The Cast Of A Stone

by Avril Borthiry

  ~ The Cast Of A Stone ~

  A Novel

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2013 Avril Borthiry

  This book contains adult situations.

  Chapter One

  Norfolk, England, 1247AD

  “I've come for the child, Alicia.”

  The words, like Alexander's swallowed pride, tasted bitter.

  “I've come for her,” he repeated, needing assurance. Alicia did not give it, nor could she. Her grave was more recent than the others in the churchyard, but just as silent.

  Why, in God's holy name, had he acquiesced? Alexander knew nothing of raising children - a female child at that. Worse yet, this was a fragile bairn, unweaned and not thriving, anchored to the mortal world by a frail thread. He'd been told she'd likely not see autumn, and the summer solstice had already passed a fortnight since. It might not be long, then, till her wretched little soul succumbed.

  A blessing, perhaps, for all involved.

  His gut tightened with shame at the merciless thought.

  Christ.

  Bile, sour as vinegar, burned Alexander's throat as he followed the well-trodden path to the hospital. Twelve stone apostles looked down from their niches above the arched entrance, their saintly expressions unchanged from his previous visit two days before. At that time, he had merely peered into the crib, curious to see Alicia's 'miracle' child.

  He saw no miracle; only a sickly little girl in need of one.

  Oh, he wouldn't deny the sight of the hapless bairn had affected him. He was not, after all, without a heart. Yet he'd chosen to leave her and walk away, closing his ears to her pitiful cries. So, what had brought him back? He slowed his step as a fresh wave of doubt, unbidden and thick as tidal fog, crept into his troubled mind.

  Curse his conscience and damn his honour. It was foolish to think he could do this. His consent to Alicia's dying request had been a simple act of solace - words spoken to ease the pain of her final moments. Nothing more.

  Torn by fresh indecision, he paused beneath the archway, straddling the line between daylight and shadow. He looked back toward the main church and beyond to the graveyard, where Alicia lay. Then he turned and peered into the obscure recesses of the infirmary, his eyes seeking out the door to the child's humble cell. It stood slightly ajar, he noticed. He wrinkled his nose. Sickness had an odour. So, he mused, did hopelessness.

  Both could be found in abundance within these sacred walls.

  A chant escaped from the sanctified confines of the church. The harmonized voices of the monks carried heavenward, filling the air with their stunning clarity. Alexander sighed, and allowed baseless reasoning to stifle his inner voice. The bairn could do worse than to die in such a place, cradled by godliness and piety. If he left her there, at least she'd be close to her mother at the end, may God rest both their souls.

  “Forgive me, child,” he muttered, the pendulum in his mind swinging to dissent, “but you're not my responsibility.” He ignored a sharp stab of guilt and took a determined step back the way he came.

  One step only. The sudden and desperate cry of a baby girl stopped him from taking another. He closed his eyes and bit down. Hard.

  * * *

  Afternoon shadows danced on Alicia's grave, which lay beneath the outstretched branches of an ancient oak. Alexander took a deep breath, savouring the sound of wind in the leaves; a soft accompaniment to the continued chant of the monks. He focused inward, trying to unravel a tangled knot of emotions.

  At least all his doubts had disappeared and the bairn no longer cried. To Alexander's surprise, she had ceased her wailing the moment he lifted her from the crib. In that same moment, his commitment to her became as steadfast as the northern mountains. True, he had set out on an unknown road, but there would be no turning back. Not now.

  He was already lost, heart and soul, to the little bundle resting safely in his arms. Her dark eyes, not yet bestowed with God's chosen colour, stared up at him. She hiccupped and lifted one corner of her lips in the semblance of a smile. Captivated, Alexander stroked a knuckle across her cheek. Instinctively, her face turned toward his touch, her eager mouth seeking a source of sustenance. A hopeful sign, he thought, considering he'd been told the bairn showed little interest in feeding.

  “Nay, you'll find no milk in there, lass.” He chuckled. “Nor anywhere else on my person. I'll find you some though, don't fret.”

  She pouted, and thrust a tiny hand skyward as if reaching for him. He put his forefinger in her palm and her fingers closed around it. The grip was feeble, but determined. Alexander hoped it represented the child's hold on life.

  “A miracle child...”

  “Your daughter's a scrawny wee bairn, Alicia.” He drew back the swaddling and eyed the fragile little body with a frown. “Like a skinned rabbit.”

  A ray of sunlight tumbled into the child's face, making her flinch. Alexander turned to shade her, but not before a glint against the child's chest caught his eye.

  “What's this now?” he murmured, easing the fine gold chain from the folds of her blankets. He looked to see what it held. A crucifix, perhaps? Nay, not that. A ring. A small gold ring.

  Alicia's wedding band.

  He fingered it, trying to make sense of its significance, tears stinging the back of his eyes. He looked down at the freshly turned earth, his chest heavy with a sudden wave of anguish. A question formed on his tongue, one that had lingered in his mind since Alicia's death. He knew he would never know the answer, but he asked it anyway. He would likely be asking it forever.

  “Why, Alicia?”

  A loud caw came from the branches above him, a rude interruption that served to straighten Alexander's spine. He pocketed the ring and turned his attention back to the child.

  “So,” he said, tucking the swaddling around the child's body. “Where shall we make our home, little lass? I'm not of a mind to stay in Norfolk.”

  Another caw cut through the air, followed by a flutter of wings. Alexander lifted his gaze to watch a crow circling overhead, an austere black shape against the placid blue sky. The bird turned and soared upwards, higher and higher, before disappearing over the church roof.

  Heading north.

  Alexander nodded. “North it is, then. Does that meet with your approval, child?”

  “Her name is Emma...”

  “Emma,” he murmured, stroking the soft honey-coloured fuzz on her scalp. “And you shall call me Cùra. It means 'guardian', for that is what I am.”

  Chapter Two

  Cumberland, England. Sixteen years later.

  “Stay...right...there.” Emma drew the bowstring and took careful aim. The rabbit, bright-eyed, appeared to obey and settled into a vigilant crouch. A fine fat fellow he was; sitting in a patch of sunlight next to his bramble-bush home. He would make a fine stew for them that evening. His ears twitched as did his nose. “By all the saints,” he said, “I'm not yet ready to die.”

  Emma's shot went wide, the arrow plunging into the forest. The startled rabbit skittered back into his thorny fortress.

  “What in God's name...?” She froze, her heart all but leaping into her throat. Rabbits didn't speak. Who, then, had spoken? The hair on her neck lifted as she spun around, seeking the source of the voice.

  Sunlight pirouetted through the trees and danced on the forest floor, obscuring detail. Emma held her breath, closed her eyes and tilted her head to listen, seeking direction. Moments later, her lids flicked open and she looked to the right.

  There. A mutter. A groan. A cough, strained and weak. />
  Emma slid another arrow from the quiver and readied her bow. With a hunter's stealth, she edged forward, heart racing, nerves sharp. She pressed her spine against the trunk of a large oak and drew the bowstring again. Arrow primed and lungs locked with a fresh gulp of air, Emma peered around the tree into the clearing beyond.

  A young man sat propped up against a decaying log. With a quick sweep of her eyes, Emma assessed him. His clothing bore the indisputable mark of wealth and nobility as did the finely forged sword resting in his right hand. His chin rested on his chest, his eyes were closed, and damp tendrils of chestnut hair clung to the sides of his face and forehead.

  His left hand was splayed across a large and ominous stain on the front of his shirt. Blood, glistening in the sun, trickled between his fingers, carving a slick trail across his belly and thigh before seeping into the forest floor.

  Emma released a slow breath and glanced around the clearing. Whoever this man was, he appeared to be alone.

  And bleeding to death.

  She relaxed the bowstring and stepped out from behind the tree. At the sound of her footfall, the man lifted his head to fixed her with a dark-eyed stare. To her surprise, he offered her a weak smile.

  “I might have known it would be you,” he mumbled.

  Confused, she shook her head. “Me? Ah...you know me?”

  “Aye.” He managed a wobbly grin. “My mother told me stories about you when I was a child.”

  “Your mother...?” She frowned. The man was obviously delirious. “Throw your sword away from your side, sir, or I shall not approach.”

  He looked puzzled. “As you wish. Although I can't imagine why you would consider my blade a threat. 'Tis help I need, not the bleeding corpse of a forest faerie at my feet.”

  “I'm no forest faerie,” she said. “Your sword, if you please.”

  Pain twisted his features as he tossed the weapon aside. With another careful glance around the clearing, Emma approached and knelt by him, placing her bow within easy reach. She lifted his hand from the wound, snatching her fingers away when he tried to grasp them. Yet his expression held no malice; only curiosity and a good measure of relief.

  “You're real,” he mumbled. “Praise be.”

  “Aye, I'm real enough. Keep still.”

  He flinched as she peeled the fabric from the large gash across his ribs.

  “The wound isn't too deep,” she said, noting the unnatural pallor of his skin, “but you've lost much blood. Sit forward if you can. We must remove your shirt.”

  “By all the saints, 'tis a royal shame.” He leaned forward with a groan as she peeled his shirt from his arms. “Disrobed by a rare beauty and not enough blood left for an arousal.”

  Emma bit back a smile. “If I don't attend to your wound, you'll have no blood left at all.”

  She glanced around the clearing and leapt to her feet when her eyes found what they sought.

  “What are they?” he asked, eyeing the leaves in her hands as she knelt beside him.

  “They'll help staunch the bleeding.” She rubbed the leaves between her palms until they leaked a rich dark juice. “Forgive me if I cause you further pain.”

  “You're forgiven, little faerie,” he whispered, drawing a sharp breath as the leaves met the raw gash in his skin.

  Aware of his eyes upon her, she folded his shirt and tied it around his ribs, knotting the sleeves to hold it in place. She, in turn, inspected him, curious about the identity of this injured man she had found. The fine condition of his body, as well as several old scars on his skin, pointed to military training. Emma had little doubt she knelt beside a knight. A small flutter arose in her belly - an unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, sensation.

  “Who did this to you?” she asked. “Where's your horse? Your squire?”

  His eyes sought a spot somewhere off in the trees. “I have no squire. My horse's body lies yonder. He took a slash to his neck during an attack upon me, yet carried me a good distance more before he dropped.”

  Emma sat back on her heels, her mind disturbed by the image he'd painted. “Who attacked you? Outlaws?”

  “I think not, for they had swords.” A bead of sweat trickled over his temple. “Outlaws use bows and arrows, as do green-eyed forest faeries, it seems.”

  How pale he looked. Emma knew he was fading. “Well, if you believe in faeries, you must also believe in magic. And we'll likely need some to get you back to my house. 'Tis not far, but you're very weak. Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” He grimaced. “But I would prefer my sword at my side, now you know I've no intent to harm you.”

  “Even with intent, I doubt you've the strength to use it.” She passed it to him, grabbed her bow, and looped his arm around her shoulders. With a groan, he struggled to his feet.

  “Take a moment to catch your breath,” she said, aware of his pain. “Lean on me.”

  How small she felt beside him. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders.

  “What is your name, sweet faerie?” he whispered through pale lips.

  “Emma,” she replied. “And yours?”

  “Stephen.” His weak voice scarcely carried to her ear. “Stephen de Montfort.”

  Other questions hovered on Emma's tongue, but she held them back. Speaking required the use of energy and she knew the man had precious little to spare. The questions would have to wait, assuming he lived through this. Emma pushed the alternative from her mind.

  They set out, Emma's fingers clasping the large hand draped over her shoulder. She wondered who had attacked him and for what reason. Were they still searching for him? Perhaps he was a wanted man, a fugitive who had committed some despicable crime.

  Yet she doubted it. Something about the mysterious stranger engendered a trust within her. His eyes were honest and his voice carried only an undercurrent of pain, not deceit.

  After a while they reached a stream, one of several that ran away from the nearby river. The small beck bounced along its gravel path, bubbling with silver and gold lights. A good stride could easily carry a healthy man – or woman – from one boggy bank to the other.

  “Wet feet.” She raised her brows and looked up at him. “Unless you can stride over.”

  “Thought you might unfold your wings and fly me across,” he murmured, his breath brushing her hair.

  “Wet feet it is, then. Careful. The stones are slippery.”

  “Is it... much...farther?”

  The obvious effort to speak and the tremble in his body spoke of the man's increasing weakness. Emma's legs trembled also, and her shoulders burned with the effort of supporting him.

  “Nay, just over the next wee rise.” Under the circumstances, it might as well have been a mile. “Do you wish to stop for a moment?”

  “I'll stop when you do.”

  “A bit farther yet, then. I'm stronger than I look.”

  She felt his chest shudder as he took in a breath. “Aye, little one.” He squeezed her hand again. “That you are. I owe you my life.”

  Tears came to Emma's eyes, for she knew the man might not yet live. Her resolve to carry him remained as hard as granite, but her physical strength gave out within sight of her house. She cursed as her legs buckled, and her charge dropped to his knees with a soft groan.

  “Have no fear,” she said. “I'll fetch help.”

  He grabbed her wrist. “Who?”

  “My guardian.” She resisted the urge to struggle against the bloodied hand holding her in place. “Alexander is a good man. He'll help you. Please let me go, Stephen de Montfort.”

  Bright with fever, his eyes burned into hers. “Swear you'll return, little faerie.” His fingers released their grip, leaving his blood upon her skin. “Swear it.”

  Emma shouldered her bow and paused in the doorway of the barn, squinting into the dark interior, breathless lungs sucking greedily at the air. A man sat just inside on a low stool, his head bent over a harness, his large hands surprisingly nimble as they cleaned the soft br
own leather. Thick dark hair curled with abandon around his face as he focused on his task. When Emma's shadow fell across his lap, he lifted his head and studied her through slate-grey eyes.

  “What's wrong, a ghràidh?” He frowned. “Why are you out of breath?”

  “I need you, Cùra. 'Tis a matter of urgency.” Emma gestured to the sword leaning against the wall. “Bring Darius.”

  “Urgency?” Alex dropped the harness and shot to his feet, snatching at her bloodstained wrist. “What's this? Are you hurt?”

  “Nay, 'tis not my blood. I'll explain on the way, but we must hurry.”

  Alex knelt by the unconscious body of the knight and rested his fingertips on the man's neck.

  “The pulse is steady.” He moved his hand to Stephen's forehead. “But he's beset by fever. Here, take his sword.”

  Emma took the weapon while Alex heaved the man's limp form across his shoulders.

  “What you did was foolish, Emma.” Alex's anger hardened his voice. “You should never have approached him.”

  “But I had my bow and I made him throw his sword aside.”

  “Even so, you should have fetched me. The man is a stranger, for God's sake. He might have hurt you. I thought I did teach you better.”

  “But he's a knight,” she argued, “and badly wounded. He would not have hurt me.”

  “How do you know he's a knight? Is there a mark on him proclaiming knighthood? Besides, having title does not prevent a man from committing acts of evil. Nor is it wise to approach a wounded animal unprepared, be it man or beast. It was careless of you.” Alex paused in front of the house, his breath harsh from exertion. “Open the door for me, child.”

  His words stung, and Emma pushed the door open with not a little resentment.

  “I'm very sorry, Cùra.” She gave an indignant sniff as Alex lowered Stephen's body onto the bed. “I believed I was doing the right thing.”

  Alex turned to her, his expression softening.