The Promise of Peace

by Carol Umberger

  Sir Bryan stared at him.

  “He attacked my sworn liege.”

  Sir Bryan gazed at Keifer’s still form. “Is he dead?”

  Owyn touched Keifer’s neck and found the blood pulse. “He’s alive.” He looked about and found Keifer’s horse standing quietly, as it had been taught to do after losing its rider.

  “Aye. Alive but not conscious.”

  Owyn looked in the direction of the English camp. They didn’t have much time. Surely the enemy was mounted and on the move by now.

  “Let’s move him off the path,” Sir Bryan said.

  They carried Keifer into the woods, then quickly fetched the horses and Keifer’s saddle. Owyn heard hoof beats as he dashed back into the cover of the trees. The English rode past, about a half dozen of them, intent on their quarry. They paid no attention to Angus’s body, no doubt seeing his plaid and taking him for a dead enemy.

  Grief overcame Owyn but he shoved it aside. His father had made his choice, had forced Sir Bryan and Owyn to do what they’d done.

  When the English were gone, Owyn said, “They will come back.”

  “Aye. But if they meant to engage us, they would have sent more. These are probably just scouts, sent to let Edward know our where- abouts. They won’t want to be seen any more than we do.” Sir Bryan gazed at Owyn. “We don’t have time to bury your father.”

  “I know.” Owyn went to stand beside his father’s body. He said a prayer, then honored his da in the only way he could under the circumstances— he searched the ground for Angus’s sword. Owyn unbelted the scabbard from his father’s waist, sheathed the weapon, and fastened it to his saddle.

  When he had finished, Sir Bryan nodded.

  They must move on before they were discovered.

  SEVENTEEN

  OWYN HEARD KEIFER MOAN and went to him. His face was pale and his breath came fast and shallow. Owyn despaired of getting him to Homelea alive. While cool water might help as it had with Keifer’s horse bite, they could not take the time for it now. They were deep in English territory and needed to head north with as much haste as possible.

  “I don’t see how we can take him on horseback, my laird.”

  “I agree. We need to fashion a litter of some kind to float him across the river. Then we can drag it on poles behind his horse.”

  They created a litter from two stout young trees and Owyn’s large oilcloth. They debated whether or not to strap Keifer fast, and in the end decided that if they lost hold of him in the current, he was better off floating downstream tied on the cot than falling off into the water and drowning.

  Since the girth on Keifer’s saddle had given way, Owyn would have to tie the saddle fast to the horse using a length of rope. But first Owyn took his bag of oatmeal and dumped its contents into Keifer’s. With a knife he slit the empty bag and placed it between the rope and the animal’s hide, providing some cushioning for the horse from the abrasion of the rope. Then he looped the rope over the saddle seat and under the horse’s belly, tying a sturdy knot to hold it. The stirrup leathers would hold the poles once they reached the other side of the river.

  In the hour it took to prepare the litter, Keifer lay silent except for an occasional moan. If he didn’t regain his senses soon, Owyn feared for his friend’s life.

  The sky was getting light when they entered the water. The litter floated surprisingly well, and the two men were able to steady it between their horses. Halfway through the crossing, Keifer’s horse stumbled and water splashed in Keifer’s face; he yelped in surprise.

  “Steady, lad. We’ll have you back on dry land in a few minutes,” Sir Bryan said.

  Keifer seemed to pass in and out of lucidity. Owyn wished he had some whiskey to give his friend for the pain, but they didn’t even have wine.

  They wasted little time. Sir Bryan inspected the litter’s fastening to the stirrups, and they started off. Keifer grunted in pain each time the poles hit a rock until mercifully he passed out.

  It took two hours to reach the marsh, and all the way there Owyn feared the English scouts would return. He wasn’t too worried that their comrades would leave them behind since they wouldn’t abandon Sir Bryan.

  When they reached the edge of the marsh, half a dozen Scots awaited them. “What happened to the English who passed us by?” Owyn asked.

  One of the men said, “We hid in the marsh, and when the English came, they split up. We must hurry. They could return at any time. We mustn’t allow them to follow us into the swamp.”

  Owyn urged his horse to follow Sir Bryan’s onto the planks set across the boggy area, and Keifer’s horse followed behind. The six men pulled the planks up and then ran ahead to lay them down again where needed.

  Exhausted, hungry, and worried about Keifer, Owyn was glad when they reached the other side of the marsh. He insisted that they rest, give Keifer time without the constant jostling. Sir Bryan found a secluded campsite near a small creek when the sun was well overhead.

  Owyn sent two of the men to gather pine boughs to lay on the ground. When they returned with them, Owyn and Sir Bryan laid Keifer’s litter atop the branches, hoping to give him some cushioning from the hardness of the ground. Again Owyn despaired at having nothing to relieve Keifer’s pain.

  Seeing that Keifer’s eyes were open, Owyn brought him water.

  “Get away from me, traitor.”

  Owyn stared at his friend, not believing he’d heard such hurtful words. He chose to pretend he didn’t hear them. “Here.” Owyn cradled Keifer’s head and offered the water.

  Keifer refused to drink. “Why don’t you finish . . .”

  “Finish what?”

  Keifer seemed to gather the strength to talk. “What you and your father started?”

  Owyn just stared at Keifer, settling him back down into the makeshift bed.

  Sir Bryan approached and looked from one man to the other before addressing Owyn. “What is amiss?”

  “He seems to think I tried to kill him.”

  Sir Bryan put his arm across Owyn’s shoulders and led him out of Keifer’s hearing. “Do not listen to him. He is in pain. Probably can’t clearly remember what happened—he’ll see things differently once he mends.”

  Owyn hoped it was true.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  If Keifer hated Owyn now, he would hate him more before this next task was done. “Heat some water. I need to . . . wash him.”

  Sir Bryan bit his lip and hung his head—evidence of his awareness that Keifer had lost control of his functions. He nodded and walked away.

  Owyn walked back to Keifer’s side.

  To see a warrior, a friend, reduced to this—not dead but not alive either—was enough to make the strongest man weep. Owyn fought his own tears and prayed silently for God’s will to be done. Heal him here or take him home, Lord.

  “Leave me,” Keifer whispered so low Owyn wasn’t sure he heard him right.

  “I will not. I didn’t do this to ye.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Again Keifer hesitated.

  “Ye want water?”

  Keifer shook his head. “Leave me here. Go on without me.”

  Owyn was not shocked by Keifer’s request. He thought he understood exactly why Keifer asked it of him and wondered if he might not ask the same thing in Keifer’s position. But Owyn suspected it was far easier to ask the favor than to actually abandon a loved one.

  Could he do it? Ride away and let nature take its course? But what if Keifer wasn’t mortally wounded? Then Owyn would be no better than a murderer.

  “I will not leave ye. Ye are my laird.”

  Keifer turned away.

  Sir Bryan came back with the hot water and a bit of rough cloth. “Do you want help?”

  “Nay. He’s not going to like this. He . . . he asked us to leave him and go on without him.”

  The knight, a seasoned warrior, took a deep breath. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I’m taking him home. To heal
or to be buried, but I will not desert him.”

  “Good.” Bryan smiled weakly. “I wouldn’t leave him either.”

  When Sir Bryan had left, Owyn went about the task of washing Keifer’s soiled body. He ignored Keifer’s pleas, his humiliation, and did what needed doing. Then he covered Keifer with a warm plaid and tried desperately to ignore the tears on the man’s face.

  Sir Bryan came to him with a cup of broth and an oatcake. But Keifer refused to eat even when Sir Bryan—and not Owyn—offered the food. Owyn didn’t have the heart to force the issue.

  He rested, as did the others. Late in the day they awoke and prepared to depart the camp. Keifer drank some water but again refused food.

  Owyn fastened the litter to the stirrups and then stood at Keifer’s side. “I will not leave ye behind. Ye may curse me for the rest of the trip, for the rest of yer life. But I cannot do it.”

  “Then give me a knife.”

  Owyn closed his eyes and prayed for strength. “There is proof ye are not in yer right mind. We should make Homelea by nightfall.

  Lady Kathryn will know how to make ye more comfortable.”

  “Will she know how to make me walk again?”

  Owyn swallowed. “That’s in God’s hands, Keifer.”

  “Well, it appears you are not the only one who has abandoned me.”

  Owyn had never been the most faithful of believers, but he’d been praying ever since Keifer fell. He vowed to continue until Keifer was released, one way or another, from this living hell.

  They arrived at Homelea after dark. Lady Kathryn met them in the hall, and with one look at Keifer’s pale face, she took charge.

  Owyn and Sir Bryan carried Keifer to the bed in the first floor chamber where Lady Kathryn led them. Briefly they explained his injury.

  He passed out when they moved him from the litter to the bed, placing him face down.

  Within a few minutes a fire burned brightly in the fireplace as the lady examined Keifer’s back. He still breathed, but his face was deadly pale.

  “Owyn, I’ll have the others tend to your horses. You stay with Keifer,” Sir Bryan said, giving Owyn a meaningful look. Evidently the man wanted to protect Keifer’s sensibilities from Lady Kathryn’s nursing.

  She finished her examination and Owyn stared at the swollen skin across Keifer’s spine. A deep purple bruise, nearly black in some places, extended down into his buttocks.

  A servant arrived with the poultice Lady Kathryn had ordered. “There’s not much else can be done, Owyn. His back is very badly bruised, and I have no way to know what has been damaged inside.”

  Owyn just nodded, weary to the bone and beyond worried for his friend.

  “I’ll clean him and check on him through the night—you best get some sleep.”

  “No, my lady. I’ll . . . Keifer did not appreciate my ministrations. He will be even more humiliated if ye . . .”

  Maybe she sensed his need to be of service. Or maybe his eyes were bright with the unmanly tears that seemed too close to the surface. At any rate, she laid a hand on his arm, patted it like she might a child’s.

  “Of course, Owyn. You will want to care for him until Nola arrives. I’ve already sent a messenger to her.”

  “Thank ye, my lady.”

  “Now come, you need to rest.”

  “I’ll just sleep here in case he needs me.”

  She studied him and must have seen his determination, for she did not argue. “I’ll send you some hot water and cloths.” She closed the door on her way out.

  A servant brought the promised water, and again Owyn bathed his friend, this time from head to toe. Keifer did not wake, or pretended to be asleep, Owyn wasn’t sure which. When he was finished and Keifer was dry and dressed in a long linen shirt, Owyn rolled him to his back and covered him with soft blankets.

  Though Keifer only took up half the large and very inviting bed, Owyn didn’t want to lie down next to him for fear of jostling him.

  Instead he made a pallet on the floor with some extra bedding he found in a trunk.

  But then, fearing he would sleep too soundly and miss hearing Keifer if he stirred, Owyn propped himself up against the wall. As he drifted off, Owyn dreaded facing Nola with the news that Keifer might well be mortally injured. And worse yet, that he hoped to die.

  THE LIGHT DREW HIM and he followed the feeble glow, not at all sure where he was being led. As the light grew brighter, he became aware of the pain. He stopped following the light, sought the dark oblivion. At least there he couldn’t feel the knife-sharp agony in his back.

  But inevitably the light and the pain returned. When it did, Keifer opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed. Vaguely he remembered their arrival at Homelea and the agony of being moved from the litter. And the humiliation of soiling himself and of his friend washing him.

  Friend? Or foe? All Keifer could remember was Owyn with his sword in his hand, looking down at him as he lay helpless.

  A fire glowed on the hearth, and a candle sputtered on a lampstand near his head. Nothing looked familiar except for the man sleeping propped up against the wall.

  “Owyn?” he whispered, unable to make his dry throat and mouth work properly.

  Owyn roused nonetheless and stumbled to Keifer’s side. “About time ye came back among the living.”

  The joking words belied the serious expression on Owyn’s face.

  “Water,” Keifer said. He had no choice but to trust the man.

  Owyn brought a metal dipper of cool water and held it for Keifer to drink. He took several sips, grateful for the soothing of his throat. Yet every movement, no matter how small, brought on a new wave of pain. The darkness closed over him again.

  Keifer awoke again, not sure if it was minutes or hours later. Owyn was awake, seated at his side, his expression glum. Minutes, then.

  Keifer tried to move but only his arms seemed to be working.

  “Ye need to lie still, Keifer.”

  “Legs won’t move.” He could not even wiggle his toes, and panic and fear threatened him. Fear of what he would become now that he was . . . Oh God, why have you deserted me?

  “Lady Kathryn says ye must be still, give the swelling time to go down.”

  “Why don’t you just finish it?” The look of pain that crossed Owyn’s face gave Keifer pause. Why was the man nursing him if he had tried to kill him? Was Keifer wrong to accuse him?

  “Will I walk?”

  Owyn didn’t answer.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Nay, Keifer. Ye mustn’t take my silence for an answer. The lady says there is no way of knowing how long yer legs will stay numb.”

  Keifer turned his head to face away from the pity in Owyn’s expression. With bitterness he considered that his lifelong prayer, his request that he not ever be abandoned again, had been answered. Nor had he died and left his wife to grieve him. Instead he had been placed in this limbo—not dead but not fully alive. Aye, the prayer had been heard, but Keifer didn’t like the answer one bit.

  “Nola will be here on the morrow and—”

  “No!” Keifer faced his friend once more. “I don’t want Nola. Don’t want her to see . . . this.”

  “Knowing Nola, I don’t think ye’re going to have much choice in the matter, Keifer.”

  “If you love me, keep her away. Promise!” He couldn’t bear having her see him weak and crippled and utterly useless.

  Owyn stood and went to the table where he picked up a cup and brought it back. “Lady Kathryn says to drink some of this; it will help with the pain.”

  “Promise!”

  “I’ll not make a promise we both know I won’t be able to keep. Ye think yer wife will love ye less because ye are hurt? Ye don’t regard her any more than ye do me if ye think that’s true.” He held out the cup.

  “Drink this.”

  Owyn steadied the cup so Keifer could sip the bitter drink.

  He drank and sank back onto the bed and closed his eyes. Take this
cup from me, Lord. I can’t do this, can’t face a life as a cripple. Never to be a husband to Nola again. Take this cup. A tear trickled from his eye. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. Let me die, Lord. Please! Let me die!

  EIGHTEEN

  KEIFER’S COLOR WAS BETTER the next morning and his breathing seemed easier. However, Owyn remained discouraged by Keifer’s refusal to eat or even to talk while he took care of the man’s needs. Gratefully Owyn accepted Lady Kathryn’s offer to stay with Keifer when she came to check on them.

  Hoping that keeping his hands busy would help lift his gloomy mood, Owyn decided to mend Keifer’s saddle. He set it astride a saddle stand to take a closer look at the girth. How could he have missed a spot so worn it would give way?

  Maybe Keifer was right to accuse Owyn. Maybe Keifer’s fall was his fault. He should have seen that the leather was worn and needed replacing. Guilt flooded Owyn as he thought of his friend lying so still, of his unwillingness to see his wife.

  As if Nola would listen to such folly.

  Owyn smiled, thinking of his friend’s intrepid wife. He hoped he was in the room when she arrived so he could watch the sparks. And he hoped that Keifer would succumb to his wife’s natural optimism and practical mind. If any woman could cope with Keifer’s future, it was Nola Mackintosh.

  Owyn brought his attention back to the saddle. He looked at the girth itself and saw nothing wrong with it. The end of the billet strap that had snapped was still buckled fast. Closer inspection made his heart skip a beat.

  He shoved the thin leather skirt upward and found the billet straps on the right side of the saddle. The leather strap was cut clean until the final quarter inch, which showed a distinct tearing of the fibers not apparent on the rest of the strap. Holding the two ends together made it even more apparent.

  Clearly the strap had been cut. There was no other explanation.

  The strap would have been covered by Keifer’s leg and the saddle’s skirt—no chance that a stray gash by a sword had done the damage.

  And it had to have been done after the horse was saddled, because Owyn was sure he would have noticed the cut if it had been there while he was tightening the girth.