayer that always opened mass: “In nomine patris…”
The congregation, Hugh included, made the sign of the cross.
When mass was finished, Hugh filed out of the chapel with Nigel and Cristen.
“How are you feeling this morning?” his host asked, scanning Hugh’s tense face with narrowed eyes.
“Much better,” Hugh replied. “I apologize for arriving in such a pitiful state.”
“You don’t look well,” Nigel said bluntly.
Hugh’s nostrils pinched together. “I assure you, I am fine.”
The three of them began to descend the stairs to the great hall, where the servants were busily setting up the trestle tables for the morning’s breaking fast.
Halfway down the stairs, they were met by two dogs who came racing to shove their noses into Cristen’s hands. The girl laughed, caressed their heads briefly, then turned to Hugh. “You must allow me to introduce you. This is Cedric,” she nodded toward the shaggy brown mongrel with one torn ear that was pressing against her leg. “And this is Ralf.”
Hugh felt his eyes widen at the mention of the name. He looked at the large, black-and-white, freckle-nosed dog and, unconsciously, his hand went up to encircle the gold cross he had worn around his throat ever since his foster father’s death.
Nigel said with resignation, “My daughter should have a purebred, of course, but these are the dogs she wanted.”
“There is always someone who will take a purebred,” Cristen said briskly. “Cedric and Ralf need me.”
She bestowed one more pat on each dog and then resumed walking down the stairs.
“Cristen rescued Ralf from being drowned in the river when he was a puppy and Cedric came wandering up to the castle walls one night, injured and crying, and she insisted that we take him in.” Nigel’s voice held a mixture of amusement and pride as he spoke of his daughter and her animals.