“I had no intention of traveling if the weather turned this bad,” he commented, the wind whisking his words away from the often rather deaf ears of his driver. Wythevede hunched beneath his wool coat without any sign he’d heard Lord de Wylde. He trudged to the head of the team where he grasped the lead horse’s bridle and led the pair into a ramshackle building not far from the cottage.
A heavily cloaked man stepped through the doorway and gave Geoffrey a nod. “There was a supply of wood already in the house and Walter has started a fire to warm you, Saint.” He gave Geoffrey a quick survey. “Is there anything you need other than your bag from the cart?”
Geoffrey stifled the twinge of annoyance of having his oldest friend see the need to care for him like an invalid. Though he had done so once before—for several months—and it was difficult to fault Simon for his continued diligence and care. He forced a slight smile.
“See that Wythevede doesn’t freeze solid out here. His lips are turning an interesting shade of blue.”
Simon gave a short nod and trudged through the snow to the shed. Geoffrey leaned heavily on his cane as he made his way cautiously up the walkway. The door swung easily open at his touch and he was relieved to feel the feeble heat from the tiny hearth as he stepped inside.
“Have a care for the draft,” Walter barked, not sparing Geoffrey a look over his shoulder from where he knelt before the hearth, coddling the small flame. “A small sneeze would put out the fire. The wood is dry but so old it is crumbling rather than burning.” He sat back on his heels, dusting his hands on his thighs. “That should do until I can search out something better. Mayhap the furniture can be appropriated. Seems the best use for the lot.”
Geoffrey glanced about, noting a heavy table, two chairs, a stool with three legs—though it appeared to have once boasted four—and a bed in the corner of the single room, its pile of blankets an indeterminate shade of dirt.
“Try the mattress. Whatever it is stuffed with, ’tis straw now. Then use whatever you must. ’Tis damn uncomfortable weather to be without a fire.”
He hobbled across the dirt floor, bare of rushes or cover of any sort. Stretching his hands toward the small flame, he waited for the warmth to chase away the stabbing ache in his leg that had begun the moment he’d exited the closed cart. The pain dulled slightly and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll have Wythevede warm a stone to help with the pain,” Walter said. “Once the wagon is unloaded, we’ll sort something out to eat.”
“A mug of mulled wine from the case in the back of the wagon would be welcome.”
Walter cracked a half-grin. “And ruin your reputation, Saint?”
“For the purpose of saving lives, my son,” Geoffrey intoned in a moderate voice. “Which has always been wine’s first objective. It says so in the Bible.” He glanced away. “Though that is no longer my concern.”
With a nod of understanding, Walter strode to the door and disappeared into the rising storm.
Marsaili swore under her breath as her gloves slipped again on the reins. A thin layer of ice coated the leather straps, making them difficult to grasp. The horse stumbled, yanking a rein from her hands. Marsaili leaned forward, grabbing for the leather, but her mount planted a hoof squarely on the dangling rein, jerking his head upward at the ensuing tug on his mouth. The hard knot at the top of his head smacked Marsaili squarely on the nose, and her vision swam with tears as she covered her face with a hand against the pain.
“King Henry and a strumpet!” she yelped as blood ran down her chin. Still fighting the hold of the rein, her horse backed a step, tossing his head up and down. Off-balance, Marsaili grabbed at his mane, but the wiry strands slipped through her nearly nerveless fingers and she lurched to the side, windmilling an arm in an effort to keep her balance. She had the presence of mind to tuck her shoulder as she realized the battle lost, landing on her back in the drifted snow as she rolled, saving herself the inconvenience of a broken arm.
She raised up on her elbows, pulling in air to lungs flattened upon impact. Catching her breath, she glared at the horse who dropped his head and now stared at her as though wondering how she’d gotten from the saddle to the middle of the trail.
“Ye amadan!” Muttering darkly, she gave him a brush-off as he snuffled her face. “If I wasnae so c-c-cold, I’d . . . .” Her voice trailed off as she struggled to her feet. Though sturdy, her boots found no purchase on the slick ground and she found herself once again on her back in the snow. With a sigh of annoyance, she sat, grabbing a handful of snow to pack against her injured nose.
“Ow!” The side of her nose and her left eye were tender, protesting as she gently prodded the area. “’Twill likely be purple in the morning.” Calming, she stood gingerly and dusted what she could of the matted snow from her skirts, then gathered the reins. The right leather strap dangled a few inches from the horse’s bit, the longer end half-buried in the snow.
“Och, that is wonderful.” She eyed the horse. “Ye had to break it, didn’t ye? How am I to guide ye?” Frowning, she glanced about. “Not that we can go much further. I’d forgotten what a good snow looks like.” She shivered. “Or feels like.”
Wet flakes of snow as big as her hand flurried about her, carried on the rising wind. The only sound was the soughing of the trees and the creak of burdened branches. The bottom fell out of Marsaili’s stomach as she realized how alone she was.
She gripped the horse’s rein tighter. “I’m not even sure which way is north, anymore.” She glanced at the ground. “And I’m not sure where the road is, either.”
The horse snorted and shoved her with the flat of his bony forehead. Marsaili stumbled a step forward. “I dinnae for a moment believe ye know what ye’re talking about,” she informed the horse, lifting her head to keep her courage up. “Ye cannae tell north from south. Ye are an English beast, after all.”
So maligning the poor horse for his country of origin, she touched the tip of her nose lightly. Wiggling it gently did not begin the bleeding anew, and she determined the wound survivable.
A blast of wind flattened her snow-damp skirts about her legs and she shivered at the unwelcome contact. Taking a deep breath, she wondered where she could possibly shelter until the storm blew itself out. To her surprise, she discovered the hint of smoke in the heavy, damp air.
The day, though only hours old, was giving up its light to the onslaught of the storm, and Marsaili peered intently at the tree line, searching for a hint of smoke to guide her to a place of refuge.
There! A thin, pale gray line of smoke rose lazily against the leaden sky a moment before a gust of wind swept it away. She tugged on the horse’s bridle. “Come on! Mayhap I can find ye a bit of hay to fill yer belly. If ye are silent as a mouse, whoever lives there willnae notice.”
The horse nudged her again, his bony head flat against her back.
“Dinnae think ye can talk me into a bag of oats, laddie. ’Tis something people do notice.”
For some reason, the bulk of the horse’s head pressed against her gave Marsaili a bit of comfort, and she continued to speak to him as though he understood her words. If it gave her a bit of confidence and helped take her mind off the soul-numbing storm, she was willing to continue in this vein, though the cold stiffened the muscles of her jaw and distorted her words.
“Ye know I’ll have to gi’ ye a name since it looks as if we’ll spend th’ night together. No’ an English one, though I suppose yer ma’d roll over in her grave to hear ye sporting a Scottish moniker. I think I’ll call ye Hew. I do miss the auld man, though he worries enough for a dozen auld women. ’Tis comforting to speak as though he’s still with me.”
The horse had no answer, and plodded slowly along behind her. Marsaili halted at the edge of a small clearing, staring longingly at the smoke lowering over the roof of the house as it chased the flakes of snow. Her gaze found a low shed, the wheel of a wagon protruding from the opening of the roofed lean-to.
She carefu
lly inspected the ground at the doorway to the shed, as well as the space between it and the house. The snow blew in dense white clouds, obscuring any trace of footprints, assuring her the inhabitants of the cottage were well-ensconced within.
“I believe yon is our bower for the night.” She gave the cottage a wistful look, then squared her shoulders. “Let us inspect our lodging,” she whispered. Taking up the newly-dubbed Hew’s rein, she made her way carefully across the open area to the shed, ears alert for shouts of warning.
“If we were in Scotland, I’d not worry about my welcome,” she grumbled. “Bluidy English are a suspicious lot. Of a certainty, the fewer who know I’ve been here, the better off we both shall be.” She glanced over her shoulder as a sudden sense of warning blossomed between her shoulder blades.
Nothing moved in the silent forest behind her, and the swath she and Hew cut through the snow vanished beneath the continued snowfall as though it had never existed.
Chapter Three
Geoffrey stifled a groan. No matter how accustomed he should be to the effect cold had on his thigh, there was a limit to his tolerance. With no choice but to haul himself to his feet and walk, forcing warming blood into his injured leg, he grabbed for his cane and rose slowly to his feet.
“Anything you need, Saint?” Walter murmured from his position near the door. Damp spots on the floor attested to his recent foray outside as he kept watch, as no windows graced the hovel.
“Nay. Keep your seat. My leg is bothersome, but nothing a brisk walk will not help.”
Geoffrey winced at Walter’s skeptical look, eyes narrowed at the thought of Geoffrey attempting anything other than a creeping pace. He scowled and turned away, keeping the thump of his cane to soft levels to avoid waking the others.
The muscles in his thigh eased after numerous laps across the hardened dirt floor. Walter shoved away from his stance at the door and crossed to one of the sleeping forms.
“Wake up, Wythevede,” he grunted, giving the man a shove with his booted foot. “The wind died down an hour or more ago, and we need to check on the horses.”
The elderly man groaned as he sat upright, dragging a hand through his ragged hair, making it stand comically on end. He gave the knight a glare but rose without further argument. Stomping his feet into his boots, he dragged his cloak over his shoulders and jammed his knitted cap over his pate. Shuffling through the door Walter held open, he and the knight slipped into the cold dawn.
Simon rose as well, striding to the hearth to prod the fire. He tossed a couple of small logs into the resulting blaze and Geoffrey limped near, drawn to the heat. Reaching for the pot of water resting on the hearth, he hoisted it to the iron bar over the fire.
“Here, Milord. I will fix something to warm our bellies,” Simon offered as he reached for their pack of supplies. He inclined his head in apology. “You are not an invalid, Saint. Nor are you incapable. I am here to see to your comfort. ’Tis my job as it has ever been.”
“We three used to share alike,” Geoffrey murmured, lowering himself gingerly to the rough stone of the raised hearth.
“That time has passed, Milord,” Simon replied. “Yet you were always our leader, even as lads and later in battle. We must always adapt to our changing circumstances.” His lips curved gently upward, though his eyes saddened. “Your knighthood for a priesthood, now exchanged for a lordship.”
“A lordship I do not want.”
“You have no control over your brothers’ fates. No one would have wished them an early death, but the title now falls to you.”
Geoffrey nodded, bleakness stealing over his soul. “My duty is clear. I know this in my head. But my heart will miss them.”
“Even their pranks?” Simon asked, his smile broadening.
The question prodded a grunt from Geoffrey. “Their pranks as lads became well-known exploits on and off the battlefield. I’d be remiss if I thought they would be missed by everyone.”
“Mayhap a few young ladies shed some tears, and knights will now have to seek others of similar prowess to fight. Though the Lord knows where they will find them.”
The cottage door flew open forestalling the contemplation of the plight of warring knights. Wythevede leapt into the room amid a blast of frigid air, his eyes wide with alarm.
“There’s a dead woman in the barn!”
Simon and Geoffrey startled at the news and Simon rushed to the door. Geoffrey hobbled in Simon’s wake across the room as Walter burst through, the limp body of a young woman in his arms. He strode directly to the hearth, clumps of snow falling from his boots as he tracked across the floor.
“Push another log on the fire,” he directed as he sat on the hearth, all but shoving the woman atop the blaze.
“Have a care for the flames, Walter,” Geoffrey murmured. He leaned over the woman, noting the smooth skin of her face—a faint lavender hue that would look better as a spring mantle than a skin tone. He gently swept tangled copper-red hair from her brow.
“She’s young,” he said, smoothing a hand over her icy cheek.
“She’s the wallydraigle from the inn!” Wythevede exclaimed, standing on his toes to peer over Geoffrey’s shoulder.
Geoffrey swung about, the warning light in his eyes immediately silencing the old man and setting him rocking back on his heels. “This woman is neither worthless nor slovenly. ’Tis travel that has stained her clothing—which is of fine quality, though you haven’t noticed. And none of God’s children are worthless. It would behoove you to remember that, Wythevede.”
Abandoning the set-down, he returned to the young woman who hung lifeless in Walter’s arms. He lifted a closed eyelid, noting the resilient texture of the orb within. “She may yet live.”
Walter gave him a startled gaze. “I’d felt no pulse.”
Geoffrey grunted as he reached for the knife at his belt and sliced the wet strings fastening the woman’s cloak. “Yet you tried to warm her.”
“I had to try,” the knight admitted.
“Of course. ’Twas the right thing to do.” Geoffrey nodded. “And God may reward us for your care today.”
He stripped the cloak away, letting it fall to the floor, then attended to her gown in a similar manner, slicing through the heavy, soaked fabric rather than bother with the swollen ties of her lacings. To his surprise, his hands encountered the tell-tale lump of a sheath at her right thigh, as well as one attached to the back of the bodice of her under gown. With some misgivings, he left the daggers in place, knowing he would be alert to any furtive movements she might make. If she lived.
Determining the under gown would not impede the warming process much, he left it on her as well, allowing the small bit of modesty it would afford her.
“Hang her cloak to dry and fetch my blanket,” he barked at Wythevede, giving the man a withering stare for his gap-mouthed gawk at the nearly naked woman. Chastened, the man averted his gaze and grabbed the indicated garment from the floor, ignoring the ruined gown. He tossed the cloak over the back of a chair and quickly returned with Lord de Wylde’s blanket.
Transferred from Walter’s arms, the woman disappeared within the folds of Geoffrey’s cloak, not even so much as the top of her head visible. Simon dragged a chair before the hearth and Geoffrey settled on its seat, opening the edges of his cloak to admit the heat of the fire within. He accepted the blanket and carefully wrapped the woman before returning her to the potentially life-saving spot beneath his coat, against his rapidly beating heart.
Thousands of needles prickled her fingers and toes. Marsaili twitched, tried to kick, clenched and unclenched her fists. Anything to halt the terrible sensation. Nothing worked. Pain crept up her limbs and she whimpered. Someone smoothed her cheek and murmured in her ear.
“Easy, Milady. You nearly froze to death. Welcome back.”
“Hurts,” she whimpered, eyes tightly closed. She wanted nothing more than to fall back into the nothingness where the pain did not exist.
“Aye. But
that means you are warming. ’Twill soon pass.”
Marsaili groaned as someone shoved against her back, forcing her to a seated position.
“Drink this,” the voice commanded. “’Twill warm your insides.”
The idea of being warm again was enticing, but it was too much effort to open her mouth and accept the contents of the mug beneath her nose. The aroma tempted, however, and she reluctantly lifted eyelids that unbelievably seemed to weigh a pound or more each. She blinked, trying to determine where she was, for her last memory was of sheltering in a stable between the furry forms of two well-muscled horses.
Why had she been in a barn, for the love of St. Andrew? She blinked furiously, as though the exercise could fan her brain to life. Memories, unconnected, flashed before her. People in mourning? Fear. Outrage. A horse named Hew. No, that was incorrect. Hew had been her servant these past years, he and his wife. Sadness—Hew’s wife, her nurse since birth, was gone. Another face. Edmund—a sneer, evil triumph.
Marsaili shook her head as panic overwhelmed her. Had Edmund caught her? Who offered her the drink? Poison?
She jerked back with a cry, unable to move her arms, captured, trussed, incapable of escape—
“Cease!” the man commanded, gripping her firmly. “You are in no danger. Give yourself a moment to regain your composure. Walter will care for you.”
She felt herself being passed into another’s arms. They bundled her gently, and, exhausted, Marsaili fell through wakefulness into a deep sleep.
Warmth. She’d never been so warm. Marsaili sighed. It felt absolutely wonderful. She opened her eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the low light. Red and yellow flames danced on a hearth, giving her the reason for the heat seeping into her bones. Undulating shadows mated in a leisurely fashion on the wall, and she noted dark lumps scattered on the floor at her feet.
The Saint Page 2
