Silken Threads (5 page)

She narrowed her gaze on him. “You’re
lying.”

He whipped back the blanket. “My left leg.
And one or two ribs, I think.”

Joanna fetched her makeshift oil lamp from
the salle, careful not to turn her back on her uninvited guest.
Holding her axe in one hand and the lamp in the other, she winced
to see that his left leg below the knee was grossly swollen beneath
the leathern legging.

“I really did come here with Hugh,” he said
wearily. “He went off to find a surgeon for me. That’s his satchel
over there.” He nodded toward a leather kitbag in the corner.

Holding the lamp over it, Joanna recognized
it as her brother’s. He must have returned from the Rhineland.
Thank God; every time he went off on another far-flung military
campaign, she feared she’d never see him again. She dreaded the day
one of his comrades showed up at her door to give her his personal
effects
—
or perhaps there would be no one to attend to such
niceties, and she would never find out what became of him.

“How do I know you didn’t steal that satchel
from him?” Joanna asked, her confidence faltering. “Perhaps he
broke your leg trying to defend himself.”

“I was attacked in the alley next door. They
took my horse and a good deal of my overlord’s silver
—
but
not all of it, thank the saints.” He patted the kidskin purse
hanging from his belt. “Your brother came to my assistance and
brought me here. He said your name was Joanna. You have a cat
named
—
” he frowned as if trying to remember
“
—
Pieretta? No, Petronilla. And she has a brother who’s
shy, but I can’t remember his name. Your husband is a silk merchant
who spends most of his time abroad. He sleeps down here instead
of...” He looked away awkwardly.

Heat bloomed in Joanna’s cheeks.

The man on the cot said, “That’s all he told
me, that I can remember. I don’t know what else I can say to
convince you. I know you’re afraid of me, and you don’t want me
here. As soon as your brother comes back, I’ll leave
—
I
just can’t make it out of here on my own.”

Joanna regarded him for a long, thoughtful
moment. He met her gaze steadily, although it seemed he was having
trouble focusing on her. His face, beneath its smudges of dirt and
half-grown beard, was the face of a young man, carved with
distinguished planes and an appealing symmetry. There was something
earnest and direct about his eyes, despite the drunkenness that
made them waver slightly. True, his brown riding tunic was filthy,
but it was a tunic of good quality
—
as were his belt and
boots.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“They call me Graeham Fox. I’m an
Englishman, but I serve as serjant to a Norman baron.”

Joanna set the axe and lamp on the bench.
“What brings you to London?”

He turned his head on the pillow, raking a
hand through his lank hair. A gold signet ring glimmered on his
index finger. “I was just passing through on my way to
visit...kinsmen.”

“Where are they?”

After a moment’s pause, he said,
“Oxfordshire.”

“How did you happen to find yourself in West
Cheap?” She moved a little closer to the bed.

“I was looking for an inn.”

“Most of the public inns are outside the
city walls.”

“I didn’t want to have to worry about being
out and about when they locked the gates at curfew.”

Joanna contemplated his distended leg
uneasily. “That must hurt.”

“The wine helped...for a while.” Until she’d
hit him with that axe handle.

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled disarmingly. “You handled yourself
rather well, I thought. I was impressed.”

She couldn’t help but return his smile. “Are
you hungry? I bought two eel turnovers at the cookshop. You may
have one if you’d like.”

He shook his head. “I fear I’d never keep it
down after all that wine. Thanks all the same.”

The back door opened. Joanna heard footsteps
and the voices of men advancing down the hallway adjacent to the
storeroom; one of the voices belonged to Hugh. She rose and met him
in the doorway.

“Joanna!” Hugh lifted her off her feet and
swung her around. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” She kissed him on
his scratchy cheek, noting with an indulgent smile that he still
wore that heathen earring. “And I’ve been worried about you. Thank
God you’re home.”

“For the present,” he said carefully.

Her mood, so swiftly elevated, plummeted
abruptly. “Of course. For the present.” She nodded toward Graeham
Fox, watching them from the cot. “Still bringing home strays for me
to fix, I see.”

Chuckling, Hugh told Graeham, “She never
could resist a creature in need. How are you?”

“Reeling drunk.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Someone cleared his throat. Hugh stepped
aside to let a stocky man of advanced years enter the
storeroom.

“Joanna,” Hugh said, “do you know Master
Aldfrith?”

“By sight and reputation.”

Joanna attempted to introduce Aldfrith to
Graeham Fox, but the surgeon interrupted her with a brusque string
of commands. “More light! Clean water! And clean linen, if you’ve
got it.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Wish I had my assistants
with me, but they’re in Southwark tonight, squandering their pay at
the stews and most likely catching the pox in the bargain. You two
will have to do.”

Hugh lit a horn lantern off the oil lamp and
hung it from a ceiling beam while Joanna fetched a bucket of water
from the communal well out back. She produced two clean linen
sheets and handed them over to Master Aldfrith, reflecting
uncharitably that they’d be ruined now, and she could ill afford to
replace them.

The surgeon sent Hugh to the table in the
salle to tear the sheets into long strips, and ordered Joanna to
undress the patient.

“Pardon me?”

“Boots, leggings, tunic, shirt,” Aldfrith
elaborated as he donned a leather apron. “Off. He may keep his
drawers on.” He arched an eyebrow at her hesitation. “Come now. A
maiden might blush at such a task, but you’re a married
woman
—
or was I misinformed?”

The serjant was observing her with quiet
interest. Scalding heat rose in her cheeks.

“I can do it myself,” Graeham said,
grimacing as he tried to sit up.

“Lie still!” Aldfrith barked as he pulled
surgical tools out of his bag and laid them out on the low storage
chest next to the cot. “You’ll only worsen your injuries.”

“He’s right,” Joanna said, unsure why she’d
balked at the request, and feeling like a fool for having done so.
“You shouldn’t be exerting yourself. And I don’t
mind
—
really.” She leaned over the foot of the cot and
unlaced Graeham’s left boot; he hitched in a breath when she pulled
it off, although she strove to be gentle. The right boot came next,
and then she moved around to his side and studied the thong that
bound the sheet of leather around his left leg.

“It’s tied off up here.” Graeham gathered up
his knee-length tunic to expose the top of the legging, a short
expanse of densely muscled thigh, and the hem of his linen
underdrawers.

“Right, then.” Joanna tugged at the thong,
which had been knotted off and tucked under itself, but the
swelling had apparently spread up his leg, because the narrow strip
of leather wouldn’t budge. She plucked futilely at the knot, all
too aware of her hands grazing his bare thigh in an inadvertent
caress, the hair there tickling her fingers, and of him watching
her with his heavy-lidded, strangely intent gaze. Her skin felt
prickly all over, as if it were suddenly too small for her.

“Perhaps you should just cut it off,” he
said.

“Ah, yes. All right.” Joanna retrieved her
little dagger from its sheath on her girdle, slid it beneath the
thong and severed it. She unwound it carefully, so as not to jostle
Graeham, and then peeled away the leather wrapping. Beneath it he
wore a woollen stocking, tightly stretched over his lower leg, and
this she cautiously snipped away with the embroidery shears
attached to her chatelaine.

“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered when she saw
his shin. It was misshapen where the bone had snapped, the flesh
inflamed and mottled with blue-black bruising.

“Hmph.” Aldfrith paused in his preparations
to peer at the damaged leg. “At least the bone didn’t break the
skin. I can put these away.” He repacked several hellish-looking
knives and a saw.

The relief on Graeham’s face more than
matched her own. Working swiftly, she divested him of the other
legging as he unbuckled and set aside his belt. Between them, they
managed to wrestle him out of his tunic and shirt. His left side
was swollen in the area of the lower ribs, the only imperfection on
a torso that was otherwise the epitome of masculine grace and
power. His shoulders were wide and packed with muscle, his belly
lean, his hips narrow beneath his loose linen drawers. When he
raised a hand to comb the unruly hair off his face, bands of muscle
flexed and contracted in his arms. It was all Joanna could do to
keep from gaping at the man.

Hugh came in with his strips of linen, one
of which Aldfrith used to bind Graeham’s broken ribs, a swift and
seemingly painless operation. The rest he placed on the cot next to
Graeham, along with two slender ash boards the length of a man’s
leg, lined with sheepskin.

“How long will it take to set the leg?”
Joanna asked.

“Not long for the actual setting,” Aldfrith
replied. “Most of the time is spent securing the splints. I need
someone strong
—
” he pointed to Hugh “
—
that would
be you, to help me reposition the bone. Normally I like a couple of
sturdy men to hold a patient down for this. Perhaps there are some
fellows in the neighborhood who’d be willing
—
”

“No one needs to hold me down,” Graeham
said, hiking himself up on an elbow.

“Lie still!” Aldfrith commanded.

Graeham obeyed with a grudging lack of
grace. “I don’t need to be held down. I won’t move.”

Aldfrith smirked. “You don’t think so now,
but wait till we start realigning those bones. You’ll be thrashing
and screaming like you were on fire.”

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “Just do
it.”

The surgeon shook his head, smiling
indulgently. “While I admire your optimism, serjant, you really
can’t imagine
—
”

“
Do it.”

Scowling, Aldfrith motioned Joanna toward
the head of the bed. “Hold his shoulders down.”

Graeham struggled to sit up again. “I
said
—
”

“Consider it a compromise,” Aldfrith said
mildly. “A sop to appease a grumpy old surgeon. I daresay you could
toss her off like a gnat if you were so inclined.”

“And I’d have something to do,” Joanna said,
“besides standing about wringing my hands.” She caught Graeham’s
eye and smiled beseechingly.

Grim-faced, he looked at the ceiling.
“Fine.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and
tentatively rested her hands on his shoulders; they felt like warm
rock beneath her palms.

Aldfrith briefed Hugh as to what was
expected of him, then lifted Graeham’s leg while Hugh slid one of
the splints beneath it. Graeham let out a pent-up breath as his leg
settled onto the fleece-lined board.

The two men positioned themselves above and
below the fracture, their hands wrapped firmly around Graeham’s
leg. “Ready?” the surgeon asked.

Hugh nodded. Joanna pressed as hard as she
could on Graeham’s shoulders.

“Now.”

A low, strangled groan rose from Graeham’s
throat as the two men leaned into their work. He squeezed his eyes
shut, bared his teeth, arched his back.

“It won’t take long,” Joanna promised in a
trembling voice. She eased up on his shoulders when it became clear
he could keep himself still, as promised. Smoothing stray tendrils
of hair off his forehead, she said, “Ride it out.”

“Pull harder,” the surgeon ordered.

Graeham swore between his teeth, whipped
both hands up to grab Joanna’s wrists. She slipped her hands into
his and squeezed. “‘Twill be over soon.”

Graeham’s lungs pumped like a bellows; his
face was darkly flushed.

Leaning down, Joanna whispered into his ear,
“You’re very brave. You’re doing very well.”

He might have smiled, or perhaps it was just
a grimace.

“Perfect,” announced the surgeon, slightly
out of breath. “Or as near as we’re likely to get it. Let’s have
the other splint.”

Hugh placed the second board on top of
Graeham’s leg and held the two splints together while Aldfrith
wrapped the strips of linen tightly around them. The surgeon worked
with practiced, economical movements, yet still it seemed to take
forever. Graeham lay with his eyes closed, his face pale as wax and
sheened with sweat. The fierce grip with which he held Joanna’s
hands did not let up.

“That’s it, then,” the surgeon announced at
long last. Sitting back, he admired Graeham Fox’s splinted leg.
“Not bad, considering I had amateur help. You’ve done this before,
haven’t you?” he asked Hugh.

“Once or twice, but it was slapdash work on
the battlefield. I doubt those fellows ever walked properly
again.”

“Our fearless and stoical serjant will walk
properly,” Aldfrith promised as he untied his apron, “providing he
stays off that leg for two months, with complete bed rest in the
beginning, only gradually adding
—
”

“Two months!” Graeham exclaimed, letting go
of Joanna’s hands and trying to sit up.

“Lie still!” Aldfrith shouted. “Do you want
to ruin my beautiful work?”

“I can’t stay off my feet for two months. I
have to...I have a matter of great urgency to attend to.”

“You can write to your family in
Oxfordshire,” Joanna said, “and let them know you’ll be
delayed.”