Bound to the Warrior

by Barbara Phinney

  As the horse stepped forward, Adrien pulled out his sword and held it upright. His courser heard the familiar noise and immediately tensed.

  At the bend in the road, his battle-hewn senses came alive. Someone cunning enough to stay hidden was watching him. He and his mount were sure of it.

  The tracks his horse had made earlier were still visible, as were the tracks of another horse, one that ran. Like he’d told Ediva, it was a big one, and he knew it had to belong to Eudo, having loaned it to the courier. The prints continued around the bend, and so did Adrien, his sword at the ready. Had the young messenger taken this route, or been attacked, leaving the horse to gallop up here?

  Adrien stopped at the bend and studied the soft muck. Several footprints crossed over the other horse’s hoofprints. All led into the woods.

  Sensing its master’s excitement, his courser nickered softly. The stallion had battled with him at Hastings. Bred for their aggressiveness, coursers loved to fight. The horse sniffed the air. Aye, he smelled someone. And together, they’d find the cur.

  As they had this morning, the branches drooped heavily, and the air lay humid on his skin.

  Adrien listened, slowing the horse until it picked its way along the road. Nay, not a road anymore. ’Twas barely a path now.

  And it was closing in around him.

  He turned his horse around, slowly, all the while studying the woods. The feeling of being watched lingered like a bad smell. He wanted to dismount and investigate, but he’d lose the advantage if he did.

  His horse nickered again, softer, turning to Adrien’s right. In response he turned the horse to face that way.

  And tensed.

  * * *

  Ediva grimaced as she walked away from the stable. Adrien had been gone for far too long.

  “Which way did Lord Adrien go?” she asked Harry.

  “I saw him take the road into the forest like this morning, milady.”

  Concern deepened. Had he seen something up that new road? She’d seen it on the map, drawn in by Geoffrey as was his duty, but had thought nothing of it. The road led nowhere, Adrien had said. So why return?

  She pulled in her own nervous breath, remembering her attacker’s words. Her gaze strayed toward the chapel and an unfamiliar ache swelled within her. She swallowed. The chaplain had a small garden at the edge of the village and this time of day, he’d be busy there. The chapel would be empty.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, Ediva slipped inside. The thick, stone walls kept the chapel cool and she welcomed the relief. Rather than the family pew, she chose one of the simple benches at the back. There, she shut her eyes and did nothing, thought nothing.

  Before too long, a horse whinnied outside and she hurried to the door but found a mare was responsible. She sagged and returned to her seat.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Lord, please keep Adrien safe. I know I have done nothing to warrant Your ear, but please, he loves You. Protect him.

  But there was no answer, no wash of comfort. Just worry. She gripped the bench until her hands hurt. Lord, haven’t You made me suffer enough? What do You want?

  Forgiveness. The word spread over her like warm honey. Forgive who?

  She knew exactly who. But could she? What would be the point, since his body lay in the grave outside the bailey?

  Would it really ease her pain?

  The silence irked her, and she stood. No answer today.

  * * *

  A man leapt from the woods, his sword held high.

  Adrien’s mount reared in surprise. Automatically, Adrien leaned forward. He took a heavy swipe at his attacker. Their blades clashed, and Adrien saw immediately that his attacker’s weapon was a shorter Saxon sword with curved guards and shorter grip. But equally deadly.

  The man’s face was wrapped in plain, well-secured cloth, and Adrien growled at being unable to recognize him. His attacker lunged, sword swinging again, but Adrien shoved him with his foot. With leg pressure only, Adrien turned his horse. The stallion knew exactly how to battle, with or without the hindering armor it would normally wear.

  It pivoted and kicked the man, sending him flailing backward, but not before catching Adrien’s thigh with his sword. With more leg pressure, Adrien ordered the animal around again. When their assailant staggered upright, Adrien swiped hard with his weapon, catching the man at the shoulder. The man let out a painful cry before falling into the dense woods.

  Adrien held back his horse as it danced with the desire to chase. The thick overgrowth would not stop his battle-trained and aggressive stallion, but the animal had no barding to protect its length, and Adrien refused to risk injuring it.

  He allowed his mount to trot around the end of the trail, all the while searching the woods. The only sounds over their breathing were of the man scurrying through the underbrush.

  He turned his horse once more and felt a sharp pain in his thigh. Looking down, he discovered he’d been sliced open and the sudden shift of his leg exposed the wound further. His hose cut through, he could see blood streaming out. His mount sniffed the air. Smelling blood, the courser danced edgily.

  “Easy, boy.” Adrien examined his stinging leg. He, too, would like nothing better than to press into the wood and finish off his attacker, but at least the man would not be doing anything tonight except tending his wounds. It was likely that his horse’s hooves had cracked some ribs and, if not treated, they could become a death sentence for the man.

  Nay, enough for now. Though odd, Adrien thought. The taste of battle was no longer the sweetness it had been. He urged the horse back along the main road again toward Little Dunmow, giving it the lead and allowing it to gallop to burn off some pent-up energy.

  As he broke free of the forest, he saw a young boy, a tenant’s son, playing at the edge of the village and called to him to fetch his sergeant and Harry. Harry would see to the horse, though the beast may give the boy some trouble. The sergeant would take some soldiers and find his attacker, be the man dead or alive.

  Then Adrien would see to his wound.

  With the child bounding toward the bailey, Adrien walked the horse toward the midwife’s hut. She’d have poultices and bandages suitable for his wound, and once bound and stitched if necessary, ’twould be hidden from Ediva. If he could get by without too much limping and manage to change his hose before she noticed it, ’twould be all the easier.

  He didn’t want her worried. The battle they would surely face at Ely was worry enough. Unbidden, a smile grew on his face. She’d worry, and the idea that she cared warmed him.

  The midwife’s house was deserted. He called out to her but received no reply. Not willing to wait, he eased from the saddle with a grimace of pain. After tying the reins to the fence post, he knocked on the midwife’s short plank door.

  No one answered. Behind him, he heard pounding feet as Harry raced around the hut to skid to a stop. The horse took exception to the sudden movement and reared, snapping the wood that held his reins. Harry tried to catch the dangling leather but looked more like he believed the beast would trample him.

  Adrien limped over, grabbed the reins and held them tight, soothing the horse with calm words. But ’twould not last. His mount smelled blood and wanted battle.

  “Take him away, and keep a good grip on him, boy. I don’t want him bolting out.”

  “What happened, my lord?”

  “Never mind. Be gone.” His leg stinging, he thrust the reins at Harry and sent the boy on his way. To his credit, and having spent all summer with the big mount, Harry was able to lead the anxious beast away.

  His sergeant appeared then, letting out a gasp as he stared down at Adrien’s leg. “My lord! Let’s get you inside.” He pounded on the midwife’s door, but as with Adrien, received no answer.

  Not giving up, the young sergeant
charged inside, calling for the woman to come immediately. When she didn’t, he held the door open for Adrien, who eased in and onto a chair at a nearby table.

  “Get me a cloth to sop up the blood,” he told the sergeant. The man found one hanging by the fire pit and Adrien pressed it against his leg. It stung like vinegar in a cut.

  Where was that woman? He stood and limped to the tiny room beyond. The midwife was one of the fortunate few to have a hut with a bedchamber behind the hearth, likely because of her son’s position.

  Adrien drew back the hide curtain to peer in.

  The old woman lay on her pallet, her mouth open and her wide eyes directed heavenward.

  She was quite dead.

  * * *

  Ediva nearly collided with Adrien as he limped into the bailey. He’d refused to allow the sergeant to bring down a cart for him, not wanting word to reach his wife. Clearly the effort had been wasted. Harry’s wagging tongue was starting to grate on him.

  “I just heard! What happened?”

  “’Tis only a cut, Ediva. There is no need for a fuss.”

  She led him into the keep and into his private chamber, but hovered at the door. “You should come up to my solar. ’Tis far more comfortable.”

  “Not unless you’re willing to carry me there,” he grunted as he collapsed onto his pallet. He didn’t want her to fuss over him, but frankly, his leg throbbed. The cut was deep and whatever had been on that rag still stung.

  Ediva called out into the corridor and ordered boiled water, clean cloths and honey to seal the wound, along with herbs for the pain. Then, instead of waiting with wringing hands, she carefully removed the torn hose and covered him with a warm fur to ward off the chill that may follow.

  “Water is no good to clean wounds, Ediva,” Adrien gritted out.

  “Not usually, but this water is. It’s from the spring that feeds the river past the rock where we kis—we ate. The cook said ’twould be good for fevers like I had and has ordered it be brought up daily and boiled. Once sealed in a keg, it never goes stale.”

  He leaned back against the wall at the head of his bed and shut his eyes. Bad water had caused many a soldier’s wounds to fester. The choice for cleaning them was often wine or spirits. But at least he didn’t have to deal with their sting.

  Peeking at the wound, she paled. “We need the midwife. She’s healed many wounds.”

  Adrien caught her arm. “Nay.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because the midwife is dead.”

  She gasped. “Dead? When?”

  “’Twould seem sometime last night. We found her lying on her bed.”

  “We?”

  “I went straight there upon returning, so she could tend my wound. My sergeant found me there.”

  Ediva paled further. “After returning from the new road? Adrien, this wound looks like a sword cut—’tis so clean. Who attacked you?”

  “Whoever was watching me.”

  “So you confronted him? Look what he did to you!”

  Adrien leaned back and smiled grimly. “Aye, but you should see how injured he is.” He winced. “My courser is a good fighter. He kicked him and sent him flying into the woods. The man has broken ribs.”

  She shook her head. “Broken ribs make it hard to breathe. He’ll die.”

  “I’ve been in battle, woman. I know the usual outcome.”

  The supplies arrived, with the sergeant carrying many of them. The cook helped prepare the honey poultice and the herb tea, saying she’d picked the willow bark herself a fortnight ago. ’Twould do well to ease the pain.

  “Sergeant,” Adrien ordered, the strength in his voice softened by the pain. “Send some men into the wood, up the new road to the bend. Search the wood until you find the man who attacked me. I want him here.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The man disappeared, but not before ordering most of the staff who’d bustled in to leave the chamber.

  Adrien watched his wife wet the cloths. He hadn’t wanted her to know about the midwife so soon. “I’m sorry about the midwife, Ediva. I know ’tis hard for you to lose one of your tenants.”

  She didn’t look at him. “Aye, ’tis a shock. How do you think she died?”

  “We found her on her pallet, still in her night shift.” Seeing her pained expression, he caught her arm and squeezed it. The veil she’d donned after the ride smelled of lavender and sunshine, and he inhaled it deeply. “She died quietly. A good way to go for an old woman.”

  Ediva gave the barest shake of her head. She’d bit her lip, then swallowed before saying, “Mayhap she had the fever also.”

  “She looked neither flushed nor fevered.”

  Still, Ediva didn’t look at him. “Something terrible is happening, Adrien. You were attacked, she was—”

  “She was old, Ediva.” His voice was firmer than he expected. “I’d heard it said that she’d seen King Edmund rule and how long ago was that? She died of old age.”

  Ediva bit her lip and blinked. Did she think differently? But thankfully, she said nothing else. The sergeant returned as she began to cleanse the wound.

  “It needs to be sewn up, milady,” the sergeant said quietly. “I can do it. I’ve done it many times after battle.”

  She shot the man a worried expression. Her hand was shaking. “Will it be dangerous?”

  “Nay. ’Tis a simple wound, really.”

  She stole a quick glance at Adrien. He tightened his jaw and nodded, knowing what was needed. She swallowed again, and Adrien watched her go pale.

  * * *

  The room spun as she watched the gruesome task. Bile rose in her and she felt as light as air. Adrien tightened up, his grip so hard on his pallet that she was thankful he wasn’t holding her hand. She’d have broken fingers for sure.

  She stole another glance at him and found his pained expression drilling into her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Nay, I’m sorry, Ediva,” he gritted out.

  “You? Why?”

  “For making you look like you’re ready to faint.”

  She laughed, but it sounded wobbly to her ears. “I don’t understand this. I’ve seen babes born, cuts and broken bones, but this...”

  “’Tis done, milady,” the sergeant said quietly. “The honey poultice will keep the wound sealed. We’ll give him some more of the draught the cook prepared.”

  Ediva helped Adrien take the drink. Soon, it became obvious that the draught was helping with the pain. Adrien also accepted a small dose of spirits the sergeant urged him to take.

  Satisfied that there was nothing more they could do, the sergeant ordered the cook out, but he stayed at the door. Ediva pulled the chair close and sat, thankful she hadn’t retched. With eyes closed, Adrien spoke. “You’re upset with me, aren’t you?”

  “You went to the midwife because you didn’t want me to see the wound,” Ediva said quietly.

  He opened his eyes briefly. “Aye,” he slurred.

  She glanced over her shoulder to sergeant, then turned back to her husband. “Adrien, I need to tell you something. I know ’tis a bad time, but you should know this.”

  He didn’t answer. The draught and the spirits were taking their toll. All she could do was watch him fall asleep.

  With a concerned look to the sergeant, Ediva asked, “’Twas just a sleeping draught?”

  The man looked grim but satisfied. “Aye. He needs to rest to heal well.”

  “How do you think he got this wound?”

  “This one was caused by a sword. I’ve seen enough of these.”

  She shuddered. “The forests are deadly.”

  “Aye, milady. There are many Saxons who now live in the forests in defiance of the curfew laws. They prey on Normans.”


  She sat back and watched her husband, chilled as she realized how close he’d come to dying. “So you were with him when he went searching for the midwife?”

  “Nay. I found him at the midwife’s hut. When she didn’t answer her door, we went inside. She was on her pallet, dead.”

  Ediva swallowed, her attacker’s threats returning to her. “Did she really die in her sleep?”

  The sergeant hesitated.

  She frowned, waiting. In the quiet of the room, she could hear her own heart pounding. “Sergeant?”

  “Nay,” the man finally said quietly. “She did not die in her sleep.”

  “Then how?”

  “She was smothered, milady.”

  Her heart stalled. “Smothered?”

  He leaned forward, his dark eyes serious. “Whilst I was in Normandy, I was sent to escort some guests of Duke William’s from their chambers back to their estate. They’d fallen from the royal court’s favor. But the man and his wife had died in their bed. They looked like that midwife.”

  “How do you know they were smothered?”

  “The physician who attended the death pointed out the blue lips and noses and marks about the throats and cheeks. He said ’twas death by smothering and warned me to say nothing for my own safety. The midwife had the same bruising around her face and neck.”

  Ediva’s hand found her own throat. “That means...”

  “I detected no odor about her that suggested a poison. Losing one’s breath to an herb can happen, but ’twas not the case here. Her lips were blue and her throat was marked. What else could it be?”

  Ediva shuddered. “Tell Lord Adrien none of this, Sergeant. We need to allow him to heal without worry.”

  “Aye, milady.”

  Ediva spent the next day tending Adrien. She tried to keep him sleeping all of the first day, but when he declined the draught she’d prepared for his afternoon rest, she soon realized that trying to keep him abed was fruitless.

  She was successful in keeping him in his chamber by bringing him in food and berry juices. The cook said those fruits would help him heal faster. She’d picked the berries herself, then crushed and juiced them, adding only boiled water to help him swallow the tangy drink—the tangier, the better it was for healing. But by the late afternoon, whilst sitting with him, Ediva knew his time lying there was short.