Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior Read Free Page B

recovered her composure, but there was a shadow of sadness in her eyes when she looked at him.
    “Move him to the table,” she commanded her guards without looking away from his gaze.
    Working in sync, they freed his ankles from the eyebolts, his collar from the chain holding him upright, and his cuffs from the collar. They dragged him towards the table.
    Agony surged through his body, fueling his anger. His left fist slammed into the jaw of the guard Marcus and the guard fell back, his hand going to his face in shock.
    The Queen smiled.
    Philippe wrenched his right hand behind him and the bones of his shoulder scraped together again. His roar of anguished fury filled the room and the fight was soon over. The soldiers wrestled him down onto the narrow wooden table, secured his left hand to the top and his ankles to the bottom. Philippe stretched his right arm over his head, prepared to secure it as well.
    “Wait.” The older man spoke. “I need that arm by his side, for now. Just hold him still.”
    Two soldiers held his arm down. With a quick manipulation, the older man’s practiced hands moved the joint back in place and the warrior gave his pain voice. The old man stepped out of the way and the soldiers chained his right hand above his head, in the same manner as his left.
    He was once again restrained, defenseless. The collar prevented him from turning his head. His chest heaved.
    The guards fell back, as the man moved to the left side of the table. He examined the warrior’s minor wounds and then turned his attention to the warrior’s side. His fingers were gentle as he probed the gash. After a moment, he raised his eyes to the Queen. “This is the only injury he has of any consequence. I will need to clean it and stitch it up.”
    She nodded. As the physician began, she moved to the opposite side of the table. Leaning over him, she gazed into his eyes and wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag.
    “Such a strong spirit, you have.” She said softly. “So much fight still in you. Unfortunately, that spirit will not serve you well, now. It can only prolong your torment.”
    The physician poured a liquid into his wound and it stung like fire. He winced.
    “Tell me why you are here, in Cambridge, disguised as a peasant. Tell me and Gaius will use a local anesthetic. You won’t feel the pain.”
    He searched her eyes, wanting to tell her, not because of the pain he felt, but because of the pain he saw on her face.
    Instead, he clenched his jaw and remained silent.
    Sighing, she briefly closed her eyes. Moving down the table, she stopped at his thighs and began loosening a screw on the wooden press still crushing his balls.
    The physician finished cleaning the wound and threaded a small needle with a length of sinew.
    “Stop, Gaius. You will not stitch his side.” Her voice was cold, with a weary edge to it. “Build a fire,” she commanded the guards, gathered by the open door. “A small one.” They began immediately.
    “My Queen, if the wound isn’t closed, it will continue to bleed.”
    “I realize that,” she snapped. “You won’t use stitches. You will cauterize it.”
    The warrior gulped, watching as surprise crossed the old man’s face.
    “Don’t look at me that way. I’m not enjoying this. But if King William is planning to attack, I must find out. Philippe!”
    The guard rushed to her side.
    “I want him strapped down on the table.”
    Philippe responded with the customary remark and went to work, adding thick leather straps, one across the warrior’s chest, just under his armpits, one across his waist, and one above his ankles. And then one around each thigh, holding his legs apart.
    She continued, almost absent-mindedly, to unscrew the contraption from his testicles. “Let me know when the fire is ready,” she said softly to the guard still beside her.
    Philippe murmured his response with a bow and joined the other two in their work.
    The warrior closed his eyes. Stitches were no