Through a crack in the door, Ayla peeked into the room. Dilli had told her that, finally, Reuben was awake, and so he was, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. The door squeaked as she pushed it farther open, and his eyes snapped to her. Suddenly, their expression changed dramatically.
“Reuben!” Ayla rushed forward as she saw the flash of pain in his eyes—something which, she realized, she had never seen before. “What is it? What is hurting?”
“Nothing,” he said, gruffly. “Don't concern yourself.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she chided. “I'm responsible for your welfare. If you are hurting and there's anything I can do to make it better, you must tell me.”
For a moment he looked up at her with a curious expression on his sweaty face—and then he started laughing. He laughed so hard; she would hardly have thought anyone capable of laughing this hard in the state he was in at the moment.
“Reuben?” Ayla's brow creased. “Did I say something funny?”
“No, I...” The laughter changed into a cough that wracked Reuben's body under the blankets and furs that were heaped over him to keep him warm.
When the fit finally subsided, he smiled up at her weakly and murmured: “It's not funny, really, when you think about it. But it sort of seemed humorous for a moment.”
“And are you going to tell me what you are talking about?”
There was that flash of pain in his eyes again. He hid it well, but it was there. “Maybe later, Lady Ayla.”
She didn't want to let it go, but then he was sick, so now probably wasn't the best moment for an argument. Instead, she said: “You can forget about the 'lady' part. I'm going to have to nurse you back to health after all, and I'd feel funny if you called me 'Milady' all the time. The patients at the cloister where I learned never did, either.”
*~*~**~*~*
He almost replied, “Well then, you must call me Reuben, not Sir Reuben,” when he remembered that she already did. He wasn't a sir here. Damned ruse!
“Err... thank you, Milady.” He made a little bow of his head. “But I think I owe you the respect of your noble blood.”
Plus, I'm already too interested in you. No need to make it worse by becoming more familiar.
With effort, he looked around. Still the same room, in the same castle. It was undoubtedly morning, with the sunlight streaming in from the east. But which morning?
“How long have I been out? What has happened?”
“Well, as to your first question—not too long, considering your condition, thank the Lord. It felt long enough to me, though. You were unconscious the entire night.”
Reuben studied the rings under her eyes. It looked like she had been up most of that night. So he hadn't been wrong. She had been watching over him.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, a tender look in her eyes. “You sweated out gallons last night.”
Only when she said it did Reuben realize that his throat was parched. “Yes please.” He grinned. “Do you have beer? Or better yet, wine? With a lot of honey please—I like my drink sweet.”
She scowled at him. “I bet you do. But water is much healthier.”
His grin didn't waver. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that.”
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla tried to be angry with him as she left the bedroom and ran to the kitchen to get some water. She really tried—but she couldn't. She was just so overjoyed to see him alive, to see that stupid, arrogant, devilish grin on his face and see those steel-gray eyes twinkling as they looked up at her.
The last night had been one of the worst nights of her life. She had been working ceaselessly over Reuben, hoping against hope that he wasn't going to slip from her grasp and disappear into the darkness. More than once, when his breathing had been labored and the sweat had streamed down his face in rivulets, had she believed her efforts would be in vain. And even in moments like these, no, especially then, she could not stop noticing how incredibly handsome Reuben's face was, longing to touch it just once without a cold linen in her hand, without the thought of impending death in her mind.
She had really believed that he was going to die.
But somehow, he had survived. She didn't know how, and she didn't really care. He was alive, and he was with her.
Before that unseemly thought could take root, she pushed open the kitchen door and grabbed one of the pitchers of water that was left over from her efforts in the night.
Returning to Reuben, she knelt beside his bedstead and held the pitcher out to him.
“Can you hold it yourself?”
He lifted his hand and tried to hold the pitcher, really tried. You could see his jaw working and the massive muscles in his arms bunching—but it was no use.
“No,” he growled.
“It's no problem, you know. I can hold it for you. You're sick. Just because you're too weak to hold a pitcher full of water, you are no less of a man.”
He closed his eyes and groaned. “Will you just get on with it?”
Obviously, he didn't quite share her opinion. He didn't like that she had to hold something for him because he was too weak.
Smiling with silent satisfaction, Ayla put the pitcher to his lips with one hand, while with the other, she softly gripped his neck from behind and pushed his head up.
Reuben's eyes flew open in surprise.
“You don't need to hold me,” he protested. “I'm no infant that can't move on his own!”
“Of course not. Just humor me, will you?” she said, smiling at him, stroking the back of his neck with her thumb.
He opened his mouth—and no protest came. “All right, get on with it,” he sighed. “If only this were honey wine, then it would be worth all this trouble.”
“Oh, water can be sweet too, after you get used to it.”
“Which I hope never to accomplish.”
“Drink already, will you? I haven't got all day.”
He did as she asked, and she grinned down at him, triumphantly. “Sweet enough for you?” she asked.
Instead of answering with one of his usual sarcastic remarks, Reuben fixed her with a gaze that felt as though it would make her melt inside. Quickly, so quickly she wasn't even sure it happened, he raised a hand and stroked a strand of her hair that was hanging into his face. “Yes, sweet enough,” he said. “Without a doubt.”
She flinched, and his head slipped from her grasp, thudding onto the bedpost.
“Oh my God, I'm so sorry!” Hurriedly, she put the pitcher away and bent forward to examine his head.
Reuben let out a theatrical, pained groan. “You really are?” he wanted to know.
“Yes, of course I am!”
“Well, in that case... I guess you can get rid of that water and get my wine now.”
She stopped examining his head. He couldn't be hurt too badly. Everything seemed to be working just as before.
“I was talking about letting go of your head, not about the water!”
“Oh, that's a shame.”
“I don't think so.”
“Why won't you get me some honey wine? I heard from a healer once that a bit of alcohol now and then is very healthy.”
“It is,” Ayla said, raising an eyebrow. “For the digestion. So I'll get you your honey wine when you've got the runs. At the moment, water is better. A lot of water—and fennel soup.”
He scowled and she scowled back. How could anybody be so obstinate? More to the point, how could anyone be so obstinate and so endearing at the same time?
“I'm not going to lie about what I've learned,” she told him. “Those are the things that will make you better, and you're going to have to stomach them, whether you like it or not!”
Slowly, his scowl disappeared. What remained was an inscrutable expression that lent a mysterious touch to his ruggedly handsome features. She felt a sudden impulse to reach out and touch his face—without an excuse, this time.
“How am I?” he asked. “How am I, really? The truth. All of it.”
Hurriedly, Ayla shook off the strange feeling and replied in a voice that was softer than she intended it to be, “I'm not entirely sure. Last night... I think it was close. You could have... could have...” She couldn't bring herself to continue.
His face softened and he nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Go on.”
Grateful, she continued: “It isn't over. The wounds are still infected, the fever is still there. I must regularly change your cold cataplasms.”
“My cold what?” Reuben looked confused, as if he hadn't known he had such a strange body part.
Ayla simply had to laugh at his facial expression. “Cold wraps around your legs. Don't you feel them?”
“Now that you mention it, something has been itching down there.”
Ayla tried hard not to let the thought of “down there” distract her. “Um, yes, well. Those are called cold cataplasms, or cold wraps. But I think I already mentioned that, didn't I?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Um, very well. I'll have to change those regularly. They help to keep the fever down, and that's the most important thing at the moment. There's various other things I can do to help.” Ayla's voice became steadier again as she returned to familiar ground. “I won't lie to you, Reuben, it still looks grim. But I swear to you, I will do the best I can.”
He nodded. “I know you will.”
Ayla smiled. His trust in her warmed her heart like nothing else had ever done before. “Thanks, Reuben.”
“I've got just one question.”
“Yes?”
“In my current condition...”
“Yes?”
“Can I leave?”
“No!”
*~*~**~*~*
“No!”
Was it only his own imagination that turned the word into an anguished outcry?
Ayla leaned towards him, her face fierce. “You wouldn't get a hundred feet,” she said, urgently. “Reuben, you couldn't even get up on a horse. And even if you could, even if you could get away, the effort would kill you.”
He knew it was true. He could feel the sickness eating away at him. He needed to stay here. He needed her.
Well, now you've got your answer, he thought sarcastically. The answer you know you should be devastated about. The answer you secretly hoped for.
He stared up into Ayla's sapphire eyes, which were peering down at him with an anxious expression. It was clear that she remembered his earlier outburst, his fit of rage at learning about the siege. Only now he realized why he had really been angry that day. Not because of the siege, no. Why would he, Sir Reuben Rachwild, who had been in more battles than one could count on all the fingers of the people in this little castle, fear one paltry siege? No. What had truly enraged him was that learning the truth had robbed him of his only excuse to stay, to enjoy the sparkle of those two sapphires, which were becoming more precious with every passing moment, for a few more days. How could he justify staying when every bit of sense in his brain told him to go?
Sense had served him well in the past. It had helped him stay alive.
Now he had his excuse back—and she was anxious that he would be angry now! He almost laughed.
“Good,” he said, grinning. “We can spend the time discussing my compensation.”
Her voice was stern, but she couldn't keep the corners of her small mouth from turning up. “What's there to discuss? The window is over there.”
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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!
Reuben has expensive and varied appetites, hasn't he? ;) I hope you enjoyed the chapter. On the right, I have a picture of a medieval drinking horn. Everyone, grab a horn and let's drink honey-wine until sunset! Then we can sit atop the castle tower and sing loud songs until one of us falls into the moat! :)
Fare well, my medieval drinking companions! ;)
Sir Rob
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GLOSSARY:
Honey-wine: Mixing honey into wine was very popular in the middle ages. Back then, most of the wine available was cheap and sour. So people mixed it with honey and / or herbs to make it taste more interesting.