“Nay, please don’t do that. Everyone would hate me if I caused the bailiff to lose his place.” Besides, he’d be so angry, he’d find some way to revenge himself on her, she was sure.
Lord le Wyse had looked pale as she worked on his burn, a sign that he was suffering more than he pretended, but now his face was flushed.
Her heart clenched strangely in her chest at the look on his face. “I will tell you if it happens again. I think he will leave me alone now that you have spoken with him.”
“Very well.”
Chapter
9
Mistress Eustacia, who was fully capable of changing Lord le Wyse’s bandage, asked Annabel to perform the task that night after the evening meal. Annabel was a bit suspicious of Eustacia’s intentions, and worse, she was afraid the lord was suspicious too, but she had to obey. She only prayed Lord le Wyse wasn’t having thoughts about her like Bailiff Tom, or even Gilbert Carpenter.
The thought was so unnerving that she kept her eyes down and said nothing while she sat on a low stool before him and unwrapped his bandage. She bathed his burns in cold water again, poured more honey over the wound, and began rewrapping his arm, inadvertently brushing his leg with her hand.
“I beg your pardon,” she murmured.
“You must be tired. You don’t have to read tonight if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I want to.” She looked up and met his eye, then quickly looked down. “That is, if you wish it.”
When she finished re-bandaging his arm, he got up and retrieved the Bible. As he handed it to her, their hands touched. She pretended not to notice, not wanting to react the way Beatrice would have reacted if her hand accidentally touched Lord le Wyse’s. It was more sad than amusing, the way Beatrice tried so hard to get the lord’s attention, as Lord le Wyse obviously didn’t seek or enjoy the maid’s attempt at flirting. Annabel actually empathized with him.
She began to read and came to the story about the sinful woman who washed Jesus’s feet with her tears. At the end of the story, Jesus said, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”
How wonderful to know that Jesus didn’t condemn women like the priest did. Even with a sinful woman, he didn’t rant about how evil she was. He forgave her and said kind words to her. If only Sir Matefrid could read this! How different his sermons would be.
Ranulf was hardly listening as the girl read. He couldn’t take his mind off the bruise on her wrist and the way he’d felt when he saw it, thinking about the bailiff hurting her. He didn’t want to sympathize with her; he wanted to believe she had encouraged the bailiff’s advances. But if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t believe that. At the same time, he felt like a fool for thinking well of this servant who was young and beautiful — indeed, for thinking of her all.
He tried to concentrate on her lively voice as she continued with the next parable.
A twinge of conscience hit him when she read Jesus’s words, “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice.” He felt another twinge when Jesus asked, “Where is your faith?” after calming the storm. But he refused to think about why.
When she read the account of the demon-possessed man whom Jesus healed, again Jesus’s words were like a hot iron on his heart. “Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” He was becoming more and more uncomfortable with the girl’s lilting voice. What was wrong with him tonight? Usually the Bible made him feel peaceful. Now it seemed to reach right into his soul with one hand and squeeze his throat with the other.
She came to the story where Jesus healed a woman with an issue of blood. Jesus said, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.” Peace. Where was his peace? For that matter, where was his healing? Before he could recover, she was reading the account of Jesus accompanying Jairus to his home, where his daughter had just died. Jesus said, “Don’t be afraid; just believe, and she will be healed.”
All at once it was as if a voice was saying to him, You are afraid. Just believe and I will heal you.
Ranulf’s thoughts stilled as he pondered those words.
Was he afraid? And would God heal his scars? He hated his scars because of what they had cost him — his wife’s love. But even if his hand had been whole and his face and body completely unscarred, she still would have rejected him.
Besides, his conscience told him it wasn’t a physical healing he needed.