“You should have drunk another cup. That’s the best way to deal with fear and pain.”
She reached up tentatively, fingers to the black scar down his left cheek. “That must have been – all those things,” she whispered.
He sat back a moment, watching her as though wary. Then he said, “The surgeon took four hours to get the arrow head out. It had gone fairly deep, and because I was only twelve, he took pity and tried to make it easy for me. Yet I think his slow concern made it worse.” Emeline tucked her fingers between his thighs, and he clasped his own hand over hers. “That’s – comfortable, my love. Are you trying to encourage me to talk? Well, it’s not so grand a story. Old Mannbury used a small pair of wooden tongs, something he found in the spicery I think, for cracking nutmeg. He fiddled around with the gash in my face, got both blades in and stretched the wound open with enough space between flesh, sinew and muscle to grab the arrow head with the points of some pliers, and wrenched it out.”
Emeline gasped. “And it took four hours?”
“There was rather more to it than that,” shrugged Nicholas. “First breaking off the shaft without jabbing the damn thing in further. Then dosing me up with wine, poppy syrup and henbane juice until my wits were wandering. Worse than simply being drunk, I can promise you, and the headache later was considerably worse too. But of course they still had to hold me down. I had black bruises up my arms for a month. And being what he supposed was careful, poor wretch, trying to stretch the opening far enough but not to rip my face apart. The apothecary cauterized the wound afterwards, and I think that was even more vile than all the rest. Only time I ever fainted until that damned fire after our wedding.” He paused, as though blinking away memories, then smiled cautiously. “The doctors used great slabs of honey to keep the wound clean. A few times I woke in the night with ants crawling over my face. I had two ant stings on my tongue. That stopped me licking up the honey when it started to drip down my chin.”
For a moment Emeline sat in horrified silence, summoning breath. Then she said, very quietly, “I am surprised you are alive at all, and that the scar isn’t deeper.” She paused again, looking at him and then away, her fingers hesitating across his cheek. “You don’t like it, do you?” she whispered.
“Like it?” He laughed. “Why in God’s good name should I?”
“I suppose,” she mumbled, “you were terribly handsome before, and you resented it spoiling – well – you are still handsome, Nicholas. Terribly handsome if you don’t look at the scar. And terribly interesting if you do.”
“Silly puss,” It sounded amused and affectionate, and he cupped her own cheek, smoothing back the loose curls of her hair behind her ears. “Do you think me so vain? It’s the memories, and the lessons it taught me that I dislike. I found out a lot at that time. I suppose I grew up.”
“I don’t think you’ve grown up yet – all that talk of adventure.” She paused again, then said suddenly, “Peter did it on purpose, didn’t he? It wasn’t the accident Sissy and your father think it was.”
He shook his head. “Sissy believes what Peter told her. My father knows the truth but won’t admit it.”
Emeline said, “Peter did it because he was angry? Or jealous?”
“Both. We’d been sent to practise archery at the butts. Does this matter after all this time? Well, conceit apart, I was the better shot. I had double his skill. Just the luck of birth I suppose, and probably he was better at other things, though I can’t remember what. He watched me loose my arrows at the target. I centred them all, and then all his missed. He turned and shot me in the face. Well, he didn’t miss the target that time. I was too close.”
“Did he want to kill you? Had you jeered, and laughed at him?”
“Strangely enough, no.” Nicholas shrugged, draining his cup. “I’d known him a poor archer for a long time, and found the subject irrelevant. I rarely sought his company anyway, and just wanted the practise over, looking for my chance to get away.”
“And so I don’t blame you for never wanting to go to war after that.” Emeline shuddered. “That would have put you off fighting forever.”
“My renowned cowardice?” Nicholas swung his legs over and stretched out on the bed next to her, gathering her to his shoulder and lightly kissing her forehead. “Nothing is ever quite so simple, my love. I worked for the Duke of Gloucester throughout the Scottish campaigns, and have worked for him since. But it’s easier to keep it quiet, and I achieve far more without my father’s nose in my business. The duke – king now, of course – sent me to Berwick during the great siege. Pretending to be a smuggler of Scottish liquor, I infiltrated the castle there, and helped to break the standoff from the inside. And naturally managed to smuggle back Scottish liquors while I was at it. Then when the old king died two years ago and Edward Woodville sailed off with near half the royal treasure and all the fleet, I sailed with Brampton to help bring the fleet back. Later that year I had some small hand in squashing the Buckingham rebellion almost before it started. Oh – nothing grand – but I go where I’m sent and do whatever the king asks of me. I’m not alone, naturally. There’s Brampton, Tyrell, the amazing Lovell, and plenty of others do the same, but it’s not shouted by the town crier. Sometimes it’s secret, sometimes not. Adventure, of course. But telling any of my family would ruin my work and displease the king. So don’t whisper to anyone, my love, and if you prove a silent tongue, then I’m prepared to tell you what I do when I do it. Within reason.”
Emeline proved her tongue was silent for some time, curled there against his shoulder with her arm around his waist and his fingers in her hair. Finally she said, “Now I know why I love you.”
He laughed again. “And you couldn’t love an apathetic coward? What a conditional and judgemental love, little one.”
“Better than just loving you for that,” and she pointed. “It’s all you want me for, isn’t it?”
“But I am apathetic sometimes, drink too much, and am a heinous coward when faced with my father’s lunatic blunders, and a marriage I thought to be a tedious insult. Forgive me for that at least, my dear, for I was wrong. You are delightful, and I can speak with more than my prick, I promise.”
“I don’t trust your promises.” She couldn’t see his grin, but she knew it was there.
“Do you trust my prick more?”
“I like knowing you think me delightful.”
“I must say it more often.”
“Apple codlings are delightful, and a summer day can be delightfully delightful. Oh – a warm fire – a well aired bed – and a hundred other things. Delightful isn’t outstanding. But if that’s what you think me, I’m happy with it for now.”
They were still entwined when she woke. Although the shutters closed both windows in planked shadow, a tiny line of brightness eased through one slit and Emeline knew the sun had risen. She wriggled free of her husband’s embrace, but stayed a moment snuggled to his breast. She could feel the warm rhythm of his breathing and the steady soft pound of his heartbeat. There was a blush of damp at his shoulder where her cheek had lain, and the gleam of sweat stayed where they had been pressed close together. Even sitting now, and looking down on him, Emeline felt the same little warm dampness on her cheek. She leaned and kissed the place on his body, but he did not move.
She clambered down from the high mattress and went to the smaller window. The larger looked out to the river and the back of the house, but the smaller looked to the side where the herb garden led directly to the stables. She could hear someone crying, a harsh and guttural sound, then a man’s voice shouting and another sound, perhaps of a slap.
When she looked back into the bedchamber, she saw Nicholas watching her. Bright blue eyes, like the glass in church windows. He was naked, unconcerned, stretched on the bedcover and warm enough not to delve below the feathers. “Seems I didn’t exhaust you sufficiently last night. You’re awake too early.”