Smoke stung his eyes and obscured his vision. Royce blinked and forced his eyes to stay open as he peered into the murky room. Pallets lay on the floor. He’d found their sleeping quarters. His vision blurred again. A coughing spasm gripped him, and his lungs filled with smoke. He gasped for air. The fire licked closer. Embers fell from above. He couldn’t see the child.
A fiery pain bit into Royce’s shoulder. Jerking his head out, he looked up to the roof and saw the flames had made it to the back of the hut and more embers showered down. To ease the pain, he rotated his arm around and glanced up again to make sure nothing else would fall. He ducked his head to lean into the hole again when someone called his name.
Jarren ran toward him, panting. “They found the boy.”
Royce stumbled to the front of the cottage, a fierce ache gripping his chest. A sobbing woman hugging a young boy, not far from the burning cottage, met his sights.
Royce used his sleeve to wipe the sweat and smoke from his eyes. “Where was he?”
“He walked up to her seconds ago,” Jarren replied. “Said someone sent him to get water. Apparently, his mother wasn’t aware he had gotten out safely.”
“I am glad he is well.” Royce forced out the words and bent over in a coughing fit.
“Rosen Craig, you are bleeding!” Jarren exclaimed.
“’Tis nothing.” He coughed again and his voice rasped. “An ember fell on me. Come, we have more work to do.”
Jarren grabbed Royce’s shoulder and pulled him upright. “Let me take a look at it. Your tunic is soaked in blood.”
“It can wait.” Royce rotated his arm again to show him. “There is no time to tend to a minor wound.
“Nay, that is a cut and not a small one.” He stepped back and tore open the tunic. His eyes widened. “It looks like a knife wound to me.”
Royce pulled away from Jarren’s ministrations. “Nay, I think not. I saw no one.”
Jarren eyed him questioningly.
Royce hefted a shovel and turned to go. “Enough. The village burns while we argue.”
“The fire and the shouting would disguise the noise of an assailant. He probably ran when I called for you,” Jarren muttered close behind him.
Royce continued back to the ladder he’d left. “These fires need be my only concern right now.”
“Aye, milord.”
Together they continued to put out fires. As Royce went up the ladder again and again, the rungs got slicker with blood each time he climbed. It appeared a more grievous wound than he’d first thought.
The bright flames blazed in front of him, but darkness threatened from all sides. He shook his head and grabbed the ladder as shapes shifted around him. The fire spread rapidly, giving no reprieve. His body moved in slow motion as he reached for the thatch. Tiny sparks flew upward toward the sky and then circled around him, gaining in volume and momentum. The house and ladder tilted. He leaned in the opposite direction to counter the weight. Sounds around him grew muffled, and he struggled to draw in air. Black, dense clouds engulfed him from every direction. The world began to spin, and he shook his head again, willing it to stop. He was floating—no—falling! He grabbed frantically, but his hands closed on emptiness.
†††
“Malcolm. Malcolm! Come. We must leave.” Brithwin yelled for the boy.
Over the creaking of weakening wood came the howl of a frightened man-child, much like the sound of a rabbit that her hawk had chosen as prey. She ran to the ladder and grasped the hot rungs. Thick, choking, yellow smoke billowed from the opening above her. The fire had reached the thatch. She drew a deep breath and climbed.
Strong arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her from the ladder.
“Go out, milady. I will get the boy.” One of Royce’s men gave her a shove toward the door.
Brithwin darted back, her eyes searching for a glimpse of Malcolm as the men scaled the ladder. The thatch above her head shuddered. An orange glow worked its way toward the loft area.
“Hurry, the fire is spreading!” she shrieked as pieces of wood fell in.
The man pushed the man-boy toward the ladder and jumped off the loft. Brithwin guided Malcom as he scampered down.
Grasping Brithwin’s and Malcom’s arms, Royce’s man pulled them from the house as the roof fell in. The three fell to the ground, coughing and struggling for air.
Brithwin crawled to where Guy still lay.
“Can you hear me, Guy?” she asked in a raspy voice.
“Aye, I hear ye, my guardian angel.”
She knelt and gave him a quick hug. “Where do you hurt, Guy?”
He grasped her arm with his hand. “My legs feel like they are afire. As useless as they are, I feel pain.”
Brithwin pulled back her gown to get the knife. “I need to cut the bottom of your stockings.”
The trousers had burned to his legs, and she dreaded the pain it would cause Guy when she pulled off the fabric. Knowing what she had to do, she set to her task.
His valiant attempt at silence soon dissolved into screams of pain.
Her stomach roiled from the agony she caused him. Perspiration dripped down her face, and she wiped it away with her hand. With much of his skin gone from his calves, what remained was raw, angry flesh.
Finished and leaning against the horse post Guy had put there for her years ago, she closed her eyes and swallowed down the nausea. Now she needed to mix the salve.
Brithwin turned to the man who stood quietly by. “What is your name?”
“Sir Daffydd, milady.”
“Thank you, Sir Daffydd.” Brithwin took out the jar of salve from her basket. “We can manage. Others need your help.”
“I don’t think milord would approve.”
Carefully she lifted the cloth cover from the jar of salve and stirred it with her finger. The heat had turned it nigh into liquid. “He will say naught.”
With feet planted apart, Daffydd cleared his throat. “I am sure he would have plenty to say should harm come to you, milady. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Brithwin lifted her head. The fire consumed the cottages, and the men worked frantically trying to save as much of the village as possible. She was selfish for feeling as she did, but she was grateful he stayed. Guy ailed and she couldn’t move him alone. Murielle swayed, exhausted from the little pulling she had done. Turning her head, Brithwin looked at Malcolm—a strong boy but he’d not be gentle in his helping.
“Keep him still while I get the salve ready,” Brithwin instructed Daffydd.
She turned to Murielle. “Is there any water left in the bucket?”
“Yes, milady,” Murielle answered and collapsed onto the ground.
Daffydd got to Murielle first. “She has swooned.”
Brithwin added more herbs to the salve while Daffydd watched over the old couple. Malcolm sat rocking back and forth hugging his knees. She took in the devastation. She needed to get the old couple to safety. Murielle was coming around now and didn’t appear to have anything wrong besides a few bumps and minor burns. Exhaustion, anxiety, and too much smoke had surely caused her to faint.
Brithwin turned to Daffydd. “Did you bring a horse, sir?”
“An old nag.” He growled. “The only one that was left in the stables. Someone took my destrier.”
“Ah, Fleetfoot.”
Daffydd snorted.
“You will have to ride my horse and carry Guy. Murielle can ride Fleetfoot. The boy and I will walk.”
They made their way to the horses with Guy in Daffydd’s arms. Guy moaned as Daffydd laid the old man over the horse’s back and climbed on. Brithwin helped Murielle up and started toward the woods.
“Milady? Hawkwood is this way.” Daffydd pointed toward Hawkwood.
“Aye. But I know of an abandoned crofter’s cottage, not far from here.”
“In the woods? ’Tis dark, milady. Do you think you can find it?” Skepticism laced Daffydd’s voice. “Perhaps the castle is a better place for
your friends.”
“If memory serves me, the cottage is closer. The moon is full, and the path is clear most of the way.”
After they had traveled for nigh onto twenty minutes, Brithwin began to doubt her choice. But to turn around now and go to the castle would only be harder on the old couple. And the castle walls would be full of her people needing a place to bed down.
They left the trail. The night sounds of owls and wild animals foraging for food replaced the yells of men and the crackling of the fire. The trees reached to the heavens, blocking out the moon’s light, and darkness surrounded them. Brithwin couldn’t stop the shiver overtaking her body, not from the cold but from the terror she fought to keep at bay. With not too much farther to go, she needed to keep her wits about her. She’d not remembered the cottage being so far from the village.
They slowed their pace, having lost the light of the moon. When her eyes adjusted to the dark, she scanned the woods for something familiar. Lord, guide my steps. The prayer barely whispered, she spotted the large tree that looked like a slingshot, a landmark which told them they headed in the right direction.
“Milady, are we close?” Daffydd asked.
“We should be there anytime now.”
“I believe Hawkwood would have been closer, faster, and easier to reach, milady.”
“Aye, I did not remember it being this far,” Brithwin confessed. It had been some time since she’d traveled out this way, but she should have remembered. It must have been the confusion and fear that addled her mind.
As she finished speaking, she caught sight of the hut. “Thank You, Jesus,” she whispered.
†††
Jarren rushed to Royce but couldn’t break his fall. Kneeling, he yelled for someone to find the village healer as he ran his hands over Royce’s body, probing for broken bones and feeling none. He scanned the area for a safe place to take his friend. The raging fires had spared the southern half of the village thus far. People dashed to and fro. Jarren eyed each one and remained by Royce’s side, awaiting the healer.
A scratchy voice drew his attention. “Would that be our new lord?”
“Aye. Are you the healer?” He looked into the wrinkled face of an old crone.
She nodded.
“He has lost much blood from a wound in his back and now has fallen from the ladder. I have felt no broken bones.”
“I be Mary. Let me look at him.” The old healer knelt and carefully felt his limbs with gnarled hands. “No broken bones. Can you carry him to my cottage?”
Jarren lifted Royce into his arms with a grunt. Staggering to get his balance, he then strode toward the southern end of the village, following the healer.
As they passed the hut where Royce had been stabbed, a woman in tattered clothes ran out to him. “Sir Knight, Sir Knight! Please wait.”
He slowed his pace but didn’t stop. “What do you need, woman?”
She craned her neck to see. “Is milord dead?”
He pushed her out of his way and quickened his pace. “Not yet.”
“Sir Knight. Wait. I found the knife that injured milord.”
“Where did you find it?” Jarren stopped and turned to look at the woman.
“Right where he be when the blackguard stabbed him.”
Jarren eyed her with suspicion. “And how would you know where he stood when he was stabbed?”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “I heard you talkin’ to him.”
“Where is the knife?”
“I gots it right here.” She pulled her hand out of the fold of her tunic and held the knife out for him to see.
“Place it in my belt, and I thank you on behalf of milord,” he said without looking at the knife.
“’Tis a fine knife, one that would likely bring enough food to feed me family for a year.” She began replacing the knife in the folds of her skirt instead of doing his bidding.
Jarren scowled. “That was not a request. Now, place the knife in my belt, and I will tell him you found it. He can decide whether to compensate you.”
“Nay, I will keep it until milord is well and then I will bring it to him. How would you find me? I cannot stay here anymore.”
Jarren glared at the woman but could do nothing about her with Royce in his arms. They wasted precious time. He nodded his head and hurried on to catch the old healer, making a mental note what the woman looked like. He’d find her again.
By the time they reached the healer’s house, Royce’s skin bore an unhealthy pallor. Jarren laid him on the bed and stepped back. The old healer hobbled to the table that filled the middle of the room, covered with bowls full of salves and potions. The concoctions filled the air with pungent odors. She picked one up and smelled. Nodding her head, she reached for fresh leaves and set the bowl along with the handful of leaves on the stand near Royce. After swinging the arm of the pot away from the fire, she dipped out a bowl of boiling water. She grabbed a discarded cloth from the ground and shook it then returned to Royce.
She placed the leaves into the bowl of water and left them to soak. As she moved towards Royce, Jarren tensed. How loyal were these people to his lord? “Explain what you do.”
“The leaves are stonecrop and will help with the pain.” She wiped the blood from the wound with the rag. After squeezing the juices into the lesion, she placed the leaves over Royce’s shoulder. Next, she took the other bowl, scooped out a dollop of thick salve with her fingers, and rubbed it onto the wound. “This is yarrow,” she said. “It will help stop the bleeding.” When she finished, the old woman tore a cloth into long thin strips and wrapped it tightly over Royce’s shoulder and around his chest.
“Now, we wait.” She settled her sticklike body in the rickety old chair.
“How long before we know?” Jarren asked.
“He lost much blood. He will sleep ’til morning.” She said no more as if that had answered his question.
“You rest,” Jarren said, “and I will sit with Royce.”
Chapter 12
Brithwin sat by Guy’s still form on the ground, while Daffydd lit a fire and searched for vermin in the cottage. Since they started out, Guy had stirred only in brief coughing fits. His labored breathing was the single motion in his lifeless body. Brithwin waited by the door, clutching her basket of herbs and salves, hoping Daffydd would hurry.
A spring chill filled the night air. The chattering of teeth brought her attention behind her. Seeing Malcolm with his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them and his head buried between his knees, caused her to forget her other concerns. She moved beside the boy, only a few years younger than her, and put her arms around him.
Brithwin spoke to him in a soothing voice. “All is well, Malcolm. Daffydd will soon have a fire ablaze, and we will be warm. I may need your help, so you must be good and do as I say. Can you do that for me?”
Malcolm raised his head and nodded, then peeked around her to see his grandfather. Murielle huddled beside Guy, stroking her husband’s hair.
The boy’s face tightened, and Brithwin spoke assurances. “He will mend. He needs to be tended to and get much sleep so his body can heal.”
Daffydd stepped through the door. “’Tis clear inside and the fire burns, milady.”
Soon after, Brithwin wearily rested near Guy’s still form, warding off the chill next to the fire. Daffydd settled in across from her while the others slept. He glanced at Guy. “How long do you think he’ll sleep?”
“I gave him something to aid his rest and applied salve with willow in it to help with the pain. I hope it will help him sleep through most of the night.”
“How did you know this cottage lay empty, milady?”
Brithwin arched her back, trying to work out the kinks. “The man who lived here was set upon by brigands and killed. No one will move in. They believe if they live away from the village, the same fate will befall them.”
“But there is firewood here and a pallet for sleep.”
“
Aye, travelers use it when they are passing through. They keep the firewood stocked for the next one stopping in.”
“So, on the morrow I need to replace the wood?” Daffydd smiled.
“It would be the kindly thing to do.” Brithwin yawned, the events of the night catching up with her.
“I will rise early and chop some wood so we can return to Hawkwood.”
“Guy will be unable to travel. I will stay with him. You may go and send back food.”
“I cannot go without you. Your husband would surely string me up in the field and use me for target practice.”
“Lord Rosen Craig? He will not even notice me missing. ’Tis no secret the man avoids me, and when he does see me he simply tolerates me.” She sighed. “Besides, I overheard him tell Sir Thomas and Sir Jarren he intends to leave for his family’s holdings. Had not the village caught fire, he would have left in the morn. I am sure he has much on his mind with rebuilding and his trip.”
“You underestimate milord if you think that he will not miss you.”
“Nay. You needn’t worry. He will think I have overslept. He forbade me to come to the village tonight, so he will not suspect I am here.”
Daffydd let out a groan. “He forbade you? Ack! It is worse than I thought.” He closed his eyes. “I will be lucky if I survive ’til eventide once I return you to Hawkwood. Nay, ’twould be better I die quickly.”
Brithwin smirked. “Have you lost your wits? He will not punish you.”
“We will see when we return.” Doubt reverberated in his words.
“We should try and get some sleep while we can. It could be a long night.” Her words proved to be prophetic, even though there were few hours left of nightfall. Guy awoke often, and it took both of them to keep him from thrashing around and doing more damage to his burns.
Sword of Forgiveness (Winds of Change Book 1) Page 10
