Page 97 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
Reeve cleared his throat.
“It’s not charity if the money’s yours, Your Grace,” the innkeeper said. “Only good housekeeping. The bread tastes the same, but it sits better.”
Tristan could have disliked the man for his neat phrases. He did not. He found, instead, that the stiffness in his shoulders had loosened to the smallest degree.
“See that the board is kept,” he said, as if it had been in question, “and send to Duskwood tomorrow for flour. The stores are heavy this summer. I’ll not have weevils in my granary.”
Reeve grinned, seemingly surprised by the moment of camaraderie. “Aye, Your Grace.”
A knock, quick and crisp, sounded behind him. Alice, breathless, her arm dusted with flour, slipped past Reeve and set a tray on the table near Christine. Tea, bread, honey, a wedge of something pale that would do for a stomach that had forgotten its purpose.
“Eat a bit, my lady. Healers like you fed,” Her eyes went to Tristan then, not quite deferential, not quite bold, “And if Your Grace will forgive a woman’s tongue, telling her she’s strong is fine. Letting her sit is better.”
He found himself almost smiling. “Noted.”
“Mother Hobb will be here afore the kettle boils dry,” Alice said, “She keeps a basket packed for moments like this.”
“This is all a lot of fuss about nothing. I am completely fine,” Christine protested.
Tristan took the tea and pushed it gently toward Christine. On the green, life resumed its ordinary motions, as if nothing more than a gust of wind had passed through. The blacksmith’s hammer fell, and a goose hissed at a child who was foolish enough to hiss back. From this height, the village looked almost like a painting. A shuffle at the door. Reeve stood aside. An old woman came in without ceremony.
She was small, bent in the back like a branch, her hair a thatch of pewter braided round her head. She wore a clean apron and carried a basket from which rose the smells of mint, vinegar, camphor, and a hundred other green things. Eyes were the sharp blue of a winter sky.
“Duke,” she said mildly, as if he were a man with mud on his boots rather than the largest purse within five miles, “girl.”
Christine straightened on the settle.
“Lady Christine,” Tristan said, with more edge than the woman deserved.
“Lady Girl,” the old woman corrected, and set her basket down, “let me see your hands.”
Christine bit back a smile and held them out obediently. Mother Hobb turned them over, pressed at the tendons of the wrist, glanced at the half-moons under the nails as if they told her the weather.
“Heart’s galloping but not wild,” she muttered, “shock. A bite of honey. And you’ll take this.”
She unstoppered a little blue bottle and poured three drops into a spoon. “Tastes like a lie a parson would tell, but it’ll set you right.”
Tristan moved before he meant to, his hand seeing Mother Hobb’s wrist, preventing it from moving any closer to Christine.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“A medicinal draught…” Mother Hobb began.
“The ingredients,” Tristan demanded.
Christine put a hand on his arm.
“Linden and valerian and sense,” Mother Hobb said, without looking at him, “if you don’t like it, eat your own pride. That’ll settle anyone.”
“I will take it,” Christine said, she winced after swallowing, “though it does taste like a lie. Ugh!”
“It will do you good. Settle your nerves and your spleen after a bad experience,” Mother Hobb said, giving Tristan a jaundiced eye.
Mother Hobb’s hands were brisk and gentle together as she touched the line of Christine’s throat, watched the swallow, then nodded, satisfied.
“No harm done. You’ll be tired before night.”
Tristan heard himself ask, against his own prejudice.
