My first The White Queen fic!
I didn't like Warwick dying. So here we go.
Chapter 1
They had laid him out on the long kitchen table. She watched the blood creep through the rough wooden structure underneath him, and drip to the brown tiled floor below. Lord Warwick's noble blood, all over her kitchen floor. It was a surrealistic nightmare that washed over her like a salt wave, and she couldn't do a thing about it. Her little mill house had been run over by soldiers nursing their wounded, and resting from the battle.
She watched as they roughly removed lord Warwick's breastplate to get to his wounds, seemingly undisturbed by his whimpers of pain. It didn't seem like they really wanted to save his life, but were doing this out of form and etiquette. He was of noble blood, and so, it would be dishonourable to let him spend his final moments out in the mud. When the surgeon entered, the still harnessed men crowded around him and blocked her vision as to what was being done to the fallen Kingmaker. She tried to stand on her toes to see if their effort was genuine, but the men were too tall, and she gave up.
They left him there on the table once the surgeon was done. His chest bare except for the linen wrappings around his wounds, the rest of his armour untouched. They didn't expect him to live for very long. And since he betrayed his king, nobody seemed to care about making him comfortable in his struggle with death. There was hardly a sign he was still alive, apart from the faint rising and falling of his thin chest. And when the evening rains arrived, he started to shiver from cold in his unconsciousness.
She kept the fire in the kitchen fireplace going for as long as she could, creating the one source of heat for the dying Lord Warwick, denied of any blankets and pillows. There was a constant watch of soldiers around him, preventing her from getting any closer. But when night fell, and nothing had been done yet to improve his situation, she tried to speak to the man who seemed to be in charge of everything.
"Milord." The tall men in harnesses turned to look down at the peasant girl requesting their attention. They had been raiding the town's supply of ale and wine and were getting more drunk by the minute. "Milords, I was just wondering.. I have a bed for lord Warwick where he can rest more easy. He's more than welcome to use it." they stared at her like she spoke a different language, until one of them opened his mouth to answer.
"He'll be dead before long" the man grumbled, peering at the long table. "Not worth yar sheets." He turned his back to her again, but she wasn't done yet.
"I don't care about my sheets, Milord." She insisted. Earning a few displeased scoffs and eye rolls from the others. "If he's supposed to die, why bother to dress his wounds, I ask." The man turned to face her again, looking a lot less patient than he did before. "Does it show of your good Christian nature to let a man shiver to death on a kitchen table, sir?"
"You listen here, young lady." The buff man started. "You don't have a damn idea what you're talking about, so get milking on the cows, or sow another button to your husband's shirt and let us to do what we're supposed to do. Now get away from me!" he roughly shoved her away. The conversation was over.
She retreated to the back part of the house, her bedroom, divided with nothing but a sheer cloth hanging from the ceiling, functioning as a curtain to give her some privacy, and sat down on her bed. From there, she had a good view of the suffering man on her table. He seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness, and sometimes moved his head from side to side, moaning softly. The way the king's men treated Lord Warwick was nothing short of a disgrace.
When night fell, and the men had fallen into a drunken stupor, passed out around her little home. She decided to make her move and atleast show the dying man some compassion. The captains of the guard's sleeping positions would have been comical had she not been forced to tiptoe passed them to get to the man on the table.
The first thing she did was cover him with a thick blanket, listening to his whimpers as she touched him. He had no idea what was being done to him, and he was scared. "Sssh, milord. I don't mean you any harm. I'm just trying to get some warmth into your limbs." Carefully, she started undoing the little belts that connected his arm pieces of armour. Placing them on the table one by one without making a sound in fear of waking his guards. He moaned in agony by the faintest shift of his body, and she felt bad for making him move against his will. Gently, she lifted his head to let it rest onto a pillow from her bed, and it seemed to have worked as a peace offer, for he quieted down with a soft sigh after that, and no longer struggled against her.
This man was supposed to be in bed, under a stack of soft blankets. But the men in charge had made it obvious that the king felt no mercy for traitors, and Lord Warwick was left tended to with mild enthusiasm.
There was nothing more she could do for him now, other than staying at his side. Whenever he whimpered, she whispered words of comfort, half expecting to be the only person present when Lord Warwick would finally succumb to his wounds. But he didn't. He quieted down throughout the night for the simple reason he had fallen asleep, and was finally resting. Nervous to see a man die, she gazed at his chest every ten minutes to ensure he was still breathing, and always found it rising and falling in a gentle, yet laborious, pace.
When morning came, she was rudely awakened by the sound of bugles and the calling of men. The king was approaching. The king. In her house. She had fallen asleep in a chair with her head on the table, and her back felt sore from her bend over position. Slowly, the guards started to wake at the noise outside, and mustered the strength to get up despite their obvious hangovers. None of them seemed aware of the girl next to Lord Warwick, and they stumbled outside to greet their king.
Afraid of what she'd find, she looked at the wounded man. Still breathing softly under the warm covers she had given him. She smiled, marvelling at his strength and will to live, until the door to her little home was swept open and the young king appeared. She stepped away from the table and got to her knees. "Your majesty."
"Where is my dead cousin?" King Edward asked bitterly. The guards like schoolboys behind him. "I've come to pay my last respects to his body." He stepped inside, his eyes fixed on the motionless body on the kitchen table. "Is this where he died then? Amongst plates and kitchen scraps?" Nobody said a word. "Well?!" he demanded.
"Your majesty." The gruff guard that had denied her any courteousness. "We did not want to intrude onto this farmer's daughter and soil her bed with this traitor's blood. Lord Warwick passed sometime in the night. The surgeon did all he could."
"He's not dead." She mumbled, her gaze still fixed on the floor, unable to see she had caught the king's attention.
"What was that?" he asked. "Answer me, girl! What did you say?"
"Lord Warwick is still alive, your majesty." She told him shakenly. "He's still breathing. I offered your men to place him upon my bed so that he would be more comfortable, but they refused. Claiming he deserved to die on a kitchen table." She stopped for a moment, hesitating to reveal the next part. "I gave his lordship a blanket because he was shivering from cold."
The king was silent for a moment, then skipped three steps to get to the man on the table, leaning over him in sheer panic. "Cousin! You're alive. You're breathing. How?!" he touched Warwick's pale cheeks, beside himself with joy for some unexplained reason. He never wished Warwick dead. He was sorry to see him fall. The king only received a faint moan from his traitorous cousin, but it was enough to convince the young man there was still hope. "Hush now, cousin. I promise to take care of you." He turned toward the guards who had gotten increasingly more worried about their own wellbeing seeing the king's enthusiastic response the lord Warwick's unexpected survival. "Place him on the bed. Gently!" he instructed. "You will remove his armour with the greatest care and precision, and make sure he's as comfortable as he can be." A few vigorous "yes your majesty's" were thrown around the room as the guards quickly started to obey their king, as to not evoke a more menacing response from him.
"Stand up, girl." The king ordered her. Slowly, she obeyed, getting up from the floor to face his majesty. "You saved my cousin's life." She started shaking her head, ready to argue with him, but he wouldn't have it. "Without you." The king continued. "He would have gotten so cold he would have succumbed to those injuries. They are grave, and it is nothing short of a miracle he has survived them for so long." He watched as the guards joined forces to carry the unconscious Warwick over to her bed, and gently lowered him onto the mattress. "He will stay here until he's strong enough to face me and take his responsibility for what he has done to his king and his country. I cannot guarantee his safety at court right now. Besides, the journey might yet kill him." she said nothing, which made him worried. "Are you willing to see to his recovery? This has no use for me to demand it. One cannot force anyone to genuinely care about someone's wellbeing. So are you prepared to take care of him?"
She nodded. "Yes, your majesty. Of course."
"What is your name?"
She hesitated. "Amelia… Amy, to those who know me, your majesty."
"I will of course compensate you for your troubles, Amelia. That holds no question. There will be a guard outside your door at all times." The king explained. She looked up with a pleading gaze that confused him.
"Oh no, your majesty. I beg you not to put a guard outside my door." She started. "I am the baker of this town. I have a modest bakery shop in here, and there by the door, that window, is where I sell my wares. If you put a guard next to it, I'm afraid no townsman will dare to step into my front yard, your majesty."
"A bakery?" The king almost chuckled. Lord Warwick was going to absolutely adore the idea of recovering in a bakery shop, and he'd return to court smelling of sugar and cinnamon. That would surely serve him some humility. "Perfect." He continued, and reached out to place his hand upon the girl's shoulder. "I cannot leave him without some sort of formal protection. But I will tell the guard in person how he should behave, and shall not intervene with the normal course of things around here. This is my promise to you." He stopped for a moment, his eyes travelling to Lord Warwick, who was being settled into bed, dressed in nothing but a soft shirt. The men had been careful with him under their king's watchful eye. "He might die yet. We don't know. He's in God's hands."
She nodded, following his gaze to the gravely injured Kingmaker, tucked into her two person bed. It belonged to her parents until they died. But it always seemed too big for her. It was meant for a married couple after all. Not a woman alone. "I will take good care of him, your majesty." She promised.
"I will not inform his family." The king continued, more to himself than to her. As he noticed her confusion, he felt the need to elaborate. "He has a wife. And two daughters. All three of them are beyond my reach as of now but.. perhaps it is best, for now, that they think him dead." She couldn't argue with the king, but her face betrayed her thoughts. "I doubt their grieve will be very long. Sometimes I think Lady Warwick was more ambitious than her husband. His daughters.. I don't know. The youngest always seemed hungry for praise from her father but he never.. they don't.." he stopped, realizing he was making everything worse. "It's not a close family. That's all you need to know."
"Yes, your majesty"
He seemed at a loss for words for a moment. "Can you write?" she nodded. "I want you to write to me. Every three days. No, every two days. About his progress. How he heals. And if he dies, I want you to come to court so I can reward you anyhow for your services."
"Yes, your majesty."
"I will leave you now." He continued, a little unsure about leaving his cousin in the hands of a farm girl. "He is safe here, isn't he? Tell me he is. I do not believe any commoner means him more harm than any noble right now." She said nothing. "Perhaps you shouldn't tell anyone who he is. He could be a long lost.. uncle.. visiting you. Do you have an uncle?"
"Yes, your majesty."
"Great. Then he's your uncle." The king's eyes strayed to the bed, he didn't seem eager to leave Warwick in the hands of simple townsfolk. "he's not easy to get along with." He spoke softly, searching for a reaction in her eyes but finding none. "His rough manners never bothered me really but.. I know of others who did resend him for it."
"Your majesty, Lord Warwick has no obligation to treat me with any sort of kindness." She reminded the young king.
"Yes he does!" he argued like a pouty schoolboy. "He has no right to be rude to you! And if he is, I want you to report it to me immediately." When he looked at the bed again, it was with an accusing stare, like Warwick had already shown her the greatest offense possible.
"Yes, your majesty."
A couple of the men escorting the king entered her home awkwardly, ready to tell him that the time to leave had come, and the king had to say his goodbyes to his cousin. Perhaps for the very last time. Aware of their impatience, the king made his way over to the big bed, gazing down at the wounded Warwick with great compassion. "God be with you, cousin." He reached out to touch Warwick's sweated forehead with the back of his hand. "Please get well." he received no reply from the Kingmaker, and turned to leave without saying another word to the girl.
She listened to the horses leaving, and silence returned to her little home. There was a big chance Lord Warwick would die in the next few hours, without ever regaining consciousness again, and perhaps, that would be the best thing for him. She looked up at the soft rustle of chains outside her door, and spotted the guard appointed to protect Warwick from any unfriendliness. He peered at her around her doorway, and gave no reaction when she softly smiled at him in acknowledgement. Communication would prove to be difficult to say the least.
Her attention went back to the knight in her bed, moaning in his fever induced sleep. She sat herself down on the edge and wrung out a cloth above a basin set on the nightstand. "We might as well become friends." She whispered to him, gently dabbing at the sweat covering his brow. His face contorted in an exhausted snarl at the sensation of being touched. "Easy, milord. All is well." she knew he couldn't hear her, or respond to her words in any shape or form, but he calmed nonetheless. Whether it was from her gentle touch, or her words. As much as she felt compelled to sit at his bedside and watch the Kingmaker struggle with death, she knew there were other things that demanded her attention. Soon the people from the town would come calling for their daily bread, finding none had been baked during the night for her kitchen table had been covered in blood. "I will come back shortly." She told the unconscious man. "Please don't be dead when I return." She felt nothing for informing the concerned king about the death of his beloved cousin. Traitor or not. She got up from the bed slowly, her gaze resting on his now calmed features. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. He wasn't unpleasant to look at, though his rough exterior betrayed he was a true knight, a warrior through and through. He hadn't shaved in days, and his curly hair seemed a little unkempt, making for a rather scruffy looking nobleman. "You just rest now." She told him, fussing with the blankets and furs covering him, before finally pulling herself away from his side.
It was too late in the day to start baking anything. None of it would be ready in time anyway. And so she spend the next two hours refusing potential customers, all people whom she knew well. She was exhausted, sitting at her semi cleaned up kitchen table, her hands clasped around a mug of warm milk in a meagre attempt to soothe her nerves. When Ellin arrived, her friend since childhood, she came in arguing loudly with a rejected customer she met on her way to Amelia's place.
"All I say is if Amy didn't bake anything she's got a good reason for it! Fine, be like that, Devon! Bake your own bread for once." she stepped into the little home, a concerned look on her young face. "Amy! What's going on? Are you sick? Everyo-"
Amelia got up quickly to cover her mouth. "Sssh! You'll wake him." Ellin's eyebrows disappeared under her reddish hairline. "Promise not to scream?" The girl nodded vigorously, and Amelia removed her hand, only to reveal Ellin's wicked smile underneath.
"Him?" she asked with a giggle. "Did you snag one of those soldiers into your little bakery last night?" Amelia rolled her eyes and gestured toward the bench meant for sitting at the kitchen table, covered in some sheep rugs. "Who's Lancelot standing in front of your door anyway? He's been the talk of the town all morning."
"I met the king." Amelia told her bluntly, causing her friend's jaw to drop. "He was here only a few hours ago, appointing me to take care of one of his knights." A small moan erupted from the bed hiding behind the sheer curtains, and Ellin's ears perked curiously. Before Amelia could stop her, she got up to see who was laying in her friend's bed, pulling the curtain away to reveal the wounded kingmaker.
"Holy Mary mother of Jes-!" Ellin called out, only to have her mouth covered again. Lord Warwick frowned at the unpleasant noise so close to his sore head.
"Will you shush?!" Amelia hissed into her ear. "This is Lord Warwick, the Kingmaker. Last night, they brought him in here, gravely injured, they all thought he wouldn't last the night. But he did. Then the king showed up and ordered me to look after him." Ellin's wide eyes shifted from Warwick to her friend, and back again. "If I remove my hand, will you promise not to scream again?" the girl nodded, and her mouth was uncovered. This time, it did not reveal a smile. "I don't expect him to live." Amelia continued. "And if he does, he will be tried for treason once he returns to court."
Ellin gazed at Lord Warwick like she expected him to jump up any second and string them both on his longsword. "Amy, what have you gotten yourself into?" she whispered intently. "Why would you ever agree to such a thing?"
"What choice did I have?" Amelia answered. "The king himself ordered me to care for this man. I am to write him every two days."
With a new found apprehensive curiosity, Ellin approached the bed to study the kingmaker as if he were a rare creature. "He doesn't look injured." She observed. "What exactly happened to him?" Amelia came up behind her, following her gaze.
"I wasn't there. And nobody explained anything to me." She remarked a little bitter. "He's got bandages around his chest and stomach. He lost a lot of blood." It had been all over her kitchen a few hours ago. She watched Ellin reach for the covers. "What are you doing?!" she hissed.
"I want to see his wounds." Ellin said lightly. "I've never seen a real battle wound before."
"Are you crazy?! Don't do that!" Amelia stopped her, rearranging the covers neatly. She received an unamused look from her curious friend. "Leave him alone. For now." She explained. "He shouldn't be disturbed."
Ellin rolled her eyes and walked away. "He's already disturbed. Have you any idea who this guy is? He tried to put the king's brother on the throne. He's a traitor. A real traitor. They're going to chop his head off once he's up and running. You'll see. He's dead no matter what." She sat down at the kitchen table again, pouring herself a cup of milk.
Amelia closed the curtain carefully, as if she tried to shield Lord Warwick from the rest of the world, and sat down next to her friend on the bench. "The king seemed rather happy that he was still alive." She said carefully, wringing her hands together in uneasiness. "If he wanted to execute him, why not just let him die from his wounds?"
Ellin shrugged, sipping from her cup. "There's no honour in that. The king wants his revenge. He's to make an example out of him, probably. Something like that." She shrugged again. "Politics, Amy." Amelia said nothing. "So all you have to do is patch him up enough to stand on his own two feet during his trial. Cause they're not going to hand him a chair."
"Then I hope he succumbs to his injuries and is spared of such a thing."
Ellin chuckled. "Just bash his head in with a big pot, get it over with." Amelia frowned at her friend's blatant need for violence. "Who needs a knight in their bed anyway? Where will you be sleeping while that big noble lump is laying there dying a heroic death? Have you thought of that?"
"No." Amelia shook her head. "Maybe I can ask madam Joanna for something to give him in a cup of water, that would make him.. you know.. never wake up." She swallowed thickly at the mere thought. "I don't want to care for a man only to have to send him off to his execution. All for some king's pride."
"You want to poison him?" Ellin asked, her gaze drifting toward the curtain, like Lord Warwick was suddenly able to hear their conversation.
"I want him to heal, and go home to his family. But I don't think that's possible." Amelia explained. "Though I still can't believe the king went through all this trouble just to have Lord Warwick killed. He seemed so worried, and so sad when he said goodbye."
Ellin reached over to give her friend's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, and smiled comfortingly at her. "Whatever happens to him in the future, you did all you could, Amy. You did what the king asked. But you're not a doctor. If he dies, it is not your fault. If he lives, and is sentenced to death, it's not your fault either." Amelia smiled back at her, knowing Ellin was right, and nodded at her words. "I have to go." Ellin got up. "I'll be back. Keep me informed. And for God's sake, don't worry so much. He's only a nobleman. We have plenty of those. We can lose one." She chuckled, squeezing Amelia's shoulder once more, before leaving.
Alone with Lord Warwick again, she gazed into her now empty cup, listening to the guard shifting his weight from one leg to the other outside her door. The man didn't seem interested in any form of communication, but she didn't want him to just stand there starving or going thirsty. She got up from the bench and peered around her doorway. "Would you like some warm milk?" she asked him, hugging herself against the chill wind that that struck up. There was a storm brewing. The rough, harnessed man looked down at her like she just insulted him beyond measure, but then nodded gruffly. "Good. I'll have some too." She announced to no one. "You don't have to stand here all day and night. You can come in." she peered up at the sky, growing darker by the minute. "It's going to rain soon anyway." She went back inside, leaving the door open for him while she busied herself with heating up the milk she promised him. After a few minutes, she heard him enter her small home, and close the door behind him gently. "You can sit down." She told him, as he stood by the door awkwardly, like he had never been inside a house before. He obeyed her nervously, and gave her a nod in gratitude when she set his cup in front of him. "What is your name?"
"Roger." He answered gruffly, taking off his heavy, leather gloves to wrap his frozen hands around the warm mug.
"Hello, Roger." She said, pouring a third cup of milk. "I'm Amelia." She gazed at him half defiantly, half scared. He met her eyes, and nodded in greeting. "You drink that. I'll see if Lord Warwick can take some too." She felt his eyes burn into the back of her head as she disappeared behind the curtain to sit with the injured knight, who had not moved ever since he was laid down. There was a reverend silence in her little home whenever she sat by his side. Like even Roger stopped breathing in fear of disturbing Lord Warwick's delicate position.
Silently, she placed the cup on the nightstand and reached over to feel his forehead. He was hot to the touch, and his sweating had increased. He was ridden with fever, but her mother always told her fever was a good thing. Fever meant there was fight left in a body. Yet, she was concerned about what this predicted for the coming hours. "You're burning up." She whispered to him, rinsing out the cloth once more to cool his brow, his dark curls plastered to his skin. He whimpered at the cold touch of the cloth, like frozen steel it must have felt to his heated head. "It's alright." She soothed him. "You'll be alright."
Behind her, Roger had appeared between the curtains, holding them open to see what his Lord looked like right now, but too apprehensive to step forward. She felt his looming presence, but decided not to say anything, he was worried, that could not be helped.
"He's dying."
She closed her eyes at the man's words. His voice, void of any emotion, just a mere statement. "How can you tell?" she asked, swallowing away the lump in her throat. Now Roger approached the bed, and reached down to feel Lord Warwick's hand.
"He's stone cold." The guard explained. "He's dying. Won't be long now." He watched the girl reach for a fur to cover the kingmaker's hands, warming them gently by rubbing the soft surface. "I will get the priest." Roger explained and turned to leave.
She heard the door open and close, and a cold wind entered her little home, causing the curtains to billow, rushing over both her and the ailing knight in front of her. His dark curls danced in the cool breeze. He inhaled at the pleasant sensation, and exhaled slowly. She got up from the side of his bed to open the window, allowing more cool wind to rush over him. He seemed to take to it, his features relaxed, and his breathing improved. The rain was coming. She could smell it in the air.
"My parents died in this bed." She told the unconscious nobleman, while the wind howled outside. "First my mother. Then, four years later, my father." She swallowed down her tears, wiping at her face harshly. "I don't want to see another man die in this bed, milord. I beg you." The rain fell like a dark curtain over the small town, clattering onto the roof like Hell bend down to collect the man in the bed. Her little home was starting to cool down, her breath became visible, and she noticed the fog escaping from the mouth of the still breathing kingmaker. Goosebumps appeared on the uncovered skin in his neck. He shivered lightly, but it helped with his fever. The wind entering through the window played with her long hair, and dried his sweat soaked curls.
She took the cup from the nightstand, now certain it had cooled down enough, and gently lifted Lord Warwick's head to help him drink. He swallowed down one sip, and then another. His body growing greedy for it had been thirsty for a while. She removed the cup when she thought he had enough, and gently wiped away the remaining drops around his mouth, feeling his stubble below her thumb. He was breathing, drinking, fighting hard to live. "Well done, milord." She praised him softly, reaching out to brush back the hair from his forehead. Thunder rolled in the distance. The fields behind the near forests collected clouds and filled them with lightning before sending them off to the town. Still caressing his hair, she didn't notice the first crack of thunder, studying his relaxing features instead. The white noise of the falling rain drowned out every other sound around her as she watched every twitch of his face, every jerk of his body underneath the covers, and thinking little of it. This was what dying men did, according to Roger, who had seen men die before.
Another crack of thunder was close and loud enough for everyone to hear, and it shook the foggy, panelled glass of her windows. His eyes flew open, and as he inhaled, his face contorted in an expression of pure and unbridled flaming pain, he cried out, causing her to back away in shock. It was as if his lungs were on fire, as if he couldn't breathe and struggled for air. Every draw of air he took felt like inhaling a thousand daggers.
"Milord!" she tried to get through to him, but he didn't hear her. "Milord, calm down! It's alright! You can breathe!" He flinched away from her when she reached out to touch his arm, fighting an enemy that somehow looked like her. "Calm yourself! Please!" She took his hand despite his struggling, trying to reach him through the pain. Suddenly Roger appeared out of nowhere, and roughly pulled Lord Warwick into a sitting position, hitting his back with more force than Amelia would have ever used on a wounded man like that. But the nobleman started to cough in an agonizingly deep and violent way, until blood caked his lips, and dripped down his chin. She covered her mouth at the sight, feeling slightly sick, and only now noticed the shocked priest standing beside her, his face drained off all colour.
After what seemed like forever, Lord Warwick started to calm down, and inhaled the cool night air in ragged, greedy drags. His face red from the exhausting effort, sweating like a sinner in church. He clung to Roger like a life line, and seemed unaware of his surroundings for a moment.
"Get some water." Roger instructed the girl. "And a rag." For now he wiped away the blood from his Lordship's mouth with his hand. "Milord Warwick, God has been looking out for you, sir." He told the now violently shivering man, still breathing like he had to learn how to breathe all over again. The priest made a shaking cross sign across his chest, looking like he was about to faint until he found a chair in a corner of the room.
When Amelia returned with the cup of water, Warwick had slumped against Roger tiredly, his face now white as a sheet. She gave the guard the cup and watched him instruct the nobleman to take the smallest of sips despite the man's obvious thirst. The rag she had brought served to clean off the blood. Carefully, Roger allowed the kingmaker to sink back into his propped up pillows, and the man responded by placing his arm over his eyes, groaning painfully.
"How is he?" Amelia whispered, as to not disturb the man in the bed.
Roger made a face in response and got up from the bed. "He's in a lot of pain." He said softly, washing his hands in the bowl of water on the nightstand. "But he's awake. His bandages need to be refreshed. I'll prepare the linens." He moved past the girl into the kitchen, leaving her behind with the still shocked priest.
"I was brought here to apply the last sacraments." The man of God stammered, staring at the man in the bed like he was Lazarus risen himself. "I suppose that won't be necessary anymore." He got up shakenly. "Atleast not today."
"Thank you for coming anyway, father." Amelia told him with a small smile. "We'll let you know when his condition worsens again." The man nodded and left.
Lord Warwick seemed only half conscious, and had taken to staring at the wooden beams on the ceiling. He didn't react when she sat down on the bed next to him. "Milord." She started, causing him to close his eyes in slight annoyance. "Are you hungry?" He made a face, which told her everything she needed to know. "Milord, his majesty asked me to keep you here until you're well." Warwick's eyes opened once more and turned to look at her with a wary gaze. "He also asked me to report him about your.. progress. I will write to him tomorrow." The kingmaker let out a tired sigh and closed his eyes again. "Just rest now, milord. You are in good hands." He nodded a little, too exhausted to respond in any other way.
Outside the rain continued to fall without fail. Roger had the kitchen table set up to accommodate the fresh wrappings and an ointment the surgeon had left behind. Amelia sat down on one of the benches and watched the guard prepare the supplies with skilled hands. "You're not just a guard, are you?" she asked.
"No." he agreed, cutting another strip of linen. "I did some learning under a surgeon barber during one of my field missions. The pay was good, and you can always use some medical knowledge on the battlefield." She nodded at his story, and felt a rush of relief wash over her. "They thought it best for me to stay here and help out."
"Them and me both." She smiled at him gratefully. "Are you more optimistic about Lord Warwick's condition now?"
He shook his head gravelly. "He lost a lot of blood. And he's going to get a lung infection from the blood he somehow inhaled because of the wound in his back. If he survives that, I'll be more hopeful." Her worried gaze made him feel bad for just being honest and he sighed. "We'll keep him warm, let him rest. Then maybe.."
She nodded. "Maybe."
She wasn't sure she could live with maybe. But right now, it was all she had.
R&R please!