Falconburg Divided (The Falconburg Series Book 1)

by Sarah Waldock

  Whatever reaction Gyrfalon had anticipated of Annis it was not the one he got.

  “Sit.” She instructed him sharply. “How can I make an examination when my eyes are no higher than your solar plexus?”

  The logic was undeniable; and he sat, scowling. It had given Annis the second or two she needed to adjust to the horror of his wounds – not that she had felt any urge to recoil as perhaps many would, but to come to terms with the enormity of the wounds that could not fail to sicken by their extent. She approached her patient; and Gyrfalon’s jaw tightened in disapproval as she took his chin to turn his ravaged face to the light. She frowned thoughtfully.

  “Well?” He asked, harshly.

  The girl stepped back and looked him squarely in the face.

  “It is my opinion,” she told him tartly, “that you should take whoever has been treating your face and hang him.”

  Gyrfalon blinked.

  That was not what he had expected to hear; indeed that the fragile looking girl should make so ruthless a suggestion was enough to catch his interest anew. But she might easily say anything.

  “Indeed?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “You could do better?”

  “Assuredly,” she said. “So far as I can determine, the sole treatment has been to sear away feeling rather than to attempt any kind of cure. It smells of witchery; and poor witchery at that.”

  “You are so sure, girl,” he growled. “Yet there is no cure! The wound is cursed. Only witchery brings relief to such a wound.”

  “Nonsense!” she snapped. “If there is a curse, it could mean that it is not entirely curable; and a wicked curse it must truly be, too,” she added “But it can surely be eased. You will not see immediate results – it will be several days before any ointments I prepare have any noticeable results – but undoubtedly I can ease the pain and maybe have at least something of a curative effect.” She gave him a direct look. “You will have to give me an escort to collect specific herbs; and give orders that I am to have use of your stillroom, and that my pestle and mortar and other tools be not disturbed or used by any other, it will be” she smiled brightly “a challenging task.”

  He scowled again.

  “And if I feel no relief in two or three days – shall I then hang you?” he growled.

  She held his gaze.

  “I would give it the seven days round,” she suggested. “And then if you feel no relief, by all means hang me.” Her voice was steady and calm; and it impressed him despite himself. Then her irrepressible dimple showed again. “But by then,” she added “It should be feeling so much better that it even starts to mend your famous temper too.”

  He moved fast, and had her by the throat.

  “Just watch my famous temper, my girl,” he hissed. “I could break your neck where you stand.”

  Annis stood unmoving, scorning to let instinct drive her hands to his in fruitless struggle. He released her, and she stumbled; fought with her balance; and regained her stance, regarding him with her big solemn indigo eyes. They held no fear, nor even reproach; only, if anything, compassion. A shaft of late afternoon sun flashed on her gold crucifix, and Gyrfalon swore.

  “By the powers of Hell, girl, how do I know you do not intend to use your potions to do more harm?” He spoke through gritted teeth. She looked down her nose scornfully.

  “I am a healer. If I ever want to kill you I will wait until I am adept at sword and come front on, not in a coward’s attack through skin-absorbed poisons. It is true that if I am lucky enough to find Mandrake, the preparations may cause you to feel detached for a while after I put it on, and maybe have vivid dreams at night, for it has side effects of hallucinations. I will not be using it in quantity, however, because of the risk of impaired judgement. If you mistrust me, either continue to be in pain, or send one with me that has herb lore. There is bound to be a village wise woman even if you have none in the rag tag and bobtail you field.”

  He ignored the insult to his men, the possibilities in what she had said previously striking him.

  “It is possible then to kill with herbs through the skin?” He asked incredulously. She nodded.

  “Eminently so – though it is more the mineral poisons than herbs that can be so used. But a man can be driven insane through dreams and visions – with mandrake, for one if the dose and the preparation is right. Enough to drive him to suicide. I know the means in order to counteract such poisons, but a true healer does not deal in such things; and I will not brew you potions to thus dispose of your enemies.”

  It pleased Lord Gyrfalon again to be amused at her temerity; and he barked a laugh before he dismissed her. And as he re-donned his helmet it occurred to him that not once had she either flinched or stared in horror at the ruin of his face; but looked at him as though it were still whole. Superficially the girl might bear a passing resemblance to his dead Alys; but there were depths to this one as yet unfathomable. And she feared him not.

  What a son she would have made!

  “He didn’t kill you then,” Elissa commented, as the girl emerged. Annis sniffed.

  “I am neither important enough, nor insignificant enough for him to kill me. He may be a warlord with an insalubrious reputation – but he is a pragmatist. Else he had not remained a warlord long.”

  “My, you’re cold blooded,” marvelled Elissa.

  Annis shrugged.

  “I, too, am a pragmatist,” she said. “My situation is not ideal, but it is an improvement on what might have been. And I intend to make the best of it. Meantime, he’s going to arrange me an escort; I expect you’ll be along. I have herbs to collect, and you never know what riff-raff you might meet in the woodlands.”

  She raised her voice slightly at the last comment, hearing the warlord’s door opening, knowing he would know that the comment was aimed at him. She was rewarded by hearing a snort of appreciative amusement; Gyrfalon evidently enjoyed verbal fencing as much as she did. After all, she reflected, the rabble he had collected were scarcely a prepossessing bunch. He had even less scope for intelligent conversation than she had had since old Father Simeon had died last year. Father Tobias, his replacement, had been devout, dour, scantily educated and a dead bore. And it was so tedious to make a joke and either find it went over people’s heads, or left them taking her seriously when she spoke in jest.

  Annis rode out next morning with half a dozen armed men as well as Elissa. She had spent a fairly comfortable night, sleeping deeply as only the young can to catch up on her busy night the night before. The day was fine as it had been the day before and she had high hopes of finding everything she needed. Carefully she sought out the herbs she needed; more comfrey, the best leaves she could find; oak bark, for open wounds; plantain for the neutralisation of infection; sage too for its manifold healing properties; St John’s wort, that great healer. By the stream she took willow bark for pain relief, then searched for borage in a dry clearing and eyebright nearby. Finally she smiled to herself as she recognised the leaves of the mandrake plant..

  “Our final stop.” She told her escort as she dismounted. “Mandrake.”

  There was a stir amongst the men. One of them even crossed himself. Superstitious awe showed in all their faces.

  “You b’aint pullin’ that right now, be you?” Asked one fearfully.

  “Naturally,” her tone was cool. “What would be the good of seeking it out and then leaving it?”

  He shuffled, uncomfortable.

  “But the safeguards ….” he began. She looked at him scornfully.

  “You don’t really believe that it screams when it is pulled?” She asked incredulously, referring to the superstition that mandrake pulled would scream loud enough to drive a man insane. He flushed.

  “You mean it don’t?” He asked. “Is that because it ain’t midnight on a full moon? Don’t that make it less effective?”

  Annis sighed.

  “The phase of the moon has nothing to do with the efficacy of any herb. Some herbs yield bet
ter effects at certain times of the year – the comfrey leaves are a little old and tough, for example. And the time of day may be important to prevent leaves being either damp, or dried right out. But there is no magic involved,” she added, “However, at least you ask. What is your name?”

  “T’is Kai, my lady.”

  “Then, Kai, if you are interested, you may assist me in the stillroom and I shall instruct you in the use of herbs.” She smiled. “But you must never use mandrake until you are experienced; not for any magic, but because it can be a powerful poison if used carelessly.”

  “Lord Gyrfalon won’t like you using a poison,” he warned her. She laughed.

  “All medicines are poison,” she told him. “It is a matter of degree. Too much of anything can kill you. It’s just that too much mandrake is a really small amount. Do not fear for your lord; I have used mandrake before and I know what I am doing. Now, help me pull it.”

  Kai swallowed and came forward to help her, taking his courage in both hands. The others retreated, two going so far as to ride out of earshot. Annis snorted.

  “Lord Gyrfalon will know of such cowardice, be assured,” Elissa said, as much to prevent the others from fleeing as anything else.

  “She’s got a crucifix,” one of the other men, a big blond man, pointed out.

  “So?” Elissa sneered. “If the thing screams, ‘twill not prevent her hearing. And if the crucifix stops it screaming, why then you are safe too.”

  Annis rolled up her eyes, took off her cross and handed it to the fearful man.

  “Do you hold it then if it makes you feel better,” she said. Then she rolled up her sleeves and started to pull the roots she required. Kai grinned in honest relief as the first came up noiselessly; and helped her with a will to obtain a couple of other young roots. Annis examined them.

  “Why,” she said gaily “This one looks like my father’s chaplain – I should call it Tobias.”

  “Will you do magic on him, lady?” Asked the blond one.

  “Don’t be so ridiculous,” snapped Annis. “Haven’t I told you there is no magic involved? I made a joke, merely. I wish no ill on poor Father Tobias; nor have I any power to do so. And I’ll have my cross back please.” She took it as he meekly handed it back and slipped it back around her neck.

  Not long after, Annis was busy pounding herbs with the help of Kai, and singing to herself. She was unaware how many people looked at her askance, since she was largely singing hymns; but no-one commented. At last she was satisfied, and filled several jars, sealing them with beeswax. She was still humming one of her favourite Lauds when she ran up the stairs with one of the jars to knock upon Gyrfalon’s door and let herself in.

  The warlord regarded her with disfavour.

  “Do you have to sing that rubbish?” He grumbled brusquely.

  Annis treated him to one of her brightest smiles.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What did you want?” he demanded.

  “I have your ointment. Will you try it right away, my lord?”

  He grunted.

  “Why not?” he said; and removed his helmet.

  Annis smeared a generous amount of her concoction onto the livid wreck of a face, smoothing it in with the intense concentration that seemed to aid healing, though she knew not why. Perhaps there was witchery in it; but if so, it was unconsciously used, for Annis accounted herself far too practical to have need of any supernatural means. Her young hands, cool and gentle, soothed the searing heat; and the warlord gave vent to a long sigh.

  “Aaaahhh yes, girl, I do believe you might know what you are doing.” It had not been paining him as badly as sometimes or he would not have been in a good enough mood to let her try; but pain him it always did. Annis smiled thinly and replied to his comment.

  “I were a fool indeed to boast unduly to a man not noted for his patience or forbearance,” she remarked with some asperity. “I may see you as something of a saviour right now, but that does not mean I think you might be a plaster saint willing to overlook transgressions.”

  He grunted.

  “I have been told by others that the task is beyond them,” he said.

  She stepped back and met his eye steadily.

  “I have never promised you a cure,” she said. “Remember that. I know I can bring relief. But I can understand that there would be those who would tell you that the task is impossible from the outset rather than face your wrath if they tried and failed. Your temper, my lord, is legendary in its ferocity. It scares people off from attempting difficult tasks lest you punish failure. Which be counterproductive from your point of view.”

  He scowled.

  “I have found that fear can be a motivator. But tell me girl! Why are you not afraid lest you fail?”

  She regarded him calmly.

  “I really have nothing to lose.” She said simply. “And besides, I always was a fool for a stiff challenge.” She did not think it meet to add that pointing out the needs of his demesne was also a challenge she had set herself.

  “You must fear your bridegroom very much if staying with me is to be preferred,” his voice was mocking. “And he must be truly repulsive if you can look upon this face unmoved.”

  “I am not unmoved, my lord Gyrfalon. I am angered that anyone should set such a wicked terrible curse as to prevent such a painful wound from healing. As to my bridegroom – well, as to his physical form, he suffers from the self inflicted wound of overindulgence; for his face is swollen with too much food and drink, and his body with not enough exercise. Moreover, one day I shall tell you why it makes me laugh to hear you described as evil when I have seen the results of the real thing. You, from what I have heard, are merely ruthless and vicious. It is my thought that you pull about you masks of ‘Gyrfalon the wicked warlord’ – pause for tinny fanfare played on ill-tuned trumpets – in a loud and flamboyant way in the same way that you mask your face. It is,” she said sweetly, “often the way with the overly sensitive. I have finished for today,” she added, gathering up her jar.

  Gyrfalon spluttered.

  “Overly sensitive??!!” he bellowed. “I have flayed men alive without flinching!”

  “An exotic, if rather useless skill,” she commented, firmly schooling her features. “But the hurt is soul-deep, else you would not care enough to hide it. And the melodramatic stories do not all sit with one practical enough to achieve what you have achieved in taking this castle, especially with the rabble with whom you ride.”

  He caught her by the throat.

  “And what do you know about hurts soul-deep, girl?” he hissed.

  Again, her eyes held compassion, not fear.

  “Not, my lord, I think as much as you,” she said quietly. “And it is not something I am qualified to heal.”

  He thrust her away.

  “Go away and stop your silly prating,” he snarled. “Your mandrake juice leaves me light headed. Get out.”

  Annis left, shutting the door quietly after her, a thoughtful look on her youthful face, her big eyes smoky blue as they reflected her ponderings. Something or someone had hurt the warlord and he was rampaging like a wild beast in pain, avenging himself on the whole world. She would have to find out more; for her feelings were, she felt certain, correct in feeling that Gyrfalon had more to him than just a vicious mercenary commander.

  Annis set herself to exploring the castle; so that she knew her way about. Elissa tagged along, half amused at Annis’ youthful explorations, half bored.

  Annis asked question of how Gyrfalon had taken the castle and that pleased Elissa to answer, for she was proud of her lord’s prowess as a warrior; and he had managed to goad the previous lord into making a sally, that had been duly met while a second force – which Elissa had been a part of – skirted the force that rode out, Gyrfalon having tricked them into coming right forward, and rode like demons into the courtyard to take the gatehouse unawares and have control of the castle gate.

  It was a simple but devastatin
gly clever trick; and Annis nodded approval.

  She might approve less that all the defenders had then been slain; but she acknowledged that to have those within the castle who swore false fealty in order to avenge their erstwhile lord, or to have armed trained men turned loose outside were both risky that the warlord had little choice; and opined such.

  Elissa nodded.

  “Well you’re no sentimental fool,” she said.

  “Myself I think I’d have turned them out and told them my men would patrol and would hang any that they saw,” said Annis. “Without a leader they’d be inadequate to the task of retaking the castle. But with a small and rather motley band – the group you were with seeming the exception rather than the rule – I can see he’d not take that risk.”

  Elissa shrugged. She knew that they were a motley band, whom the warlord was licking harshly into shape with drills and practise. Hence the forest patrol he had himself been leading; and from what she had heard of Pierce and Solly wandering off on their own, Solly had in dying got out of the punishment enacted on Pierce for disobedience who had been flogged for it and was like to die of the same.

  Annis did not know of this or she would have made salves for Pierce’s back; but Gyrfalon had not troubled to tell her.

  So instead she enjoyed herself in the exploring; and came upon chests in some upper chamber filled with lavender-scented cloths.

  “Are these the clothes of the previous lord?” she asked curiously. Elissa shrugged.

  “I suppose so,” she said “My lord does not bother with any cloth save black; he will not have shown an interest.”

  “Will he mind, do you think, an I occupy myself between sword practise with sewing on such?” asked Annis.

  Elissa shrugged.

  “Why not ask him?” she said.

  “I shall,” said Annis and ran off lightly to knock on Gyrfalon’s door while Elissa sighed to herself.

  “What do you want?” demanded Gyrfalon.

  “My lord, I have found discarded chests of clothing belonging, Elissa thinks, to the previous occupant; may I occupy myself sewing and using such fabrics as I find?”