“How did you learn to read?” he growled.
“My father taught me.”
He smirked. “Swords and books, eh?” He sniffed and nodded again at the tome. “What does it say?”
She realized with astonishment that Sir Guy couldn’t read. And she could. The idea sent a heady wave of pride surging through her.
Well, she was bored, after all, and the great hall boasted the brightest fire by which to see. She supposed reading to the enemy was no great crime. She pulled a chair up next to his, wincing at its loud rasp across the stones. Settling onto the seat, she opened the book and pointed to the words as she began reciting them.
The Englishman listened with great fascination, and soon her awkwardness dissolved away. Indeed, in spite of his coarse appearance, Guy was like a little boy enraptured with a new toy. So engrossed did they become with the reading that the harsh scrape of the outer door made them both jump in surprise.
An icy wind blew in angrily through the portal, causing the fire to dance wildly. Cambria shot to her feet. There was a confusion of movement and shouting as several rain-soaked de Ware knights stumbled into the great hall.
One of the men-at-arms called out to whoever was at hand. “Heat water and bring linen!”
Then the wind slammed the door, blocking out the melancholy wailing of the storm.
Two knights struggled toward the fire, carrying something heavy on a big blanket hung between a pair of lances. Cambria gasped as she recognized the silent, pale form stretched out on the makeshift litter.
It was Holden, and there was blood everywhere.
CHAPTER 6
Sir Guy turned on her with a furious glare, as if she were to blame for whatever had transpired.
One servant fetched a bucket of water, another brought cloth for bandages, a third roused the physician from his bed. Only after the litter was carefully lowered to the floor did Cambria notice the three men kneeling in cruel chains on the stones beyond the litter, held there by two of Holden’s knights. They were bloody and ragged, and it took Cambria a moment to realize who they were.
Robbie’s fiery red hair was dulled beneath a crust of filth, but his temper blazed as hot as ever in his angry blue eyes. Beside Robbie was his younger brother, Graham, fourteen summers old, looking suddenly much older in his pain and fear. The third was her older cousin Jamie. It was the first time she’d ever seen him without a smile on his face.
At Guy’s harsh command, the two knights dragged the prisoners to their feet and hauled them off to the dungeon. If her clansmen noticed her at all, they showed no sign of it, or perhaps terror blinded them.
Sick in her heart, she retreated from the horrible scene and stole up the stairs. Once returned to the haven of Lord Holden’s chamber, she wore a path through the rushes with her pacing.
Lord, what was she to do? Holden’s men were so ferociously protective of him. If the Blackhaugh deserters were responsible for the lord’s wounds, she feared they wouldn’t live long. Somehow, she had to help them. Aye, they’d deserted Blackhaugh and joined up with Scots rebels, but they were still Gavins. As her clansmen, she owed them her protection.
Her eyes flickered over the things in the room, his things—the tapestry of a boar hunt on the wall, ink and parchment on the table, a whalebone comb, a pair of deerskin boots—and a desperate plan formed in her mind.
She had sworn not to attempt escape while Lord Holden was away, and a vow made in the name of her clan was sacred. But he wasn’t away now, was he? So her oath no longer applied. Or so she told herself, though the thought of coming so close to breaking her word left a bitter taste at the back of her throat.
In a matter of moments, the men would bring the lord to his chamber. She used the time to hide, secreting herself behind the long tapestry.
When the knights finally carried in de Ware’s unconscious form, so concerned were they with the condition of their lord, they never noticed her. She seemed to be completely forgotten in the uproar.
She heard Holden’s muffled groan as the men eased his body onto the pallet. Strangely, it caused her heart to catch. She scarcely breathed as they unfastened and removed his mail. From the hushed conversation between de Ware’s men and the physician, she learned that they’d been waylaid by a half dozen rebels who had somehow been alerted to their whereabouts. There was talk of a spy. The lord had been wounded by a sword slipped beneath his ribs. One of the three Scots prisoners they’d managed to capture had done the deed. The blade had cut cleanly, and the flow of blood had been stanched, but he’d lost a lot of it, and the travel through the fierce storm had left him weak.
A servant kindled a fire in the fireplace, and everyone but the physician cleared the room to allow the wounded man rest. While the physician rummaged through his chest of cures, Cambria peeped out at Lord Holden.
His hair stuck in damp curls to his forehead, which was wan and troubled. His nose trembled with each shallow breath. The coppery smell of blood was heavy in the room as the physician bent to inspect the wound. Something deep within her was stirred with pity to see such a fit warrior injured, but of necessity, she choked the emotion down like gamey meat. His misfortune was, after all, her good luck.
She waited patiently while the surgeon practiced his arts on the lord, wincing as he stitched up the ugly wound, shutting her ears to Holden’s weak groans, sighing out a breath of relief when, near midnight, the physician finally settled down on his own makeshift pallet and began to snore at the foot of the bed.
Long before the fingers of dawn stretched over the horizon, Cambria stole from her hiding place. She quickly plaited her loose curls by the dim firelight. Then, casting a cursory glance at the still sleeping lord, she made a hushed exit from his chamber and crept like a mouse through the castle.
As quiet as shadow, she hovered outside the room Gwen shared with several other maidservants. The time seemed to plod by in plowman’s shoes as she awaited the hour of the maid’s tryst with her lover, the gaoler.
Finally, Gwen emerged from the room. Cambria followed at a distance, staying close to the shadowy walls of the descending passageways, until she heard the maid address a young man around the corner. They murmured together, and then Cambria heard the voices recede.
Cautiously, she advanced until she came to the spot where the lovers had met. To her delight, the gaoler’s keys still hung from a peg on the wall. She captured them, silencing their jangle in the folds of her kirtle, and peered into the barred peephole of the nearest cell.
The walls were dank and odorous. It was gloomy within, but she could make out three forms huddled in the far corner of the room. When she whistled quietly, the three came instantly to their feet.
“Cambria? What are you doing he—“
“Shh. De Ware’s men are everywhere.”
As luck would have it, the last of seven keys was the one that fit. Its grating turn in the lock made all four of them freeze in dread, but Gwen was apparently keeping the guard busy. After that, their passage was smooth. They made their way through the halls unseen while most of the castle denizens slept.
Cambria reentered the lord’s chamber alone first to be sure that Holden was still asleep. She woke the physician, sending the groggy man away with a false tale of poisoning from supper. When he’d gone, she motioned her men to come forward.
Once they were alone in the chamber, Robbie muttered a cursed and pulled the dagger from Holden’s discarded belt. Stepping toward the lord, he raised the knife to finish him.
Cambria gasped and caught his wrist, shaking her head firmly. “Nay!” she hissed.
Robbie tried to pull away, his eyes narrowly questioning her, but she gripped him insistently.
“Don’t you see? He’s our escape!” she whispered. “We won’t make it past the curtain wall without a hostage.” Bloody hell! Robbie, the boy who had taught her how to gentle a falcon, had nearly killed a man in cold blood.
She took a steadying breath and straightened her shoulders. “We’
ll take him to Blackhaugh. We’ll reclaim what is ours.”
Robbie’s eyes were hooded. “Blackhaugh is no longer…ours,” he said meaningfully, glancing at the other two rebels.
“My father is dead. Blackhaugh is mine,” she said solemnly, “and you’ll always be Gavins.”
Robbie stared at her, digesting her words, words they both knew her father would never have uttered in his life, then nodded in agreement. The four armed themselves with the weapons in the room and fell silent as they prepared mentally for what they were about to do.
As soon as they began to pull Holden from the pallet, all hell broke loose.
He moaned in agony, and the sound almost gave Cambria a change of heart. From beyond the door, she heard several pairs of footsteps race up the stairs. When the door flew open under Sir Guy’s hand, banging against the wall with its force, Robbie, thinking quickly, pressed a dagger to the throat of Lord Holden, who sagged in the arms of the other two Scots.
“We hold your lord!” Cambria shouted to the half-dressed men at the door, surprised at the strength of her voice under the circumstances. “If you’d see him live out the day, then heed my words.”
Sir Guy’s trembling rage made a veritable current in the room. For a moment, it seemed to her that the slender piece of steel held against Holden’s neck was too weak a defense against that anger. But Guy made no move toward them.
“We wish only to return to Blackhaugh,” she continued. “Your lord will be safe with us as long as we’re allowed to travel freely. But if any man attempts to follow us, de Ware’s life is forfeit.”
She could tell it cost Sir Guy extreme restraint to allow them to pass. Pure hatred burned in his black eyes as, one by one, the castle folk backed away from the abductors.
The procession downstairs was difficult and slow. Holden moaned in pain with each step, though his eyes never opened. Fresh blood began to seep from his wound. When they reached the great hall, a few of the young maids sobbed in grief for their beloved lord and fled the room. The physician fled, returning with an armload of linen rags.
“You must change the bandages,” he imparted with grave concern. “Keep the wound clean. There is danger of fever now.”
She nodded, and then spoke to Sir Guy. “Ready three horses for us with provisions and a litter.” As Guy passed the command on to his squire, she added with malicious satisfaction, “And fetch me my father’s sword.”
Owen purpled and stammered an objection, but Sir Guy nudged the knight into grudging compliance.
Several tense minutes later, beneath clouds that smothered the distant promise of approaching dawn, Cambria and her small entourage mounted up. With Lord Holden set at knifepoint before Robbie in the saddle, they made their escape unhindered. As they rode away, she felt a wave of remorse for betraying Holden’s trust. She hadn’t truly broken her vow, or so she tried to convince herself, but guilt still pressed heavily upon her.
Behind them, Sir Guy had put a new steward in charge and was already organizing a party to follow the fugitives at a discreet distance. The wench must be mad, he thought, to assume they’d let her escape with their lord.
Only after hours of hard riding through rough-rocked countryside and forests so dense no light passed through did Cambria feel safe enough to rest the mounts and attend to the hostage. They stopped by a narrow stream to let the horses drink and feast on young grass. Cambria helped Robbie ease Holden from the saddle and onto the litter.
Holden was, if possible, more pale than before. The bandages were soaked with blood. His eyes were sunken and circled with dark rings, and his head lolled backwards. Cambria bit her lip. She couldn’t lose him now.
“We have no further need of him,” Robbie said with a snort, his blue eyes cool in his ruddy face. “They won’t follow us.”
“Nay!” she protested, startled as much by her own vehemence as by Robbie’s new callousness. She blinked up at him. Life among the rebels had altered the boy, changed him from the gentle youth she’d admired to the hardened, cynical man she now saw before her. She realized with a painful jolt that he’d lost his innocence and, with it, all sense of humanity.
“We need him to gain access to Blackhaugh,” she explained, her voice weary with disillusionment. “His brother holds the castle, and we don’t know how many English are there now.”
“He probably won’t live to make the journey,” Robbie argued.
Dread washed over her. What if the journey did kill him?
“I’ll keep him alive,” she said, her words half-promise, half-prayer.
She fetched the linen rags and dampened one in a spring that trickled from the mossy bank. Gently, she sponged Holden’s beaded brow and knelt to change his bandage. Some of the blood had dried, sticking the linen to his ribs, so she had to gingerly loosen the edges of the cloth. Holden must have thought she was practicing some form of unspeakable torture, groaning each time she touched him, but he was thankfully too helpless to defend himself against her necessary ministrations.
As she carefully wrapped new cloth around his ribs, she couldn’t help but regard his scarred chest as it rose and fell, the skin flushed with heat. His was a warrior’s body, taut and broad, thick with muscle. Dark, curling hairs made a subtle path down his oak-firm stomach. His pulse swelled the hollow of his throat in a steady rhythm that her own heart was wont to mimic.
Quickly, she averted her eyes. Being so close to him was having a strange effect on her, almost as if his fever were contagious. The sensation was at once disconcerting and compelling. Hastily, she covered him with a blanket and then busied herself with rinsing out the foul bandages and setting them on rocks to dry.
Night seemed to fall at full-tilt, and Cambria decided they should remain where they were rather than risk traveling in the dark. She agreed it would be necessary to secure Holden so he couldn’t escape, although secretly she thought it was unnecessary and cruel. Jamie hobbled Holden’s ankles where he lay on the litter and tied his wrists around a young tree.
She took the first watch of evening, sure that every rustle in the bushes was either Sir Guy or a hungry wolf, and she wasn’t certain which she would have preferred to meet. Even afterward, when Robbie took over, she didn’t sleep well. Her prisoner, too, seemed to toss and trash all night at unseen ghosts.
She woke early in the morning, rubbing weary eyes. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she surveyed the small camp. Her eyes alit instantly on Lord Holden. What she found made her wince in shame and anger.
The poor wretch had kicked the blankets from his body, and there was a wet stain on his hose.
Pushing the hair back from her face, she stood and approached him. His forehead was etched with lines of pain, his cheeks two spots of color in an otherwise wan face. She reached out to touch his stubbled jaw, and then pulled her hand back suddenly from the heat. His skin was dry and his lips parched.
Young Graham caught her eye then, entering the clearing with an armful of kindling. He glanced first at her, then Lord Holden, and challenged her with a look that said he had no intention of seeing to the prisoner’s comforts.
Muttering a curse, she soaked a clean rag in the spring and brought it, dripping, to Holden’s lips. Eagerly as a nursing babe, he sucked at the wet linen, craving the meager moisture even in sleep. Again and again she dampened the cloth and let him gradually slake his thirst in that way. She untied his bonds and noted that his wrists were badly chafed from his fevered stirring in the night.
“Do you think that’s wise?” It was Robbie, returning with a brace of coneys he’d snared. Jamie followed at his heels.
“God’s blood!” she snapped. “The poor bastard cannot even rouse to relieve himself! Have you lost all sense of humanity, Robbie?”
Robbie’s eyes grew flat. “He’s the enemy, Cambria.”
“You wouldn’t leave a dog in its own piss,” she bit out.
Robbie only stared belligerently.
“Jamie,” she called, barely controlling her ire, “r
emove his hose and rinse them. The blanket will have to do for cover now.”
Jamie didn’t obey at once, but looked to Robbie for approval, which made Cambria livid. At his nod, Jamie gave her a disgusted grimace, but moved to do as he was bid.
She stalked off through the wood before she could lose her temper. Damn them! She was laird now. How dare they question her commands? This had the makings of treason. Her father had been right. She should never have welcomed them back to the clan. They would turn on her as quickly as they had Laird Angus.
Still, for now she needed them. She would just have to proceed carefully then, placate them until she could join with her allies at Blackhaugh.
When she came back to camp, her emotions in check, Holden was properly covered. She slipped the top of the blanket aside to inspect his wound. Again, she had to sponge the linen bandage loose. This time, beneath the bandage, there was an angry red swelling around the perimeter of the gash. Her heart sank. She recognized the sign of infection, but she had neither the time nor the skills to do anything about it now. Cautiously, she applied a new bandage and rinsed the old one, and, although she had strong feelings otherwise, proclaimed him fit to travel.
The sun had at last appeared through the thick clouds, looking like a grim yellow eye, when the party stopped again to rest. By her calculations, they’d arrive at Blackhaugh the following morning. The weather had been arguably kind of them, waiting in a strange misty limbo between rain and sun.
Their prisoner, however, hadn’t fared well. He was too debilitated to eat the food they’d brought with them. The most Cambria could get him to swallow were a few bites of bread soaked in wine. Then, when she inspected his injury, her earlier suspicions were confirmed. A foul smell came from the wound. Damn, she should have abducted the physician. What did she know about healing?
She’d have to do something. She couldn’t just let him die. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she gently pressed the edges of the cut. A yellow liquid seeped out, and Holden came alive like a scalded kitchen boy. He cried out and flailed his limbs violently, striking her more than once with a stray fist—on her cheek, on her ear, on her shoulder.
Knights of de Ware 02 - My Warrior Page 10
