She blushed and turned her attention to Baldwin, who was now gesticulating wildly as he related some tale to Ivar that Ivar did not, in fact, appear very interested in hearing. Ivar kept staring at the wagon, shifting his feet, and tugging on his hair. He was standing off at an angle and had not noticed the shift in the concealing beads.
Well. It was no surprise that Sorgatani would notice Lord Baldwin. True enough, he was breathtaking of feature, but it seemed to her as she watched him talking that there was something a little vacant about that pretty face.
“Is he crippled or injured in some way?” Sorgatani asked breathlessly. “Has he been wounded? Ah, look! His hand has been cut off. Just like Breschius! Maybe it’s a sign.” Leaning on Hanna, she tightened her fingers as folk do when they grasp the rope that will save them from drowning. “What do you think?”
Sorgatani wasn’t looking at Baldwin and Ivar. She was looking beyond them where the fading light poured its golden aura over a portion of the fountain and the paved pathway. A pair of sturdy lay brothers was carrying a man on a litter out of the monks’ quarters. They cut along one of the diagonal paths, bringing them close by the wagon. They were on their way, perhaps, to the infirmary. They weren’t in any hurry. The presence of the foreign wagon seemed of no interest to them at all, nor did they show much interest in their patient. They kept pausing between strides to look toward the church, although it wasn’t clear what they hoped to see there.
The man lying on his back on the litter was covered from feet to hips with a thin blanket. Otherwise, he was naked from the waist up, his left hand resting on a taut belly and his right arm, slightly elevated on a rolled-up blanket pressed along his side, ending in a stump at the wrist. He had good shoulders, and pale, lovely, rose-blushed skin. His eyes were closed, but in the manner of a person who, although awake, prefers to shut out the truth. His golden hair had been washed and combed, and it gleamed when they passed out of the shadow and into that last spill of sunlight lancing through the westward-facing walkway.
“Can I have that one?” Sorgatani said with a ragged laugh.
Ai, God! Hugh.
“Is there any man handsomer than you?” Hanna whispered.
“There cannot be,” murmured Sorgatani, lips parted, leaning until her face almost brushed the beads as the monks moved past.