“Is he still alive?” she asked breathlessly, crossing to the bed.
Sir John entered a moment later, and the surgeon rose hastily, attempting to appear dignified as he bent to assess Will.
Marian didn’t wait for his prognosis. Instead, she reached for Will’s hand. It was limp and lifeless and dropped back to the bed. She pressed two fingers against his wrist, feeling for a pulse. A sluggish throb met her touch.
She bit back a sob of relief. He was hanging on.
Her fingers fumbled in her skirt in her haste to free the ampulla. When she pulled it out, the surgeon stepped back. “St. Thomas water?” His voice contained a reverence she hadn’t expected.
She nodded and pried at the cork gingerly, unwilling to lose a single drop of the liquid inside.
The surgeon’s eyes rounded with wonder as he studied the front engraving, the one of Becket and the angels flying over him. She had no wish to see the other side where Becket was being stabbed to death.
“Where did you find it?” the surgeon asked.
She didn’t want to give away the hiding place in the crypt or spread news about Chesterfield Park’s vault. So she chose her words with care. “Sir William’s family had it among their treasures.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the gentleman. He stood back and waited as she finished unplugging the ampulla. Like Sir John, the surgeon accepted the possibility of miracles and the supernatural so much more readily than she ever had. She supposed the age of modern science and medicine had eroded the need for miracles.
She leaned in toward Will. His features were chiseled with pain even in his slumber. She slipped a hand behind his head but then glanced at Sir John and the surgeon. “Would you help me hold up Sir William?”
As they raised Will into a sitting position, his head lolled back. Beneath the dark layer of unshaven scruff, his skin was the same gray as the ashes on the hearth. His lips were pale too, and his breathing shallow and ragged.
Her stomach knotted with love for this man, for his courage, his determination, and his willingness to sacrifice himself for his king and family. He inspired her to want to live with more courage and passion.
She lifted the spout to his lips. “Hold his head steady. He must drink it all.”
Sir John and the surgeon followed her instructions carefully. As she tilted the flask into Will’s mouth, she dribbled the holy water in tiny increments, making sure he swallowed each minuscule amount before she tipped in more.
Like the ampullae her dad had discovered, this one contained only about a tablespoon. Once it was gone, she rinsed inside with water and then poured the additional water into his mouth too. She repeated the process several times, hoping to get every molecule of the holy water into Will’s system.
When she was sure not even the slightest drop remained, Sir John and the surgeon lowered Will back to the bed. Then the three of them stood by his side, waiting for a miracle.
Marian wasn’t sure what would happen. But she couldn’t keep from thinking of the stained glass windows at Canterbury Cathedral bearing testimony to the fact that miracles could happen. Whether as a result of the residue from the Tree of Life or whether through God’s intervention, she had to believe it truly was possible for God to heal when he chose to.
They watched wordlessly, but Will’s face remained pale and lifeless. He didn’t move except to struggle to breathe.
Marian’s legs felt suddenly weak. What if the holy water didn’t work to revive him? What if he was already too close to death? Worse yet, what if the liquid inside the flasks wasn’t the authentic holy water? Not only would Will die, but Ellen would too.
Sir John’s arm steadied her. “I beg you to sit and rest, lady. This has been a trying night, and you have done all you can for now.”
She nodded and allowed him to help her into the chair beside the bed. She couldn’t take her sights from Will’s face, watching for signs of returning color, anything to signal he was reviving. With no more mention of the cauterizing, Sir John and the surgeon eventually took their leave with the promise to return soon.
As she sat next to Will, she reached for his limp hand. Deep sorrow weighed her down. She’d never expected to fall in love with the man of her dreams in 1381. But now that she had, she wanted no one else. He was her one and only. And without him, she didn’t know where she belonged.
* * *
A strange calm sifted through Will, the kind that settled over him whenever he was lying on the cold, hard ground on his back next to a fire, staring up at the stars.
Was he in heaven? Would he be reunited with Thomas and be able to tell him how sorry he was he’d left him sick and defenseless that day outside Bergerac?
Will attempted to open his eyes and sit up, but he couldn’t move. He tried to make his mouth work to call out for his brother, but he couldn’t speak.
At the soft shudder of a breath nigh his cheek, his pulse quickened.
Marian.
Was she entering heaven with him? As much as he wanted her to live and have a happy life on earth, he wouldn’t complain if they entered paradise together.
His mind spun back to the battle with Wat Tyler and the initial thrust he’d made. In attacking Wat first, he’d taken the brunt of the wrath of Wat’s accomplices. They’d come after him with a vengeance. Nevertheless, they’d been no match for the well-trained knights and king’s men who had rallied to Will’s aid and cut them down.
He rejoiced the rebel leader was slain and the revolt squelched. But in striking first, he’d made himself a target and had also put his kin in danger. All the whilst he’d ridden away from London, he’d worried Wat’s men would go after his wife and children, that they would find his family and torture them in reprisal.
Even though Thad had given his word that he’d aid his family’s escape from London to Amsterdam, his steward was no warrior. He wouldn’t be able to fend off a mob of bondmen bent on destruction and revenge.
Thus, even though his companions had warned him against such hard travel in his wounded condition, he’d pushed onward through the pain. When he’d ridden up to Chesterfield Park and was greeted by dark windows and calm silence, he’d allowed himself a measure of relief. Until he walked in and saw Marian . . .
Her soft breath brushed his cheek again and stirred anger in him. She ought to have gone into hiding as he’d instructed. She wouldn’t be safe anywhere near him. Even if the rebels hadn’t sought reprisals yet, they very well could regroup and come looking for him. And when they came, they’d have no qualms about ripping him apart limb by limb and displaying his severed parts all throughout the countryside. He shuddered to think what they might do to her.
He needed Thad to take her far away until the tempest of unrest subsided. But even as his anger roiled about his gut, he breathed her in and lifted a prayer of gratefulness God had spared her.
He prayed for himself too, that God might spare him, though he didn’t deserve it. He could no longer deny he longed to live, desperately so, because he couldn’t bear the thought of being torn asunder from Marian forever.
He wanted a lifetime with her, a lifetime of getting to know the fascinating and beautiful woman who’d arrived into his life so unexpectedly but so powerfully. He wanted the chance to deepen their relationship. He’d tasted of what that might look like, especially the night on Blackheath when he’d opened up to her about Thomas’s death. The sharing hadn’t been easy, but when it was done, he’d felt a bond with Marian that went beyond any he’d known before.