Page 22 of Castle of Refuge

“Am I in Derbyshire?”

“No, my dear. You are in Bedfordshire.” The woman pressed her hand to Audrey’s cheek. “You don’t seem to have a fever anymore. That is good.”

“My chest hurts.”

“You have been coughing for many days, then?”

She sat up a little higher, and her head seemed to spin around and around, so much so that it made her stomach threaten to heave. She had to close her eyes and lay her head back on the pillow.

“You’re as pale as new snow,” the woman said, gently removing a pillow from behind her back so she could lie flat. “Just rest now.”

Audrey wanted so much to tell her she was sorry for being so much trouble, that she was thankful for the woman’s help, but she couldn’t seem to summon the strength to speak. Soon she felt herself drifting into darkness.

***

Audrey heard voices but couldn’t open her eyes. How long had she lain like this, in and out of consciousness? The kind woman—or women, as she suspected there was more than one—had taken care to raise her up now and then to make her drink. Sometimes it was some kind of bitter herb drink, and sometimes it was watered-down wine or broth.

Occasionally drinking brought on a coughing fit, which hurt so much she wondered if she was dying. She wanted to wake up and ask questions, to stay awake long enough to pray for Godnot to allow her father to find her, but she was just so tired . . . so very tired . . . tired in her bones and tired in her thoughts.

Her mind wandered in from the darkness of sleep and heard voices, one of them male—a deep, manly voice. What was a man doing in her room? It must be her father.

“No.” Her eyes flew open and she tried to sit up.

“What is it, child?” the kindly woman said, coming to her bedside.

She strained her eyes to see who the man was. He was a dark figure, a few feet from the foot of her bed.

“Who is that?” she asked, her voice raspy. She suddenly realized she had more strength in her limbs but not enough to push herself to sit up.

“That is only the master, Lord Dericott,” the woman said, touching her shoulder as if to soothe her. “Do not worry. He will not harm you.”

Her head was starting to ache and she regretted the effort to try to get up.

Lord Dericott? Why did that name seem so familiar? And then she remembered. The handsome squire, Edwin, who had spent the night at her home with Sir Clement, whom her father had wanted her to marry. He was now the Earl of Dericott. Edwin, the handsome boy whom she had thought might make a good husband. Had she ended up at his home?

If she knew his name, knew who he was, had seen his face, then that meant he knew her name and her face. Would he not recognize her and send word to her father? Had he already done so?

Audrey stifled a cry of fear. She had to get out of here. She had to leave before her father came and found her.

She pushed the blanket to the side and rolled off the bed. She tried to get her feet under her but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She hit the floor hard, pain emanating from every body part. She gasped, trying to get air into her lungs, which set off a coughing fit.

The coughing subsided, leaving her exhausted. The woman who had cared for her took hold of her shoulders.

“Help me,” the woman seemed to say to the man.

Audrey’s body ached, but she couldn’t stay here. Her father might be on his way at this moment. Or worse, he may have sent Sir Clement to fetch her.

“I have to go. I have to leave.” She wanted to get up, to will herself to stand up and walk, but the little strength that had returned had left her again. She couldn’t even get on her hands and knees to crawl.

Someone was lifting her. She opened her eyes enough to see that it was Edwin. He looked a little older than he had four years ago, and broader in the shoulders.

He would tell her father.

“Please don’t tell him,” Audrey managed to say before her eyes refused to open and the darkness claimed her.

***

“What does she mean?” Edwin nearly lost his breath at how desperate the girl had looked when she threw herself out of bed. Heand Mistress Wattlesbrook managed to get her back on the bed, he holding her awkwardly with his one arm. Before the injury, he easily could have lifted and carried the girl . . . when he had two hands and two arms. But he mainly regretted not being close enough to prevent her from the hitting the floor. A purple bruise was already forming on her cheekbone.