I leaned forward to touch Jamie. He was warm, but with no trace of fever. I gently stroked his head, smoothing the tumbled red hair. The corner of his mouth stirred briefly and fell back into place. But it had turned up. I was sure of it.
The sky was cold and damp, filling the horizon with a grey blankness that blended into the grey mist of the hills and the grimy cover of last week's snow, so that the abbey seemed wrapped inside a ball of dirty cotton. Even inside the cloister, the winter's silence weighed on the inhabitants. The chanting from the Hours of Praise in the chapel was muted, and the thick stone walls seemed to absorb all sound, swaddling the bustle of daily activity.
Jamie slept for nearly two days, waking only to take a little broth or wine. Once awake, he began to heal in the usual fashion of a normally healthy young man, suddenly deprived of the strength and independence usually taken for granted. In other words, he enjoyed the cosseting for approximately twenty-four hours and then became in turn restive, restless, testy, irritable, cranky, fractious, and extremely bad tempered.
The cuts on his shoulders ached. The scars on his legs itched. He was sick of lying on his belly. The room was too hot. His hand hurt. The smoke from the brazier made his eyes burn so that he could not read. He was sick of broth, posset, and milk. He wanted meat.
I recognized the symptoms of returning health, and was glad of them, but was prepared to put up with only so much of this. I opened the window, changed his sheets, applied marigold salve to his back and rubbed his legs with aloe juice. Then I summoned a serving brother and ordered more broth.
"I don't want any more of this slop! I need food!" He pushed the tray irritably away, making the broth splash onto the napkin cradling the bowl.
I folded my arms and stared down at him. Imperious blue eyes stared right back. He was thin as a rail, the lines of jaw and cheekbone bold against the skin. Though he was mending well, the raw nerves of his stomach would take a little longer to heal. He still could not always keep down the broth and milk.
"You'll get food when I say you can have it," I informed him, "and not before."
"I'll have it now! D'ye think you can tell me what I'm to eat?"
"Yes, I bloody well do! I'm the doctor here, if you've forgotten."
He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, clearly intending to take steps. I put a hand on his chest and shoved him back.
"Your job is to stay in that bed and do as you're told, for once in your life," I snapped. "You're not fit to be up, and you're not fit for solid foot yet. Brother Roger said you vomited again this morning."
"Brother Roger can mind his own business, and so can you," he said through his teeth, struggling back up. He reached out and got a hold on the table edge. With considerable effort, he made it to his feet, and stood there, swaying.
"Get back in bed! You're going to fall down!" He was alarmingly pale, and even the small effort of standing had made him break out in a cold sweat.
"I'll not," he said, "And if I do, it's my own concern."
I was really angry by this time.
"Oh, is it! And who do you think saved your miserable life for you, anyway? Did it all by yourself, did you?" I grabbed his arm to steer him back to bed, but he jerked it away.
"I didna ask ye to, did I? I told ye to leave me, no? And I canna see why ye bothered to save my life, anyway, if it's only to starve me to death—unless ye enjoy watching it!"
This was altogether too much.
"Bloody ingrate!"
"Shrew!"
I drew myself to my full height, and pointed menacingly at the cot. With all the authority learned in years of nursing, I said, "Get back in that bed this instant, you stubborn, mulish, idiotic—"
"Scot," he finished for me, succinctly. He took a step toward the door, and would have fallen, had he not caught hold of a stool. He plumped heavily down on it and sat swaying, his eyes a little unfocused with dizziness. I clenched my fists and glared at him.
"Fine," I said. "Bloody fine! I'll order bread and meat for you, and after you vomit on the floor, you can just get down on your hands and knees and clean it up yourself! I won't do it, and if Brother Roger does, I'll skin him alive!"
I stormed into the hall and slammed the door behind me, just before the porcelain washbasin crashed into it from the other side. I turned to find an interested audience, no doubt attracted by the racket, standing in the hall. Brother Roger and Murtagh stood side by side, staring at my flushed face and heaving bosom. Roger looked disconcerted, but a slow smile spread over Murtagh's craggy countenance as he listened to the string of Gaelic obscenities going on behind the door.