Lady Eira was the first person to move, slipping quietly into the chamberās washroom to collect a small basin, washcloth, and soap, along with a pitcher of water that she set on an iron trivet over the coals of the roomās small hearth.
Dalwyn had peeked out from under the blankets, but Lady Cerys held him firmly in place. No matter how much her son wanted to greet the knight heād come to idolize, this moment belonged to Sir Ollie and his family, and she wouldnāt let her son intrude on that.
In the end, it was Cynwrig who broke the silence as he lowered his chain veil and put away his sword.
"Jamys," Cynwrig said as he began working at the laces holding his mail coif in place, pulling it off along with the padded cap beneath it. "You should let him come in. Iām sure that armor isnāt any more comfortable than mine," he said as he tugged off the gauntlets that covered his hands, dropping them to the floor with an audible -chink.-
"Let me give Sir Ollie a hand with his armor," Cynwrig suggested. "Then he can give you a proper hug," he said with a bright smile on his lips as he placed a hand on Jamysā shoulder, treating Sir Ollieās father the same way heād treat a brother if heād had one.
"Ah, youāre right, youāre right, your lordship," Jamys said, pulling back from the embrace as his face heated beneath a dayās worth of rough stubble. "Ollie, come in, come in, that canāt be, um... It canāt be comfortable," he said as his eyes took in his sonās bloodstained armor for the first time since the door had opened.
Working in the stables of Lothian Manor, Jamys had encountered his share of injured knights during tournaments, but heād never seen anything like his son. Ollie didnāt move like an injured man, and if his parentsā embrace was painful, he gave no sign of it. The blood that covered him belonged to someone else, or, from the amount of it, several others.
His son had become a knight, but he hadnāt returned home from something as clean and noble as a tournament. Heād come home from war, and the proof of it had seeped into his armor and his emerald green tabard.
"Lilee," Jamys said lightly as he placed a hand on his wifeās waist. "Let him go long enough to take off the armor. Then you can hug him again, I promise," he said.
"Ollie, Iām sorry, you, you must be hurt," Lilee said, pulling back as she searched her sonās face for traces of pain. "Come in, come in," she said, pulling him toward one of the roomās overstuffed chairs. "Please, you shouldnāt... I mean..."
"Itās fine," Ollie said, reaching out with one hand to hold his motherās hand and the other to hold his fatherās. Whether it was the faint redness and roughness from working in the manor laundry, the calluses and bruises that accompanied working with horses, or the faint burn scars from the kitchen hearths, all three of their hands had been marked by years of service in Lothian Manor, but they held each other tightly as Ollie moved toward the chair.
"Thank you, Sir Cynwrig, for keeping them safe," Ollie said, smiling warmly at the other knight. "If anything had gone wrong, I wouldnāt have been able to forgive myself..."
"It was a quiet night for us," Cynwrig said as he stepped close enough to Ollie to help with the laces of the younger knightās coat of mail. "Warm food and idle conversation, nothing more than that," he said, hoping to put Sir Ollie at ease.
"He means that he and your father spent half the day talking about horses," Lady Cerys said, teasing her husband before she turned to her son. "Dalwyn, can you be a good squire for your father and Sir Ollie? They both need help with their armor. Do you remember how?"
"I remember," Dalwyn said, eagerly rushing out from under the blankets to help his father and his hero with their armor.
Standing beside the hearth, Eira waited as patiently as she could, even though she wanted nothing more than to ask for news of the battle and how it had ended. The fact that Ollie came here in peace told her a great deal. If things had gone badly, theyād be rushing to escape rather than pulling off armor.
Just because theyād been victorious, however, didnāt mean that there hadnāt been losses, and an anxious gasp escaped her lips when Ollie finally slipped out of his mail coat, revealing a gambeson dyed red with his own blood at the shoulder where a poleaxe had bitten into Ollieās arm.
Ollie winced in discomfort as the movement reminded him of the wound heād all but forgotten about with everything else happening this evening. At the time, his mind had been clouded by the fury of the Blood Acorn, and ever since then, heād been moving from one tense moment to the next, but now, fresh blood flowed as the movements of removing his armor pulled at the wound.
"You are hurt..." Lilee said, stepping forward before she paused uncertainly while Ollie worked at the rest of his armor.
"Here," Eira said, stepping up beside Ollieās mother and guiding her toward one of the chests in the room. "I donāt imagine the household staff is ready to fetch us bandages, but there should be spare linens we can cut down for him, and I could use a hand preparing them," she offered, even though she didnāt really need the help.
"Oh, right, um, your ladyship, I can help," Lilee said, only reluctantly taking her eyes off her son.
"How bad is it, Sir Ollie?" Cynwrig asked directly as he started helping with the laces at the back of the younger knightās gambeson. "I donāt have any Essence of Poppy for pain, but thereās a bottle of strong wine if you think it would help," he offered.
"Itās not that bad," Ollie said, shaking his head and moving his arm as little as possible as Cynwrig and Dalwyn helped him out of the emerald green and midnight blue gambeson. "As long as I donāt reach above my shoulder, itās manageable," he said in a statement that sounded excessively humble but was truer than most people in the room believed, especially when they saw how much blood had seeped into the sleeve and chest of the tunic he wore beneath the gambeson.
"I have scissors if youād rather we cut the tunic off," Eira offered as she approached, carrying a basin of warm water with Lilee trailing in her wake. "Iāve helped in the healerās tents after a winter raid or two," she said, looking a bit embarrassed as she confessed to where sheād acquired her skills.
"I know that youāre far more skilled than I am, Sir Ollie," Eira said with a brief glance at Lady Cerys. "But let us at least help get you cleaned up before you... Um, before you tend to your wounds..."
Ollie barely seemed to notice what sheād said, however. Heād stopped truly hearing anything after heād heard her mention scissors to cut off his tunic... The tunic that suddenly felt like the last layer of armor protecting him from something far more dangerous than enemy swords or spears...
The tunic that was the only thing preventing his parents from seeing his Mark of the Witch.