No Man's Son by Doris Sutcliffe Adams

Author:Doris Sutcliffe Adams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-06-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER X

Wulfric tramped back from opening the door for Sir Jehan, and cleared his throat harshly to attract Rodriga’s attention.

“My lady, that Infidel’s get is asleep in the courtyard. Shall I put him forth?”

“Marco? Asleep—?” She pushed past him as he stood bulkily in the doorway and ran down the stair, indignant both with him and with herself. Her gratitude was of small worth, indeed, if in thankfulness for the gift she forgot the giver.

Marco was huddled uncomfortably under the fig tree, his head down on one arm against the brick curb of the murky rain-water pool. He was grey with powdered dust, clothing, skin and hair. She could see nothing of his face but the hard angles of temple and cheekbone. He was deep in the sleep of utter physical exhaustion, and for a moment she hesitated to rouse him. But he could not be left here in the courtyard, assailed by sun and flies. She spoke his name, quietly at first and then more loudly. He did not stir. Wulfric grunted and dug him roughly in the side with his toe, and he came awake all in one piece, lunging to one knee and thence to his feet with an animal’s instant reaction. His dagger glittered in his hand, which had moved almost faster than Rodriga’s eye could follow.

He blinked as though dazzled, from her face to Wulfric’s and back; then his right hand dropped, and he drew the back of his left across his bloodshot eyes, that were sunken in sockets stained dark as bruises with fatigue. Under the dust a faint flush rose up his haggard face.

“My lady, I ask your pardon,” he said tonelessly, and sheathed his dagger with fingers that fumbled a little.

“My pardon? But—why, you are asleep on your feet, Marco! Come out of the sun!”

Thanks could wait; his state demanded action. He followed her like a sleepwalker, up the stair to the outer room, his feet dragging. Hastily she threw together scattered cushions, fetched a sheet from the inner room and flung it across them, and turned to the silent renegade. “Talk will keep; sleep is your first need,” she said quickly, as he opened his lips.

At that he seemed to gather his wits with a physical effort; he stiffened his weary body, and asked, “Your father, my lady?”

“Asleep, God be praised! Marco, I can never thank you for the snow as you deserve! His skin is cool, and he sleeps soundly—you saved his life, and it was no light task, Sir Jehan says!”

His mouth twitched slightly. “No one came to harm—not even a Saracen, so your heart may be at ease, my lady.”

“But here I hold you talking! Is there anything you require, Marco?”

He glanced down at his dusty clothing. “Water to wash in, my lady, if you please.”

She summoned Diego and went back to her father, dropping the curtain over the doorway. Landry was still deeply asleep, his brow shining faintly with a film of perspiration. The sheet hung by his bed was already dry; she dipped it afresh.

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