67. Wolf

The door swung inward and in came my husband, dirt-streaked from head to toe, blood on his face and limping.

From his right hand, his shield clattered to the floor.

“Gods, what happened?”

I exclaimed, abandoning my self-pitying vigil at the desk.

He held up a hand.

“It is a cut on the face, much like yours from the rock field.

It will soon stop.”

“You look halfway to death,”

I said, approaching him.

He stood there staring at me but not seeing.

“Edith, I need you to help me with my breastplate. Just—”

he held up his hand again at my open mouth.

“Just do it, please.”

I circled him and undid the straps and buckles at his back and then returned to the front of him and helped him pry it from his chest.

Underneath, his tunic was soaked in sweat and dirt and more blood.

It was cumbersome to hold and I had to swing it upwards twice before I could hang it from its designated hook.

I returned to him and reached around his waist to undo his belt.

The sword was so heavy, I just laid it on the ground next to the shield, feeling disrespectful, but unable to lift it.

“You need a bath,”

I said.

“You need to get this mud off of you and clean that cut.”

“I cannot,”

he whispered.

"I cannot move.

If I go down there right now, I will shame myself in front of a hundred men.

I do not know how I made it up the steps here.”

“What happened?”

I asked again.

“You will tell me.”

“You scold like an old wife.”

I glared at him until his eyes reached mine.

“The last few boys today were strong,”

he sighed.

“One of them bested me.”

He pointed to his face.

“I am better at fists at the end of the day.

I can swing a sword well, but… I am overworked today.”

“And you don’t want all of these boys to see that you are not invincible, so you will not bathe alongside them,”

I surmised.

He nodded, eyes not meeting mine.

“Can you walk back down the stairs?” I asked.

“I told you.

I will not show my frailty—”

“We’re not going to the men’s baths.

Can you walk back down the stairs?”

I repeated.

He nodded again, confused.

I went to the hook where my apron hung and fished out the key.

“I am going to show you something I would prefer you keep between us.”

He was curious but too tired to ask anything.

I poured him a little whiskey and added a drop of lightleaf.

He drank it without question.

I gathered a clean change of clothes for him and hung them over my shoulder.

I lit a candle and led him all the way down to the little door that looked like it led to a linen closet, inserting the key and turning it.

He followed me down the narrow steps to the private bathing chamber of Gareth Pope.

His movements were constrained and I sensed he gritted his teeth.

I touched the candle’s flame to the lone sconce on the wall, where I had installed a fat candle.

I set our candle down on the floor near the basket of linens and toiletries I had been keeping here.

I turned to face him as he looked around the room.

“Do not ask tonight,”

I said, stepping closer.

“I will explain later.

May I undress you?”

“Edith, I—”

he hesitated.

“I can bathe myself.”

“Is that what you prefer? I can leave you and collect you in an hour.”

His pain was written on him, the lines in his forehead deep.

“It is not what I prefer.”

“Good,”

I said and put my hands on his stomach.

“I will go slowly so as not to disturb your shoulders any further.”

And I lifted the hem of his tunic up.

Hissing, he lifted his arms and allowed for the tunic to be pulled up over his head.

I knelt down, just as he had on the beach, and undid his boots, helping him step out of each one.

I peeled off his socks and I stood.

“I will allow you the dignity of removing your breeches, but ask if you need help into the water.”

And I turned my back to him.

It took him longer than it should have, but I kept turned away, listening to him stifle sounds of pain as he bent to shuck them off of his legs.

The splash of water told me he was in the bath and I turned, finding him sitting on the lone step under the lip of the bath, the water only just above his hips.

I tied my dress and my shift up around my knees and sat, just above him on the rim of the bath, a bar of soap in my hand and a vial of lavender oil in my lap.

“May I touch you?” I asked.

He nodded.

I worked up a lather with soap and water and then I placed the soap in one of his hands should he like to bathe the parts of him below the water.

I rubbed my soapy hands all along his shoulders, arms and chest, around his ears and neck, where grime had lodged itself.

His hand holding the soap remained motionless and I both wanted him to ask me to bathe the rest of him and dreaded it.

Eventually, he began to move stiltedly, the soap disappearing below the surface.

I paid attention to the rest of him, not looking down, eyes on his cut brow or his shoulders or his chest.

He returned the soap to me when he had finished.

He let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh when I started to wash his close-cropped hair, my fingers kneading into his scalp.

“Get all the way in, so you can rinse off,”

I said when I had finished.

He slipped off the step and dipped himself under.

The sconce light glinted off his wet face when he resurfaced, the water only reaching his navel.

“Come back,”

I beckoned.

Making a guttural sound, he pulled himself back up to sit on the step.

I sat closer to him, my right knee bent to the side, my left leg splayed out on the other side of me, my torso cradling his head and shoulders.

I examined his cut a final time, assessing it as not as deep as I first thought.

I poured the lavender oil in my palms and began to work it into the skin along the back of his neck and shoulders.

“That’s good,”

he whispered.

“That …feels good.”

I put my mouth to his ear and whispered, “You cannot go on like this.

You will make a widow of me before I have gotten used to being your wife.”

He leaned his head back into my hands.

“I know.”

“I will not tell you what to do, but I will ask that you have a care for yourself,”

I said.

“It is painful just to watch you put yourself through this.”

“I have to make the right choice,”

he said after a bit.

“You mean the next man to be a Procurer?”

“Yes.

There is no room for error.

Not again.”

“What do you mean again?”

“I mean Nash.

I chose Nash and against my better judgment.

He was an excellent swordsmen.

I overlooked what I did not like about him.

Because of that, I failed.

I chose Nash and look at what happened.”

He meant Helena.

I opened my mouth to try and say something, but he went on.

His next words were sour.

“Not only did I choose him.

I bound all of your hands in the mist.

Your friend was right.

Helena did not have a chance in hell.”

I rested my head on top of his and breathed his name out of my mouth.

“As long as I live, I will never forgive myself, Edith.

I have prayed over this and repented.

I have asked our goddess to forgive me.

But I cannot forgive myself.”

From behind, I wrapped my arms around him and pulled his head and shoulders into me, my hands linked and resting on his chest, the bandage on the left one gone after the first use of the soap, the stitched skin puffed and pink with irritation.

I breathed slowly, fighting back a sob that wanted to come forth.

“May I speak plainly?”

I said when I had regained control.

“Please,” he said.

I lowered my head so that my mouth was closer to his ear.

“I hated you for that.

I did.

Maybe a part of me will always hate you for that.

But more so, a part of me will always hate myself.

Maureen warned me of his interest in her and her mother.

And I dismissed it because I thought that while you were our abductors, we were safe from that particular harm.

I thought you were not that kind of men.

I did not want one more thing to worry about at the time.

A woman should never let her guard down like that.

I was foolish instead of warning the rest.

And I will never forgive myself for that.”

“You should have felt safe,”

he said.

“Though you were our prisoners, still.

Procurers are not that breed of men.

Or we were not.

A herd of deer cannot settle if one wolf prowls.

I have blood on my hands, but his does not trouble me.”

His eyes were shut and I wondered if he too fought tears.

I took in his harsh profile, that slender, if rather large nose, broken at least once, those high cheekbones, that firm, proud mouth.

I leaned in and kissed his cheek as long as I dared.

As I pulled away, I said, “There are evils in this world of which there is no undoing.

Killing yourself will not fix this.”

I kissed his cheek again, the crossing of that boundary an illicit indulgence on my part.

I returned to rubbing his back.

I could tell this was a balm to him.

Isabeau’s words came back to me.

I have never been with a man who wanted to be touched so much.

Mischa was right.

I was in love.