“I overheard Master Michael shouting about an alliance and your father must honor it or face being reported to the army commander.”
“Who are they?” Brynn eyed the men with fascination. There were only a handful of people in Galhaven with pale hair and light eyes — herself being one of them. No one ever mentioned her abnormalities — though they were blatant — but rather graciously spared her further humiliation over her years. Her father, Bertram, a wealthy nobleman and Lord of Galhaven, had only wanted sons. Strong, willing, and loyal sons. When his third wife gave birth to the fair-haired Brynn, he ordered the unwanted babe kept out of sight — if alive at all.
Bertram dreamt of wealth and higher nobility for his sons and expressed his feelings on the matter frequently. As three of the five sons perished — from battle, sickness, and an untimely accident — he’d come to realize his continued wealth very well might fall on his only daughter… the pale, quiet, repulsively towheaded, out of sight Brynn.
Because of her father’s hatred for her, Brynn knew she was different. Her spirit sang like no other.
Magda placed a palm on Brynn’s shoulder. “Warriors from the north. Archaeans.”
“But why are they here?” Archaeans had no business being in peaceful Galhaven, unless they were surrendering to the militia.
Magda seemed to have heard her thoughts. “They are free fighters and pledge allegiance to no man. I hear they serve under the command of Brockington, but that cannot be possible, since Brockington serves the militia.”
Brynn strained to listen to the argument.
“I must return you to your chamber,” whispered Magda as the altercation escalated. “With strange men in the manor, it is best we keep everyone safe in their rooms. Come.”
The nursemaid took Brynn by the hand and retreated upstairs. They both melted into the darkness.
Exhausted from the commotion and endless questions about Archaeans, Brynn dozed off to the muted sounds of disorder, ready to dream once more. Peaceful sleep didn’t come. Instead, her dreams were haunted by visions of warriors invading the entrance hall, their strange voices echoing in her thoughts between sleep and consciousness. The blended scents of smoke and rain, sweat and leather lingered in her nostrils, fueling her restless dreams.
In the wee hours of morning, Magda jolted Brynn from her dreams. Her voice was strained and stern — not a Magda Brynn easily recognized. “Your presence has been requested by your father. Get out of bed and dress. Quickly, now.”
Brynn rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What?”
Magda pulled the bed covers down. “You must hurry! Your father insists upon it.”
“Let me sleep, you daft woman.”
A light slap to each cheek pulled Brynn from her daze. “My girl, wake up now!” Magda nudged Brynn’s shoulder.
Brynn groaned in protest. Remnants of her fitful dreams played fresh in her memory. She reflected on the few rare moments of freedom spent with her brothers. They had played long and hard in a meadow with mock battles and silly games of capturing warring flags on horseback. It was a memory she recollected often — one she tried hard to hold on to, for soon after that joyous day the peace had been broken, treaties severed, and war declared.
Brynn rummaged through her wardrobe. She grabbed a worn shift, a simple skirt, and a belt to hold it all in place. The plain clothes smelled of horse sweat and hay but would serve well enough for whatever her father needed at such an hour. She made her way to the door, hopping on one foot while slipping a boot on the other.
Brynn rushed to the stairs to catch the nursemaid. “Magda, wait!” She blindly followed the old woman down two more sets of stairs and into the dark depths of the manor. The air — moist and humid — clung to her like a blanket. The strong smell of fouled dirt and mold stung the insides of her nostrils, making her eyes water.
As she turned the last corner, out of breath and damp with sweat, Brynn stumbled into Magda’s backside. Righting herself, Brynn peered around the nursemaid. In a dimly lit corner on a long wooden table lay one of the Archaean warriors. Another warrior sat in a rickety chair to his left, which threatened to give way to his size. Two more Archaeans leaned against a back wall, standing guard.
As Brynn entered the room, Bertram rose and motioned for her. A nervous twinge took root inside her belly.
“Michael tells me you have a steady hand,” said her father.
Brynn lowered her head. “Yes, my lord.” Panic washed over her.
“And you are knowledgeable with herbs and tinctures. Is this true?”
“Yes,” she replied, hesitant. “But only with animals. I have never—”
“Quiet. Come here.”
“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, obediently stepping forward and taking the basket of rags from Magda.
“This man is injured, and by the treaty of Suffolk, we must see to his medical needs.”
“I have never treated a man before, my lord.” A few medicinal tools rested on top of the linens in the basket. Brynn timidly took one and swallowed hard. “Are you sure you wish me to do this?”
“Do it now.”
Taking a deep breath, Brynn commanded her feet to move. She approached the man on the table. Her legs felt numb, as if they weren’t her own. Brynn wondered if the warrior in the chair could hear her heart’s loud thumping. She thought it might leap into his lap at any moment.
“More light?” she asked, setting the basket beside her patient.
Magda retrieved an oil lamp for her.
“Thank you.” Brynn surveyed the wound. A blood and mud-crusted rag covered the man’s shoulder. She touched the skin around it, testing for signs of pus and fever. He moaned under the pressure of her fingers when she set to work peeling away the layers of bandage. The rags fused together, heavily soiled with blood. She did her best to remove them gently, but as she worked at a particularly matted piece, the Archaean groaned in agony and spewed words in a language she couldn’t understand.
A tug on her shoulder jerked her from her task.
Startled, she turned to face the warrior behind her. “My apologies. I don’t mean to pain him, but the bandage… it must be removed. There is something—”
“An arrowhead.” The man glanced at her, his eyes flickering with curiosity. He took in her every inch, judging her and unraveling what little composure she had left.
Through grime and sweat covering his face, Brynn could clearly see his intrigue. He understood her babbling. He spoke her language, used her words. Brynn wasn’t at all expecting that from an Archaean.
Stay calm. Breathe. “Will you tell your friend that I—”
“Brother,” the Archaean interrupted. “He is my brother.”
“Very well, would you tell your brother I need to remove the arrowhead? He will feel the pain, but at least...” Brynn’s voice quieted as the warrior’s eyes raked over her again. His appraisal burned her skin even in darkness. She wanted to see those eyes — see if they were like hers — but ghostly shadows obstructed her view.
The man muttered a few words to his brother, clasping his hand. “He is ready.”
Brynn released a breath between pursed lips and dipped a clean rag into a water bowl. Pressing the cloth against the wound, she squeezed out the water until the bloodied bandage gave way. She struggled with the bulkiness of his muscular build, desperate not to cause more damage as she finagled the cloth from his underarm and shoulder. Somewhere in the back of her mind emerged the realization she had just touched a man for the first time. It wasn’t at all what she had expected.
Brynn leaned close, taking a good look at the wound. She closed her eyes and turned away in haste, breathing slowly to keep from vomiting. Deep in the muscle were the shattered shards of an arrow tip. The wound oozed pus. The slightest pressure sent the viscous yellow liquid spurting out from the smallest of cracks. The permeating stench caused even the warrior beside her to cover his nose.
“How long has he been like this?” She turned her attention
to the thick mass of brawn and muscle hovering nearby, her words infused with a tinge of anger and frustration. How anyone could let a wound get that grotesque without seeking proper care was beyond belief. The man was lucky he hadn’t yet lost his arm.
“We have been riding for five days, perhaps six.”
Brynn shook her head. Any fear she held of these men vanished. Every word seeped with disapproval. “He is severely damaged. He will need close attention for days. This infection is in his blood, and he may yet lose his arm. I do not know if I can mend this. He is a mess.”
“You must.” The man rose to his full height, towering above her. With one step he was nearly on top of her, and he leaned in so close Brynn could see his face. His voice, husky and raw, penetrated the thickness of the air.
Blue.
His eyes were blue — a deep, sapphire blue, like the sea on a summer’s day. Brynn had never before seen such a splendid color. Humbled, she hung her head and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
Her attitude was quite out of line. She’d overstepped her bounds, letting her mouth run away with her again. The sheer size of the Archaean standing before her unsettled her stomach, but something soft reflected in his eyes. “I shall do what I can. I need more light,” she called, transfixed by the unwavering beauty hidden beneath the layers of concern and sadness on the Archaean’s face.
Clearing her throat, Brynn turned to the injured man. She washed the wound’s outer edges, wiping away as much pus and blood as she could. “Magda, I need olive leaves and tea brewed from them. Also, some blackweed and…” She paused, trying to recollect what she had read in her herbalist books. The immense pressure from the Archaean’s gaze flustered her. “And… and some elderflower as well. Yes. And the bark from a pula tree. The brown bark, not the white.”
Magda disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.
With little left to do now but wait, Brynn concentrated her efforts on removing arrow fragments she could find. “This will hurt,” she told the warrior. She dug her fingers deep into the man’s flesh to fish out the largest, deepest piece. The man shrieked and lashed at her before losing consciousness.
She stumbled backward, colliding into the body behind her. The Archaean grabbed her by the arms, steadying her steps. His hands burned her like fire. “I’m so sorry,” Brynn mumbled, pulling away. “Forgive me.”
“No need to apologize.” He released her.
Regaining composure, Brynn checked the man for consciousness. Finding him unaware, she continued her work until he stirred. She dropped each shard she found into a bowl of water. Brynn wiped a bloody hand over her brow then paused to accept the assortment of herbs and tea from Magda when she returned.
“What is this treatment?” The Archaean hovering over her probed her assortment of healing items.
“It will ward off any decay that may be left in the wound. It will help maintain his vitality, as the infection has spread. I will flush out the wound with the brewed tea,” she told him, pouring a bit of the liquid on the wound. “Then I will pack it with the olive leaves and herbs. They must be removed no later than tomorrow’s eve, or it will fester.” After picking out leaves from the tea, Brynn placed them inside the gash with an array of herbs before covering the wound with fresh bandages. “Do not let him use the arm when he wakes, and give him the rest of the tea. He requires rest, but you must remove him from this room. This place will hinder his recovery.”
Turning to her father, she said, “I’m finished. May I go?”
Bertram nodded. Brynn gathered the remnants of her work and bolted for the door.
The sun had risen high during her time in the belly of the manor. Birds chirped cheerful tunes while her horses grazed in the pasture. It was too late in the day to return to the comfort of her bedchamber. Thus, Brynn decided it would be best to continue with her daily activities. After taking a quick bath and changing her soiled clothing, she meandered to the stables to visit with her horses. She trudged up the path to the barn. “Good morning,” she called to a passing servant.
The servant bowed his head and mumbled a hasty reply of, “Morning, milady,” before scurrying off in the opposite direction.
“Hello, beautiful,” she cooed upon reaching the stall of a large brown mare. The horse nickered a cheerful greeting and poked her muzzle over the door, sniffing for a treat. “Silly girl, Nakida.” Brynn pulled open the stall door and slung a lead over the mare’s neck. The horse willingly followed through the barn. After tying the mare to a hitching post, Brynn brushed Nakida’s coat, forgetting the world around her.
Lighthearted, Brynn hummed, switching from one tune to another — whatever her heart desired. She sang of love and romance, and of the rain and dancing. She twirled around Nakida as she worked.
She sang until a crouched figure in the shadows caught her attention. Brynn stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide.
The two stared at each other in silence.
Brynn told her body to run, to seek the safety of the manor, but her legs would not budge. Her heart pounded. A scream stuck in her throat. In one fluid motion, he rose to his full height. His arms hung at his sides, his fingers splayed away from his body.
~~~~
She matched each step he took toward her with one step back.
“Stay where you are,” she warned. Her shoulders touched the mare’s flank — no more room.
“’Tis all right,” he said in his language.
Panic stricken, the golden-haired girl ducked under the mare’s belly to place the horse between them. “Stay away from me!” she cried, throwing the brush at him.
He dodged it with ease and repeated the words, slowly this time. He shook his head in frustration when he realized she could not understand him. The young girl didn’t understand her own language. In recalling her cleansing of his brother’s wound, he realized she hadn’t attempted speaking to him as the Archaeans did. The girl had been raised in this place.
Did she not know what she was?
He paused. “Thank you for helping my brother,” he blurted in the Engel words she understood. The girl clung to the mare’s front legs, trying to get as much of the horse between them as possible. Tears streaked her dusty face — fair skin shone through the dirty smears.
“You’re welcome,” she muttered. He found her eyes and gave her a quick smile.
~~~~
Brynn wiped away a tear, trying to clear her vision. He stared at her with those deep blue eyes and bestowed a lopsided grin. Clean and shaven, he didn’t look as old and mean as Brynn first thought him to be. He was still large as his shadow reflected, but his face hadn’t yet begun to wrinkle. His eyes still twinkled; he couldn’t have been much older than her ten and seven years. Twenty and one, perhaps? Certainly old enough to know better than to sneak up on a lone young maid.
The man peered under the horse’s belly. He paused before speaking, clearly translating the words in his mind. “I’ll not hurt you.” With his fingers, he beckoned her forward. “What are you called?”
“Brynn of Galhaven.”
“I am Marek Coinnich of Cinn Tàile. Now that we know each other, you can come out. I mean you no harm. I just wish to thank you properly.” He tapped the leather pouch tied to his belt, the coins inside clinking against one another.
Brynn edged her way to Nakida’s lead rope. “You have stated your thanks, now leave.”
The sound of footsteps coaxed her attention from the warrior. Someone must be looking for her; she had missed the afternoon meal. Within moments, her father rounded the corner. His face turned a deep shade of scarlet upon seeing her.
“Where have you been, girl? There was the business of your dowry to attend to, regarding the details of your marriage. I looked the fool in front of Julian!” Grabbing her by the arm, Bertram pulled Brynn from behind the horse. His fingernails dug deep into her skin and she let out a cry.
“You ugly wench!”
The smell of ale was fresh on his sour breath. She turned her face from
him.
“Wizen up, girl, and start obeying Julian!” Bertram grabbed her throat with a clenched hand then forced her against the wall so high she could barely touch the floor. “Julian is the richest offer yet, and for some reason he will still have you. He almost changed his mind when he learned of your disappearance, but I managed to calm him. He required your presence, and where were you? Not in this manor!”
Desperate to loosen his grip, she clawed at his hand, gasping for a small trickle of air.
“I should have disposed of you when I had the chance, just like your whore of a mother!” Bertram’s face twisted in disgust before he dropped her, and she slumped on the floor.
Brynn righted herself, sucking in a precious gulp of air and coughing up the burning in her chest. Lacking the strength to run, she staggered away from her father.
“And what do you think you are doing in here?” the earl bellowed at the Archaean.
The man stood rigid, the blue in his eyes piercing through her. “This is a stable, is it not? Might I tend my own mount, Engel?” Fists clenched at his sides.
Bertram pointed a knobby finger at Brynn. “Get your hide back to the manor. See to your duties.”
“Yes, my lord,” she replied.
“And never insult me like that again!”
As Brynn passed her father, Bertram raised his booted foot and kicked her thigh. Brynn stumbled and, losing her footing, careened onto the floor. With her palms scraped and her pride wounded, she picked herself up and scurried from the barn before allowing her tears to fall.
~~~~
Brynn secluded herself to the balcony, wallowing in self-pity while waiting until it was time to tend to her patient. Her thoughts drifted to the warrior in the barn. Marek. He hadn’t seemed as menacing as Archaeans were said to be. To her surprise, he’d treated her as an equal. Perhaps all men were not like her father. Sighing, she wondered if Julian had an ill temper likened to her father’s.
Julian. How could she have been so absentminded to forget the courtship? Her brother, Michael, had arranged for Julian’s transport, along with several other courtiers to stay as guests, a fortnight ago. She had mistakenly lost track of the hour in the barn. Had she deserved such treatment? No. Her betrothed was a gentleman. He was educated and raised properly in Engel society. He would make a fine husband, and she would try her hardest to be a proper wife.
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