Free Heart's Magic by Flora Speer Page B

talk
later, after you are free of your duties.” Hugh put out his
hand.
    With a sense of inevitability Mirielle set
into it the small jar into which she had scooped a supply of the
ointment. The workroom was quiet after Hugh had left. Giles’s gaze
was still fixed on Mirielle’s face, while she tried to look
anywhere but at him.
    “What is this wound that so troubles you, Sir
Giles?” she asked when she could bear the silence no longer.
    “Must you see it?” He looked unhappy at the
prospect.
    “I cannot relieve your pain if I do not know
what causes it,” Mirielle said with an inward sigh. If only he
would go away, she could breathe properly again and her heart might
resume its normal rhythm. She would be as quick as she possibly
could about treating his wound and hope he would leave as soon as
she was done.
    “Very well. Hugh promised that you would be
able to help me.” Giles unbuckled his belt and tossed it onto the
table. He pulled off his woolen tunic and then his linen undershirt
to reveal on his right side a thick ridge of scar tissue across his
lower rib cage.
    “This is an old wound and a well-healed one.”
Mirielle pursed her lips, studying the scar, trying to keep her
eyes on the problem rather than allowing them to stray to the
strong muscles of Giles’s arms and shoulders or the taut line of
his manly torso. With a single finger she poked at the scar. “From
your complaints, I expected to find an open, suppurating sore.”
    “Lady, I think you expected to find nothing,”
Giles said. “I think you believed my wound did not exist.”
    “It is not my habit to disbelieve a holy
pilgrim,” she snapped, irritated because he was right.
    “I am in truth a pilgrim, my lady.” He
sounded amused. “All my sins were expiated at Compostela, save for
those I have committed since I left that shrine—or those I may
commit in the future.”
    “Sir, you are close to speaking blasphemy.”
Mirielle refused to look into Giles’s eyes to discover if he was
laughing at her as she suspected he was. She considered the
possibility that Hugh had used his art to conjure up the appearance
of a wound on Giles’s side, and then dismissed the idea as unworthy
of that honest mage. The injury was real and it might have cost
Giles his life.
    “How did you come by this wound?” she asked
in a gentler voice.
    “In battle against the Saracens,” he
answered. “I had raised my sword arm to strike an opponent, when a
second man ran against me, slashing with his scimitar.”
    “Yes, I can see just how the blade cut
through your flesh. It was a painful wound, Sir Giles, and it might
have been fatal.”
    “At the time it happened, I was too busy to
notice whether it was painful or not.”
    “What you mean by that is, you killed both
Saracens,” she said.
    “It was kill them or die myself.” A simple
enough statement spoken in a calm voice, but when Mirielle at last
lifted her eyes to his she saw in his face and his tormented look
all the anguish of that old battle, and she knew that for Giles,
killing would never be as easy as it was for some men. She found
the realization comforting.
    “Tell me exactly where it hurts and I will
try to ease your discomfort, Sir Giles.”
    “Here.” He touched the midpoint of the scar.
“It pulls most painfully when I move too quickly, and it aches in
damp weather.”
    “The scar tissue has attached itself to the
flesh below.” She pressed her own fingers next to his. “It is the
rigid connection that restricts your movement. The wound was not
well sewn.”
    “There were so many wounded that day,” he
said. “The barbers had no time to work with care.”
    “I have a liniment that may help.” She took a
jar off a shelf. “I keep a good supply of this at all times and use
it often. The men-at-arms suffer frequent aches after too-vigorous
weapons practice. Some of them have scars similar to yours and as
you say, old wounds are worsened by the cold, damp weather of which
we