Beth stared at the blood on her hand.
How many times had her fingers been coated with the crimson liquid in recent weeks?
Removing her hand from Robert’s hold, she shook her head. “It isn’t mine,” she whispered, wiping it on her kirtle. “It’s Marcus’s.”
“Are you certain?” he pressed.
Nodding, she moved away to kneel beside his prone squire.
Robert followed and sank onto his haunches across from her.
“I accidentally broke off the arrow in his shoulder when we fell,” she explained as Robert tore away Marcus’s tunic and went to work on his mail.
“’Tis probably for the best,” Robert muttered. “I can feel the tip protruding from his back. With the shaft broken off, we can just push it through.”
Sheesh. That was going to hurt like hell. As if Marcus wasn’t in enough pain already.
Beth looked to Marcus, who bore Robert’s tugging as stoically as possible.
Carefully removing his mailed coif, she stroked the squire’s short raven hair back from his face. He was just a kid, really. A teenager.
In her time, boys his age spent their time texting, screwing around on the Internet, playing video games, partying, binge drinking, smoking, getting laid, driving too fast, and doing all kinds of stupid crap to rebel against their parents’ so-called oppressive rule. Yet here Marcus studied the art of war, learned how to defend himself and prevail in hand-to-hand combat with all of the seriousness of a man twice his age, and nurtured a strong sense of honor that was becoming more and more rare in her time.
With two arrows already imbedded in his body, he had not hesitated to throw himself in front of Beth to protect her and shield her from their attackers.
“You did well, Marcus,” Robert murmured as he cut a substantial patch from Marcus’s padded gambeson, finally exposing his wound.
Though Robert’s face and voice were calm, Beth recognized his concern.
“You did, Marcus,” she praised. Giving his undamaged shoulder a pat, she willed her hands to stop shaking and turned her attention to the arrow in his thigh. “You were very brave.” So brave he had almost lost his life trying to protect her.
Marcus sucked in a breath as Robert probed his wound. “Aye, it takes great courage to fall from one’s horse.”
Robert frowned. “Do not make light of what you did today. You protected my lady when I could not.”
Beth scowled as she parted the broken links in Marcus’s chainmail around the arrow shaft. His lady, she thought, could damned well protect herself. And even if Beth failed, she did not want anyone else to lose his life in an attempt to save her. Not Robert. Not Marcus. And not Josh.
Tears blurred her vision once more. Swearing, she blinked them back.
The trembling of her hands increased.
“Beth?”
Looking up, she found Robert and Marcus both watching her. As one, their troubled gazes dropped to her quaking fingers, then rose to her face.
“I’m fine,” she assured them. Of course, the tears over which she apparently had no control chose that moment to spill over her lashes and pour down her cheeks. “I’m fine,” she reiterated, trying to sniff them back. “It’s just…” Reaction. Delayed reaction to the terror of battle. Of almost losing Robert and Marcus. Of killing a man. And of seeing all of the bodies and body parts littering the field.
But she didn’t say that. If she did, they would fall all over themselves trying to comfort her, and then she really would go to pieces.
Instead, she motioned to Marcus’s leg. “I just can’t get his chausses off.”
A shadow fell over her. “Ah. A common complaint. Many a maid has wept on my shoulder because she could not remove Marcus’s chausses.”
Color suffused Marcus’s face at Michael’s dry remark.
And Beth was surprised to find she could laugh.
Michael squatted beside her. “Mayhap I can be of some assistance, my lady.”
She offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
As Michael worked, Beth’s eyes strayed to Robert and took in the immense amount of blood that coated him. “Robert, were you wounded?”
He sent her a reassuring smile. “Just a scratch, love. You can clean and bind it for me when we return to Fosterly.”
She nodded, relieved. “What about you, Michael?”
“I am well, my lady.”
“And Adam and Stephen?”
“I have heard no complaints from them, my lady. They are well.”
She glanced around, trying not to look too closely at the bodies that littered the clearing. “Where is Stephen?” Adam was busy binding the prisoners. But she didn’t see Stephen anywhere.
“Once we ensured that no more assassins lurked in the forest, he left to track down our horses.” His gaze dropped to the 9mm she had set on the grass beside her. “’Tis quite a weapon you have there, my lady.”