Sharon Schulze

by To Tame a Warrior's Heart

  “But what if he wants proof, Ralph?”

  “Christ, Ned, can’t you do anything but complain? Keep it up and we’ll be splitting your share, as well,” he warned. He turned to the overburdened packhorse hitched to the stallion’s saddle and began removing bundles. “Anyone find the lady’s baggage?”

  “There’s some clothes in the big pack on the bottom, and that small wooden box is full of dry leaves and smelly potions.” Alf pulled the packs from the horse and opened them. “This be enough?”

  Ralph pawed through the garments, frowning as his rough hands snagged the finely woven silks. “Aye, take out a couple gowns—not the best ones, mind you—they’ll fetch a good price in Chester. No sense wasting it all on his lordship. He’ll have to take our word for it the wench is dead, or come see for himself. And he won’t.” He stuffed the remaining clothes back into the pack and laced it tight against the damp, then hoisted it onto the horse.

  He stretched, grimacing at the pain burning in his joints. “I’m getting too old for chasing through the wood in the cold and wet. Mayhap after today’s work we can retire. We could live like kings on the jewels from this sword alone.”

  Spying the wooden box on the ground, he picked it up and opened it. “Pah—what a stench!” he gasped. Worse than a midden in the summer sun. Why a noble lady would cart such as this around, he didn’t know. He dug through the contents, then dumped everything out and examined the inlaid lid. “’Tis a pretty piece—it might fetch something if we can get rid of the smell.”

  He tossed it to Ned. “Put it with the rest. Then you, John and Alf take the good horses and head for Chester. We don’t want his lordship to steal our hard-earned booty—and he would, the scum. ‘Sides, there’s no good way to explain how we come by it, short of the truth. I’d just as soon not hang. I’ve learned my lesson ’bout thieving,” he said, holding up his hands. “Don’t get caught at it.”

  The others laughed, but he could sense their fear. “Have a care,” he warned. “Them horses’re more than you’re used to. We don’t want to lose them. The rest of us’ll go get our pay, then meet you in Chester.”

  Ned snatched up the reins and stood scowling. “What’s to keep you from makin’ off with our money?”

  Ralph shoved him to the ground and kicked him in the ribs. “Don’t be a fool.” He nudged him again. “What you’re taking with you is likely worth a hundred times more than what that little prick is payin’ us.”

  Casting a last, longing look at the stallion, Ralph went instead to one of the poorer horses and mounted up. “We’ll see you in Chester,” he said, waiting until the three rode away before heading southeast for a confrontation with his bloody lordship.

  The last rays of the setting sun broke through the clouds as Nicholas and the mare topped the hill. He hoped the sudden burst of light was a sign their luck was about to change. God knew they needed fortune to smile upon them; he had much to do, and next to nothing with which to do it.

  A cairn stood before a stone-framed opening in the hill tall enough to admit a man. Moss-shrouded dirt, lightly studded with bushes, covered the crown of the hill, and a spring—the origin of the stream—spilled from the ground near the entrance. It looked like something from the land of fairy, the stone portal shimmering through the mist. Though not a fanciful man, Nicholas hoped they’d find some magic here, if such a thing existed.

  He dropped the wood he’d gathered near the cave, then tied the mare to a sturdy bush before turning to Catrin. When he drew the hood away from her face he spied the tear tracks on her cheek. His fingers crept out of their own volition to smooth the marks away. She’d made no sound—even in her current state, she’d too much pride to let him hear her cry.

  Pride he understood, being overburdened with it himself. How else had she found the strength to lash out at him? Any other woman would have remained in a swoon since the attack, or at the least complained of the pain. Though he wouldn’t have thought less of her had she reacted thus, he was grateful she had not

  Lady Catrin might be the most aggravating woman he’d ever encountered, but he could not deny the exhilaration he felt whenever they clashed.

  He refused to permit the bright glow of Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd to fade away.

  Dirk in hand, he clambered over the rock-strewn mouth of the cave and stooped to pass through the doorway. In the faint light he discovered a stone-lined chamber tall enough for him to stand upright, the remnants of a fire pit in the middle. The dirt floor felt smooth and even, as though it bore the imprint of countless feet.

  They’d be safe here while he fought the battle to save Lady Catrin’s life.

  Reassured, Nicholas hurried to move her inside. Hands numb with cold, he fumbled with the wet leather until the knot gave way and she slid from the mare and slumped against him. Even her slight weight sent a jolt of pain through his upper arm, reminding him that his own wound would need tending eventually.

  But he had more important work to do for the nonce.

  She moaned as he shifted her in his arms. He could almost believe she’d reached the end of her mettle—almost, but for the fact that he’d never dare underestimate her strength of will. And though ’twould be easier to treat her injuries if she remained in a swoon, he doubted he’d be so fortunate. More likely she’d awaken in a moment, ready to flay him with her tongue.

  She felt so small, so dainty as he carried her into the cave. He’d forgotten that she barely reached his shoulder, for the force of her personality made her appear taller, stronger than he knew her to be.

  Nicholas wrestled her cloak around to place beneath her and eased her onto her stomach, bringing her arm up to cushion her face. Straightening, he wiped sweat from his brow and went outside for the dog.

  Somehow Idris had managed to get off the horse. He leaned against the mare, legs aquiver, his massive head drooping almost to the ground. Nicholas rushed toward him in time to catch him as he fell.

  Cursing his two stubborn charges, Nicholas hefted the dog into his arms and lugged him inside. When he laid Idris down on the far side of the fire pit, the dog stared at his mistress and whined. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” Nicholas said, ruffling the animal’s coarse fur.

  He worked swiftly in the dying light to gather kindling and arrange it beneath the wood in the fire pit. Then, scarcely able to see, he tended the mare, murmuring praise all the while. She’d borne a heavy burden today—had likely saved their lives. He wished he could give her grain and a warm stable to reward her as she deserved. Instead he led her to the stream to drink, then rubbed her down with a handful of dry grass and left her to crop beneath the trees. They’d have need of her again, of that he had no doubt.

  He only hoped ’twas a living woman she’d carry back to civilization.

  Hands shaking with weariness, Nicholas paused just inside the cave and took a deep breath. In his present state, he feared he’d do naught but harm Catrin in his attempts to help her.

  But without his help, she would surely die.

  He groped his way to the fire pit and fumbled with the flint and steel until he managed to wheedle a spark from it. After several tries the tinder caught; he hovered over the tiny blaze, tending it carefully until the flames licked at the small mound of wood.

  Catrin mumbled something, the words indistinct. The flickering light glinted upon her sweat-dampened brow and highlighted the pain etched upon her face. He could delay no longer.

  Taking up a pitch-covered branch he’d found outside, he held it amidst the flames until the end glowed. Thrust into a crack in the stone wall, it cast a bright light throughout the entire cavern.

  How should he proceed?

  Calm spread through him as the fire began to warm the chamber. Hands steady, he gathered his meager supplies and sought to draw his wits together, as well. Two knives, flint and steel, cup, belt, a cracked wooden bowl he’d discovered in a corner…Were these enough to save Catrin’s life?

  Even a simple barber had better t
ools than this.

  Had Catrin worn a purse upon her belt? Though he had not noticed, what woman left her chamber without one, fairly bulging with God knew what?

  She moaned as he eased her onto her side and moved her nearer to the fire. Just as he’d suspected, a soft leather pouch hung from her leather girdle by a silver chain. Afraid to let his hopes rise too high, he unhooked the chain and loosened the drawstrings.

  He hesitated but a moment before he tipped the contents onto the floor. A surprising assortment of items spilled out. Most looked useless for his purposes, but a small wooden case, smoothly carved with fanciful designs, caught his attention. Lady Gillian carried her needles and pins in a similar box. A spindle of thread lay beside it.

  He fumbled to loosen the lid and sent the contents showering onto Catrin’s cloak in a shimmering cascade.

  She cursed, capturing his attention. He hadn’t realized she was awake. “Have a care,” she whispered. “Needles are costly, and easily lost.”

  “Aye, milady.” Squinting as his vision blurred, he bent to pick them up. “At the moment they’re more valuable to me than all the king’s riches.” He dropped the last pin into the box and replaced the lid. “Now I can care for your wounds.”

  Her eyes widened, a spark—of fear, perhaps—making them shine silver in the firelight. “You do know how to sew, don’t you?”

  Nicholas’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “I’ve seen it done before.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s time I learned.”

  Chapter Five

  “What do you intend to do?” Catrin asked. Panic lent her the strength to move so she could better see his face.

  “I must remove the arrows from your back, and soon,” he said as he pawed through the contents of her purse. “You’ve a fever, if it’s escaped your notice. And I doubt you could remove them yourself, at any rate.”

  A shudder racked her body, whether from fever or the thought of Nicholas Talbot wielding a knife upon her flesh, she could not say. She doubted he’d ever performed surgery on anything other than some hapless fowl at table.

  And her back was no sampler for him to display his prowess with a needle!

  But what choice did she have?

  Impossible as she found it, she had to entrust herself to a man; a man, moreover, more confusing to her than anyone she’d ever met. This could only be reparation from a vengeful God for every sin she’d ever committed—and possibly some she’d only contemplated.

  Sweat beaded upon her forehead, and a flood of heat poured through her veins. She could withstand this—she’d suffered worse before and survived.

  At least Talbot meant her no harm.

  “There’s a small pouch—the green one—it holds a mixture of herbs. ’Tis good for pain or fever.” She nodded when he picked it out of the pile on the cloak. “You must steep it in hot water.”

  He wavered as he rose to his feet, and his eyes closed for a moment as though his head pained him. “You should take some, as well,” she added.

  Talbot set both knives to heat in the fire, then took up the cup and a bowl and left the cave. Catrin stared at the flames leaping merrily before her and tried not to worry as she considered what Talbot must do. She had removed arrows from hardened warriors, some of whom had screamed worse than a woman in childbirth. And though she prided herself upon her control, her strength of will, she had no idea whether she could withstand Talbot’s surgery without shaming herself before him.

  She feared such weakness more than the pain.

  Talbot knelt beside her, startling her. “What should I do?” he asked.

  “Add three pinches to the water, then stir it with the knife.”

  The water hissed as he plunged the blade into the cup, and a bitter scent filled the air. Talbot wrinkled his nose, but wrapped his fingers about the mug for a moment. Still grimacing, he held up her head and brought the draft to her lips.

  She swallowed the potion swiftly, grateful for even so foul a drink as this. ’Twould not take long before she began to feel the effects…

  She wrapped her fingers about his brawny wrist when he lowered her to the floor. “Best if you wait to take some,” she cautioned. “It might make you sleep.”

  “Will it make you sleep?” He set the cup aside and brushed her tangled hair away from her face. His fingers felt blessedly cool, hard yet gentle against her heated flesh, and his eyes glowed pale lavender against his tanned skin.

  Never had he turned so tender—so pitying—a look her way. She wasn’t sure she cared for the way it made her feel.

  “Perhaps,” she whispered. His pulse beat strong and sure beneath her fingertips, making her more aware of his nearness, his size. She opened her hand and released him. “It matters naught—just do what you must.”

  The light went out of his eyes at her tone and he turned away, leaving her bereft. She rested her head on her arm and watched Talbot’s preparations. Mayhap the potion had affected her after all, for a strange, calm sensation seemed to flow through her body.

  The firelight shimmered upon Talbot’s golden hair and threw the angles of his face into sharp relief. When had he become so appealing? She’d always known he was handsome—she wasn’t blind—but something about him had changed.

  Or perhaps she had changed. The potion blurred her mind, ’twas all. Never had she taken it when fevered… Mayhap it had addled her brain.

  “The needle will do no good if I cannot thread it,” he muttered in Welsh. “Finally,” he cried, his voice rich with satisfaction.

  “What did you say?” She frowned. Had he spoken to her in Welsh before?

  “I said…”

  “Nay.” Her lips curled carefully about the word, slow to respond. “Have you been speaking Welsh?”

  “I have.” He knelt beside her. “Does it matter?”

  “Didn’t know you could.” When he reached out to push her hair away from her face she leaned into his stroking hand like a cat.

  His gaze met hers. Amusement lit the depths of his eyes, their color darkened to indigo. “There’s much you don’t know about me.” He eased her over onto her stomach and helped her rest her face on her folded arms.

  Catrin fought the shadows taking hold of her mind, but the battle was nearly lost. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted. “Can’t think. This never happened to me…” Warm and relaxed, she sank further into the comforting darkness and thought no more.

  Nicholas sent up a prayer of thanks as he watched her slide into sleep. He’d feared she might lay there, awake and watchful, while he sliced away at her flesh—finding fault with everything he did, no doubt. As it was, he felt a fool. A knight—a former mercenary, by God—who had done his best to skewer the enemy at every turn, hesitant to use a knife to save another’s life.

  He had to work swiftly, for he’d no notion how long she might sleep. His fingers felt clumsy as he struggled to knot the thread. Vision gone blurry once more, he closed his eyes and willed himself to stillness. If his hands didn’t stop shaking, he’d do her more harm than good.

  Feeling somewhat better, he took up the cup and returned to the stream. It was full dark now. A crescent moon hovered over the horizon, playing amongst the clouds scudding across the sky. Somewhere in the forest an owl hooted, perfect accompaniment to the howl of the rising wind.

  ’Twas a night made for magic; he hoped ’twould help him in his labors. He knelt beside the spring and slaked his thirst, then scooped water over his aching head. The shocking cold helped clear his senses. Casting a last look around, he went back to the cave.

  Catrin slept on undisturbed while he built up the fire and prepared his meager supplies. Idris remained against the far wall where Nicholas had placed him, his gaze fixed with steadfast devotion upon his mistress. Nicholas shifted the torch to a better spot, then settled down at Catrin’s side.

  He could delay no longer.

  He eased off her cloak, slipping the fabric over the broken-off arrows before turning his attention to the laces on each side of h
er bliaut. Even after he loosened them, he couldn’t remove her gown, so he cut a neat slit down the back. ’Twas ruined anyway, but he tried to preserve it enough for decency’s sake. Her undertunic laced up the back, simple enough to roll down over her arms to her waist.

  When he loosened her chemise and pushed it aside, still another layer of fabric covered her from armpit to waist. Now he understood why her wounds had not bled freely; this garment—whatever it was—was wrapped so tight, it acted as a bandage.

  “Thank God you’re not awake,” he murmured as he reached beneath her in search of the fastenings. “Please stay that way.” A twist of his hand and he found the knot and loosened it

  Soft, yielding flesh sprang free as he tugged the stiff material apart.

  If she woke now, he was a dead man.

  His fingers brushed against an ample pair of breasts. He grinned. Never would he have imagined that such bounty lay beneath her modest gown.

  Enough! he censured his unruly mind. He was no green boy, to be set off by a bosom, no matter how impressive. Frowning, he turned his attention to working the binding over the arrow shafts.

  The garment had likely saved Catrin’s life, for the stiff fabric had kept the arrows from sinking too deep. And despite the rusty streaks of blood that marred the smooth ivory skin of her back, the wounds had bled little.

  One arrow tip lay half-buried in her flesh, its barbs still exposed—a simple matter to remove. The other two, unfortunately, were embedded to the shaft. He’d have to cut them free.

  Red streaks ran from the crusted wounds, and the flesh around the crudely molded arrowheads felt hot and swollen. Nicholas drew the cloak up over her and sat back upon his heels, cudgeling his scrambled brain for any knowledge he could use.

  There had been an incident in the Holy Land. Though he’d been little more than a lad, he had never forgotten it. A Saracen healer of great renown had traveled with them for a time, bartering his medical skills in return for their protection. Nicholas had watched, fascinated, as he removed a deeply embedded crossbow quarrel from a soldier’s back, a man who survived to die in an angry whore’s bed not six months later, he recalled wryly.