A Perilous Passion (closed for Amatorial Writer and I)

It was a cold cloudy day and though rain had yet to fall, you could feel it in the air. Emelin sat at the window embroidering a handkerchief. Slowly vines and flowers found themselves stitched into the fabric. Today she lacked focus and her hand became unsteady. Perhaps it had something to do with her father's trip. Again he was leaving to make more arrangements with her betrothed. She could still see him riding in the distance. The duke was far older than she. Twice her age infact and well respected. It was a fine match for everyone else but her. Constantly she was reassured that the Duke was rich and would take good care of her, but her mind was never at peace. How was she to silently marry a stranger? Always when her father looked at her there was resentment in his eyes. Her sisters had been lovely and agreeable. They had been easy to find husbands for, but she was difficult and fought betrothal every step of the way. A chill from the window pierced her thoughts and she put down the embroidery to check on her mother. She wandered down the hall and found the dark haired woman reading by the fireplace. Emelin took the seat beside her. How many times had she asked for her mother's empty reassurance that she would be happy? It was not her desire to break her mother's heart. She'd been deathly ill last winter and never fully recovered. It was seeing her mother so sickly that finally made her submit. A loud rumble could be heard from downstairs. At first she thought that the servants might just be unusually clumsy today, but the racket grew louder and soon two maids burst into the room.

"My lady the Master has returned suddenly with a wounded man. Looks like a knight."

Her mother leapt up and hurried down the stairs. After the initial shock Emelin crept down the stairs to see what the fuss was about. A trail of blood led to a group of servants huddled around the table. A man groaned loudly and then let out a deafening yell. She averted her eyes realizing that they were removing his chain mail and clothing. It was then that she caught her father's eye.

"Emelin this is no place for you to be lurking about."

"But father who is that man?" she said.

"It's not your concern right now. Go upstairs."

She did not ascend the stairs as he demanded. Instead she watched from a distance as they struggled to stop the bleeding. Finally they made the decision to stitch him up when the bleeding eased a bit. His groans soon became too much to bear and she went to her room. Dinner was served to her in her quarters that night and some time later a knock came to her door. Her father stood there glaring down at her.

"Child I have a great task for you to complete while I'm away. The man you saw is Sir Geoffrey York, a friend of mine from the crusades. He'll be staying here until he's well. Now your mother isn't as strong as she used to be. So I'll need you to tend to him while I'm away."

"But father I can't do something like that. What would the duke say? His betrothed waiting on a strange man."

There was a hint of disgust in her voice.

"The duke doesn't have to know. We're shorthanded and the harvest is approaching. You'll be his caretaker and that's final. It is not difficult. Just make him feel at home, make certain he is well, and have a servant help you with changing his bandages. He'll be staying in the guest room closest to your quarters."

It was clear that his request upset her, but the earl was not concerned with whether or not she liked it. This was good for the family. If he did such a favor for the king he was certain to be given something in return.

Sir Geoffrey York
34 years old, a warrior by nature and occupation
widowed by the cruelty of fatal childbirth


"Pray because sometimes there's nothing else," says the echoing voice in Sir Geoffrey's head. The voice and words belonging to his father were spoken years ago the day he departed for his first battle.

"Come back to me and our child." Said Gwendolyn, Geoffrey's wife the day he departed for the Crusades. Her words echoed in his mind through the years with images of her beauty and charm. Elegant during days, sultry during nights is how he remembers her and sadly his recollections end with the heartbreaking loss of her life and their child during birth. To worsen matters, he received news of his wife's passing on a battlefield near Jerusalem. Duty adhered him to his military mission and another year elapsed before he returned home to speak to her at her grave.

"Rise Sir Geoffrey York," are the words of King Edward aka Longshanks. Geoffrey was knighted for his valor and duty upon returning home from the latest Crusade. He was also knighted as a participating member of the King's new wave of knights charged with collecting taxes and participating in the parliamentary government serving as a conduit of His Majesty's torrential power. As King Edward shored up his stronghold over England, Scotland and Wales, his stature grew above his already immense height. Edward's military tactics were deemed cruel and controversial by the conquered but such is the nature of political power in Medieval times.

One by one, Geoffrey recalls pivotal moments of his life while laying wounded in the carriage steered by the Earl of Cornwall's driver. The latest battlefield lies five miles north of Truro in the County of Cornwall. This skirmish is smaller in comparison with the Crusades and rebellions in Scotland and Wales but the nature of the battlefield matters not when a sharp sword slices through protective armor and flesh. The Earl and Sir Geoffrey know each other quite well from years past. Geoffrey traveled from his home in York to Cornwall stopping on the way to assist in squelching a tax rebellion. His destination was Truro by invitation of the Earl in appreciation for saving the Earl's life in a Middle Eastern battlefield. Having no wife, Geoffrey was content living the remaining years of his life as a bachelor purposing his life as a King's knight sharing his time between York, London, Cornwall and where ever else the King dispatched him.

A wound on his left arm and another on his left thigh facilitated almost fatal bloodshed. Field dressings are barely adequate. Long term recovery and attentive care are necessary to save his life. Infection is the next enemy Geoffrey will face. Taken to the Earl's castle for treatment and recuperation, recollection of his life's pivotal moments chronicled in memory continues. The carriage rolls over hills and moors destined to a bed or his grave.

By the time they reach the castle, Geoffrey drifted in and out consciousness, seeing light and darkness where they don't exist. He has no regrets except one, that his wife didn't survive long enough to live with him but this regret doesn't spawn a fear of death. He's a warrior who understands death is an imminent part of life. Having cheated near fatal endings before, he senses he might again. But he cares no more.

Just as they pass through the castle's gate, consciousness is lost. The rebellion continues so the Earl returns to hostilities and resumes enforcing the King's will by force. The valiant knight is left to the care of the Earl's youngest daughter and availed servants.

Geoffrey awakes later, perhaps hours perhaps days, he can't tell. Pain throbs in the left side of his body. Stone walls and ceiling bound the chilly room. A hole in the wall serves as a window. Heat emanates from a fireplace radiating its amber light from another wall. His body no longer cloaked in armor and chain male but in cotton and in some places, spotted with blood, his blood. Weak and exhausted, he barely has the strength to ask who is the beautiful maiden gazing down upon him, warming his face with her soft gentle breath and holding a spoonful of soup close to his shaking lips.

She woke to from an uneasy sleep. It wasn't often that she had nightmares and though it had been horrible, she couldn't remember what the dream had been about. Rising up she remembered the task she'd been trusted with. A wounded soldier lay in the next room. She sat before a mirror and began brushing her dark hair. When there was less to be done she'd sometimes have help, but the winter had hit them hard last year and they'd lost many to sickness. Her soft green eyes gazed at herself as she braided it and pinned it up into a bun. It was still hard to believe that she'd sleep elsewhere in less than a years time. She dressed quickly realizing she was probably already late and the man may not have eaten in days. Sure she wanted no part of this task, but she wasn't heartless.

The kitchen was attended by a woman attending a soup pot.

"Mary why did no one wake me when I was missing from the breakfast table?"

The Woman smiled.

"Well the Master wanted to leave before dawn to try and make up for the lost time on his trip. I'm very sorry my lady."

She sighed heavily and took a seat at the table. The woman gave her soup and bread which was gone by the time the cook turned around again.

"I'll be needing some of that for the knight. Sir Geoffrey if I remember it correctly."

Emelin disappeared upstairs with the soup and gently eased the door open. She placed the tray on a table by the bed and looked closer at him. He was not as lively as she'd expected. He looked worn, but not ugly and it was difficult to tell if he'd even get better. She'd seen the blood that had leaked onto the floor the evening before. She leaned over to check if he was conscious. Again it was hard to tell, but he certainly wasn't asleep.

"Sir...Sir Geoffrey I need you to eat something. I'm not certain when you had your last meal, but you need your strength."

She dipped the spoon into the broth and placed it gently against his lips. After a moment he drank.

"Listen I don't know if you can hear me, but you need to do better than that if you expect to return to the King. You have to drink this soup down or you won't heal properly."

Again she brought the soup to his lips and this time he seemed to co-operate. Soon the bowl was empty and she placed it on the tray. She took up the tray and left the room. When she returned she had a book with her and a pitcher of water. She took her seat by the bed and began to read silently, every now and then her eyes would shift to the man and she'd lose her place in the book entirely. She wondered what had happened to him. The knights in her stories were always triumphant and never fell without a fight. Maybe he felt that way too. If he died on her watch her father would never forgive her.

"Listen I don't know if you can hear me, but you need to do better than that if you expect to return to the King. You have to drink this soup down or you won't heal properly."

Geoffrey hears these words through the right but not the left ear. His normally intact hearing is temporarily disabled in the left ear. More importantly, his eyes fathom her illustrious beauty, gauging her age in the teens.

The soup is the first nourishment since the battle. Some spoonfuls contained a morsel of bread he is able to swallow without excessive pain. She is watched with curiosity and amazement. Tense vocal chords struggle in expressing his thoughts. "Who are you?" He asks with insistent curiosity. The last recollection he has is laying in a carriage slowly rolling through the castle's gate. He knows he's at the Earl's castle but knows not who the fair maiden is. Definitely not a servant for she speaks with the confidence and demeanor of nobility.

Slowly shifting in the warm bed slightly dampened by his perspiration and in some places by blood, pangs of pain are felt in muscles wounded in battle and unused muscles while laying in this bed. He studies her movements, noticing slight similarities to his long gone Gwendolyn. He studies her soft green eyes for as long as she looks at him. A resemblance between her face and that of the Earl's opens his eyes further. "Are you related to the Earl of Cornwall?" He asks then turns his head back to the pillow. She stands, moves about, places the empty bowl nearby trading it for a book. A nod is her reply to his question and she lowers her head to the open book read about midway.

Meanwhile Geoffrey shifts about ever so slowly in strained minuscule movements. Beads of perspiration spot his forehead and face. A fever flourishes in his struggling body that combats unknown infectious parasites. Upon a hoarse cough she rests the book on the bed partly resting on his right thigh and reaches for a cloth to wipe away the feverish precipitation from his skin.

'She must be one of his daughters,' he thinks in his mind and wonders still because he thought all the Earl's daughters are married and living elsewhere. Perhaps she is a niece. "What is your name fair one?" He asks then turns away to hoarsely expel a coughing breath. Before his eyes turn to her, he sees his sword and uniform set in the corner between the window and fireplace. But some elements seem missing, the damaged ones. Where can they be? Where is the Earl? How long has he been here? So many questions spring from his mind and linger till they'll be answered.

"Water please" he whispers.

He began to stir and coughing heavily causing her put down her book. It looked like he was getting a fever. She gently wiped the sweat on his forehead. How could father have left her such a task? The cloth was folded over and dabbed into basin of water. Perhaps the cool cloth would ease him a bit.

"What is your name fair one?" He said before coughing heavily again.

The man had to be delirious. He looked at her as if he'd seen an angel. This would be an all consuming task to get him to survive. It might take all day to bring the fever down.

"My name is not your concern. You should try to rest. If if it will help you to know, My name is Emelin. The Earl of Cornwall is my father. He's left on business and won't return for a month. However he's been known to stay with the Duke longer than that."

"Water please" he whispered.

She poured a glass from the pitcher and slowly brought it to his lips. He drank it down like he'd never had water in his life and she poured another allowing him to satisfy his thirst.

"My father has asked me to watch you till you are well. So don't get any thoughts of dying in that bed. Father will be furious with me if you do."

Feverish pain grips Geoffrey's chest and throat while worn muscles strain during jerky spastic movements caused by coughs. He listens, feels her touch and that of the damp cloth on his skin. A mix of warmth and chill sensed by his body. Chill from the open window and cold sweat. Warmth from the fireplace and the fair maiden's body nearby.

Just before he retorts to the comment about her name not being his concern, she vocalizes it and tense facial lines relax. 'She has her father's spirit' he muses to himself. With some effort, he raises his head so lips meet the pewter goblet containing water for the increasing thirst. The water flows down his esophagus without interruptions from sporadic coughing. The second helping of water is similarly consumed then his head almost falls back on the pillow. Hair adhered, matted to his forehead by moisture.

Geoffrey danced with death more times than the years in her age. Some dances were witnessed by her father the Earl but he lacks the energy to narrate such encounters. Instead he smiles softly and appreciably.

More questions arise from his curious mind but they're left silent and Emelin is seen setting the empty goblet down and picking up her book. Soon the door is opened and a servant rushes toward the bed. The servant's hand touches his torso through the cotton covers as she reaches for a cross and places it back on his chest.

"m'Lady, it's time to change his garments," says the servant to Emelin and the young maiden responds with agreement. The servant rushes out of the room and soon returns with a change of clothing. At this moment ambivalence sweeps through Emelin. Should she stay to assist or leave? The servant confidently states "I'll do this m'Lady" and looks at the knight and Emelin.

"Yes Mary," replies Emelin then leaves the room, closing the door as she looks at Geoffrey while stepping backwards and out of sight.

Upon undressing Geoffrey, Mary sees scars from old and new wounds archiving his battles and skirmishes with death. Being a capable servant and caregiver, Mary wipes his body with a damp cloth. Blood and water fall into the washbowl each time she rings the wet cloth and with each stroke his body is gradually cleansed. Too tired to conduct a conversation, Geoffrey willingly accepts the care given to him, something he's done before but not at this castle.

Mary dresses his new wounds before dressing his body and placing the small wooden cross on the white cotton wrapping him. She gathers old garments, washcloths and bowl then departs leaving him alone. Darkness arises as the sun sets. He looks around again, focusing at his sword and uniform. The sword logs combat burr by burr and scratch by scratch but only he can decipher the deformations scribed on the sword's metal.

A wave of peace sweeps through him along with warmth from the fresh clothes and the smoldering fire. His mortality is still uncertain. Recalling his father's advice, a prayer is silently phrased in his mind and he falls asleep before Emelin returns to his bedside.

It was an unpleasant feeling. Knowing she may be powerless. There was not much she could change or control. Being a duke's wife wouldn't aid that. Nothing would. She had felt this way when her mother was ill and there wasn't a single thing she could have done. Her father had commanded she not tend to her because it was contagious. There had not been a minute of that winter that she didn't think of what she could have done for her mother. She would not let this man die. It was in her nature to be stubborn. As she tended to him she began to notice he was smiling. She'd never been this close to a man before and something about his eyes gave her hope. Again and again she placed the cloth against him praying that she'd eventually get his fever to break. It was then a knock came to the door and Mary stepped into the room.

"m'Lady, it's time to change his garments," she said softly.

Her body froze in place. His garments. Yes he needed cleaning. She felt as though he were now her responsibility so perhaps she should assist, but she'd never even seen a man without clothing. She'd been so focused on him getting better that it hadn't even occurred to her that he might be under dressed beneath his covers. Then again she'd told her father it wouldn't be right seeing as she was betrothed. Before she could say a word the decision was made for her as Mary took over.

"I'll do this m'Lady"

Slowly she shifted out of the room and into her own. His smile seemed burned into her memory and every moment seemed like an eternity. Mary was in there doing what she could not. A blush went to her cheeks thinking of what he might look like with nothing on and she cursed herself for having thought it. It wasn't the first time she'd thought about things like that, but it was the sort of thing she'd always kept secret. Seeking a distraction, she sat for awhile with her mother in the library and make certain she had a warm blanket. By the time she returned he'd fallen asleep. Supper was an often quiet affair and her mother talked about the book that the Earl had brought on his last trip. Still all she could think about was the man upstairs, though it was not something she was willing to admit. She returned to his room to find the fever had eased a bit. She fell asleep in the chair by his bed, her book draped across her lap.

Hours passed before Geoffrey awakes from his deep but occasionally painful slumber. His body rested somewhat but his mind tormented by nightmarish interpretations of past experiences. One recurring recollection involves a kneeling adversary pleading for mercy so he can return to his family. The only mercy Geoffrey granted him was a sudden death. Since then the valiant knight hasn't shed the guilt. It was a life he could have spared.

In another recurring nightmare he jousts with the fourth horseman of the Apocalypse named Death. He's already familiar with the other three, War, Conquest and Famine. Lances are used in the imagined joust with Death and each time Geoffrey's lance penetrates Death's heart the lance passes through the ghost of a figure. Unscathed, Death then breaks out in diabolical laughter taunting the knight letting him know that Geoffrey's life can be had in a heartbeat. This nightmare isn't about another hastilude but a premonition if not an omen.

Gasping out loud, Geoffrey wakes suddenly and sees Emelin snap her head toward him. She springs closer to the bed, the book falls to the floor, her right knee presses the bedside to lean over him, appearing as a hovering angel. Shaking his head, he drifts towards reality and feels her hand rub his forehead. The fever thrives albeit less than yesterday. Impulse tempts him to grab Emelin and lay her on top of him for a tight hug but he restrains himself with self discipline. Besides, he doesn't have the strength, not yet.

It's morning, so indicate solar rays beaming through the window and illuminating buoyant dust particles which in turn reflect light. "For how long did I sleep?" asks Geoffrey as Emelin recedes from the bedridden knight and places a plate of bread near him while holding a goblet of fresh milk squeezed from a cow this morning.

Mustering residual strength, pushing down on the bed with his fists, he slides against the bed's headboard to sit up. The blanket covering him slides down revealing his shirt clad torso with glimpse of chest hair peeking above the loosely tied collar. Welcoming the needed recuperation and hospitality, Geoffrey's hand reaches for the bread taking a hearty bite from the crusty spongy mass then a swig of warm milk. The nourishment is hastily devoured and when asked if more is desired, he simply waves his hand in the negative.

Emelin engages herself in a task seldom exercised, replenishing the fireplace with logs. shifting them with a poker, tapping them so the ash falls into the tray below. This task is normally performed by servants who periodically attend to all fireplaces to keep the fires burning and hearths clean. Some servants were dispatched to the battlefield and the remaining servants pickup the slack.

The fever shows signs of waning but pain from the wounds continues making the knight wince, groan and flinch reminding him the bed is to be his home for some time to come. "Bring me wine for the pain," he nearly growls with agony. What he really wants is an opium potion used to treat battle wounds during the Crusades but no such comforting concoction is expected to exist in the castle. Wine soaked in a cloth and left over the wound has helped subdue pain while his body heals itself, unfortunately too slowly but it's better than no relief. Such is the price for close contact combat with adversaries and sharp deadly weapons.

Emelin seems puzzled and bewildered by his request for wine. Geoffrey grows impatient, extends his right arm and grips her soft upper arm letting her feel his need for urgency. "Go and ask Mary for the wine," he tells her while his brown eyes pierce the green ocular windows to her soul. "And water too please," said in a less dramatic tone then she's released from his grasp.

Emelin woke to a soft hand on her shoulder. It was a surprise to find she'd slept so well in that chair. Mary helped her up and lead her into her room.

"Come my lady let's get you a change of clothes and some thing to eat."

She found a quick change of clothing while Mary brought up a tray of milk and bread. When she'd had her fill, she carried the tray into the knight's room and placed it on the side table. He seemed better than yesterday. His skin held a bit more color and his perspiration had lessened. Maybe he would make it though this alive. It would be awhile before the man woke. Lucky for her it was the good part of her book. She could almost hear the swords clashing as the hero claimed his victory. A sudden gasp for air from the man sent the book hurdling to the floor. She leaned far over to place a gentle hand on his forehead. He was warm but not burning up like the morning before.

"For how long did I sleep?"

"You slept after your dressing and into the night. For a moment I thought you might not make it, but you're tough like I expected a knight should be. However that still doesn't exempt you from eating proper meals."

She held up a plate of bread and to her surprise he pulled himself into a sitting position. She didn't know whether to praise this type of behavior or scold him for it. He ate and drank till he was content. When he was done she tended the fire. It was dying again and it wasn't the fault of servants. There weren't enough of them to be every where. An average of two cared for the house, her mother, daily meals, and whatever else needed to be done. With a log or to it was going again. She'd caught a glimpse of the opening in his attire making her face flush. Why did such things peak her curiosity? No matter how hard she tried she could never rid herself of her strange thoughts.

"Bring me wine for the pain."

The man's voice was again one of agony, but wine? What did he need something like that for. Sure her father would certainly oblige, but she could not understand how it helped. However this was probably not his first time being this bad off. A man did not live this long in service of the king without bleeding for it. His hand grasped her arm and she could feel the way he shuddered from the pain. Brown eyes pierced her own and spoke his need.

"Go and ask Mary for the wine,"

She nodded.

"And water too please,"

With that his hand went limp and set her free. She threw the door open and ran down the stairs. His cries of agony still haunted her from the night he arrived. Mary was finishing the dishes when she entered the kitchen.

"Mary we're going to need wine from the cellar. The knight needs it to ease his pain."

The woman nodded and left for the cellar. While she was gone Emelin fetched a bit of well water and filled the pitcher. When mary returned with the Wine she carried two pitchers with her. They were both quickly placed by his bedside.

"Sir Geoffrey how will this ease your suffering? What must I do?"

OOC: Sorry internet error double post.