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aching head and brought up the rear on Kathryn's borrowed mare, his own horse lost
irredeemably in the forest for now. The king's horse first reached the sturdy wooden
gates surrounding the convent. The king tugged furiously at the little bell of the wicket
gate, and very quickly the portress, looking bleary-eyed and ruffled, came to open the
portal for them.
"Are you and your lady benighted, my good lord, or " and then she saw
Kathryn. "Oh "
The king brushed past the portress. Knowing the convent well, he barked orders
to the sister as he hurried across the court to the closest cell, there to deposit his sad
burden. "Summon your abbess at once, and anyone with herb lore or leechcraft."
The elderly nun hesitated, and the king whirled on her, becoming all at once a
blood-soaked barbarian barking in her face. "Go, idiot woman, or this girl's blood will
be on your head." For yelling at a holy sister, he would do penance later if Kathryn
lived.
By this time, Llewellyn and the wolf were within the enclave, and de Réméré
was riding in as the convent's healer, and her abbess ran forward.
"Marie." The king intercepted the dignified abbess, taking her by the hands while
her healer went forward to assist Llewellyn.
"Brother?" the abbess said, wiping sleep from her eyes. "What's happened?"
Marie was the king's half sister, a by-blow of their father's, but one the king had
loved his whole life long as though she were his full-blooded relation. She had a lovely
face, narrow and leonine like his, with the long, sharp nose of their father, which
showed so strongly through the line. Her eyes were large and the same gray-blue as his.
Her hair shone a dark, rich brown, though she had hacked it off on becoming a nun,
and now her lovely locks were forever hidden from sight under her wimple.
Unable to ever make a good marriage because of her illegitimacy, Marie had
accepted the church as her vocation and made a fine job of the pursuit too. She was
prioress at Bourlonge, and a more respected and renowned abbess could not be found
in all the land.
Hurriedly and very quietly, the king gave his sister an abbreviated version of
events without omitting even Reynard's part in the ignominy.
Marie nodded. "All will be attended to. But first we must ensure the girl is seen
to and safely on the mend."
The king clasped her hand. "Yes."
* * * * *
The baron, once he arrived at the convent, demanded to stay by his daughter's
side.
In the sickroom with Llewellyn and the convent's healer, Lord Stephen was
startled and scandalized when the wise man placed a hand on Kathryn's forehead and
uttered heathen incantations under his breath. Then, though, a glowing aura formed
around the magician's palm before sinking into Kathryn's body. For a moment, Kathryn
seemed illumed from within by healing light. That passed quickly, but afterwards she
seemed less pale, her breath less labored.
Lord Stephen did not hold with magic, but he would not protest anything that
might give his daughter back to him.
The attendant nun pursed her lips but likewise said nothing.
The baron, though usually rather squeamish in all things having to do with
healing and the gore entailed therein, nonetheless volunteered to be the one to assist
Llewellyn in removing the arrow. The arrow had, thankfully, passed all the way
through the shoulder already, and so only needed to be carefully broken off and pulled
out. Lord Stephen almost forgot himself when Llewellyn cauterized the wound, but
recovered his wits in time to leave the room before being asked to help stuff the wound
with moss and apply the dressings.
Outside the sickroom door, the wolf paced back and forth. Their party had taken
over one of the front rooms of the convent, as Llewellyn had no wish to waste a
moment and let Kathryn bleed any longer than was necessary. The holy man had
kicked out the nuns who had been sleeping in the room before taking up occupation.
The king sat quietly by a fire in one of the convent's receiving rooms, waiting for
news. Lord Stephen joined him, and shortly thereafter, the wolf came to him, bowing
his head respectfully as if in an act of contrition.
Lord Stephen looked down at the wolf and frowned for a long moment. A
feeling of wonder stole through him as he gradually realized what he was witnessing.
Lord Stephen hesitated for a brief moment; then, at the king's encouraging nod, the
baron placed his hand on the wolf's head. "I am sure this misfortune was not your fault,
my boy."
The wolf bowed his head, then left the king and the baron. He curled up to the
side of the sickroom door.
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