“You’ve both had enough, my lord,” the old knight said firmly.
Quinn glared at him. “Leave off, old man,” he bit out.
“Your horse is about to drop dead and your arm will be so sore on the morrow, you’ll not be able to lift a sword, much less defend yourself should the need arise,” John responded patiently.
“Aye,” Quinn finally growled. “You’ve made your point.” He turned the harshly breathing Charon toward the stables, ignoring the chuckles following them.
Guilt assaulting him at his ill treatment of his faithful horse, Quinn fitted the feed bag over the horse’s head and brushed the tension from his quivering flanks with long, gentle strokes. Though he’d not admit it to anyone else, the repetitive motion helped calm him as well. Finally ready to face his lieutenant, Quinn left the stables and made his way to the great hall. The soldiers having long since quit the training field, were gathered in the dining hall, eating their fill before relieving the guards along the outer walls. He did not see Marcus among the seated men.
He climbed the winding staircase to the second landing and started for Marcus’ chamber. No guards blocked these rooms as they all housed the upper echelon of his knights and the floor was deserted as he rounded the corner. Marcus’ door stood ajar and the hair on Quinn’s neck rose at the sight. Instinctively he drew his sword, approaching the room silently. No sound came from within the darkened chamber, but Quinn sensed someone inside. Crouching low, he pushed open the door and surveyed the scene. No torches or candles offered light and only embers glowed in the hearth. Cautiously he ventured inward, eyes skimming the room for hidden dangers, finding none. The bedding lay askew, half-spilling onto the floor, but there was no sign of Marcus. Neither did he sit in the lone chair before the fire, though the companion table lay on its side, the marble top dislodged and cracked on the floor. Quinn straightened, cursing his own instincts. No one occupied this chamber. He scanned the room once more and turned to leave. A shallow gasp brought him round again, sword at the ready, but no danger leapt from the shadows.
“Marcus?” Quinn called softly. Again a short breathy gasp echoed harshly in the room. He stalked forward squinting against the darkness and nearly stumbled over the inert body of his second-in-command. “Marcus.”
He reached down and touched his back, cursing when his hand came away wet and sticky with blood. He rolled him over gently, peering through the murkiness into his face.
“Marcus, can you hear me?” Quinn said loudly.
Marcus’ eyes fluttered open and he clutched Quinn’s arm weakly. “Beware, Quinn.”
“Who did this?” Quinn demanded, then yelled for aid.
“She,” he whispered, his grip tightening as he lifted himself up slightly.
“Who, Marcus?” Quinn ordered harshly, then called once more for assistance. When Marcus did not answer and no one arrived to help, Quinn cursed and scooped his wounded friend into his arms. He grunted at the dead weight as he straightened then slowly made his way from the room. Standing at the top of the stairs, he called for Sir John, then Stirling.
He looked again at Marcus whose eyes were opened, mouth working. He leaned down to hear the barely audible words.
“‘Twas her,” Marcus rasped weakly, then coughed. “Stirling--”
Chapter Thirteen
Quinn lowered Marcus’ unconscious body to the bed, careful not to jar his injuries any further. He straightened as Stirling burst into the chamber, skirts whipping around her ankles.
“What has happened, my lord?” Her eyes rounded when she spied Marcus’ limp form. She started forward, determination etched at the corner of her mouth. Quinn caught her arm before she moved closer.
She tugged at his grip, but he would not release her, the demons of uncertainty wrestling with his need for her. Had his blind desire for this fiery woman caused his friend’s injuries? He did not know the answer, but vowed no more harm would befall Marcus this night.
“Nay, lady, return to your chambers. Temple will see to his wounds.”
Stirling glared up at him. “I am the healer, the only one with medicinal knowledge. Why would you deny your friend my aid?”
Quinn clenched his teeth. He could not hurt her either, by telling her of Marcus’ rasping accusation. “Those are my orders, my lady, and for once, you will obey them.”
“This debate does not aid him, Sir Norman.” Her golden gaze seared him and he loosened his grip. She jerked her arm free and slipped past him to Marcus’ bloody side. Immediately, she lifted the tattered tunic, peering beneath the reddened hem. She grimaced.
He stalked toward her, determined to have her obedience. “Lady Stirling, you will adjourn to your chambers. Now.”
Stirling leaned over the inert man, lifting his eyelids and staring down into them. She opened his mouth.
“Stirling,” Quinn warned again.
She looked up, her brown drawn with irritation. “My lord, if you plan to do no more than grouse and annoy me, please leave. Otherwise, I could use your assistance.” She stepped back, pushing up the sleeves of her gown. “Though the blade that did this missed his innards, I will pack it with healing herbs and sew the skin.” She cleared her throat. “I must also check him for other wounds, and stitch them too, if needed.”
Quinn sighed in frustration. Another battle lost to his tawny-haired bride, ‘twas becoming a disgusting habit. Continuing the debate would only injure Marcus further. “Turn your back, I shall do the checking,” he muttered.
“I will fetch my needles and thread while you do.” She quit the room, a light blush covering her cheeks.
Quinn stripped the clothes from Marcus, discovering two wounds in addition to the gaping hole in his side. He pulled the sheet over his nude body just as Stirling returned, torn rags and a cloth bag clutched in her hands.
“John awaits you outside, my lord.”
Quinn nodded, but made no move to leave. He eyed her with wary interest as she pulled the tools of her healing art from the depths of the satchel. She wiped away the blood trickling down Marcus’ side and settled a cloth over the wound.
“I shall need two small bowls of water, one hot, one cool and a cup of mead.” She instructed him, threading a needle. “Please send someone to fetch them.”
“John will go.” Quinn called for the older knight, dispatching him with Stirling’s requests, then moved to her side when the captain left. “He’s a slash on his back and taken a blow to the head.”
“Aye, ‘tis probably why he sleeps still.” She examined the gash at the back of his head and nodded. “I believe ‘tis not serious. The skin is barely broken, but he’ll have the devil of a headache when he wakes.”
She examined the wound in his side more closely. “What happened?”
“I don’t yet know. I found him this way.”
She looked up, confused concern on her face. “Where did you find him?”
“Here in his room.”
“He was attacked in the keep?”
“‘Twould appear so.”
John bustled in, followed by another soldier, toting the water bowls and a pitcher of mead and a mug.
“Here you are, my lady.” John set the mead in front of her, then both men withdrew to the hallway.
“My thanks, John,” she called, pulling a packet from the satchel and emptying a fine white powder into the mug.
Quinn grabbed her wrist as she poured the mead into the cup, sniffing the brew. “What potion is this?”
She looked at him askance. “‘Tis to prolong his sleep. I would not have him wake during the stitching.”
Quinn inhaled sharply. No longer could he avoid Marcus’ insinuation. Would she dare poison him even as he watched? “Nay, he will not drink it.”
“‘Twill be difficult, but if you hold his head up, I can spoon the liquid into his mouth.” Quinn did not move and she motioned impatiently. “We must be quick, my lord, or ‘twill do no good a’tall.”
“He will not have your potion,” Qui
nn said quietly.
She narrowed her eyes, mouth tightening imperceptibly. “What disturbs you, my lord?” Even as she spoke, her gaze slowly moved to the still man on the bed. She lowered the cup, her face closing completely. “You believe I did this?”
Quinn was torn between friend and wife. One saved his life, the other could save his soul.
She slammed the mead to the table, sloshing the liquid wildly along its top. “Aye, you do.”
He stopped her hurried flight, catching her about the waist. “I don’t know what I believe, Stirling. But I know only you can help him.”
Her angry gaze sparked fire at him. “I cannot offer assistance if you question my every step. If we do not move quickly, he will surely die.”
Quinn nodded. “Then his life, and my trust, is in your hands, lady-wife. I pray you do not lose either.”
Her smile was sad. “It may already be too late.” She added more mead to the cup and motioned him to lift Marcus’ head. Carefully she dribbled the liquid into his mouth, rubbing his throat, forcing him to swallow. Finally the cup was empty.
“Now the real test, my lord. I must stitch his injuries and seal them so they don’t become putrid. It may require your blade, if I cannot extract all the poisons.”
“Aye, I’ve seen it done before.” Quinn pulled his dagger, stirred the fire in the hearth and placed the blade into the heart of the flames. He leaned against the mantle and closed his eyes, then prayed to God for guidance, something he had not done in a very long time.
“My lord, may I proceed?” Stirling’s voice cracked with stiffness.
He nodded, trusting in her, for his instincts had clearly deserted him.
She pulled a footstool closer to the edge of the bed, drew a deep breath and began the delicate and time-consuming process of melding Marcus’ flesh back together. The room was silent, save for Marcus’ labored breathing and the occasional pop from the fire. She worked for over an hour, Quinn standing guard nearby, until the last stitch was sewn and the thread snipped away. She rose and arched her back. “I don’t believe we shall require the knife. His wounds are clean and do not seep.” She inspected the stitches closely, then nodded, apparently satisfied with her work.
“Aye, ‘tis done, Sir Norman. Now we must wait.”
“What of his other wound? The one on his back.”
She shook her head. “‘Twas merely a glancing blow, more blood than damage. I’ve cleaned it up, but it won’t need stitching.” She picked up her cloth bag, rooting through the contents again, extracting a bunch of dried leaves, tied at the stem. She crushed them into the mug, added mead and worked the concoction into a paste. She handed him the mixture. “Spread this on his wound and bandage it. Not too tightly or the stitches could rupture, but not so loose that he could scratch them, either.”
Quinn took both the paste and the linen cloths she draped over his arm. He knew she must still feel the sting of his doubt, but could not find the words to comfort her. Her actions to save Marcus, even in the face of his animosity, clearly showed her to be without malice.
“Stirling, I thank you for your aid.”
Her cool glance slid along Marcus before returning to meet his eyes. “I did not do this.”
# # #
Quinn prowled the length of Marcus’ bedchamber, Snow keeping pace alongside him. Stirling’s maid Millane tended to Marcus, bathing the unconscious man with a cool linen rag, dampened from a basin of water.
“Will he live, my lord?” she asked, a tremor threading her question.
Quinn halted, standing over the kneeling girl. Snow laid at his friends feet, crossed her paws and stared at Marcus. A low rumble continuously poured from her throat.
“God willing, aye, but his wounds are serious and he does not yet waken.” He could not contain his own worry. Nearly half a day had passed since Stirling sewed the last stitch into Marcus’ flesh, but his friend did not rouse from his deep slumber. Marcus’ words against his lady-wife echoed in Quinn’s ears.
“Did my lady give him--” The maid stopped and looked away, swiping Marcus’ bare chest with the cloth.
“Speak freely, girl.”
She smiled up at him, a tremulous tilt that mirrored his own concern. Quinn wondered if her feelings for Marcus went deeper than the nights she spent warming his bed. ‘Twould be a pity, Quinn thought, knowing naught would come of it. Knights of the royal house did not marry serving wenches. He grimaced, keenly aware of his own dubious lineage. Ladies of stature did not marry bastards either, and Stirling could yet declare their marriage void should she desire. The Bastard’s Law ensured her rights in the matter.
“My lord? I asked if Lady Stirling gave Lord Marcus anything to aid his recovery?”
“Aye, a paste for his wounds.”
“No potions to drink?”
Quinn frowned, baffled by the girl’s persistence. “A tisane while she worked on him, nothing more. Why?” he asked bluntly. Was there more Stirling could do for his friend, but had not?
Millane twisted the cloth, draining the water into the basin beside her. “She usually gives those with severe wounds something to drink, to heal their insides while they sleep.” She shrugged. “And then sometimes she does not. Mayhap she deemed it unnecessary for him.” She smiled and dropped the rag into the basin, stood, then picked up the bowl. “I will return soon, my lord, to check on him.”
“Send Lady Stirling to me,” Quinn ordered.
“Of course, sir.”
He closed the door behind her and resumed his pacing. Snow remained on the bed, snuffling noisily in her sleep.
Quinn refused to believe that Stirling betrayed him, no matter what accusations Marcus spewed. Though he no longer trusted either his own instincts or his second’s words, he did have faith in his wife.
She did not do this.
“You requested my presence, Sir Norman?” Quinn frowned at the title as he turned. Stirling sought to erect a wall between them again, but he refused to allow it. He held her gaze with his.
“Aye, I must meet with John and Temple and would have you sit with Marcus.” His words obviously surprised her as much as they had him, but he would not retract the request.
“Do you not fear I shall kill him?”
“Nay lady, I do not. I’m well aware of your skills, medicinal and otherwise. I am certain should you have wished to end his life, ‘twould be already done.”
She blinked. “Quite so, my lord.”
He lifted her hand, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth and brushed his lips against her soft flesh. Her fingers clenched around his and she inhaled sharply, but did not pull away. He stepped closer, crowding her until their bodies touched lightly. “Watch him with care, my lady. I will return with haste.”
She nodded. “As you wish, Lord Quinn.”
Pleased by the sound of his name on her lips, he pressed a swift kiss to her mouth, then left the room.
Stirling did not know what her husband hoped to prove by his display, but she admitted his actions warmed her. And she vowed not to fail him. She pressed the back of her hand to Marcus’ forehead, pleased at the coolness she found. He’d not taken the fever yet, and likely would not now. She patted Snow’s head when she lifted up, blue eyes glowing in the firelight.
“Do not worry friend, no harm will come to him.” The dog panted, rolled to her side, stuck her nose beneath Marcus’ leg and promptly returned to the sleep she’d disturbed.
Stirling wandered the confines of the room. Traditionally held for clerical guests, the chamber was sparse, containing only the broken marble table, the bed and a pair of chairs. She noticed a wooden chest now occupied a corner of the small room with Marcus’ sword laid out straightly upon its top. She picked up the blade, surprised by its balanced weight, and smoothed her fingers over the hilt. She tilted the weapon to the light, and read the words engraved in Latin on the side. Loyalty above all else.
She glanced at her unconscious patient, knowing how deep his loyalty to Qui
nn went, but wondering how far he would go to protect his king. Though she did not often agree with him, Marcus’ dedication to Quinn was real. She hoped one day he would believe in her as much.
The door opened with a creak and Stirling whirled, Marcus’ heavy sword clutched in both hands. Millane gasped and dropped the mug she carried, her hand pressed against her mouth, eyes wide with fright. Snow bounded from the bed in one lithe movement, stalking toward the maid with bared teeth. Stirling lowered the blade.
“Oh Lucifer’s toenails, I do apologize, Millane.” The maid stood rooted at the threshold of the chamber. “Snow, leave her be.”
The dog looked over her shoulder, blue eyes gleaming brightly, but did not move. Stirling pointed toward the door. “Outside, you beast.”
The hound stood stock still for a long moment, then finally lumbered back across the room. She flopped upon the bed next to Marcus, muzzle and eyes fixed on the maid. Stirling wondered at the dog’s odd behavior, but was glad for the company.
“Millane, shut the door and come in.” Stirling returned the sword to the chest top.
Millane closed the wooden door, then knelt and picked up the pieces of shattered crockery. “I came to look in on Marcus, my lady,” she explained as she stood with the shards cupped in her hands.
“Toss them into the fire, ‘twill heat the room a bit.” Stirling suggested. “Both of them have slept the entire day, I believe.” She gestured to the man and the dog, both still slumbering on the bed.
“Will he wake soon?” Millane questioned almost tearfully.
Stirling wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Soon, Millane. Anytime now.”
“‘Twill be a blessed day when his eyes open.”
“Aye, and we shall feast until the sun sets when he does,” Stirling affirmed. “Come sit with me. ‘Tis frightfully boring with no one to talk to. I’ve prowled every inch of this room, corner to corner, but that provided little amusement.” Stirling leaned forward, lowering her voice and smiling. “If you had not come in, I would have resorted to peeking into Marcus’ chest, yon.”
Jennifer August Page 16
