The Lost Lady

by Amelia Brown

  “You remember my son, Benjamin, do you not Lady Luveday?” The King pointed out the young prince.

  “Your Highness.” She bowed slightly and smiled at the boy. He was shy for the most part, but Luveday remembered that he and Coll had gotten on well. She thought she saw the prince smile back at her, but it was hard to tell with his chin tucked into his chest, and his brown hair hanging in his face. Dressed like any of the royal squires and pages she had trouble recognizing him.

  “His eldest brother is still in town with his mother.” Luveday nodded. Did the King’s comment have some other meaning? Was she supposed to comment?

  Luckily, Iain saved her from being too awkward. “Prince Archibald has just returned from the south and the skirmishes with our neighbors there. He handled himself well by all accounts.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Frasier nodded, but he watched the other lords as they watched her. Frasier was an older noble, battle-hardened with salt and pepper hair. He was a bear of a man, with a sharp wit and a gruff manner, but he was also apt to tease a lass, and over the few times that they had been thrown together Luveday found him extremely likable. James Frasier flashed her a mischievous smile that more than one man puzzled over, then again, many did not as they had met her earlier having sought her out for her healing skills or to thank her for seeing to their men. Those that remained aloft were the nobles from court and were often heard complaining of the prolonged battle, though never in the King’s hearing of course.

  “Aye, he’s done well, and thank God he was away when all of this started.” There was a moment of silence at Edward’s words, and then a roar of noise as men started to talk over each other. Many remained silent and watched as their brothers tried to persuade the King to come to terms with Sterling or to crush him. Defeat didn’t cross anyone’s mind, but the length of the battle was wearing thin on the court followers, and it showed.

  Edward held aloft his right hand and silence fell. “I’ll have no more talk of meeting that bastard’s demands.” He looked to several men in particular while Frasier, De Lane, and a few others smirked. “Sterling will learn what it means to contend with the crown, and I mean to end him and his line.” There were a few gasps, but no one spoke out. “De Lane. Are you and your men ready for another round?”

  Luveday looked at him startled. She had never seen such a wicked expression on his handsome face.

  He bowed in an almost mocking fashion. “Give the word, my King.”

  The King didn’t seem to take offense, but rather shared Iain’s dark humor. Soon a few others wore similar expressions, and Luveday sent up a silent prayer that whatever they were planning, she would not see the aftermath of their endeavor. “The word is given.” Edward nodded, and the men scattered.

  Luveday was escorted back to the tents, while the men of Lander’s Keep geared up for the day. It was hard to believe it was still so early in the morning as the mists and frost still clung to the ground. The last few days had taken a turn for slightly warmer weather, though winter was now nearing full swing. As she watched the men ride out, and Luveday couldn’t help but wonder at man’s proclivity for war.

  The day passed like any other. The camp followers that had joined their group were now a regular sight. Clair had a hand for herbs and Margret a skill for cooking that amazed Luveday when she had the opportunity to contemplate them. Clair had been shy at first but quickly opened up to her, though that had been Ellie’s doing more than her own. Luveday missed her young friend and Lady Emmalyn fiercely. They were a comfort she hadn’t known she needed, and she looked forward to the day they would be returning home.

  Later that morning, when Clair approached her with that same shy look that Luveday had not seen for days, the lady was concerned.

  Luveday sat down her meal giving the girl her full attention and waited. Clair sat down, fiddling with the edge of her apron and glanced at Luveday every so often, but it took a while for her to speak. “Lady, I’ve been told to ask a favor of you, but I… I don’t want to lose your good opinion of me.”

  She couldn’t help smiling at Clair. Perhaps the situation wasn’t as dire as her apprentice’s expression suggested. “You can ask me anything, Clair.”

  The slight smile that flashed across Clair’s features was slightly pained, and a little embarrassed, but there. “My mistress, she… some of the other women they…”

  Margaret stood not ten feet off and easily eavesdropped on the conversation. The woman harrumphed at how hard the girl was making this and finally blurted out her impatience. “Get on with it girl. Ask her straight. The worse she could say is no, and we’d be in the same shape we’re in now, ya keen?” The cook went back to stirring the pot over the fire with vigor.

  “Lady, the camp women like myself, some of us have run out of the herbs that keep us from bearing children, and some of the women have taken ill from the cold. My mistress asks for your help; I ask for your help.”

  Clair seemed especially young at that moment, her eyes had a shine to them that spoke of unshed tears. Luveday’s heart went out to her. “Of course, I shall help.” Luveday mentally checked her supplies. She has enough of the root the women used as a contraceptive for a batch or two. She didn’t know who had included it among her supplies, but she was now grateful. “I have the lover’s root but not enough for very many women, we can start the potion today. As for those who are ill, take some of the willow bark, the syrups, and see how they fair. I will write to Lady Emmalyn and ask for her help with supplies.”

  “Oh, thank you, Lady.” Luveday was hugged fiercely and then left alone to finish her meal. Margaret took her bowl and gave her a second helping, only nodding to her as the cook returned the bowl. It seems she had gained the woman’s respect, she only hoped that Iain would see the deed in such a light.

  The lover’s root potion took a bit of the morning, but Clair was eager to dispense it throughout her camp sisters. Though the fighting could be heard in the distance, Luveday’s work was lighter than it had been to date. Some supplies had arrived with a group of men. Luveday penned a missive to Lady Emmalyn asking for a number of herbs by name and any linens or blankets that could be spared. She told Emmalyn of the camp women, and how helpful young Clair was. She tried to keep her letter concise and not let any of the loneliness she was feeling slip in. Once penned, she had nothing serious to occupy her time, until a page came rushing into the area before their tent.

  “You are needed, lady!” The boy looked to be about sixteen as he leaned on his thighs trying to catch his breath. “Please hurry!” Luveday had a pack ready for the call and grabbed it without hesitation to follow the page. Thomas stayed with the tents, John Templeton had returned with an injury to his arm, and while it kept him from fighting, it didn’t keep him from accompanying her to the front of the camp.

  The first thing she noticed was the noise. It was hard to believe, but the tents had dampened the sound of battle, so that very little reached the healing tent, or perhaps it was that the battle was much closer than she had at first realized. They were on the higher ground with a valley of sorts between the two camps. It was not really a valley, just a soft downward slope that meandered some ways before meeting the next hill. The fringe of battle lay about a hundred yards off, with men struggling in combat. Centuries manned a line between her and the battle, a last line of defense. As she watched, more men came to stand at the mark, whether to watch or to defend she couldn’t say.

  Luveday’s attention returned to the page, who had also been arrested by the scene in front of them. John was in her peripheral vision, but she recognized the movement before her mind could completely register the fact that he had drawn his sword. Luveday turned back to face whatever was coming, but by that time she had realized her mistake. She should have moved to safety, not turned to see the threat bearing down on them. John moved to defend her, calling a warning, but the rider who had broken through the line kicked him in the shoulder sending him to the ground, where he stayed.

  The kn
ight’s armor didn’t shine in the cold winter light, and Luveday had only a heartbeat to think how strange that was before she was swept off her feet and thrown over the horn of his saddle. As the air left her lungs in a painful rush, she could hear her name on the wind. They rode hard for the far camp, but Luveday was able to look back, past her kidnapper’s thigh to see John gain his feet, and she felt a little rush of relief that he was safe, but it was short-lived.

  Luveday covered her head with her hands as best she could while the mount’s strides beat her against the saddle. It was the most uncomfortable position she had ever been in. The knight used the pack on her back to hold her in place as they rode straight through the battlefield. She wondered if Iain could see her if he’d be distracted by the sight of a woman thrown over the lap of an enemy knight, but only one question resounded in her head. What did they want with her?

  About twenty minutes later that question was answered for her. Luveday stood in the middle of a tent that was larger than those the King occupied. The ground was carpeted in soft wools, while gold and silver gleamed from open trunks in the light of a dozen wax candles. Sterling was putting on a show, though not for her benefit. No, it was for the men who sat in equally uncomfortable positions around the perimeter of the tent. His guests had been plucked off the battlefield, most that very day. These were Sterling’s prisoners, the King’s noble knights.

  “Ah, the little healer!” A deep voice crooned. The man who sat on the throne-like chair at the back of the tent was handsome in a dark and sinister kind of way. He wore full armor except for his helmet. Long black hair ran in straight rivers over his shoulders which accented his sculpted face that reminded her of some dark fey from a novel; his beauty spoke of vanity and cruelty. The color of his eyes was an ice blue so light and cold that they had barely any color at all. Luveday tried to find some resemblance between him and his cousin, Lord Albin but was hard pressed to find a familial connection. There was something about the aura that surrounded him that was similar to the slimy feeling his cousin had exuded, only with this sensation was also something powerful and deadly that made the pit of her stomach drop. “Welcome!” He gestured to her, and Luveday realized he expected her to bow or beg or plead for her freedom, but the thought of doing any of those things left an acidic taste in the back of her mouth.

  She nodded and kept her lips tightly shut as she gritted her teeth. She looked at the men around her and noticed quite a few from that morning. It was with no small amount of horror that she saw James Frasier seated among Sterling’s prizes, but she tried to school her expression. Luckily, only a frown marred her countenance.

  Ladislaus Sterling seemed to find this extremely amusing. “You must be wondering why I asked my men to bring you here.” He swept a hand in front of him, bringing attention to the mass of wealth before him as if she might have missed it. The atmosphere was thick with tension, but his theatrical attitude made her want to laugh in his face. She knew that would be terribly unwise and stomped down the sensation as he began to explain his motives to the room at large. “We have heard of your healing skills or the miracles you have worked for Edward.” Luveday thought to protest but then thought better of it. “You see, I have no one with such skill in my camp, and while I may doubt that a woman can out-wit a man in any capacity, the whispers about you have intrigued me.” He leaned forward as if trying to see something more than was visible with the naked eye. Luveday imagined her mind was protected by battlements and she had just slammed shut her gates and lowered the portcullis. Archers were at the ready, and she was girdled for war. She stared back at him, unblinking.

  Once again, that sickly sweet smile crossed his lips. Luveday refused to flinch.

  “Time to test your skills, Lady Luveday.” Luveday fought the urge to swallow, the fact that he knew her name sent a chill down her spine. It was as if the devil himself had just called her by name. “Let us see how well you can do. I don’t yet trust you to see to my own men, but with time you might be able to earn your freedom if that is what you wish.” Luveday couldn’t believe he’d think she would ever have a desire to stay. “My guests,” the word seemed to roll off his tongue, protracted in a way that reminded her of a serpent, “have been reluctant to receive care from my own healer, though I suppose they cannot be blamed for that. You will see to them.” He got up, moved to the back of the tent, Luveday noticed another opening there. “Do not try to escape, or plot anything against me, my dear lady. You will not be spared my wrath though you are of noble birth.” He looked at her in such a way that a stone settled in the pit of her stomach. “Prove yourself and prove me wrong, but if my efforts have been wasted, you and my guests will pay the price.”

  He swept from the tent followed by the two guards that flanked him. Obviously, he didn’t consider her a threat as he left her alone with his captives.

  Luveday let loose a sigh and felt as if her knees would suddenly give way. She took the pack from her back and began looking at the men around her. Four men sat on her right and four men on her left. From what she could tell they were all important noblemen, perhaps the most important men on the battlefield save De Lane and the King himself. Luveday realized that Sterling had collected these men on purpose, effectively cutting down the King’s army at the knee. Only a few men of rank would be left to lead the armed forces. Luckily, De Lane was yet free, for Luveday feared that without him this battle would be over.

  “What happened, Lady?” Frasier’s gruff demeanor was hardened by pain. It was clear he was injured in some way, but with his armor still in place, Luveday wondered how she was going to be of any help for him or his brothers-in-arms.

  “A page came, and we moved to the front of the camp. The fighting is nearly on our doorstep. I admit I froze at the sight. A knight on horseback broke through the line before the camp and came straight at me. I didn’t have time to flee.”

  “Were you not protected, lass?” He looked concerned though still in pain, and Luveday smiled faintly at him.

  “Aye, I was. Sir Templeton was with me, though he’d received a nasty shoulder wound this morning. He drew his sword, but the rider knocked him off his feet and threw me across his saddle to ride straight here.”

  A voice across the tent grumbled. “That’s no way to treat a lady.”

  “I don’t think they much care about that.” Luveday countered.

  “Nay, Sterling is a rough bastard.” Frasier looked suddenly at her as she checked a wound in his side. “Excuse the language, Lady Luveday.”

  “You are forgiven, Lord Frasier.” She smiled and then grimaced at the wound. It did not look too good, and without removing his armor, she didn’t see a way to close the wound, let alone a way to clean it properly. It was only as she examined Frasier for other injuries that she noticed each man sat with his hands bound behind him. Some wore manacles, others were bound with rope, but either way, she didn’t have the means to free them, and some looked as if they wouldn’t get very far if the chance to escape presented itself. “I am not sure about this wound, Frasier.”

  “James, lass, call me James.” He grunted.

  She pulled some items from her pack. “How do the rest of you fair?” She asked the room. “I’ll see to the worse injuries first, and then the others.” No one spoke though several grunted. She shook her head at them. “Pride will do you little good when your wounds sour.” There was more noise from the far side of the tent.

  A man she could not identify spoke up, “His Grace, Duke Orland took a mighty blow to the head.”

  “I wouldn’t call it mighty, Henry. Backhanded, cowardly, conniving, perhaps, but not mighty.” The man in question was railed.

  There was a bit of laughter, as Lord Henry smirked. “I am corrected, your grace.”

  Luveday removed the bit of cloth that covered Frasier’s wound. She was used to this gallows humor that seemed to infect the men at times. Disgruntled, she mumbled under her breath.

  “Is it so bad, lass,” Frasier asked quietly. She
had not realized how much her attitude was affecting him.

  “Nay, James.” She sat back and looked at him. “‘Tis just that I am not as prepared as I would like. I’d ask these men for hot water, but I’d not trust them enough to use it.”

  The Duke laughed a little pained. “Smart lass.”

  Looking around at the wary expression of her fellow captives, Luveday found more similarities among the group than differences. All had darker hair ranging in color from deep auburn to black. Their grim expressions mirrored each other, each had a suspicious gleam in their eyes that Luveday belatedly realized was banked fury. “De Lane speaks highly of you, Lady.” Henry’s words turned their attention back to her.

  “I have some skill, but the healing is not really in my hands.” She opened a skin of water she kept in the pack and proceeded to clean the wound as best she could.

  “To be able to admit that shows wisdom indeed.” Orland seemed a little impressed, as others nodded their agreement.

  She applied a foul concoction that both protected and sterilized the wound. James hissed in pain, as the syrupy potion burned as a mild antiseptic. She used a bit of clean cloth and more of the gooey liquid to hold the dressing in place.

  The Duke was next. She was surprised by how young he looked, though there were lines of fatigue around his mouth there were also laugh lines at the corner of his eyes. He gave her an appraising look as she moved to examine his head wound. It was on the left side of his head and near the back of his neck. Blood had dried as it ran down into his collar. The blow had folded back a layer of his scalp so that she could see the bone beneath. Even with his thick hair to cover most of it, the area around the wound was deep shades of purple and red.

  She cleaned the wound while asking him some questions. “Do you feel like you need to sleep, your grace?”

  He laughed. “No more so than usual. Why do you ask?”