Now they only needed to find the monk copying Nennius, have the pages inserted, then grab Sydney and go home.
Everything was going to be just fine.
Chapter Nine
Alex worked steadily for five more hours, for there were many wounded. Most of the wounds were minor, requiring only cleaning and stitching. The Powys-born physician, Gandar, looked at him askance when he washed the wounds before closing them, using the boiled water he had ordered. It could be explained away as one more mysterious skill he had learned from the physicians of the East.
The worst of the injuries was the gut wound that the Mercian woman had given Tegid. It had come dangerously close to perforating the man’s colon and would require close monitoring. In the meantime, Alex kept him unconscious using the fumes from burning poppies, which were as effective as any modern day anesthetic.
He was checking the big man’s wound once more when Llewelyn’s man Siorus found him. “The King is in pain again,” Siorus said.
“I’ll come at once,” Alex said. He waved to the boy, Cai, who hurried up with his box.
Siorus led Alex through the interconnected rooms to the big apartment where the King worked and slept. “Will the King live?” Siorus asked as they walked.
“Oh yes, he will live,” Alex assured him. “Riding all night and all day to get home after the battle made the wound worse, but not mortal. He may have to stay on his back for longer than you would like, however.”
“He can still give orders on his back,” Siorus growled. “That will be enough, if he lives.”
Alex was wary of Siorus. He didn’t know why. He was still trying to figure the man out. He was a favorite of the King’s, yet he seemed to move according to a different agenda from most of the King’s captains.
However, it seemed that the King’s entire household were in awe of Alex’s magical abilities to heal and that gave Alex room and time to orient himself. He had arrived here with an identity already established as the King’s healer, just as Taylor had arrived in Jerusalem as the wife of the earl of Norwich. Alex had “woken” when the boy Cai shook his shoulder and told him in a whisper that the army had returned and the King himself was injured.
Alex had rolled to his feet, spotted the medical chest on the table, told Cai to bring it with him and managed to pretend to be sleepy enough that Cai led him to the King’s apartment.
That had been early this morning. He had found Rafe amongst the wounded who had been put in the main hall for tending, long after he had dealt with the King and the King’s champion.
Rafe had been genuinely unconscious, a rare thing for vampires. When Alex checked him over, he found the lingering traces of a great wound in his gut, which explained his unconscious state. It had been a serious wound. The magical vampire ability to heal could steal the energy from all other systems while it worked, when the wound was a bad one, shutting down a vampire’s consciousness.
He had left Rafe to sleep, checking over the next few hours as the wound disappeared as it should. Now he had managed to have him put on his own in the tiny room where Alex had woken. They would be able to talk there.
Siorus showed Alex into the King’s apartment. It was a crowded room, with worried captains hovering anxiously.
“Dismiss everyone,” Alex told Siorus. “This attentiveness won’t help the King heal.”
Siorus looked startled. Then he lifted his voice. “Everyone leave at once. The physician needs room to work.”
The captains all looked startled. After a moment, they shuffled out of the room obediently. Alex took note. Siorus had power over all other captains. He could not be underestimated.
Alex walked around the screen to the big chair where the king sat with his injured leg propped up on a stool. The bandages were still clean, Alex was pleased to see. Llewelyn, though, had his head rolled back against the high back of the chair, his eyes closed and his hand fisted tightly.
There was an empty cup beside him. Alex pointed to the wine skin hanging over the back of the empty queen’s chair and Siorus uncorked the skin and poured the thin wine into the cup. Alex dug into the medical chest and pulled out the pot of herbs that could deaden pain and dropped a pinch of them into the wine. He picked up the cup. “My lord,” he said quietly.
The king opened his eyes and took the cup. “You are a blessing on my household, Alexander of Cordoba.”
Alex bowed his head. “It is pleasing to be of service to so many, my lord.”
Llewelyn gulped the wine and grimaced. “What is that?”
“It will lessen the pain and help you sleep.”
“It tastes foul.”
“It does,” Alex agreed, “although it is very effective.”
“I can’t sleep forever,” the King muttered, draining the cup and putting it back on the table by his side.
“Only until you can think clearly above the pain,” Alex told him. “Then you can be yourself once more.”
“My men—”
“Will understand,” Alex said. “Especially if Siorus lets them know that you very nearly lost your whole leg. The cut was down to the great bone, my lord. Your recovery from such a serious wound will take time.”
“What about fevers of the blood?” Siorus asked. “Such a wound….”
“I know much about avoiding such fevers,” Alex assured him. “My education in the East with the great doctors there was a very thorough one. As you know.”
Siorus looked mildly unhappy. The king closed his eyes again. He was a big man, possibly as tall as Alex if he was on his feet. He had the black hair and eyes and pale skin that was typical of Celts. Rafe could pass as one of them only because his own olive skin was very pale.
“How long until I can sit upon my horse?” the king demanded.
Alex picked his words with care. “It might be many days, my lord.”
Siorus hissed with impatience. “We must face the bloody English upon their own soil and soon, to repay this insult the Mercian woman has delivered. The King cannot lie abed while the insult goes unanswered.”
“You intend to march upon Chirbury?” Alex asked. “If you cross the dyke, that will be considered an act of war.”
“Aye,” Siorus agreed heavily. “Then war it is.”
Real alarm touched him. “The Chirbury burh is new and strong. Your army will break upon its palisades like water,” Alex said.
Llewelyn opened his eyes and studied Alex. Siorus was looking at him with amusement.
“You’ll find yourself sitting in front of the gates there well into winter,” Alex added. “They won’t be able to leave and you won’t be able to enter.”
“Then we’ll starve them out,” Siorus replied. He seemed to be just as happy at that prospect as he had been with the idea of war.
“And while you see to the starving, the Northmen of Dublin will overrun this country and claim it for their own,” Alex shot back.
Siorus scowled. “Are you working for the Mercians?” he demanded. “Because your speech is close to treasonous, physician.”
“I have not once set foot outside Powys since I arrived here,” Alex said truthfully. “I merely state the obvious. The Mercians are strong. If you wage war upon them, you will need all the strength of Powys to defeat them and it will leave this country weak. It is well known that the Vikings have spies everywhere. They will know that you have emptied the land and they will act.”
“It is not your place to speak of such things,” Siorus said, his voice rising.
“Leave us, Siorus,” Llewelyn said softly. “I will explain the matter to him.”
“But, sir!” Siorus cried.
Alex wondered if Siorus was aware that he was gripping the hilt of his sword convulsively, as if he was fighting the need to draw it. Perhaps that was why Llewelyn wanted him gone.
“Leave,” Llewelyn said flatly.
Siorus swallowed back any more protest. “My lord,” he said stiffly and strode from the room.
“Pour me more wine,”
Llewelyn told Alex. His voice was low and even.
Alex’s heart was loose and beating on its own. He had pushed the limits of the king’s tolerance. Now he was to be dealt with.
He poured the wine and reslung the skin.
Llewelyn sipped. “Siorus and the other captains only understand bravery, courage, loyalty to their land and to me, the king who embodies the land. It distresses them when they hear talk that makes them question any of those qualities. I, on the other hand, must look farther than they do. To determine if a war can be won, I must consider the idea of failure, while they can blindly ignore the possibility. These things you speak of, the empty lands and the Vikings who may take advantage of that…they are ideas that I would rather my captains not have to think about, do you understand?”
Alex swallowed. “You would risk your kingdom to repay a minor insult, my lord?”
“It is what my people want.”
“They do not want peace?” Alex asked.
“No more than the Mercians do,” Llewelyn said. He sounded tired. “Besides, the Vikings have been busy plowing their fields and raising their brats since before my great grandfather’s time. It is unlikely they will stir themselves even if they do learn of my quest against the Mercians.”
“They have had two years of plague and famine,” Alex pointed out. “After three generations of fighting to hold the land they took in Eire, they may be looking for new homes.”
“And how would you know of such things, physician?” Llewelyn asked.
“Death and disease are my province, my lord. I speak to any travelers who pass through Powys. The famine is well known.”
“Aye, I have had reports of it, too,” Llewelyn said.
“Would you not be better to find peace with the Lady of Mercia, my lord?” Alex asked. “There must be a way to find peace that answers the insults and blood that have been spilled on both sides.”
Llewelyn rubbed his temple. “If you hear of such a way, do inform me, physician. I only know that I must juggle the loyalty of my men with their fierce passion for their country and their honor. It is a beast inside the breast of every man, angry and hungry for satisfaction. I must ride that beast into the ground lest it turn and devour me.”
* * * * *
Rafe was pacing the length of the room when Alex returned to his quarters. He turned and threw a hand out as Alex shut the door behind him, dropped the latch on it, and put the heavy chest on the high table.
“Where have you been?”
“I have a role here. I can’t be seen deserting my duty,” Alex said calmly. “Besides, the sick and wounded need more help than Gandar is capable of providing.”
“We should be looking for the monk! We should go and get Sydney and get the hell out of here!”
“Where is Sydney?”
“Where do you think?” Rafe said, his tone bitter. “She is the Lady of Mercia’s champion, the one who gutted Tegid.”
Alex sank down onto the three legged high stool in front of the table. “That was Sydney?” He recalled everything he had heard about the woman warrior. “She isn’t anywhere near Tegid’s height,” he added.
Rafe snorted. “She didn’t gut him, either,” he pointed out.
It was the dry irony in his voice that sounded so much like the notorious judge who Alex had fallen in love with that made him reach for Rafe and drag him close enough to kiss him.
Rafe let go of his anger and fear. Alex could feel it in the way he relaxed and leaned into the kiss, his lips hard and demanding.
Alex rose to his feet and pressed against him, suddenly hungry for much more. In the back of his mind, barely acknowledged, he knew that he was reaching for comfort, for reassurance. The last three days, watching Sydney bleed and bruise, and Rafe’s still body, had been agonizing. Now Rafe was here and now he knew what had happened to them both and that they were still alive, the relief was bubbling up inside him like fermented wine.
Yet that was a distant notion that was fading rapidly under the onslaught of the powerful need building in his body, making his limbs heavy and his thoughts syrupy.
“God, I missed you,” Rafe breathed against his lips. “I don’t know how you managed it, but I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Later,” Alex muttered. “I’ll explain everything later.” He unbuckled Rafe’s belt and tossed it aside, then lifted the blood-stained and ripped tunic off and dropped it on top of the belt.
Rafe’s cock was straining beneath the undershirt, tenting it. Alex lifted the hem, exposing his cock. He gripped it, feeling the heat and pulse of blood under his fingers. He stroked the length, enjoying the way Rafe jerked and moaned in reaction.
“Harder,” Rafe breathed, his jaw tight.
Alex shook his head. “I have a better idea. Take off your clothes. All of them.”
“Anyone might come by…”
“The door is latched. I am a peculiar physician who demands times of solitude in order to think.” Alex began stripping his own layers and leggings and accessories, removing them all.
He grabbed the stoppered bottle of oil from his medicine chest and drew Rafe over to the bed shelf. The mattress was thick and clean. “On your knees,” Alex told him.
Rafe sat on his haunches, his ass rounded and his shoulders gleaming in the lamp light. His dark eyes were watching Alex, his mouth lifted at one corner. “Now you look like the real you,” he said. “The clothes make you look so different. So does the beard. Did you always have a beard, the whole time?”
“Nearly always,” Alex admitted. He settled behind Rafe, turned his chin and kissed him briefly. “You’re hot. Your heart is working too hard to compensate for the healing you’re going through.”
“It’s not just the healing stirring my heart,” Rafe said, his voice low.
Because he was sitting on his calves, Rafe’s ass was exposed. Alex reached between his legs and stroked the base of his cock, making him hiss. He kept up the stroking, as he unstopped the oil bottle with his other hand. Then he paused for a moment to pour a little of the oil onto his palm. He returned to stroking and teasing, from his balls across his perineum, to his ass, spreading the oil and working it deeper.
Rafe raised up off his heels, his hand pressed flat against the side of the bed shelf. His head was lowered and he was breathing heavily.
This was what Alex remembered best. This was Rafe, raw and exposed. This was the man he loved.
He gripped his cock with his oily hand, preparing himself. Then he lifted himself up, his cock pressing up against Rafe’s rear. Rafe held still as Alex pushed inside. Alex could feel him trembling, the way he did when he was particularly aroused. That increased Alex’s own need. He gripped his hips and buried himself as deeply as he could.
Rafe moaned.
Alex pressed his lips against Rafe’s shoulder, then began to thrust his cock, in hard strokes. They moved together, riding the fine edge of pleasure, extending it. They were so familiar with each other’s bodies and the tiny shifts that spoke of degrees of pleasure that no words were needed. They could play this music for as long as they wanted or needed to.
Alex’s body heated as his heart slammed, driving blood, bringing him to the most human he could be. That was something else he loved about Rafe and Sydney, how they alone had the power to make him feel human once more.
He poured himself into each thrust, letting his body speak for him.
The heat generated between them grew explosive. Rafe was gripping his shaft, squeezing and groaning with each thrust and the erotic sound was goading Alex into more, harder, faster movements.
His climax burst upon him and he stiffed, his back arching, as he drove himself deep inside and grew still, while the pleasure pulsed.
Rafe stiffened, his cock pumping his seed as his orgasm bloomed. Alex could feel the waves of his pleasure as his muscles gripped and clenched around him.
They stayed locked together in that tight grip, as their hearts slowed. Alex held Rafe against him, feeling his h
eart under his hand, as Rafe’s body relaxed and he finally sighed and let his head roll back against his shoulder. Rafe looked up at him, a small grin forming. “That is the secret to your miracles, physician?”
Alex smiled. “Only for a select two.”
Rafe patted his cheek. “Good answer.”
Chapter Ten
Alex would have been happy to stay lying against Rafe except that the world they had just left outside the door would soon come knocking. As a physician, he was in demand, especially now.
“I should go and check on the wounded,” he told Rafe, stirring himself. He got to his feet and started dressing. “You can stay here as long as you want. I will tell anyone who asks that you are still recovering.”
Rafe rolled over onto his side and watched Alex dress. “That won’t hold for long.”
“Could I take you as a lover?” Alex asked. “I don’t know these times or this place. Would they accept that?”
“Not if it’s out in the open,” Rafe said. “Powys is highly Christian. Although some of the old ways still linger in the darker corners of the kingdom.”
“Discretion as always, then,” Alex concluded. “Very well.” He leaned down and kissed Rafe soundly. “I will kick you to your own bed tomorrow morning. In the meantime, patients first—especially the king.” He sorted through the medicine chest, and topped up his supplies, moving quickly.
“I heard them say you were tending the king. He will live, of course.”
Alex glanced at him. “Why do you say that with such conviction?”
“I could tell you that I have that much faith in your medical skills,” Rafe replied.
“My skills are not what they could be without modern medicine and sterile environments,” Alex told him. “So why are you so certain that the king will survive? It is a very deep cut.”
“Because he did,” Rafe said simply.
Alex looked up at him again. His heart squeezed. “That is what you remember of these times? That Llewelyn lived?”
“To lay siege to Chirbury, yes.” Rafe sat up. “He dies when the Northmen sweep right across Mercia and through to Essex and kill Edward, the high king.”
Kiss Across Kingdoms Page 9
