< previous page page_502 next page >

Page 502
Right across the shoulder blades, a large section of skin looked as if patches had been torn away. The wounds were not deadly, but they were horridly ugly, suppurating, and gave evidence of having been reopened and rubbed raw more than once. Ian twisted his head, saw where her eyes were fixed, and laughed.
"Oh that. A barrel of burning pitch blew apart. I was like to be a torch. My men doused me with water, but when it came to taking off my clothes, some of me went with them." His voice was normal, light, laughing at a stupid mishap. "I was ill enough pleased at it because we had taken the keep the day before and I had not a mark on me from all the fighting. No one noticed that the barrel was afire, I suppose."
"But that was in August," Alinor exclaimed, also completely back to normal. "You idiot! Did you not have anyone look to you?"
"The leechesfor all the good they did. To whom should I have gone?" Ian snapped irritably. "To Queen Isabella?"
Alinor made a contemptuous noise. "At least she is not so bad as the first queen. Isabella might refuse to soil her hands on such a common slave as a mere baron, but Isobel of Gloucester would have rubbed poison into your hurts. Oh, never mind, I will attend to that later. A warm soaking will do the sores good. First I want to wash your hair. Wait, you fool, do not lean back yet. Let me get a cushion to ease you. You will scrape your back against the tub."
"You will ruin the cushion if you put it in the bath."
"It can be dried. The maids are too idle anyway."
She went out. Ian closed his eyes and sighed. An expression of indecision so intense as to amount to fear crossed his face, changed to a rather grim determination. Alinor returned with a maid at her heels. She slipped the cushion behind Ian and he slid down against it and tipped his head back. He could hear the maid laying out fresh clothing and gathering up his

 
< previous page page_502 next page >