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“Aye,” Beltar said, “but they have drawn blood. ’Twill incite him to better sport.

” So saying, he drew an arrow from his quiver, notched his bow, took careful aim on the boar, and let fly.

It hit the boar in the hip, spouting blood and protruding grimly.

A terrible squealing erupted and though the animal still faced them, it shielded itself between a downed tree trunk and a small outcropping of boulders.

“We’ll have to dismount to take him,” Ral said, but already Beltar climbed down from his horse. Ral did the same, motioning for Lambert and Geoffrey to join them.

Leaving the horses behind, they crept closer to the wounded boar. It was huge and menacing, bristling with fury as it stamped its cloven hooves, its vicious tusks curving up and glinting in the sun as it prepared for a battle to the finish.

The smell of the beast made Ral grimace, the scent of fear and of blood and of death. He had smelled that same odor among men in battle.

“The beast is mine,” Beltar vowed, notching a second arrow into his bowstring. The stout man moved closer, stalking his prey while the huge wild boar stalked him, Ral notched his own arrow, as did Geoffrey and Hugh and two of Beltar’s men, surrounding the boar in the clearing.

Beltar’s arrow sang its death song, flying straight and swiftly toward the huge boar’s side, but instead of striking neatly between the ribs and sinking into the heart as Beltar intended, it struck a bone and bounced away. The animal squeeled in fury, then it charged.

Beltar readied another arrow and let it fly, hitting the animal squarely in the chest. It stumbled and faltered, but didn’t go down. Instead it turned a little to the left and continued its savage assault. It bore Geoffrey to the ground even as Ral’s arrow sank into its neck.

“Sweet Christ!” Ral swore, tossing his bow aside and reaching for the hilt of his sword. He raced toward Geoffrey, swinging his blade in a powerful arc, slicing into the boar and nearly severing the animal’s head from its shoulders.

Before the boar’s twitching body had stilled, two of Beltar’s knights raced in to drag the carcass off the man lying unconscious in the dirt, his head gashed open and his shoulder erupting in blood.

“Wrap a cloth around the wound and one around his head to slow the bleeding,” Ral commanded. “We’ve got to get him back to the castle.”

“What a magnificent specimen.” Beltar nudged the boar with his foot. “A shame about your man, but ’tis the danger that makes for good sport.”

Ral said nothing. Instead he helped Lambert and Hugh lift Geoffrey onto his horse. They tied him across the saddle and Hugh grabbed the reins. Turning the horses, they started back to Braxston Keep.

Christ’s blood, Ral thought, if only Hassan remained at the hall. But the Arab physician had left to rejoin the king a few days after the birth of the child in the village. The priest was there, but Father Burton’s healing skills were primitive at best.

And then there was Caryn.

His wife had learned much from the Arab healer and she was certain to remember. Caryn was the young knight’s best chance for survival, as Ral knew only too well. Though the priest might not approve, Ral meant to see it done.

It would be Caryn who tended to Geoffrey, Caryn who saw whether he lived or died. Caryn whose hands soothed the handsome knight’s lean hard body.

Ral’s stomach clenched at the thought.

***

“Dear God—Geoffrey!” Caryn rushed toward the men who carried the young man into the castle. “What’s happened? He is not… he is not dead?”

“Nay,” Ral said, “the lad still lives, though his injury is a grave one.”

She swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat at the sight of Geoffrey’s blood, and worked to slow her pounding heart.

“Bring him in here.” Her hands shook as she surveyed his pale face and seemingly lifeless body. The men carried their heavy burden into the room that served as medicinal. Father Burton used it now that Hassan was gone. When she was needed, so did Caryn.

“Be careful of his shoulder.” Under her direction, the place had been kept neat and orderly, the bottles and jars she and the Arab had concocted still sat on a wooden table along one wall. “And bring me a pitcher of water.”

They laid him on a scrubbed wooden table and hurried to do her bidding as she removed the bloody wrappings from his wounds.

“Mother of God…”

“Aye, my lady,” Lambert said, “’twill take God’s sweet mercy to save ’im.”

Standing beside them, Hugh nervously twisted his hat. “’Twas as vicious a beast as I’ve e’er seen, milady.”

“Aye, that is clear.” Caryn dampened a cloth and began to cleanse the wound with an unsteady hand. “With an injury like this, there is certain to be an infection.” She shook her head. “He is pale as death itself. He has lost far too much blood.”

“’Tis a wonder he is not dead already,” Ral said, coming up beside her. “’Twas a difficult journey home.”

“’Twill be a difficult journey to recovery. I only pray that he will survive it.”

Ral made no comment, but his eyes searched her face in an uneasy manner and she wondered at his thoughts.

“There is naught you can do but what you have learned,” he finally said. “’Tis as much as anyone can ask.” Then he turned and walked away.

***

For seven long days, Caryn remained at Geoffrey’s bedside. She treated his scalp wound with sicklewort to stop the bleeding, wrapped it and changed the dressing often. In time she felt certain it would heal. The wound in his shoulder was another matter entirely.

The boar’s tusks had ripped into Geoffrey’s skin, leaving the opening torn and ragged, the flesh shades of deep purple and a fiery angry red. She let it bleed for a time, hoping to keep it from festering, but he had lost a great deal of blood already.

Caryn cleansed the wound often, using a solution of mandrake root mixed with lovage, but saw no sign of improvement. Even the poultices she made from Hassan’s special fungus could not draw out all the poison.

As Caryn had feared, fever overtook him.

He shook with cold, though his skin was burning hot, then threw off the covers as his body raged with heat.

Although the priest forbid it, Caryn ordered Geoffrey stripped, then bathed his feverish skin herself, determined to cool him as much as she could.

She worried Ral might stop her, but he only stood by mutely, his back stiff, his expression carefully masked as the intimate task was completed.

Though Beltar had left Braxston Keep the day after the hunt and returned to his castle in the north, each time Ral entered the sickroom, he seemed more uneasy than before.

Weariness etched new lines in his face, and it was obvious he hadn’t been eating.

His worry seemed to grow with each passing day, both for Geoffrey and for herself.

“’Tis time you got some sleep,” he said one night as he strode toward her. “I will send Bretta to attend him.”

Caryn shook her head. “He grows weaker with every hour. I cannot leave him. ’Tis crucial that I stay.”

Ral rubbed his tired eyes, his handsome features marred by the same dark circles she knew marked her own. “What of the priest? Surely he knows enough to tend the boy.”

“Geoffrey is my friend. I will not risk his life for a few hours of sleep.”

Ral glanced down at the young blond knight whose face looked as pale as alabaster. Geoffrey dragged in rough, uneven, painfully shallow breaths. Watching him, Ral sighed with weary resignation. “I will see there is a cot set up in here.” And he left them once more alone.

During the night Geoffrey awoke her, rambling at first, then ranting and raving in a fit of building anger. He was speaking to his father, she realized, arguing that he would not fail in life as the older man had.

“I will be rich,” he whispered, his body thrashing from side to side. “I will take care of Mother as you never have.”

“’Tis all right, Geoffrey.” Caryn laid a damp cloth on his forehead. “’Tis all in the past. You are ill. You must try to get some sleep.”

“Mother? Have you come for me, Mother?”

Caryn hesitated only a moment. “Aye, Geoffrey, your mother is here.”

“I… knew you would come. You have… always… come when I needed you.”

Caryn smoothed beads of perspiration from his brow. “Soon you will feel better.”

“’Tis … good … to see you … Mother. I have … missed you.”

“I have missed you, too.” But already he had lapsed once more into unconsciousness and later that night he grew worse.

“He still burns with fever,” Caryn said to Ral, bending over Geoffrey’s body to sponge the sweat from his face. “’Tis the putrifying, I fear. ’Tis sapping the last of his strength.”

“You have done the best you could. There is naught else you can do.”

Caryn looked into Geoffrey’s youthful anguished face. She was afraid of the decision she was about to make, but she knew she must take the risk.

“There is one last chance… one more thing we can do.” She turned to Ral and in that moment wanted nothing so much as the comfort of his arms around her. Yet she feared should that happen, she might not be ab le to go on. “Summon Lambert and Hugh. ’Twill take the three of you to hold him.”

The expression on his face said he knew what she intended. He left her and shortly returned with the men, who walked uneasily into the room. They discovered the fire had been built up in the brazier and a small sharp knife thrust into the coals.

Caryn stood next to Ral, her heart thudding dully and her chest feeling leaden. “Mayhap I should let Father Burton do the cutting. He has done a good deal of work with a blade while I have only done a few such tasks and watched as the Arab worked.”

Ral tipped her chin with his hand. “’Tis your decision, Cara. You must do that which you believe will be Geoffrey’s best chance to live.”

She looked into her husband’s weary face. “Then I will do it myself. My care of him will be gentler than the priest’s, and my will to see him live far greater.”