Page 4 of A Knight to Remember

“Not likely,” Wharton retorted.

“He needs to breathe,” she argued.

Wharton flushed indignant red. “Ye just want t’ look on his face an’ betray him.”

The big knight spoke. “Do it.”

Wharton dropped back to his knees and reached for the helm. Deliberately, Edlyn turned her back and busied herself with stirring the poultice. After all, she didn’t want to provoke Wharton.

Behind her, the wounded warrior said, “Water.”

Freed of the helm’s confinement, his voice rumbled like a great ocean wave breaking on the rocks. Edlyn thought it matched the size of him.

“Aye, master.”

Wharton rushed to the pitcher, but Edlyn stopped him. “Give him this.” From the shelf above her head, she brought down a bottle and uncorked it, then poured a cup full and handed it to Wharton.

He sniffed it suspiciously, then wrinkled his nose.

Anticipating his question, she said, “’Tis spring tonic. It will give him strength.”

With a grimace, Wharton carried it back to his master.

Half turning, Edlyn glanced at the prone figure as she tested the warmth of the herbs on her wrist. Even without his helm, he was unrecognizable. Of course, how could he be otherwise? Beneath the hollow metal headgear he wore a chain-mail coif that swathed his neck and head and revealed only the dim oval of his face. She watched Wharton slide his arm under the knight’s head and lift it with the greatest of care. The warrior drank, and Wharton seemed to know without being told when his master was satisfied.

They’d been together a long time, Edlyn realized, and Wharton’s devotion was nothing less than complete.

As Wharton lowered his master back onto the floor, he shot her an infuriated glare, and she spun back to her work. Sorting through the basket that held her clean rags, she selected a soft linen to use as a pad and returned to the outstretched figure of the warrior. She kept her gaze down, hoping Wharton read humble submission in her stance, and knelt at the warrior’s side. With her fingers, she smeared the green paste across the pad, then placed it over the wound. Only then did she risk a closer glance at the warrior’s face.

Sweat, dirt, and blood had mixed and congealed on his skin, creating a mask of battle horrors. Edlyn released her pent-up breath in a rush. “Look at him! His own mother couldn’t recognize him.”

Wharton grinned, cheered by the news.

“Wash my face,” the warrior said. “It itches.”

The grin disappeared, but Wharton reached for the wet cloth without question.

Edlyn caught his wrist. “First he needs to have his armor removed, and most of the aketon.” She ducked under the table and brought out a pallet, stuffed with straw and covered with tightly woven wool. “If we could undress him, then roll him onto the pallet and pull him into the corner by the oven, he’d remain warmer.”