at the trestle tables below as she helped Murie dress. She then insisted on helping her out of the room and down the stairs, so that she wouldn't "go faint and tumble down the stairs and break her neck."
Murie felt so weak and unsteady that she didn't argue. Truly, she was beginning to think getting out of bed had been a poor idea by the time Cecily saw her settled at the trestle table. Of course, she was too proud to say so to the maid and simply promised to remain where she was so the woman could return above stairs and retrieve the gown she'd been wearing to see if she could wash out the blood.
Murie watched Cecily go with affection, knowing from experience that the maid would be muttering the entire time she walked upstairs, collected the gown, and no doubt would still be muttering even as she washed it.
Once the maid was out of sight, Murie peered around the empty great hall in search of something to distract herself. Unfortunately, there was no one and nothing there to keep her attention, and she soon found herself drumming her fingertips on the table and trying to think of something to do. There was plenty of mending she could turn her attention to. Balan's doublet and her gown and surcoat had taken a terrible beating the day she'd used them to make a litter and then dragged him back to the castle. His leggings were, unfortunately, beyond repair, but she might be able to mend the gown and doublet.
However, she hadn't thought to bring them down and had no intention of going up after them.
She peered around the hall again, then got carefully to her feet. When the room did not begin spinning as it had above stairs, she released a little sigh of relief and started toward the kitchens. Now that she had nothing to distract her, she was aware of a dry, bitter taste in her mouth, no doubt a result of both her head wound and the vile liquid Gatty had made her drink. A nice mug of some of that ale Cecily had mentioned sounded nice about now.
Moving at a sedate pace to keep the dizziness from returning, Murie had only crossed half the hall to the door when it opened. A woman she thought she'd seen on the wagon earlier in the day started to walk out, but paused abruptly at the sight of her and hurried back into the kitchens. A moment later, the door swung open once more and Clement was striding toward her, his expression the grimmest she'd yet seen. Thibault was hard on his heels, wringing his hands agitatedly as they hurried to her side. Clement did not even speak. His mouth merely tightened, and he caught her arm, turned Murie and walked her firmly back to the trestle tables.
"You should not be out of bed," he said once he had her seated.
"Perhaps not," Murie allowed. "But - "
"There are no buts," Clement informed her. "You took a terrible blow to the head. You scared us all silly, and if you had any sense at all, you would be tucked up in your bed allowing your body to recover."
Murie noticed Cecily hurrying down the stairs and into the kitchen, but most of her attention was on the man before her. No one had spoken to her in such a manner since her father's death. Not even the king, her godfather. There was both concern and fear on the man's face, and it made her feel cared for.
"He is right, my lady," Thibault agreed. "You lost a great deal of blood from the knock on your head and still look quite pale. I really think you should be back up in bed."
"Aye, but..." Murie hesitated as Clement arched an eyebrow. His expression seemed to suggest she had best have a good excuse, so she let her breath out on a sigh and admitted, "I was hoping to have some of the ale my husband brought back from Carlisle and perhaps something to eat."
Apparently it was the right thing to say; the cook relaxed at once, but chided, "You should have sent someone to fetch it for you. I sacrificed one of the chickens to make soup, and it has been simmering these last two hours since you were injured. It could use more simmering, but should do well enough for now.
'Twill help you rebuild your strength." He turned back to head