Finally, they ran out of air, and Rosamund lifted her head, eyes wide and wild, staring down at him in amazement and wonder and, yes, in fear, too—but not of anything supernatural. “I never knew,” she whispered. “I never guessed … it could be…”
“And I only dreamed.” The prince’s voice was rusty, grating, but soft and caressing. “I could never know—but now that I do, I can only want more.” Then the arm about her shoulders grew heavier, pressing her down to him, and she went willingly, covering his mouth with hers, then nibbling his lips, then kissing him fully again.
Matt stepped up beside Sir Orizhan. “He does have to breathe now and then, you know.”
The knight turned to Matt, beaming and radiant, with tears in his eyes. “There will be time enough for breathing later, Lord Matthew—time enough, now that she has wakened him. Let her give him all the reason she can, to wish to live.”
“Maybe we should turn away,” Matt suggested, “leave them a little privacy.”
Sir Orizhan shrugged. “It is you who are the healer.”
“We’d better stay,” Matt said automatically.
When he decided there was a distinct danger of their lips bonding together permanently, he stepped in on the next gasping break for air and said, gently but firmly, “Enough, maiden. Your kiss may have started the flow of blood again, but it hasn’t given him back any of the gallon or so he lost.”
Rosamund glanced at Brion’s wound, then stepped back with a cry of anguish. Looking down, Matt saw blood seeping all along the sword line.
“How can … I… lack blood … when she has set my heart… to pounding so fiercely?” Brion panted.
His body tensed, but Matt pressed him back down before he could start to rise. “Just as you’ve said, Your Majesty. Your heartbeat slowed and became so rare that everybody thought you were dead, and wondered why you didn’t start to decay. All your body’s systems slowed with it, and they’ll take a while to work up to their normal rate again. Push them, and you really will die.”
“Lie still!” Rosamund commanded her prince, face pale with fear. She pressed him back, palm against his breastplate.
But his mailed hand still lay on his breast where she had dropped it, and Brion covered her hand with his own, beaming up into her face. “Why, so I shall, if you wish it—but I beg that you give the touch of that hand to flesh that can feel it, not to the iron that covers it.”
Rosamund stared down at him in surprise, then pulled her hand out from under his gauntlet and pressed it to his forehead. “You are so cold!”
“I shall warm amazingly at your touch,” he promised her.
“Yes, and if you feed him plenty of chicken soup and small beer,” Matt told her, “whenever he’ll take it.” He took off his pack and began to rummage in it. “Sergeant, get that armor off him—but gently!”
Sergeant Brock stepped up to obey, but Rosamund said fiercely, “Touch him not! That is my office!”
The sergeant stepped back in alarm, and she relented “You may take the pieces from me, though, and lay them aside to clean and burnish. Here.”
She began to unbuckle Brion’s armor. Brock had to help her lift the breastplate, it being more awkward than heavy. Then Rosamund frowned over the next problem, and opted to have him help a bit more. “I shall lift my prince, Sergeant, and you shall slide his armor from beneath him.” She slid an arm under Brion’s shoulders and strained, raising his torso. Sir Orizhan stepped up to help, but Rosamund said fiercely, “No! He is mine!”
“Why, so let it be,” Brion murmured, his face only inches from hers, his eyes adoring. “So let it be, for the rest of my life.”
She looked down at him in surprise, then blushed and looked away. “Is the plate out, Sergeant? Yes, thank you!” She lowered Brion and unfastened the chain mail about his head and neck. He sighed happily at her touch, and she blushed again.
“My turn now.” Matt elbowed her aside. Reluctantly, she gave way, but not very far.
“Water, please,” Matt told the druids, and one stepped up, holding a metal bowl, watching Matt curiously and closely. Matt took one of his home-sterilized cloths, dipped it in the water, and bathed the wound, with Rosamund studying his actions as closely as the druids. Then Matt said, “Hold your breath, prince.”
Rosamund bent to kiss Brion.
“Well, that’s one way,” Matt acknowledged. He painted the wound with his home-made antiseptic, largely alcohol, but Brion didn’t even stir. “Talk about anesthetic,” Matt muttered, and stoppered the bottle, then put it aside. “Okay, Highness, you can let him go.”
Reluctantly, Rosamund ended the kiss. She made up for it by helping Matt apply the bandage, then wind clean cloth about it from Brion’s neck to his armpit, making him sigh with happiness again.
Matt stepped back, eyeing the prince narrowly. “That’s all I can do. We’ll have to check that dressing periodically, but as far as I can tell, all his enemy did was pierce muscle tissue and give him one hell of a concussion.”
“I shall watch him closely,” Rosamund promised.
“Well, maybe not so closely as all that.” Matt picked up his pack and turned toward the entranceway, then turned back with an afterthought. “Oh, and get the rest of that armor off him.” Then firmly to knight and squire, “Come on, gentlemen. I’m sure the druids can help her with anything else she needs.”
Reluctantly, and with many backward glances, they followed him out.
There, Matt found the high druid waiting for him. Before the man could say anything, Matt dropped his pack and demanded, “Now, why did you help the son of your enemy?”
CHAPTER 21
“Why, because he is our enemy.” The old man smiled. “All us Irish hate Drustan, you know.”
“Or at least are very angry with him, yes,” Matt acknowledged. “I understand he tried to conquer you and failed.”
“Failed indeed.” The high druid’s face tightened, and his assistants turned grim, too. “He failed, but his soldiers slew a great number of our warriors, raped many, many women, and burned nearly a hundred villages before we were able to expel them. No, we have no love for Drustan of Bretanglia.”
“Then why help his son?”
“Do you think us ignorant savages?” another druid burst out.
The leader raised a hand to restrain him. “We hear the news from Bretanglia only a few days after it happens, my lord, as we hear word of events in all of Europe—aye, and the rest of the world, too. Credit our magic with some effect.”
“I’m impressed,” Matt told him. “Did the Mongols conquer China?”
The old man blinked in surprise, but said, “By ‘China‘ do you mean that broad country far to the east, or the one south of it?”
“The eastern one,” Matt said. “I take it the Mongols conquered India, too.”
“If by that you mean the land of Hind, no, but not for lack of trying. The Mongols call the eastern land Khitai.”
“Cathay, in Western pronunciation.” Matt nodded; it was interesting that the major social forces seemed to hold in both his home universe and this one. “Not many who know magic would think to use it to gain more knowledge—especially knowledge of the world.”
“They do not live so closely to a land that has tried to conquer them before, and will no doubt try again,” the high druid said, smile strong with irony.
“So you see the need to stay informed of everything that happens in Bretanglia.” Matt nodded. “That means you must have known about Petronille’s rebellion against Drustan.”
“We did, and rejoiced,” the high druid told him. “We knew also of Brion’s part in that affair.”