They were within two days of Ireland, then. “I have been a burden to you.”
“Aye, you have.”
“I did not know you traveled to Ireland. Should you not be … at Malovisin?”
“Do not start your tears again. I have had enough of them. You must have had a fever caused by more than just the motion of the sea, and you have raved every moment you were ill. There is naught of you or Lord Ranulf I do not know. Now we will leave this ship soon and Morell would have you well. You must drink this and then sleep.” She thrust a warm mug of soup into Lyonene’s hand.
Try as she would, she could not lift the heavy cup. Her fingers trembled and her arms would not obey her commands.
“Here!” Amicia angrily lifted the mug, forcing Lyonene to drink. She tipped the cup and the invalid’s head back too far, and some of the contents spilled down her tunic, adding to the dirt-encrusted fabric. “You are no better than a babe. I have had to tend you as one, and I am fair sick of it. The smell of you puts me off, and there is little resemblance to a woman about you. If that child fled your belly, I would not blame it.”
Lyonene put shaky fingers to her stomach, aware that it had increased in size in even the last few days. “My babe is not harmed?” she asked anxiously, fearful that something was wrong.
“Nay. It sets in there firmly. Now I must go to Sir Morell. He wished to know when you woke.”
Lyonene lay back on the cushionless cot, feeling as tired as if she had climbed a mountain, mayhaps several mountains. In spite of the discomfort of the horrible scratchy clothes, the smell, the matting of her hair, she was nearly asleep when Sir Morell opened the cabin door.
“Mon Dieu! Amicia, I cannot enter this room! Take her from here and clean her, for I see you have left her in her own filth. I will see that the cabin is cleaned. You are an animal to treat any woman so. Get from my sight!”
There was quiet and Lyonene felt the waves of sleep overtaking her again. Rough hands picked her from the cot.
“I don’t mind her so badly. I have seen whores who were worse.”
A harsh male voice boomed above her. She opened tired eyes just enough to realize she was being carried from the room.
“Nay, she is not bad. Her eyes are the color of a jewel I once saw his lordship wear.”
“Ranulf?” Lyonene whispered.
“Aye, Lord Ranulf it is I speak of. Now, you need not worry, for he will buy you back. Nay, he would not let you go.”
“Keep your mouth closed, sailor!” Sir Morell’s voice came to her through a haze. She must not let them know she was aware of their plans. “Ranulf?” she whispered again.
“See, she knows naught of what I speak. The lady’s too sick to hear me. She weighs no more than a feather, for all she carries a babe.”
“Just tend to your duties and say no more to her. She may remember your words later.”
“Aye, sir.”
Lyonene was deposited in a hard wooden chair, too tired to even open her eyes. She was aware of dampness and heat near her, increasing her need for sleep.
“Nay, you cannot sleep now. My fine knight would have you bathed. I do not believe in so much washing as he; it is not good for the skin. Now here! Do not fall! He will make me answer for your injuries. I cannot believe you could smell so horrible in but ten days.”
Lyonene felt cool air as her clothes were torn from her.
“Now, step up, higher.”
The water felt wonderful, wetting her skin, filling her parched pores as no amount of water drunk could have. She even enjoyed the roughness of Amicia’s washing of her. She wanted more than anyone else to rid herself of the ugly grime of her illness. Her hair was washed, the woman’s fingers scouring Lyonene’s scalp, removing days of filth.
Lyonene felt almost alive as she stood in the tub while Amicia poured hot water over her. A thin towel was rubbed briskly over her, and the clean linen touched her skin.
“No more fine silk hose for you, my lady. The clothes are warm and loose and will allow for the growth of the babe. It seems to be growing fast.” She laughed at a private jest. “Morell will not like that.”
Lyonene gave no hint that she understood the woman’s words, reveling for a moment in the freshness of clean skin and unsoiled clothing. The pale woman opened the door and a large man entered, dressed in coarse wools, his long hair matted and dirty.
“She looks to be a real lady now, like when she rode beside Lord Ranulf.”
Lyonene closed her eyes and feigned an insensibility she did not feel. The sailor carried her back to the little room that was her cabin and gently deposited her on a fresh-smelling bed, the sheets hinting of salt water and sunshine. She relaxed on them gratefully, taking a perverse pleasure in such purely physical comfort, which belied her true situation.