by Lisa Shea
Richard waved a hand, and Anna was back at their table in a moment. Richard fished some coins out from a pouch and handed them to her. “We shall need two rooms for the night.”
Her eyes went to Corwin and Elizabeth. “One for the lovebirds, I assume?”
Corwin’s enthusiastic “Yes!” was overridden by Elizabeth’s outraged “No!” and the waitress smiled in amusement. “I will bring the two keys,” she assured Richard, and in a moment she had returned, depositing them on the table. “I will leave this for you three to sort out,” she advised with a wink before moving on.
Elizabeth pounced on a key, bringing it to her chest. “I am sleeping alone,” she snapped to Corwin.
He shrugged, spreading his arms wide. “If you want to be cold and lonely, all the better. It means by the time we reach your father’s keep that you will be desperate for my touch,” he grinned. “You certainly came into my arms quickly enough by the cottage. You must have really missed me.”
“I thought you were Richard,” she snarled.
“So you say,” he returned, his eyes twinkling.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. She would not be drawn in again. She rose to her feet, and both men moved with her.
Tension streamed down her back. “I can make it to my room just fine on my own,” she insisted.
Richard’s voice was calm. “Of course you can. Good night,” he offered.
She looked up into his eyes, and for a moment the chaos of the day faded away. His gaze was smooth, serene, and steady. She stepped forward toward him, laying her hands gently on his hips, and his arms came up around her as she pressed into him, as she touched his lips for a kiss, first tenderly, then growing in passion.
There was an outraged shout next to them, and Mathilde was standing there, her hands on her hips, looking between Corwin and Richard in shock. “I have heard of siblings sharing things, but this is ridiculous!”
Elizabeth smiled, placing one last kiss on Richard’s lips, then winked at Mathilde and walked down the hall to her room.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth pulled her hood closer against the rain, weariness dragging at her very bones. It was only five days into their journey and already it felt as if her joints were permanently soaked. The days grew colder with each passing step, the inns’ fires barely heating her up again before it was time for another trip out into the deluge.
She would almost be ready to deal with Corwin’s acrid tongue and hostile commentary in exchange for a day or two of merely-gloomy weather. She would not even hope for sun – that might be asking too much. Just a cessation of the watery onslaught was all she hoped for.
There was a rushing noise ahead, and her heart sank. As if the day could not get any more drenched. Ahead of them the road moved toward a ford which, in drier times, was probably quite easy to pass. In the current state of affairs it was a raging river, the water tumbling and cascading, the far bank barely visible in the late evening gloom.
She pulled to a halt at the near edge, looking out over the churning water. At her sides the two men also reined in, their hoods sweeping left and right down the length. The marshy fields around them undulated, easing into dense forest fairly quickly on either side. There was no sign of a bridge or another path.
Richard glanced behind him, back the way they had come. “I believe there was a turn-off to the north about two miles ago,” he commented.
Corwin scoffed, his eyes bright with disbelief. “For this tiny trickle? I think your time with the duo dunces has softened your head. There’s no reason to retreat from this.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I am not chancing that torrent,” she stated firmly. “Even if the steed could swim across -”
“Even if,” mimicked Corwin, his voice harsh. “What are you, twelve years old?”
Steel shot up Elizabeth’s spine. “I am willing to face odds that are reasonable,” she snapped. “This is simply ridiculous. I will not -”
His sword was out in a flash, it glittered in a sweeping arc, and the flat of the blade landed hard against her steed’s rump with an echoing SLAM.
Her horse reared up in a wild panic, she flung herself forward to keep her seat, and in an instant the steed was lunging full bore into the raging river.
“Richard!” she screamed, pressing herself hard against her horse’s neck, squeezing her thighs against his flank, willing herself to stay atop the powerful beast. His chest heaved as he pushed hard through the current and was instantly swept downstream. His breath came out in long whoofs as he struggled to keep his head above the churning water.
“Hang in there,” she urged him, sweeping her head around in the chaos. The water roiled, the fog rolled, and steadily but surely the horse inched toward the other bank, trees and rocks racing by as they moved.
BUMP. A medium-sized branch bounced off her right leg, sliding past her horse’s rump and swirling away into the gloomy mist. She shook off the surprise. Thank the Lord that it had only been -
Her eyes tracked to the right, and she stopped, all thought freezing in place in her brain. A massive willow tree was sweeping down the river toward them, its roots bare and outstretched toward the sky, its many branches swirling and grasping like the myriad arms of a monstrous octopus.
There was nowhere to go. Her horse was barely holding his own against the river. She took in a deep breath as the dark shape thundered toward her, and then -
SLAM.
*
An ocean’s worth of water filled Elizabeth’s lungs, and she sprawled face-first in the mud, coughing as hard as she could, desperately wheezing in breaths of air between the hacks. A strong hand pounded on her back, holding her firmly against a broad chest, and she could not think past the spewing of liquid, the desperate inhales, the raging sound of rushing river which bellowed around her.
Finally she could breathe in without panic, could cough out only on the third inhale, then every fifth, and then she fell back limp against him, completely spent, her mind blank.
He sat there for a long time, holding her close, his own breath slowing from desperate heaves to a sturdier pace. He folded her in against himself, cradling her with his body, tenderly stroking her hair, murmuring against her ear.
She finally turned to look up at him, and his eyes were haggard with relief, his gaze scanning over her face as if seeing her for the first time after long years of absence. His lips came down to meet hers, and her heart warmed with exquisite joy as they met, as she felt the love and tenderness which eased from the contact.
At last he pulled back slightly to look her over. “How hurt are you?” he asked hoarsely.
It was hard to see in the near twilight, but Elizabeth looked herself over. She was aching all over, her clothing was ripped in several places, and a shivering began to steal over her, slowly at first, and then more strenuously as she sat. She could not tell if she was injured, but flexings of her fingers and toes told her that at least all her major limbs were still functional.
She nodded tenuously at him, and he drew her carefully to her feet. “We have to get you to an inn,” he stated firmly. To her relief their two steeds waited nearby, drenched to the bone but seemingly unhurt. “Can you ride?”
“I believe so,” she agreed, moving toward her steed. “What happened to Corwin?”
His eyes darkened. “I do not know, and I do not care,” he growled, helping her to mount, then quickly gaining his own seat. “Let us get you to a warm fire before we worry about his worthless hide.”
They pressed on through the rain along the dark road, Richard close at her side, the path barely visible before them. Elizabeth was relieved when the lights of a village appeared just around a bend in the trees. Within minutes they were unsaddling the exhausted horses in a warm stable, laying out their food, and crossing through the sturdy door of a well-kept inn.
A hearty shout welcomed them, and Elizabeth staggered to a stop as Corwin, grinning widely, came toward them, a key in one hand, a large, grey-brown
towel in the other. “There you are! You will be happy to know that everything is prepared for you. Warm food, a dry room, and even a fresh change of clothes if you want them. This serving girl here seems to be exactly your proportions, and -”
Elizabeth’s hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, and she took a staggering step toward him. Richard was between them in a minute, snatching the key out of Corwin’s hand, turning to grab Elizabeth with the other as she half stumbled against him.
The waitress, her ebony curls bouncing, smiled at the couple. “These are ya friends, huh?” she laughed to Corwin, nudging him in the hip. She turned to the two. “She’s in the second door on the right,” she called after them as they moved toward the rooms. “Just yell if ya need anything.”
Richard didn’t slow in his movements, and Elizabeth was grateful for his support as he drew her in against him, fumbled with the lock for a minute, then pushed open the door. The room was as basic as they came – a straw mat, a stool, a tiny table barely large enough for a mug of mead. He kicked the door closed with his foot as she tumbled forward, and he helped to ease her down onto the bed.
Her shivering grew, and he cursed as he knelt next to her and began stripping off her sodden cloak, the waterlogged tunic, and the chemise beneath. Elizabeth was beyond caring about issues of privacy or modesty. She lay back against the mat, the shivering growing, as Richard removed every last strip of clothing from her.
He drew the blankets close around her, then strode to the door, shouting out back toward the main room. “I need more blankets, and a jug of mead,” he yelled out to nobody in particular. He left the door open a crack while he moved back to the bed, tossing his own cloak in a corner, kneeling down against Elizabeth and rubbing her limbs through the cloth.
“Come on now, hang in there,” he murmured to her, his voice tense. There was a movement behind him, and the dark-haired woman scurried in, blankets over one arm, a pottery jug in the other. He grabbed the blankets without a word, draping them over Elizabeth, and she put the mead down next to the bed.
“He didn’t say she were sick,” muttered the serving girl, her eyes looking doubtfully over the figure huddled in the bed.
“Stew, and bandages,” he ordered, his eyes not leaving Elizabeth’s form.
She nodded, and as she hurried from the room another form eased in.
“If you baby her, she will only languish,” Corwin insisted with a shrug, barely glancing at the form on the bed. “She needs to toughen up.”
Richard was on his feet in a heartbeat, his hand at his hilt, his eyes cold marbles. “Leave now, or prepare to draw,” he growled, his shoulders carved from stone.
Corwin put his hands up, stepping back. “Touchy, are we? The woman will clearly live. It was only a dousing.”
The serving girl eased past him, carrying a bowl of stew, a roll of bandages tucked under elbow. Richard took both from her. In a moment he had closed the door behind them, dropping the bar firmly into place. Then he had eased to his knees by Elizabeth’s side, first picking up the jug of mead. He raised it to her lips, and she took a shuddering drink, the warm liquid tracing a path down her insides. She closed her eyes in relief. At long last she was beginning to warm, the shudders were beginning to slow and drain from her body. She lay back against the mat, exhausted, as Richard carefully began to spoon up the rich stew. She could do no more than open her lips as it drew near, wait patiently for him to deposit it into her mouth, and work to swallow.
Finally she was full, the shivering ceased, and she could not hold her eyes open a moment longer. Richard had layered a mound of blankets over her and a warmth was slowly stealing over her from within. His hand gently stroked the hair away from her face, and she nuzzled into it. He had collapsed to sit at her side, and she curled up toward him, resting her hand in his, all else fading.
*
Elizabeth drifted into awareness, every part of her body aching. Her mind searched to latch onto what had happened. Had her father taken over a sparring practice again? She experimentally stretched with each finger, then each toe, testing to see what might be broken. Finally, convinced that she was fairly intact, she tentatively opened her eyes.
The room was unfamiliar. The late morning sun streamed in through the lone window, drawing her eyes to the worn walls, the scuff marks on the door. Her eyes traced around …
Richard was collapsed, exhausted, at her side. His leather gear was still damp against him, and his cloak lay flung in a corner.
She reached out to draw in the jug of mead which sat near the foot of her bed, then moved to sit up beside him. Carefully she brushed the hair from his face.
He sprang awake instantly, his hand coming down to trap hers, then relaxing back when he realized who it was. She raised the mug, and he nodded, leaning back as she poured some down his throat. Color rose to his face, and the tension in his face eased slightly.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “How are you feeling?”
The hint of a smile played on her face. “Nothing seems to be broken,” she returned. “How are you doing?”
He shrugged that off, turning to look at her, drinking her in as if she had been gone for months. “You had a number of serious gashes; they should be looked at,” he cautioned her.
She began peeling off the blankets in curiosity, and he turned in an instant, looking at the far wall. “You are not dressed,” he quickly informed her. His voice was tight. “It was necessary to check -”
She scoffed at his prudery. “If you had not, and missed a serious wound, I could have bled out. And then where would I be?” She threw off the last of the covers, then sat up, stretching her feet out before her. She wriggled her toes.
Ten functional toes. Check.
His voice was rough, his back stiff. “How do the wounds look?”
“Toes are all right,” she reported merrily, sliding her attention to her calves. A few scratches, but no major damage.
“Toes?” he asked in confusion.
She shrugged her shoulders, sliding her attention up to her knees. “How do you do your injury check? Surely you have some sort of a system?”
He shook his head in disbelief, and her eyes moved up to her thighs. Here is where it got interesting, apparently. A dingy white bandage was wrapped thoroughly around her right thigh. She poked at it experimentally. “So what is under this?”
He half-turned before catching himself. “Your leg? A sharp branch must have caught you when you got sucked under the tree.”
Her eyes lit up with interest. “Really? I want to see.” She began unwrapping the bandage with careful pulls.
“I am not sure that is the best idea,” he insisted, again beginning to turn before stopping.
“Oh for goodness sake,” she sighed, and leant forward, grabbing at a fresh chemise that lay at the end of her bed. She tugged it on over her arms, easing the bandage on her right arm through one sleeve, wincing at the pain in her left side. She would get to those soon enough. At last she had it over her and down to the top of the bandage. “You can look now,” she informed him.
He turned at that, his eyes going to the myriad of scratches and bruises scattered along both legs, and his eyes hardened for a moment, then gentled as he moved to help her with the unwinding.
The gash was raw, crimson, crusted with dried blood and pus. It traced from the top of her kneecap, turning to slide along her inner thigh in a jagged groove, coming to stop just below her groin. About half way up the length it crossed the thinner mark made by Corwin’s blade, which looked like a kitten’s scratch in comparison.
Her eyes went wide as she carefully examined each end, at how the injury had barely missed her kneecap, at how it drew up just in time to avoid the major blood vessels at the top of her inner leg.
“By the grace of God,” she murmured, drawing a finger along its length. “I could easily have been crippled, or bled out in minutes.”
Richard was still at her side. “Well do I know it,” he agreed hoarsely. “I
could not sleep all night, with that very image in my mind.”
He reached behind him, picking up a fresh bandage roll, then moved to the table and brought over the bowl of water sitting there. He wiped attentively along the wound’s length, clearing away any loose debris that he could, careful not to disturb the crust of blood which had formed. That done, he gently wrapped the fresh bandage along the wound, tucking the last end in place.
A quirk of a smile teased the corner of Elizabeth’s lips. “Turn around again, then,” she instructed Richard, nudging him.
He dutifully turned to look at the wall, and she raised her chemise up, examining her stomach and back with careful attention. A massive bruise was turning purple-violet on her left side, but no ribs seemed to be broken. Her chest was merely welted and cut. She dropped the chemise back down to cover her body, then called out merrily to Richard.
“The torso seems to be all right. You can turn while I do the arms.”
He helped her to pull her left sleeve back to the shoulder, and she looked down its length with meticulous attention, flexing her fingers, bending her elbow at every angle possible. “This arm is my life,” she murmured, prodding at the bicep with her fingers. “Of any part of me, I am thankful it made it through unscathed.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, she pulled down the sleeve. She next turned to her right arm. Richard sat alongside her to help ease the sleeve up over the bandage which encased her upper arm.
She eyed it with curiosity. “Is it any worse than the leg? Clearly I can move my fingers and elbow, so it could not be too horrific.”
He gave a wry grin. “You certainly have a lenient way of judging injuries,” he murmured. “I would say about the same severity.”
“Then I am fortunate,” she proclaimed, beginning the unwrapping effort. When the last bits of cloth had been pried away from the skin, she agreed with his assessment. Once again the deep gouge had barely missed her elbow, had cut its way along the tender flesh beneath her arm and ended a hair’s breadth away from the life-ending area beneath the armpit, the one she had been trained to protect at all costs in a sword fight.
