* * *
Beset by hunger and thirst, exhausted from his long journey, Colin Duffrey plodded through the forest. His upper right arm ached, the sword wound an angry red and swollen. Foul smelling pus leaked from the battle injury. His head ached; his teeth chattered as chills raced over his body. He swore, fearful he would lose his arm if he didn’t stem this infection, but he knew nothing about medicine. Talmora! I must not lose my arm! What kind of a soldier would he be with only one arm? How in the name of the Goddess could he fight?
Nor had his troubles ended with this injury. He had lost his horse in the battle and hadn’t had the opportunity to purchase another.
As the younger of two sons, he knew he would never inherit the family estate. So he had hired himself out as a mercenary soldier to Elegia in its never-ending war with Fomoria. But now…. He stopped to rest against a maple tree, afraid he couldn’t go much farther. Rest, he needed rest. He closed his eyes for a moment, his ears buzzing. His knees buckled under him but he caught himself in time. The constant rubbing of his tunic sleeve against the wound drove him crazy, so he rolled the sleeve up. There, much better.
Disgraced and demoted for insubordination, he headed home to rest and recover. Yet Ulaidh was still days away, and that was by horse. He’d never reach his village. Swiping the sweat from his forehead, he pushed himself away from the tree. He had to get home. Two years since he’d last seen his family! His throat tightened. His family—only his father and brother. Letters often didn’t get through, and at other times, the Fomorians wouldn’t permit correspondence to get past their lines. His mother had passed on to the Otherworld several years ago, and he feared his father would soon join her, for he suffered from heart trouble.
He had thought to take this shortcut through the forest, then connect with the Royal North Road later, where he would find inns along the way. But this trek was taking longer than he’d anticipated.
He licked dry lips; the ground tilted around him. It was agony to lift one foot in front of the other. His knapsack weighed him down, the sword at his side another burden.
He looked off in the distance and saw a clearing, a cottage set in its midst. Strange. Why was a cottage set here, in the middle of nowhere? Never mind! If he had any luck—a scarce commodity these days—the owner might offer him food and a place to rest. He tapped the coin purse attached to his metal belt. He would pay the owner, if it came to that.
Wending his way among the oaks and maples, he staggered to the front door and dropped his knapsack. He knocked, faint with the effort. He waited a few moments, then knocked again, leaning his head against the wood. Spots danced in front of his eyes.
Drawing on his last bit of strength, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. After a few steps, he fell sprawling onto the floor. The sword clattered at his side. Darkness closed around him.
* * *
On the shore again, Alana squeezed the water from her hair and shift. She perched on the stump, letting the breeze and sunshine dry her hair. She wished she could stay here forever, forget her worries, pretend life was as it had been before the illness had taken her parents. She smiled, thinking of all the happy times with her mother and father and her brother Duncan before he’d married and moved away.
She stared off to the tree-studded hills. Had the old man returned to his home there? She wondered if she would see him again and hoped she would. His kind words had offered hope and comfort when she needed them most.
She sighed, well aware she couldn’t stay here forever. Among her provisions at the cottage, she’d found oat flour, yeast, and salt, all she required for making bread, except milk, but water would have to do. A loaf of freshly-baked bread sounded good. Her wet shift still clung to her, but she couldn’t linger. She slipped her dress on, struggling to pull it over her drenched undergarment. She headed back to the river to dip the bucket for water. Stepping into her sandals, she headed home. Strange, she mused as she followed the rocky path back to the cottage, that she would now think of this place in the wilderness as her home.
Climbing upward, she neared the house as bright sunshine lit the clearing. The chickens squawked and scattered, but she stepped past them. She approached the front door and gasped.
The door stood open.
Chapter Three
Alana pressed a hand to her fluttering heart. She stood still, at a loss to know where to go, what to do. Fear froze her stomach, but indignation overrode all other emotions. Someone had invaded her sanctuary! In desperation, she looked around for a weapon but saw none. She smiled grimly. If robbery was his motive, she had precious little to steal—except her gold bracelet. No, he mustn’t have that! And if he had a darker purpose? She’d fight him with everything in her. Then she saw the knapsack outside her door. So, he planned to stay?
She couldn’t remain outside all day. With a deep breath for courage, she moved closer to the door and stepped inside, setting the bucket down. The most Goddess-awful stench assailed her. A man lay on the floor. Dead? With cautious steps, she approached him and saw the rise and fall of his chest. Just look at his arm! The poor man suffered with an infection and would lose his arm if she did nothing to save it.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from the counter, she rushed outside to the herb garden. She snipped off the petals from a calendula plant and hurried back inside. Her breath came fast, her hands shaking as she crushed the petals in a mug and poured boiling water over the petals. Time! She must hurry, yet she needed several minutes for the infusion to steep.
While she waited, she moved about the cottage, putting dishes away, making her bed. Back in the front room, she saw the man’s sword. Was he a soldier, or did he carry the weapon for protection? She slipped the sword from the scabbard and set it against a chair. It appeared to be expensive, made of the finest steel. Perhaps he was an officer, but Avador had been at peace for years. If not fighting for Avador, then where? She retrieved the knapsack from outside and set it by the sword.
Then she noticed his belt. Made of metal, its design revealed intricately intertwined animals and was studded with garnets. Only a man of wealth would own such a belt.
She heard him moan and mumble in his sleep. His head moved restlessly as he shifted his position. He had harsh features, as if cut from granite, and thin lips. Unruly dark hair fell past his neck. He wore a dark brown tunic and plaid trousers tucked inside mid-calf leather boots. The boots appeared to be made of well-crafted leather.
Enough time had passed, and she poured more boiling water over the petals, making the infusion as hot as possible. She tore off a strip from her shift and knelt on the floor. With a cloth to protect her fingers, she pressed the infusion over his wound. She winced as he jerked and opened his eyes. Within seconds he closed his eyes and mumbled something that sounded like “get home”. How far from home is he? she wondered as she wrapped the linen strip around his arm and tied it. She sat back and prayed to the Goddess that she could save his arm. She needed to change his poultice often, but that was the least of her worries. He must not lose his arm.
While he slept and the oven was warming, she mixed ingredients for two loaves of bread. She set the dough in a greased bowl and covered it to let it rise. As the morning wore on, she cast anxious glances at the stranger, grateful he slept, for sleep was the best healer. Determined that she had done enough for now, she made herself a cup of chamomile tea and warmed up yesterday’s vegetable soup. That would do for her midday meal, she thought as she sat down at the table.
For a few busy hours, she’d forgotten the curse, forgotten her ugly looks. What would the stranger think when he awoke and saw her? Sighing, she rose to place the dough into two pans, then set them in the oven, drawing her arm out quickly. The bread and leftover soup would have to do for the evening meal. She had two to feed now, she mused as she set the dirty dishes in a tin tub of soapy water.
* * *
His mouth dry from thirst, Colin awoke from a feverish sleep. The aroma of baking bread wafted through the
air, a blatant reminder of his hunger. He opened one eye, then another. Where was he? Ah, yes. Everything came back to him, his long trek through the woods and finding this cottage. His arm burned like fury, but a glance in that direction revealed that someone had applied a poultice to his wound. He changed his position and saw a woman with her back to him. Long, lustrous hair fell almost to her waist. What color would one call it—chestnut, auburn? No matter, her hair was beautiful. With her trim figure, that gray dress certainly didn’t do her justice. A lovely lady such as she should be clad in silk or—
She turned and he gasped. Danu’s balls, she was the ugliest woman he’d ever seen. What had happened to her face? What if she had a contagious disease?
“I won’t bite,” she said as she stepped his way. “And no, it’s not contagious.” She paused and licked her lower lip. “I’m Alana Cullain, by the way.”
He cleared his throat. “Colin Duffrey. I beg your pardon, madam, I was just, er, surprised to see someone in this cabin.”
Her mouth tightened. “You don’t need to explain.” She knelt and with extreme care, removed the poultice from his arm.
He jerked. “Am I going to lose my arm?”
“Not if I can help it. Only wait a few minutes and I’ll have a fresh bandage for you.” She spoke in a soft, pleasant tone, a trace of refinement in her voice. Such pretty eyes she had, the bluest he’d ever seen.
“Well, I can at least get up off the floor,” he said, matching action to words. On shaky legs, he made his way to a chair. The room spun around him. Quickly, she took his left arm to help him sit.
He licked dry lips. “Dying of thirst!”
She smiled, a lovely smile if you could ignore the rest of her face. “I wouldn’t want you to die of thirst or anything else—“ She frowned at her choice of words. She reached for a pitcher on the stone counter and poured some of the contents into a mug. He caught the aroma of—
”Mead, but it won’t last forever. I’ve been drinking tea or water.”
He made a face. “Water?” He took a long gulp of mead. Ah, that tasted good.
“Water, aye, from the Nantosuelta River, just down the path from here. A fast-flowing river,” she explained. “The water is safe to drink.”
“Let’s see to your injury again.” She poured boiling water over a mixture in a mug. What is in that mug? he wondered.
He flinched as she patted the mixture on his arm. “Does it have to be that hot?”
“The hotter, the better.” She wrapped a clean strip of linen around his arm and tied it, then smiled in satisfaction. By now, the sunlight was slanting from a different direction. He wondered how much time had passed while he lay on floor. His stomach growled. How long since he’d eaten? Too long!
“I’ll have the evening meal ready soon.” She turned away and opened the oven door, using what looked like a long-handled shovel, and set two pans on the counter.
Ah, that bread smelled good. His stomach growled again, and he wondered what else she’d serve for their meal. This quandary prompted a question. “Where do you get your food? There are no shops for miles around. No neighbors, either.”
She sighed. He could tell she was searching for words. “It’s a long story,” she said after a pause. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.” Another pause. “I do have a small garden outside.”
How long would that food last? More puzzled than ever, he said no more. It was enough to know that he had a place to rest and food to eat.
A short time later, she set two wooden bowls of vegetable soup on the table, along with wooden spoons. Slices of freshly-baked bread completed the meal. A simple repast, but enough for now. Steam rose from the bowl of soup, carrying the scents of thyme and sage. A savory soup, hot and filling. It was far better than that slop—whatever you could call it—that the cook made back home. He bit off a slice of the oat bread and thought nothing had ever tasted so good. After a few bites, he dropped his spoon in the bowl as chills racked his body again. Sweat beaded his forehead. He threw her an apologetic look. “I fear I’ve attempted too much.” Pushing the bowl aside, he rested his head in his hands. He felt sick, so sick. He might lose his arm, after all.
She jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry. I should have realized you need rest, more than anything.” She rushed to fetch a blanket from a chest in the bedroom. She flipped it out to spread it on the puncheon floor. “Here, lie down. I may have to replace the poultice later, but I’ll try to be as gentle as possible.”
He stretched out on the floor. The woolen blanket scratched his back, but he would say nothing. “Madam—“
”Call me Alana, please.”
“Alana, you have done much for me this day, saving my arm—I hope! I’ll not complain.”
She nodded. “Sleep, then. You will surely feel better tomorrow.”
He hoped. He closed his eyes as sleep overtook him again.
* * *
That night, as Alana prepared for bed, all her despair and frustration returned to torment her. She’d seen Colin’s look of disgust, the same aversion she’d suffered from people in her village. This disgust, this repugnance, would follow her for the rest of her life.
No! She slammed her hand down on the chest. If this is what life held for her, she must accept her fate. She would make her life here in the wilderness. And who knew, perhaps other wanderers would come this way, seeking succor. If this is what the Goddess planned for her, she must accept it.
Yet she still had a score to settle. She would not let Morag Delaney escape punishment. If she had to leave her sanctuary, if only for one day, she would make the trip back to her village. Whether she remained ugly, or if her looks were restored, she would obtain justice.
Courage, she vowed. You must have courage.
Chapter Four
Colin’s wound appeared a little better the following day, but Alana knew he had many more days before he would be well enough to return home. He still suffered with alternating chills and fever, his sore remaining an angry red. She dosed him with willow bark tea during his bouts of fever, relieved that the infusion helped. Although he argued that he could return home soon, she feared he’d have a relapse if he tried. At least he could sit through the evening meal, albeit lacking much appetite, his movements slow and listless.
This evening, their meal consisted of an omelet thick with tomato chunks and green pepper, spiced with oregano. Leftover bread supplemented their meal. In the coming days, when he felt better, she’d need to prepare more substantial meals. By the time he felt better, however, he’d be well enough to return home. A trace of sadness made her pause. She would miss him, because he’d given her much-needed company. And is that the only reason? her weary heart queried.
Afraid to know the answer, she determined to deflect her thoughts. “Your sword,” she remarked, dipping her spoon into the omelet, “it looks to be well-made. Mind telling me if you use it only for protection or—“
”An Elegian sword, best swords made. Finest steel.”
“Forgive my curiosity, but I’m wondering why you carry a sword from another country.”
He raised a goblet of tea to his mouth, taking a long sip. “Ah, I should have explained from the first. I serve as a mercenary soldier with the Elegian army, fighting Fomoria.”
She nodded. “A war that’s gone on forever. Is that how you came by your wound?”
“Indeed.” Frowning, he remained silent for a long moment, as if hesitating how much to tell her.
“Doesn’t the Elegian army have medical doctors? Your wound should have been treated as soon as possible.”
“Hard to come by immediate aid in battle.”
“Yes, of course.” She ate slowly, wanting to stretch this time between them, knowing their friendship would soon end. Besides, she wanted to know more about the battle, if he didn’t mind discussing it. She liked to hear him talk in his baritone voice with its hint of huskiness, liked watching those expressive hands.
“The battle,” she prompted.
“Were you in the infantry?”
“Cavalry.” His mouth worked. “I might as well tell you about the battle and how I came by my demotion.”
”Demotion?”
He nodded. “From major to captain.” He sighed. “I had an argument with my commanding officer prior to the battle. I was ordered to take part in a cavalry charge. My commander ordered another officer to lead the charge, but I argued that I would be more effective, more likely to stop the enemy’s advance. I’d fought with Ardesus before, knew he lacked the necessary boldness to lead the charge.” Colin’s face twisted with anger, as if he were reliving the dispute. “The argument became heated, and I told him he was making a mistake, which was true. I think he would have ordered me off the field then and there, but even he knew
he needed every man.” He sighed again. “I’ve never seen him so angry, but I knew I was right.”
Alana chose her words carefully. “Might it be that your commanding officer had a reason for ordering another soldier to lead the charge?”
“What reason? I was the better man, my commanding officer surely must have realized that.” He turned away for a moment, his gaze covering the small room.
“So what did you do?” She reached for a slice of bread, waiting for his reply.
“I obeyed him but let him know I wasn’t happy about it.”
“And you were wounded that day?’
“Aye. Nor was that all. An enemy sword found my horse, and I had to kill the animal to put him out of his misery. After the encounter—which we lost!—I headed back to camp with the rest of the survivors.”
“Were there no field hospitals to treat your wound?”
He shook his head. “At first, I didn’t think my injury was serious, and I ignored it.” He grimaced. “A mistake, as you can see. Back at the camp, when I saw that my wound was festering, I told a fellow officer that I was taking medical leave. Then I got my things together and left.”
Enchanted Cottage (Avador Book 3, Books We Love Fantasy Romance) Page 2
