by Anne O'Brien
Conscious of his men riding with him, there was only one thought in Gervase’s mind. To get to her before the Welsh arrows did. Gervase used his spurs without compunction to ride like the wind.
Then all was noise. Confusion. Shouts of warning from the Welsh as the heavily armed soldiers swept down on them. They would run, of course, escape into the woods and hills. He had no doubt of that. That was the warfare they were good at. But he couldn’t see her. Could not see the flutter of her veil, the deep colour of her mantle, so she must be unhorsed. Her mare was down. As the knowledge was driven home, a flight of Welsh arrows heralded death.
It was all his fault.
‘Drive them off! Use all force!’ His voice cracked on the order.
All around him was red with the clash and fury of battle and his mind focused, cold and deadly. A short, sharp clash, as he expected. With a final flight of arrows, the Welsh ponies headed for the woods. Gervase directed his men to follow—but only enough to put the fear of God into them. No point in pursuing a lost cause.
He dismounted, wiping his bloody sword, sheathing it, Bryn leaping around his knees, barking furiously. Owen was at his side, breathless, excited, flushed with the fear and victory of the battle. Grinning foolishly, his young face shining with relief from sheer terror.
‘Came down on us from nowhere, my lord. Hidden in that copse,’ he gasped. ‘One man winged, one horse down apart from the mare. The raiders were too lightweight to do much damage.’ He gabbled as the fear ebbed. ‘The lady’s safe, my lord. Not a war party, a chance raiding party only that caught us napping…’
But Gervase was pushing past him. A rapid eye cast over his men and their mounts told him that there was no serious injury. The injured horse had a flesh wound to its shoulder from an arrow and would recover. Leaving Hugh to order the return to the castle, he gave his full attention to Rosamund.
Relief dripped through his veins. His belly felt hollow with it, his throat dry. Owen had had the sense to pull her into the shelter of a rocky outcrop, pushing her to the floor. It might just have saved her life. Now seeing her scramble unharmed to her feet, his outrageous relief recreated itself in an unnerving instant into a shattering anger. Gervase addressed her, harsh voiced, gripping her shoulders to pull her upright, making no attempt to harness his fury even when she winced under his grasp. Her survival was a matter of pure chance. If he had not seen the attack, she might even now be lying in the grass with an arrow between her shoulder blades.
His accusations, fired one after the other, were brutal. ‘See what you have done! What your wilfulness almost achieved, insisting on riding out. You put in the balance the lives of my men, not to mention your own. You have no thought for anyone but yourself.’ He could not let go, hands clenched on her shoulders as if he needed to feel her flesh and bones, vibrant and living, beneath his hand. And the old remorse blasted through him. Matilda had died without him to rescue her. Died in the arms of some nameless man, a Fitz Osbern soldier who had been there to comfort her. He had not been there to stop it. And he had almost allowed it to happen again. The words tumbled from his lips. ‘I am as much to blame as you. I knew of the dangers. I should not have let you go.’
‘I—’ Rosamund blinked at him, apparently without understanding, which made him even more angry.
‘You’ll not disobey orders. As long as you remain at Clifford, you’ll do as I say.’ And Gervase, as if viewing the scene from a distance, was honourable enough to acknowledge within the blazing heart of his fury, that it was directed as much at himself as at her.
Still Rosamund barely seemed to hear him. A glassy look of shock was in her eyes, her skin clammy, pale as wax. Seeing it, his blaze of anger reduced to a steady simmer. Then, as her gaze slid from his to some distant object, and became fixed there in horror, he finally understood. And as he did, Rosamund pulled away from his slackened grip, stumbling across the grass, to fall to her knees beside the stricken mare, regardless of the mud and blood that smeared on her skirts and mantle. She stroked her hand down the silken neck, still warm, still impossibly alive. Tightened her fingers in the rough mane. Dry eyed, she murmured softly, until the mare’s stillness caused her to fall silent.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ she said as Gervase moved behind her, to crouch on his heels at her side. ‘They killed her.’
Gervase sighed. ‘Yes. See, the arrows…’
‘I did not think we would be in any danger.’ Still her hand smoothed the cooling shoulder.
‘Who’s to know?’ All anger gone, Gervase lifted her, gently now, with a hand under her arm, turning her away from the stricken animal. ‘We must go back.’
‘But…’ She looked down at the mare.
‘I’ll see to the mare.’
‘I’m sorry I put your men in danger.’ Her cheeks were dry, but her eyes were bright as she wiped them with her sleeve, leaving a smear of mud. ‘You were right to take me to task. It was ill done of me.’
‘But no harm in the outcome.’
‘No.’ Her voice shook, but she controlled it. ‘No harm. I am so sorry…’
Gervase led her to his horse, swung into the saddle, and beckoned for Owen to come and lift her to his saddlebow, to tuck her skirts neatly. Small practical movements to fill her mind so that she might keep her dignity. He felt that she would want that. As little as he knew her, he realised that she would not want to give way to grief under scrutiny. Settling her against him, he felt a shiver run through her. Her tears were not too far away.
‘It seems I must carry you home again.’ He clicked his tongue at the stallion to encourage it into a calm pace. ‘We must try not to make a habit of this.’ A hopeless attempt to distract her. Again she shuddered, then hid her face against his shoulder and wept.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘It doesn’t matter. No one sees.’
He held her close with one arm, guiding the horse with the other as they walked steadily back, his men returning around them, empty handed from their chase. Gervase raised his hand in acknowledgement, but at that moment he did not care. All that mattered was that she was safe in his arms. She had lost her veil in the skirmish, so that it was so easy to turn his cheek to rest against her hair. If he turned his head to press his lips there, she wasn’t aware. All he knew was that she was warm and alive, her heart beating strongly against him. He could do nothing to assuage her grief, but he could give her the comfort of his arms.
‘She was my own,’ she murmured at last as they turned into the castle gates.
‘I will give you another, Rose. One of my own from Monmouth.’
She nodded and clung to him. He did not think she understood, but the storm of her grief was past. Back in the bailey, he dismounted, lifted her down and stood her carefully on her feet, standing between her and his men to hide her ravaged cheeks. Until she winced as his arm caught her shoulder.
‘Are you hurt?’
She shook her head. ‘A bruise only, I think. It is just sore…’
When he pushed back the mired mantle, she gasped from pain. Without further thought, he waved the anxious servants aside and lifted her as gently as he could and carried her into the keep. Even there he would not relinquish her, but strode up the staircase as if she were no weight at all, shouldering his way into the solar where he placed her on the settle before the fire.
‘Candles!’ he ordered the hovering Edith, not taking his eyes from Rosamund’s face, which seemed even paler. Was her shoulder broken? Her collarbone? When he had done nothing but haul her to her feet, without thought for any injury when the mare fell. No wonder she had flinched from him. ‘Fetch the Countess.’ Stripping away the mantle, he applied himself to the side-laces of her over-tunic. Without great success.
‘Ah…!’ Rosamund winced and set her teeth into her bottom lip.
‘God’s wounds!’ Without another word he took his knife from its sheath at his belt and used it to more effect with an agile turn of his wrist. First the over-tunic and th
en the laces of her gown, sweeping the point of the knife through them from neck to waist and below. Finally even against the cloth of her close fitting shift, careless of the damage or her half-hearted attempts to push him away.
‘You’re not gutting a rabbit!’ she objected as the laces fell at her feet.
‘Don’t argue!’ Aware only that she was shocked and tearful and in pain. Baring her shoulder at last, the heavy discolouring and chafed skin was already clear across her shoulder blade and arm.
‘I think I fell on it.’ She choked back a sob, squinting to see over her shoulder like a small child. ‘When my mare fell, when she was…’
‘Yes. When she went down. You were lucky she didn’t roll on you.’
‘I suppose so…It hurts.’ She groaned. ‘Especially when you press it like that!’
‘Don’t complain! I thought you were made of sterner stuff.’
‘I am!’
Gervase gentled his touch, probing the wounded area with light fingers as fear drained from him. Rosamund sniffed and scrubbed at her face, apparently unmoved that he should be inspecting her naked shoulder. As he smoothed his palm over her skin, relieved that there were no broken bones and no lasting damage, a touch of hard-edged humour surprised him. She would be mortified when she remembered.
‘It will be painful, but will soon mend,’ he assured her.
‘You are very kind.’
Unable to resist, Gervase continued to stroke his hand down over her shoulder, the curve of her throat, as he might an injured mare to soothe and reassure. Conscious all the time of the stark contrast of his weathered hands, calloused and work-worn, against the pale silk of her skin. Relieved when he felt the tension leave her so that she rested her head against his supporting arm. Then with a little murmur, she sat up, their eyes met, locked, Gervase wallowing in the depths of pain and anguish in her trusting gaze. Until without premeditation Gervase lowered his head to press the gentlest of kisses to her brow.
‘I don’t deserve such consideration,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, you do. You are hurt and sad and I would comfort you.’ And since she did not draw away, he allowed himself another kiss, equally gentle, to her lips.
And then, when she simply looked at him wide-eyed, as if she could not contemplate such gentleness from him, the Countess was there. And Edith, who clucked and fussed. With an unsettling sense of loss, Gervase found himself pushed firmly into the background as they took over. He smiled sardonically. He had just been swept aside as if he had no place here, no role in women’s affairs.
‘Shall I send for Mistress—I forget her name—the witch from the village?’
‘Mistress Kempe,’ Petronilla admonished, her whole attention elsewhere. ‘Yes—and she is no witch! If you would, my lord.’
And he was dismissed again.
It was true, that he had no place in Rosamund’s life. He ran down the steps, shouting the order to fetch Mistress Kempe, thinking only of the softness of her skin beneath his touch. The vicious bruising. Thank God she was safe. His part was now complete. Except for…Never one to ignore his debts, Gervase sought out Owen. He found him under Watkins’s care in the stable where the wounded horse was being tended. Owen was white-faced and shaken now that the danger was over, never having faced such immediate violence in his twelve years, and the sergeant-at-arms had decided to blur the edges of the boy’s fear with a mug of ale. Gervase nodded his approval and sat on the straw bale next to the boy.
‘You did well, lad.’
Owen gulped. ‘The lady is safe, my lord?’
‘Yes. Safe.’
‘I didn’t see them, my lord. They were on us before—’
‘You did as much as any man.’ He put a warm hand on the boy’s shoulder, squeezed. Then ruffled his already untidy hair. ‘You probably saved her life.’
It mattered more than he would have thought possible. But now he must put it out of his mind.
Rosamund sighed as Mistress Kempe bustled in. It promised more pain.
‘If it’s not one thing, it’s another. First foul water, and now this. Let me look at you, my lady…’ She swept Petronilla and Edith out of the way, poking with fingers far less gentle than Gervase’s. ‘Bruising. Discolouring of the skin.’ She prodded and poked again. ‘No bones broken. No permanent damage, lady. Mind you, I can’t say it won’t be sore for a few days.’
‘Ow!’ Cross, Rosamund made no attempt to hide her discomfort.
‘A cup of wine,’ Mistress Kempe demanded, then burrowed in a leather pouch at her waist and extracted a small pottery vessel. ‘I brought this on the off chance.’ Removing the stopper, she shook a quantity of dark powder into the wine and stirred. ‘Drink this.’ She grunted as Rosamund grimaced. ‘It’ll not poison you. There! Good! Common knapweed.’ She gave Edith the pot. ‘Put the rest in warm water and apply it to the lady’s shoulder frequently. It will take away the stiffness.’
Rosamund allowed the events to flow on around her. It seemed to have nothing to do with her. Now that she was warm, the pain retreating a little, a strange lassitude took over, so that even the loss of her mare, although a constant beat of sorrow, seemed to be at a distance.
‘Excellent!’ Mistress Kempe peered at her. ‘I’ll send some more knapweed up with my daughter. And the bark of the white willow—steep it in wine and drink it to ease the pain. Send for me if she does not get her full movement back in her shoulder. I warrant she will.’ Her little eyes, almost hidden in wrinkles, twinkled. ‘My lord seemed distraught.’
‘He was concerned for my daughter,’ Petronilla remarked.
‘Concerned, is it? Seemed more than that to me.’ The witch peered at Rosamund again. ‘He’s a potent lord, and no gainsaying. I’d give you a love potion to attract the man if I thought you needed one.’
‘A love potion? That’s the last thing I want.’ Startled, Rosamund flinched as Edith began to lace her into a loose gown.
‘No, you don’t. He already has eyes for you.’ Mistress Kempe chuckled at Rosamund’s misunderstanding. Then she slid a sly, mischief-making glance at Petronilla. ‘Or perhaps you could make use of it, lady. For my Lord de Mortimer. A pinch of lavender, pinch of valerian root, mixed on a Friday evening when the moon is waxing. That’d do the trick, my lady. He’ll look at no one but you.’
Petronilla smiled calmly with firmly pressed lips and superb dignity under the circumstances. ‘Thank you, but no.’ She pressed a coin into Mistress Kempe’s gnarled hand.
‘As you wish. I’ll leave it here anyway!’
Whether from the effects of the knapweed or her own exhaustion, Rose slept soundly, but struggled from her bed on the following day stiff and aching, her shoulder and arm a mass of blue and purple bruising. Lifting her arm hurt more than she would ever have believed and she was not reluctant to drink the bitter willow. Left to her own devices, reluctant to move far, she let her mind pick apart the memories that came back. It was not a comforting operation. He had accused her of being thoughtless, selfish, which was true. She must be more aware of the dangers in living in the lawless Marches. She could have caused the death of more than just her mare. She had to blink back sudden tears as the loss rolled over her again. But that was not her main preoccupation. Gervase had rescued her, driven off the raiders, cared for her, brought her home. Handled her gently when he had finished shouting at her. Seen to her comfort. He had kissed her as if she were the most precious possession he owned. Such small, particular kindnesses—but she must have a care. They would break her, weaken her resolve. Even now she was aware of the faintest hairline cracks appearing in her hard shell of resistance to him.
Gervase Fitz Osbern held a dangerous attraction for her. Tears leapt again, to be quickly wiped away.
She could not remember whether she had thanked him. It all seemed blurred and distant. Although she did remember him taking his knife to her laces. She did not know whether to be shocked at such intimacy or admiring of his initiative. How she would face him she did not know,
but she must thank him.
And tried to do so, when she came down, awkwardly but without complaint, to the mid-day meal. She had practised her words, practised a calm demeanour. To her dismay, he was not there. It would have been so easy to abandon her self-imposed penance, but she could not. So, directed by Sir Thomas, she traced him to the stable, where he was inspecting one of the hooves of his stallion.
Except that he brushed her stammered apology aside. Gave no thought to it or to her once he had assured himself, with the briefest of glances from under his black brows, that she was some way to being recovered.
‘The ambush…’ she tried. It was a concern that had settled in her mind on waking. ‘It was not Owen’s fault. I would not have you blame him, my lord.’
Another sharp appraisal. ‘I’ll deal with Owen as I see fit.’
‘Of course.’
‘I presume you are suffering no ill effects.’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
On which bleak, curt response, he had immediately returned his attention to the problem hoof, summoning Watkins to give his opinion of the heat in the leg.
Rosamund retreated. He had not shouted at her, neither had he seemed angry. Instead, he had treated her apology as an irrelevance. So he must still blame her after all. She must have imagined the tenderness in his face when he carried her to her solar, or the concern when he had promised to deal with the mare for her. His preoccupation was clearly elsewhere, so Rosamund could do nothing but let the matter rest. She had after all wept all over him. Perhaps it was enough to turn any man from her in disgust. Shame settled heavily.
