“Nor would I let you.”
“I am not sure you are in a condition to stop me,” I mutter, then hold up my hand before he can begin arguing. “I will not cut it off, but what I must do will not be enjoyable either.”
Beast studies me. “Who are you that you know so much about caring for battle injuries? I have yet to meet a noblewoman who tends wounds like a field physician.”
To give myself some time to think, I return to the fire and fetch the hot brew from the bubbling pot. What do I tell the man? I wonder as I begin spooning the herbs and mud into the linen cloths I have prepared. I am d’Albret’s daughter, you oaf, and you have just ensured he will follow us to the ends of the earth. But I find I am unwilling to trumpet my true identity. Indeed, I wish to leave it far, far behind me, bury it like a corpse, and never speak of it again. Besides, if he learns who I am, he will never trust me to get him to safety. Still, I must tell him something.
I think back to the first time I saw him, down in the field with the duchess and her party. “I am a friend of Ismae’s.”
“Ismae!” He tries to prop himself up on one elbow, then winces and eases back down on the table. “How do you know Ismae?”
I can feel his eyes upon me, assessing, weighing, but I concentrate very carefully on folding the square of soft linen around the boiled herbs. “We trained at the same convent.”
There is a moment of silence during which I think he will let the matter drop, but no. “If you are an assassin trained, why are you here tending me?”
Unable to help it, I twist my mouth into a bitter smile as I return to his side. “It is a question I have asked myself many times, you can be certain. My orders were to ensure you got safely to Rennes so that you could further serve the duchess.” I look up and meet his gaze. “So that part of my taunting was true.”
We stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment, before the knight gives a small nod—of understanding or forgiveness, I am not certain. “Well then.” He smiles, an utterly charming and devastating grin that makes me want to smile back at him. Instead, I lay the hot poultice on his thigh.
He sucks in his breath so hard I fear he has swallowed his tongue. His face grows red from the heat and the pain and the effort to not cry out. “I thought you said you were not here to kill me,” he finally says with a gasp.
“I am sorry,” I say. “It is the only way to draw out the poison so you will not die of blood fever.”
“Just warn me next time.”
“Very well, I am putting one on your shoulder now.”
He gasps out again, but it is not as forceful as before. Good. The wound is less tender, then, and will hopefully be that much quicker to heal. I glance back up at him to see how he is doing. “You should, by all rights, be dead from these wounds.”
A brief flash of white teeth. “A gift from Saint Camulos. We heal quickly.”
As the poultices draw the foul humors from his body, I turn my attention to his arm. “This must be cleaned,” I warn him. “Vigorously.”
My patient grimaces. “Do what you must so that I may have full use of the arm.”
The next hour is not a pleasant one. I lay a wet cloth on the cut to soften it, then replace the poultices with fresh ones. “Would you like some wine or spirits to ease the pain?” I ask, but he gives a sharp shake of his head.
When the scab is soft enough I take a cloth and begin gently sponging away the dirt and grime and old mud that cakes the wound.
“You never said how you know so much about treating injuries,” the knight says.
I glance up at him in annoyance. “Why have you not yet passed out from the pain?”
“I welcome pain; it lets me know I am alive.”
While I cannot help but admire his spirit, I remind myself that it is wasted effort to like someone who will likely die of his wounds anyway. “You are as mad as your reputation suggests.”
He grins. “You have heard of me?”
I roll my eyes. “I have heard of a madman who dons battle fever like most men don armor and charges out into the field killing nigh unto hundreds of souls.”
He settles more comfortably onto the blanket. “You have heard of me,” he says, the satisfaction thick in his voice. “Ow!”
“My pardon, but the gravel and mud is ground in deep.” I work in blessed silence for a while, marveling that a man so ugly can have such a charming grin. Annoyed that I am thinking of such things, I get up to fetch a knife. The wound is infected and will need to be drained.
“You still have not told me how you come to know so much about treating injuries.”