‘There!’ he said. ‘Now, breathe deep, Josse, while I permit it, then tell me what I want to know.’
Josse filled his lungs and, as he did so, drew his dagger from its sheath.
‘That’s better!’ de Courtenay said conversationally. He began to tighten his grip on Josse’s throat again. ‘Now, this time, sir knight, you will tell me. Before I choke off your air, you will reveal what you have done with the boy. Or else, when you next regain your wits, you will find that you lack an ear.’
De Courtenay’s dagger pressed against the back of Josse’s left ear. At the same time, de Courtenay’s other hand was slowly stopping him from breathing …
The world seemed to swoop and whirl around Josse’s slumped body. The blackness before his eyes was shot through with brilliant, painful bursts of light. Opening his mouth, gasping for air, he said, ‘The boy is — I’ve put him in the care of-’
With the last of his strength, he thrust upwards with his left hand. The dagger held firm, and he felt his fingers entangle with de Courtenay’s tunic. Then there was a sudden weight on him, crushing him, sending shock-waves of white-hot pain through his wounded right arm, and he lost consciousness.
But not for long. The pain sliced through his faint, and, with a desperate heave, he thrust de Courtenay’s body off him and breathed in deeply. Lying flat on his back, he drew several vast breaths. His throat burned like hellfire, and he could feel trickles of blood from various points on his face and neck.
But I’m alive, he thought wonderingly. I’m alive.
After a few moments, he managed to prop himself up. Edging carefully towards de Courtenay, he looked at the body.
The man was dead. No doubt about that.
He lay on his side, one arm flung behind him. His sword was half-underneath him, his dagger lay where it had fallen from his dead hand.
There was a large pool of blood beneath his chest. As Josse watched, one or two sluggish drips formed on the torn tunic and fell with a soft plop into the spreading puddle beneath him.
Sticking out from between de Courtenay’s ribs was the handle of a dagger.
I got him! Josse thought wonderingly. By some sort of miracle, I found — was given — the accuracy and the strength to stab him to the heart.
For the cut had to have pierced the heart; no other part of the body suffering a wound could, in Josse’s experience, produce so much blood so quickly.
He looked at the straight black handle of the blade.
Something was wrong with it …
He shook his head, trying to fight the befuddlement of his wits, trying to think …
Aye. That was it.
Josse’s dagger had a narrow hilt, and it was not black.
And, besides, he still held his own dagger in his left hand.
Turning, raising his head with an effort as though he were lifting a tree, he saw her.
She stood a few paces back, as if horror kept her at bay.
He said, his voice so hoarse that the words were barely audible, ‘Your knife.’
And she said, ‘Yes.’
There was silence. Then he said, ‘I once said to you that I wouldn’t back your small blade against de Courtenay.’ He looked down at the body, then back at Joanna. ‘How wrong I was.’
Her face deathly pale, she whispered, ‘I thought you were going to tell him where Ninian was.’
Josse managed a smile. ‘No. I wasn’t going to do that. I was trying to get him off his guard while I prepared to slide my own blade into him.’
She came towards him out of the shadows, kneeling down, taking his face in her hands, gentle fingers touching the marks on his face. ‘He was about to mutilate you,’ she whispered. ‘Would not any man weaken, under such torture? And you were already so wounded.’ Her voice broke on a sob.
He raised his hand and clasped her wrist. ‘You command loyalty in your friends, Joanna,’ he said. ‘Which is no surprise. Mag Hobson didn’t talk. And neither would I have done.’
She slumped against him, and he could feel her trembling. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘So, so sorry.’
‘That you killed him? he asked gently. ‘Lady, there is no need, he was a man whose way of life must constantly have put him at risk. And-’
She had raised her head and was looking at him. ‘No, Josse. All things considered, I don’t believe I am sorry I killed him,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about you.’ She was trying to pull his sleeve away from the cut in his right arm, hands gentle but insistent, causing waves of agony to shoot right through him.
‘Joanna, I-’ he began.
Then he passed out.
Chapter Eighteen
He awoke to find himself lying quite comfortably on the floor in front of the fire. Joanna was sitting in his chair, looking quite composed, hands folded in her lap.
He turned his head a little, enough to look at the place where de Courtenay had fallen.
The body was no longer there.
Relaxing — had he dreamt the whole thing, after all? — he closed his eyes and did a quick tally of his wounds.
The great slice into his right arm felt hot, but numb. Whatever Joanna had done had dulled the pain and he thanked God for her skills. If you’ve got to earn yourself a deep wound, he thought vaguely, then what better time than when you have an apprentice wise woman under your roof?
The main pain came from his neck, where, it seemed, one of de Courtenay’s dagger pricks had gone in more deeply. The wound was throbbing in time to his heartbeat. Throb … throb … throb …
From somewhere nearby, a voice said softly, ‘Don’t fight to stay awake, Josse. All is well. Sleep now, and you will heal the quicker.’
It made sense.
Relaxing, giving in to the drowsiness, he let himself drift off.
* * *
When next he awoke, it was almost totally dark. The hall was lit by a solitary candle, and someone — Joanna — had covered him warmly with a fur rug.
He was, he realised, terribly thirsty.
Opening parched lips — he experienced a dry, cracking sensation as he did so — he whispered, ‘I need to drink.’
Instantly she was there, swooping down beside him, one hand behind his head to support him while, with the other hand, she held a cup to his lips.
‘There — gently now! Not too much!’
The cool, refreshing water slid into his mouth. He swallowed, and she let him take another sip. Then she took the cup away.
‘More!’ he protested.
She was wiping his mouth with a cold, damp cloth, and he licked his lips to take in the moisture. ‘No more for now,’ she said. ‘Soon, another couple of sips.’
He relaxed against the cushions under his head. ‘Thank you.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Sleepy.’ Then: ‘It’s dark. Is it night?’
‘Yes. Are you in pain?’
He did his inventory again. ‘My neck hurts.’
‘Where?’
He raised a hand that felt as heavy as a boulder and indicated.
‘I see.’
He sensed her move away. Quite soon she came back, and he felt something cool press against the throbbing wound in his neck. It stung at first, but then that stopped. And so did the pain.
‘You,’ he murmured, ‘are a goddess.’
‘No!’ she cried instantly. Then she muttered, ‘Ah, but he’s joking, not blaspheming.’ She said, in her normal tone, ‘It’s just something Mag taught me.’
‘An apprentice wise woman,’ he murmured. ‘Just what I thought.’
‘What’s that?’ She sounded wary.
‘Nothing, my love.’ He shifted his weight slightly, making himself more comfortable. ‘Just a thought I had earlier, when I woke up and realised my arm didn’t hurt.’
‘It is a deep wound,’ she said sombrely. ‘I’ve stitched it together, but we must watch carefully for any signs of infection.’
‘Stitched it together.’ He felt slightly sick again.