Silverhawk

by Bettis, Barbara

  When he turned to tell Emelin, hot pain sliced from his side into his chest, and he pitched forward. He steadied himself, tried to push upright. His body wouldn’t cooperate.

  He wrapped his hands in the black’s mane and held fast. As if Nuit sensed his master’s problem, the horse stopped.

  Damnation. Such a small jab to lay him out. He’d never live it down back in Normandy. How his men would laugh. The spots converged before his eyes and darkness enveloped him.

  ****

  Emelin heard horses approach as she dropped to Giles’ side on the ground. She hoped the newcomers didn’t signal more outlaws bent on abduction and murder.

  Right now, more important things crowded her mind, such as Giles spread out in the dirt of the road. Pray God the fall hadn’t injured him further.

  She did a quick count as the riders came into view. Five. They didn’t look vicious as they circled her. And she couldn’t smell them from where she knelt. They bathed. That was a good sign.

  “What’s the problem, girl?” asked the one who’d halted nearest her. At last she noticed they wore the clothing of knights. Thank God. They could be of service.

  A trace of suspicion marked the leader’s rough voice when he looked at Giles.

  “That man is hurt. You just crawl away from him right now, wench. Don’t be trying any of your tricks, robbing a wounded knight.”

  For a shocked instant all she could do was stare at the speaker. Did he really think she was a common thief? Emelin swiped her dirty hand across her face, pulled a strand of hair behind an ear. With no thought of her appearance, she rose to her knees, fisted hands on hips.

  “This knight has been stabbed. You’d be advised to stop talking like a lackwit and get down here to help. We’re on our way to Granville Castle. Do you know how far it is? I must find a healer for him before it’s too late.”

  The rider looked nonplussed at her fierce reply.

  How could they just sit there when it was obvious Giles suffered? Men could have such thick heads.

  Her chin lifted. “Step lively, now. He’s consumed with fever.”

  The leader glanced at the others, motioned to one. “See if she speaks true.”

  The creak of saddle leather and jangle of spurs echoed in the quiet of the countryside. No travelers in either direction. She was alone with these men.

  For an instant, Emelin wondered if she should fear their intentions. If only she had a weapon. The thought vanished when Giles groaned.

  She turned back, then lifted the edge of his tunic for the approaching knight to see. After a quick examination, the man nodded.

  “Knife wound to the side,” he pronounced. “Looks to be bad.”

  Emelin raised her eyebrows at the leader. Wasn’t that what she had said? His opinion of her must have changed, because his answer was more respectful. “Lady, I ask your pardon. We’ve followed a band of outlaws, and we’d reason to think they came this way.”

  She nodded. “They are likely the very ones who set upon us. You’ll find their bodies some distance back. This knight was able to kill them, but not before one scored a hit. Now. Will you provide assistance or must I try to get him back on his horse alone?”

  The leader gestured to the men and dismounted.

  “We’re not far from Granville if you cut across the fields,” he allowed. “I am Sir Thomas, captain of Granville’s guard. Sir James will take you and your man there. We’ll find your attackers, see if they’re the ones we’re after.”

  Arms folded across his chest, he studied the still figure on the ground. “Took down three of ’em, did he? Good fighter.”

  “Yes.” Her voice grew thick. “The best. I owe my life to him. But he needs attention immediately.”

  Three of the men lifted Giles. She pointed to the mare. “Put him there. Perhaps if we tied him to the saddle—”

  When that was accomplished, he still drooped forward precariously. Through all the jostling, he had not uttered a sound. Emelin was very worried now. If he could not hold on…

  “I’ll ride behind to steady him,” she announced. Before she could ask for help, Sir Thomas had deposited her on the horse. She clutched Giles, then realized the flaw in her plan. His wound was right beneath her arm if she reached around his waist. Blast.

  Groping lower, her fingers encountered the rope used to secure him to the saddle. Her left hand curled around it, then she adjusted her right arm higher on his chest.

  The knight named James took the reins. “I’ll lead your horse.”

  Nuit had followed when Giles was moved and now stood at the mare’s side.

  “If you tie up the gelding’s reins, he’ll come along,” Emelin directed. With an incredulous look, Sir James did as she asked and, sure enough, the black kept pace.

  At last. Her forehead pressed against Giles’ back, she sighed. A tear rolled down her cheek, then another. With a sniff, she lifted her head. No time for weakness. She had to make sure her man got help. Her man. Sir Thomas had called him that. It sounded…right. If only it could be true.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Not far now, my lady.” Relief washed over Emelin at Sir James’ shout. It seemed they’d ridden for hours. At some point clouds had drifted in to block the sun. At least the temperature remained steady.

  She lifted her cheek from Giles’ back. Her face burned from the heat pulsing through his shirt and tunic. They had to find help soon. Pray God he’d awaken before her arms refused to hold his sagging body any longer. The horse sidestepped, and Giles’ muscles tensed. He was awake.

  Her first reaction was to ask how he felt. A stupid question. Instead she said, “Can you see the castle?” She listened for the cogency of his reply.

  Silence lengthened before he finally answered, “Yes. Through the trees there.” Good. He was rational. Leaning carefully to one side, she looked but didn’t see a large structure.

  Instead, she spotted a cluster of dwellings that marked the village, laid out much like a cross. Each cottage had a small plot of land. Several other cottages, set away from the main streets, were larger and looked to boast more property.

  A good lord, to allow his tenants this generous use of land. Perhaps such a lord would shelter Giles until he healed enough to travel again. In the last few hours, Emelin had realized this was her chance. With Silverhawk incapacitated, she could leave, return to Langley, and he couldn’t stop her.

  First, however, she would see his injury treated. He rescued her, after all. Once she determined he was well cared for, she’d set out.

  No matter how right the words “your man” sounded when Sir Thomas uttered them, Giles wasn’t her man. She was bound to another. Even should she want, there was no way to break the betrothal.

  And in spite of his drugging kisses and caresses, Giles had never indicated a desire to wed her. She tamped down a bubble of disappointment. Of course she did not want him to do so.

  Yet she shivered at the memory of his lips on hers. She should be ashamed of herself, lusting after a man she didn’t know—one mortally wounded at that.

  The odd thing was, she felt she did know him. Awareness fairly hummed between them. And no matter the dangers, with Giles she felt safe.

  A rumble in his chest vibrated against her hand. Oh, Lord. Lost in thought, she’d caressed him. She jerked away and nearly tumbled off the horse at the abrupt movement. When she looked up, Granville filled her sight.

  Across a gentle hill not far from a small woods ran a massive stone wall. The upper stories of a square keep were visible above the enclosure. In the center of the wall, tall towers flanked double wooden gates that creaked open at Sir James’ signal. Shorter towers anchored each corner where the thick walls met.

  A heaviness jerked at her arms. Giles had pitched forward but caught himself at the last moment. Praise God, they had made it in time. She didn’t know how much longer he could remain upright. If he lost consciousness again, the ropes must hold him, because she could not.

  A fe
w soldiers met them at the open gates, and curious servants appeared. Sir James sent for the healer and ordered the lord and lady be notified. Emelin slid from the mare to make way as the men untied Giles. She kept pace as they carried him toward one of the towers flanking the gate. Inside, they placed him on a low table.

  “Gently,” she cautioned and managed to catch his boots before they hit the edge of the flat wooden surface. She gained his side and brushed back his dark hair. Fingertips lingered on his forehead. Warmer than before? Oh, why didn’t the healer hurry?

  From the keep came a short, plump lady wearing a wine-red gown girdled with clanging keys. Beside her limped a gray-haired man whose stooped shoulders could not disguise his height. Sir James met them at the door. This must be the lord and lady of the castle.

  Moments later a woman in a nun’s habit hurried across the packed earth of the bailey. She carried a bag and she, too, entered the tower room.

  “Tell me about the injury,” she ordered Emelin as she bustled in, ignoring the other three.

  Emelin described the knife wound, but omitted the events that led to it. The nun listened as she removed jars and strips of linen from the bag. The gray-haired man approached one side of the pallet where the men worked Giles free of his tunic and shirt as the healer waited. The lady made her way to Emelin’s side.

  “I am Lady Clysta, my dear. That is my lord, Sir Daviess. Sir James tells me you and your knight were set upon by outlaws yesterday.” Her kind face softened. “You’re lucky you’re unharmed.”

  Emelin nodded. “Sir Giles was stabbed as he fought the men. He thought the wound was minor, but it grew worse last night.”

  The older lady patted her hand. “Don’t worry, our Sister Ressa will take care of him. You are welcome here. Would you like to go inside now and rest?”

  Emelin was suddenly aware of her dirt and disarray, but she was too concerned to care. Only Giles mattered right now.

  “Thank you for your hospitality. But I will remain here.”

  Lady Clysta nodded. Her clear gray eyes held a question, and Emelin was relieved courtesy required it not be voiced. She wasn’t ready to face the decision such an admission would demand.

  “Mangan.” The exclamation drew both their attention. Lady Clysta gasped, clasped hands moving to her mouth. The old lord stared at Giles. “Our boy’s home, my love. Come, look.”

  Emelin’s quick glance surprised tears in the other lady’s eyes. “Yes,” Lady Clysta called. “I’m coming.” Her teeth worried one side of her lower lip. A frown creased her lined brow.

  “He sometimes believes our son has returned to us,” she murmured. “But Mangan was lost a score and more years past. Please excuse me. My lord husband grows agitated at times like this.”

  Sure enough, the elderly man had grabbed Giles’ hand as Sister Ressa worked at the wound. Giles opened his eyes. His head turned from Sir Daviess’ chatter, and his gaze caught hers. She could almost hear his questions.

  The lord’s voice rose. “You see, Clysta, he’s here. I said he’d come home, didn’t I?” His grin folded into the lines around his mouth and eyes. His wife stroked his shoulder in comfort.

  “Yes, my dear. So you did. But we must allow him to rest now and recover from his injury. Come inside with me, and we’ll have a drink to warm us. This air grows cool.”

  He patted the hand she’d placed on his shoulder. “You go ahead, my lady. I’ll stay here for a bit, see if he needs anything.” His arm slid around her waist. “Come and welcome him home, before you go.”

  With a small smile, Lady Clysta stepped up beside Giles. When he turned his head to meet her gaze she smiled sadly. Although her hand shook as she touched his arm, she spoke graciously.

  “I can understand my lord husband’s confusion. There is a look of our son about you. He was lost to us many years ago. Our only child, you understand.” Her voice broke as she struggled to maintain composure. After a moment, she continued. “You are very welcome at Granville, Sir Knight. Please remain until you have recovered.”

  Unable to persuade Sir Daviess to abandon his place at Giles’ side, Lady Clysta at last returned to the keep where, she promised, she would prepare a room and a bath for Emelin.

  Emelin took up a place on the opposite side of the table from where the nun yet worked and Sir Daviess stood guard. Her fingers grazed Giles’ arm. His head angled to watch her.

  “Are you all right?” he rasped.

  “Yes,” she assured him. “This is Granville. You brought us here safely.” She bit her lip to keep tears at bay.

  His eyes closed, then opened as he fought sleep. When he lost the battle, his long black lashes lay thick against his cheeks. She leaned in and brushed her lips across his forehead.

  “Your man is very ill, my lady,” Sister Ressa said as Emelin straightened. The two women looked at each other. “There may be some substance trapped deep inside the torn flesh. I have observed that infection often gathers around such foreign matter. If it is not removed the infection will worsen.”

  The nun’s meaning was clear. Giles might die. It was her fault. Had she not tried to escape again, had she remained under his protection, he wouldn’t be in this condition. Garley had been right all along. She was obstinate.

  “What can I do, Sister?” She stroked his hand and arm.

  “There is nothing right now, my lady. I will try to clean the wound. It will be painful for him. He must be tied down. Perhaps you should take this time to rest and change your garments. You will want to be fresh when he awakens. I’m certain he will want to see you then.”

  Sister Ressa was correct. Emelin needed to rest and put herself to rights. With a sigh, she nodded. Halfway to the door she stopped. What was she thinking? Giles must not be left to the mercy of strangers. He hadn’t deserted her when she was in need. Besides, she could not rest in the keep, worried that he suffered.

  Two burly men-at-arms side-stepped around her, followed by Sir James. Each carried a stout rope. They bound him to the table with one rope around his chest, shoulders and upper arms and the other around his legs. Then at a word from the healer, they turned the table half way around so that the light from the door fell on the wound.

  Sir Daviess did not move and now stood at the foot of the table. Emelin took her place at Giles’ uninjured side and reached for his hand. This she could do. Sister Ressa caught her eye and nodded. The nun had wiped her knife with a cloth dampened in some aromatic liquid. Now she bent and began to probe.

  Every sound was magnified in the otherwise silent room. Breath roared, a cleared throat thundered, the blade against torn flesh sucked and smacked. Sister Ressa uttered “Umm” from between compressed lips.

  Almost immediately after, Giles winced then shouted. His eyes flew open. “What in Satan’s arse is happening? Why can’t I move?” He started to struggle. “Get these ropes off me. What in Hades’ fire are you poking in me?”

  The nun straightened to wipe the knife with the treated linen.

  “Hold still if you can,” she said to Giles. “There’s something else lodged in your side that I can’t reach. I must try again.”

  He muttered something in reply, then lunged to free his arms. The men-at-arms jumped forward to brace his shoulders and legs while the nun continued.

  Emelin grasped Giles’ hand; her other hand stroked his brow. “You’ve been injured. The good sister is cleaning the wound.”

  Unfocused eyes roamed over her face, then he frowned. “Emelin? You’re safe? Where are we? What in…” Sister Ressa took that moment to insert the knife again, and he swore. He didn’t flinch, but beads of perspiration lined his upper lip, his forehead. The two men-at-arm pressed him down.

  “God curse you sons of poxed whores, let go of me. I don’t need to be held down like a babe.”

  Emelin dampened a length of linen in the bowl of water and blotted his forehead.

  “It will be all right.” Her voice was low, soothing. “You were very brave. You fought three outlaws al
l alone. And then you found me. I was frightened, but you kept me safe.”

  She continued to stroke his face, murmur foolish words she lost sense of. Her touch, the sound of her voice calmed him. His jaw was clenched, his eyes closed. If only he could manage that trick he had, she thought, to remove himself from the moment, perhaps the pain would not be so acute.

  “Found it,” Sister Ressa announced. “Hold on.” Emelin could see the sharp angle of the nun’s elbow as she moved the knife.

  “Emelin,” he whispered. His eyes found hers, the silver dulled to steel, the whites webbed with red. The grip on her hand was so intense, she feared some bones might break.

  “I’m here.” She stroked his face, his hair. “You will be all right,” she repeated.

  The nun straightened, held up a small piece of metal triumphantly, then put it on the table and slid her hands into the water bowl.

  “It’s over. Sister Ressa is finished.” His eyes closed again; his grip loosened. He’d lost consciousness. Emelin again blotted his damp face, brushed back his hair. Gently she placed his hand down and flexed her fingers. They all moved.

  “The fever has taken him,” the nun said as she dried her hands. “I’ll vow he wouldn’t utter a word in his right mind. He only fought the bindings, not the pain.” She gazed at him a moment, then shook her head. “I’ll dress the wound now. No stitching. It may need to drain. Come, my lady, see how this is done.”

  Emelin stepped to the other side of the table where a small dish of ointment sat. Its odor was nasty.

  Working quickly, Sister Ressa washed and blotted the bloody skin, then patted a mass of the smelly substance over the still-bleeding wound. Another generous glob went on a square of linen for the bandage.

  “Hold this firmly,” she ordered Emelin. “You.” She nodded to one of the men who had just removed the ropes from Giles’ chest. “Help me turn him to slide this binding under his back. Carefully. Thank you.” She pulled the wide linen strip firmly around his waist, over the pad, and tied it tightly.