Time Heals All

Chapter 2

Will watched Jocelyn sew, her stitches small and even.  Beside her on the table was a stack of baby clothes.  She'd spent a good portion of their time together in various stages of pregnancy.  One would end and she'd conceive right away again.  The collection of baby clothes was growing.  She was constantly at work on some tiny garment, never giving up her hope of having a tiny infant in her arms.  Occasionally, she'd wrap a few garments up and give them away as gifts.  She seemed to be doing well this time, nearly seven months along and no problems, not even a twinge of nausea.  At least, none that she'd mentioned.  He suspected that even if she did have problems, she'd no longer tell him.

She paused in her efforts and glanced up at him, concern etched on her features.  "How is he?"

"Alive.  For now."  He shrugged, shifting his weight.  "How are you feeling this fine morning?"  It wasn't for deceit that he avoided giving a detailed account of Adhemar's injuries, only a courtesy to the man by not telling details to all.  Only Christiana and himself would know the truth if he could help it.  It was no one's business how Adhemar had suffered at the hands of those men.

"Terrific."  She set the cloth aside and got up from the chair, coming to him and placing a kiss on his lips.  "Does Christiana need any help?  I'd be happy to take a basket down and help her."  Her hands smoothed along his coat, fingers tracing the embroidery.  "Maybe sit with him to give her a spell of rest."

"No, she doesn't need help."  There was a question in Jocelyn's eyes, deeper in meaning than the words she spoke.  Her not so subtle way of asking if Christiana was showing any signs of depression from playing at doctoring.  "She seems quite cheerful considering the circumstance."

"The circumstance?"  Her brows rose in question.

Will put his hands at her waist.  "Adhemar, that's what.  I'd never thought to see him again.  I'd thought he'd die from those foolish antics long before we'd run into him again."

"Well, we'll return him to health and send him on his way as soon as he is well. He can go off and die at someone else's home."

Will paused, looking down into her eyes.  "It may be awhile.  He's very hurt, Jocelyn."

"As long as it takes.  I'm not advocating sending him off the day his wounds, whatever they are, heal.  He should go when he's ready to travel."  She stepped away, going to the table and lifting a piece of paper from beneath some of the finished clothes.  "Goeff sent a letter."

He followed her across the room.  A letter from Geoff was always a treat.  Unfortunately, correspondence with the former herald had grown sporadic, any letters few and far between.  "And?"

She laughed, little more than a chuckle really.  "He's happily living the life of a political ambassador or something.  He gets to travel all over, meet new people."

"I see."  Geoff had taken his leave of them directly after the hasty wedding Jocelyn's family had put together at the news of her first pregnancy.  He'd claimed other obligations he'd been avoiding and his life since then bore that claim out.  Will missed him however, missed the droll humor and the fights Geoff had constantly incited with Wat.

"You're sure she doesn't need help?"

"Quite sure."  And he hoped to God he was right.  Christiana was behaving normally, but almost too evenly so.  It worried him that she'd taken to Adhemar so quickly.

He sat at the table and spread paper before him.  He'd write a letter back to Geoff.  The man would be amused that Will had made good progress in the writing department.  He could almost hear Geoff saying, 'Very good Will.  Now you can give her poetry written in your own hand.'  With a final glance at Jocelyn, he began to carefully form the words he wanted to say.

~~~~~~~~~~

He worried too much about her, Jocelyn reflected, watching her husband writing at the table.  Over three years, he'd learned to read, write and perform basic mathematical equations, all with the iron determination she knew to be a central part of who he was.  She loved that about him.  When he settled upon a course of action, he threw himself in whole heartedly.  Once William Thatcher was behind a person, they had his full support.  He was being cautious about Adhemar's health and that was fine with her.  She'd only asked out of politeness, of a sense that, as lady here, she should inquire.

Jocelyn wasn't really interested in Adhemar.  He'd ceased to genuinely concern her the day Will had won the joust.  That win had ensured her father would agree to the match.  He'd been hesitant about Will, but just as hesitant about Adhemar.  Jocelyn's dislike of the latter had kept him from finalizing any agreement until after the joust.  Will's win, and apparent favor with Prince Edward, had been the last push her father needed to agree that Jocelyn could marry Will if she wished.  Well, that and the pregnancy she'd done her best to bring on.

Not all fathers were so considerate to their daughters and she thought herself lucky.  It would have been very easy for her father to wed her to Adhemar anyway and for the Count to make...arrangements for the child if she'd carried to term.  She'd heard plenty of times about the sort of arrangements a man could make, selling the child as a slave and the like.  Her prayers had been answered though, and that had not happened.  She'd married her love.

Jocelyn had ignored any consideration of Adhemar over the years, consigning him to the oblivion of forgotten memory and ignoring the gossip as she concentrated herself on being a good wife to Will.  However, now she'd dredged up the memory of the man and was becoming curious.  Christiana thought herself a healer and Jocelyn knew she did have some talent in that direction, but to volunteer to tend the man?  Jocelyn wondered, as she had many times over the past months, if Christiana was living in some dream world she'd created to help herself deal with Roland's sudden death.  No, Adhemar didn't really interest her, but Christiana's motivations and state of mind did.

Taking up her sewing, she took more stitches on the garment.  To keep Will from worrying, she sat and sewed.  She kept herself as still as she could, flat on her bottom and sometimes lingering in bed.  She sewed small clothes until she was sick of doing so, longing to be walking about and active, but fear stayed her.  Fear of losing another child made her follow her instinct and instinct told her to be still for once in her life.  Christiana had advised that she be still as well, and the midwife concurred.

So Jocelyn sat, and watched everyone around her living life.  She hated sitting on the side, but to give Will an heir and have the pleasure of holding the fruit of their love in her arms, she'd do it with a smile.

Except for tomorrow.  Tomorrow, she'd go and see Christiana.

~~~~~~~~~~

She was dreaming and she knew it was a dream, for Roland was there, sitting in the chair she'd set beside the bed, his brown eyes trained upon the battered, bruised man that lay stretched out and silent save the occasional small, fevered moan.  Getting up from the pallet she'd set up before the fireplace, Christiana's dream self crossed to her dead husband, placing a trembling hand upon his shoulder.  Cold fingers reached up to grasp hers with a comforting squeeze.

He'd not been warm in her dreams since his death, as though her mind sought to remind her that death is cold.  Will and Jocelyn both thought that she could forget that Roland was dead.  They had no idea of her dreams; dreams where Roland explained things to her.

She wasn't crazy.  No.  She knew the man in her dreams wasn't really Roland, not a ghost or an apparition.  He was only a part of her mind, an image pulled from memory to make sense of things that confused her.  Her mind used Roland much in the way his role in her life had been.  Roland was never just a husband and lover to her.  He was friend, confidante and counselor.  In life, he'd given her the benefit of his wisdom.  When Will and Jocelyn had cut her off from tending the sick, the dream Roland had made that action make sense in her mind.  He'd explained that they thought they were helping her.  Their intentions were good, if misguided, since neither had noticed the comfort she found with the sick and injured.

Why was he here now?  What was she not understanding that he'd come to explain?  "Roland?"

He released her hand.  "You can let yourself feel again."

"Will said--"

"Forget what Will said.  He means well, but he doesn't know what's best for you.  It's all right for you to look upon this man and see him as a person, recognize that there's something that attracts you to him and makes you wish to help him."  He turned his head a bit more, and Christiana saw that his face was sunken, flesh molding about the facial bones.

She snatched her hand away from him, crossing her arms over her breasts and going to the foot of the bed.  "You look different."

His smile was tiny and tinged with sorrow.  "You won't need me much longer.  You can put me away and live your life again."

For the first time in months, the thought of her dream husband going the way of her real husband didn't fill her with a stabbing panic.  She could accept it, and let him go.  "I understand."

Now, he chuckled.  "I don't think you do, but you will.  Eventually, you will."

The edges of the room began to fade, dissolving into a grayish white fog, Roland standing and turning his back to her, walking into that fog without a final backward glance.  She heard his footsteps retreating and then the only sound remaining were her own soft breaths and the moans of her patient.  She was alone with him, her gaze sliding to him.  They were completely surrounded by the fog, the bed and the area around it an island, adrift in solitude and calm.

He shifted beneath the covers, inching about until the pillows she'd placed to keep him on his side slipped away.  His eyes opened, though she knew the real man wouldn't be able to do so comfortably for another day or two.

"Christiana?"  His voice was rough and scratchy, saying her name, more a hoarse whisper than anything.  The real man had not asked for her name, nor indicated that he knew her voice.  "I'm thirsty."

This was repeated over and over until she covered her ears with her hands and found the room sliding from her as though she traveled on a runaway steed along a narrow road.

Christiana woke with a gasp, heart pounding hard in her breast.

Her patient was speaking.

"Lady?  Are you there?"  There was a hesitant hitch to the words, like he feared to hear a different voice than hers in answer.

She got up from her pallet with a loud rustle of cloth, half expecting to find she still dreamed.  It wouldn't have surprised her to see Roland sitting in that chair.  "I'm here."  Yawning, she stretched, feeling the wincing pull of muscles unused to sleeping on the ground regularly.  One hand lifted, brushed her tangled hair from her face.  She'd neglected to braid her hair before settling down to rest.

"I'm thirsty."

"Oh.  Of course."  Taking a cup from the shelf Will had mounted on the wall for her, she lifted the cover off the water bucket and dipped some out for him.  Returning to the bed, she sat beside him.  "I'm going to help you lift your head."  Gently, she placed her hand behind his neck and head.  He stiffened at the touch, taking only a few sips.  "Drink more please.  You need the liquid."

He took hold of the cup, nearly tearing it from her, drinking more as she requested, some of the liquid splashing out onto his chest.  When done, he shoved it back at her, returning to the pillow, muscles tense until she removed her hand.  Then, she could see him relax, a visible clear movement of his muscles from a tense position into a lax one.  The hand that wiped at the water he'd spilled trembled, whether from the muscular effort of raising his head or from emotion, she didn't know.  She didn't ask.

Careful not to touch him, Christiana tucked the covers about him.  "It's only me here.  You've no need to fear.  You're safe."

A grimace pulled at his lips as he shifted, pain flitting across his features.  "I fear nothing."

"Mmm.  Are you hungry?  I could make some soup, or I have some bread."

"No.  I don't want food."

Despite his assertion of fearing nothing, fear was evident in his voice, that and panic.  She imagined he was feeling acutely helpless right now, at the mercy of an unknown woman, possibly more people.  His words were choked from fear and panic, calm only in his mind, if even there.  She had to make his waking hours as comfortable as she could while his eyes were swollen shut.  Once the swelling went down and he could see, he wouldn't fear quite so much.  Then, he'd be able to watch her and Will, when Will came to help.

She didn't think she'd be seeing much of Will though.  Not right now.  He'd be mulling over those thieves and deciding what he should do about them.  He'd be occupied there and with Jocelyn, so she didn't think he'd be along for more than a minute or two.  "I have a book.  I could read to you, if you like."

He gulped in a breath, licked his lips.  "You read?  You know how?"

She had his interest, if only for a moment.  "Yes.  I was tutored with my lady."  At the slight nod he gave, Christiana took the book from her table and settled down by the light to read.