Gift of God: Lady Godiva - Chapter 8

“I can bear it.”

His silver eyes softened, deepening with quiet warmth.

“Leofric, you mustn’t leave it like this.”

Godiva was afraid. She did not know why only dark thoughts crowded her mind, but she suddenly remembered her father. How a small knife wound had festered, swelling with infection until it could not be stopped.

And this wound was far worse… She shook her head as if to drive the thought away.

“Godiva.”

Leofric spoke only her name, unable to finish what followed. What are you so afraid of? Why do your eyes look so sorrowful? He cupped her cheeks in his broad hands. The dampness against his palms seeped into his chest.

“Leofric, please…”

He was a strikingly handsome man, but now his complexion was pale, not as it usually was. Godiva pressed her cheek more firmly into his hand.

“Call a barber, at least.”

She looked as though she might collapse at any moment.

“…Very well.”

Leofric answered quietly.

* * *

The barber arrived reeking of drink. In that condition, stitching a wound—let alone shaving—seemed impossible. Godiva watched his trembling hands. It was perilous.

“Madam, I’m afraid this is unwise,” Milton said carefully.

“This is not like when Master Thorold was injured.”

Even the nanny urged. But Godiva heard none of it. She saw only her husband. Thought only of him. Then Leofric, hardly like a wounded man at all, spoke.

“So. Can it be done or not?”

The barber bobbed his head repeatedly. In Coventry, the lord stood higher than the king; the man scarcely dared meet his eyes.

“My lord, forgive me. If someone assists me, I can do it. My hands may shake, but my mind is clear.”

He was experienced enough. Ordinarily one might advise leaving such a wound alone. But this injury was grave. If not properly stitched, it could cost the lord his life.

“Milton. Assist him.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Milton, who prided himself on treating internal ailments, felt his dignity bruised. Yet before his injured lord, he could not show it. Suppressing his resentment, he took up the needle the barber provided.

“My lord, if I may…”

The barber asked cautiously. Leofric’s silver gaze lifted, cold.

“With respect… I fear that the gentleman’s hands are too unsteady for proper stitching. And he lacks our sort of manual skill.”

Even to himself, the barber sounded bolder than usual. Perhaps it was the drink. But the lord’s life hung in the balance, and he could not stay silent. If Coventry’s master fell, not only he but his family would suffer. He could not allow the proud physician to ruin it.

“What did you say, you—!”

Milton snapped, then stopped himself. He stepped close to the barber and hissed in a lowered voice.

“Is it not natural that I am untrained in women’s sewing?”

The barber said nothing. On any other ill-fated night, he would have finished his drink and sought comfort in a brothel instead of standing here. He gripped his cursed right hand tightly with his left; whenever he drank, it trembled uncontrollably.

“So in short, you’re both useless?”

It was as if a dull blade had scraped their hearts. Milton and the barber both went rigid with fear. Leofric did not resemble a grievously wounded man at all—upright in his chair, voice steady, silver eyes edged with mockery.

Unlike other patients who pleaded desperately to live, he showed neither panic nor weakness. That made him far more terrifying.

“Blunt tools are either sharpened… or discarded.”

Leofric rose from his chair. Aside from the pallor of his skin, he appeared unchanged.

“Remove them.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Though he had not specified where, Brandel understood. A few days in the dungeons would leave them broken—or dead. In that instant, both physician and barber realized their fate.

Under the lord’s merciless gaze, their tongues dried stiff, and they could not even beg properly for mercy.