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It was piss poor luck on his part that the archer had spectacularly good aim and got to him before John or Kyle could. The arrow hit the soft part of his armor in the back of his knee, sinking through and out the side, hitting against the inside of his steel armor. Instantly, he felt the coursing of some type of poison as he went to his good knee, cursing and reaching back for his bad knee. He watched through the corner of his visor as John’s claymore bit into the archer’s shoulder and cleaved halfway through his torso before he dropped.
John ran to him, dropping his sword down as he knelt. “How bad is it?” he asked, prodding the wound and watching as crimson stained through the brown leather of his glove.
“Bad,” Simon said. “Poisoned.”
“Shite. Captain!”
Jonathan sprinted over, sheathing his own sword as he lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled for his horse. “John, help him onto the horse and lead him back to the castle. Kyle, you and I will continue to scout out the rest of the enemies.”
“Yes sir,” he replied, pulling another arrow, and nocking it.
“I can still fight,” Simon griped, pushing himself up to his feet; he reached behind and yanked the arrow out, only letting out a very nasty grunt of pain. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine and you’ll do as I command,” Jonathan replied, pointing to the horse. “You’re in no condition to fight. You’ll either get yourself or all of us killed.”
“Cap—”
“That’s an order, Knight Lieutenant.”
Jonathan voice booked no room for an argument and Simon acquiesced as he hobbled over to the horse, though he knocked John’s hands away as he pulled himself up on the horse.
“I’ll scout ahead,” John muttered, pulling out his bow. “Will you be okay until we—”
“I’ll be fine,” Simon griped, pulling the reins of the horse. “Let’s go.”
***
Effectively, the last thing Simon remembered was crossing the bridge into town, panting like a dog before he toppled sideways into the freezing water below. All he could think was how nice it felt seeping under his armor and flooding over his heated skin.
***
Dripping echoed in his ears, a throbbing settled between them as pain pulsed through his skull and shot down to his leg. He grimaced, cracking an eye open, expecting to see the wooden ceiling of the Knight’s lodging but instead was greeted with a gilded golden mosaic encrusted with gemstones and marble. It took him a moment before he realized where and whose room he was in—the Queen’s.
Another drip sounded and he turned his head along the silk pillow, watching as a veiled figure dipped their hands into the water basin in the corner of the room; a woman, by the shape of their figure and it was only until they turned with a wet rag that he realized it was her.
She wore a white and gold, sleeveless gown that dipped lower in the front than he liked it too, but she looked the portrait of heraldry, especially with the golden veil that circled her hair like a halo and down her back. Slits in the side of her white dress showed her legs as she walked, and he watched her gold sandal, adorned feet with each step until she sat down on the bed beside him. Gently, she laid the rag on his forehead and touched his cheek.
“Your servants will talk,” he whispered, practically delirious and unable to tear his eyes from the sight of the gold sewn into the bodice of her dress and up where it collared by her neck and shoulders. “They will know.”
Her hum was heaven’s music as she pulled the sheet away from his leg and gently went about cleaning his wound again.
His stomach dropped when he saw crimson on her hands and his shot out, grasping her wrists. “Stop. Stop touching me.”
“Simon?” she appeared shocked, not that he had grabbed her so tightly but that his voice seemed on the verge of hysterics.
“My blood,” he breathed. “I am not worthy enough to have bled onto your clean hands.”
“Then you are also not worthy to have my white gown wipe away the sweat and grime too,” she said, all the while, rubbing the end of her dress along his knee, slicking it with dirt, sweat, and blood.
“My Queen,” he begged. “Please, I am unclean. I am too stained for your purity. I—”
“You will lie as your Queen commands and be healed under her hands,” she interrupted, giving him a stare that would have withered a lesser man.
Simon swallowed his words, a tightness in his chest as he watched her dip her dress into the jug of water next to the nightstand and begin anew, wiping his wound.
“I am unworthy of such pure grace,” he whispered, and she smiled, her eyes soft and gentle.
“You are a foolish man,” she murmured, pouring a thick looking greenish liquid into the wound before she wrapped it. “A man I admire greatly, but a foolish one all the same.”
He felt his breathing stutter in his lungs when her hands drifted up his wrapped knee to the inside of his thigh, then to his hip, where she caressed the sharp bone beneath his skin before she bent down and kissed it. “My Queen,” he groaned, feeling her lips turn upwards against his pale skin; he felt his chest flush with a pale redness at the intimacy. If anyone saw—“Please, have mercy upon me…” he pleaded. “Should anyone see you in such a compromised position…”
“You are such a worrier,” she sighed, sitting up; her hand rested upon his cheek before it gently threaded into the hair at the side of his head. “The door to my quarters is locked. No one can come in.”
Simon gazed at her, lovesick and feverish. “I do not wish for your reputation to be tainted as mine has been. You are too good for it.”
She ignored him and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his. “You are loved by the most powerful woman this side of the land. You hold more power over me and my resolve than any law ever will.”
He whimpered into her and reached up, touching the veil she wore. “I yet still believe that one touch from your hallowed form will free me from all I have done.”
“Should it not, you know I would walk beside you in hell until we have.”
“I am not worthy,” he murmured, and she quieted him.
“Hush, you are the most.”