Dragon Tree

by Canham, Marsha

  “What better way to attack you than strike out at innocents, since it was because of the innocents that you found yourself questioning your purpose in Outremer. How many challenges to fight have you refused? How many times have the righteous stood at the gates and banged their shields hoping to get you to answer with your sword?”

  The knight tossed the arrowhead aside. "As you have often reminded me, insults are just words and words are but air with sound. Ignore them and they shiver away to nothingness."

  "Indeed, words can be ignored. But bodies come with a deal more substance and are harder to disregard."

  Tamberlane glanced down at the girl. “Will she live?”

  The seneschal shrugged. “I can do little more than ply my simple medicines and hope it is enough to let her breathe one more day.”

  “If she wakens, send for me, no matter it should be day or night.”

  Marak nodded, knowing full well the Dragonslayer never slept. He knew the warrior, no longer a monk, paced most nights away reluctant to close his eyes, unwilling to lay himself bare to the nightmares that continued to haunt him.

  A lesser man might have flung himself from one of the castle turrets by now, and in truth, there were times Marak hid in the shadows on the wall-walk watching the troubled knight stare out over the parapets, his hands gripping the stone, his face turned into the night wind. A simple matter to climb onto one of the crenellated teeth and cast off the mortal world. As someone confined to perpetual darkness, Marak had considered it many times himself, and his torment was not half so great as that of his friend.

  "She'll not waken any time soon. Put your arse to the stool and let me tend that arm of yours."

  "A mere cut," Ciaran said, waving his hand.

  "Mere insect bites have festered and turned a limb black enough it had to be cut off. Now sit and bite down on a leather strap if you think the prick of needle and thread might be too much to bear."

  Tamberlane's eyebrow inched upward. "Tell me again why I tolerate your presence here?"

  "Because we are both outcasts. And because if it were not for me, you would have lost your head back on the beach at Arsuf."

  Tamberlane sighed. "I often wonder if that was a blessing or a curse."

  Marak studied the deep circles beneath Tamberlane’s eyes, then set about steeping another brew that would not only dull the pain of having a needle and thread drawn through the wounded arm, but would provide the tormented knight a few hours of dreamless sleep.

  He was not hopeful the latter would succeed, for he doubted there were possets strong enough in all the land that would be able to burn the nightmares out of Tamberlane’s soul.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Amie rose slowly out of the depths of darkness like a bubble of air rising to the surface of thick oil. She regained consciousness through fragments of sensation, the first being heat and pain, the second being the pungent sting of incense in her nostrils. The closer she rose to the light, the stronger the taint became until the smell became a taste at the back of her throat, acrid and bitter, begging for water to ease it.

  Her body ached everywhere. Fever raged in her blood, coursing through a body that shivered uncontrollably despite the flames that consumed her.

  The blackness behind her closed eyelids took on a reddish hue, hinting at a source of light somewhere beyond her grasp. Sounds emerged from the void, muffled and terrifying at first, for the last thing she remembered was the prick of a sword between her thighs. Was she now lying somewhere impaled and helpless, kept alive on the whims of her tormentor?

  Amie turned her head to the side by slow degrees and tried to focus on the light. Seen through the crusted spikes of her lashes, it was no more than a blurred glow, a distorted splotch of orange that emanated from a fire blazing in a nearby grate. Like a moth, her gaze was drawn toward it. She stared until her eyes felt scalded, until her vision drowned in a stinging liquid that made seeing anything impossible.

  Something in the shadows moved. It detached itself from darker shadows beside the fire and approached the table on which she lay. She could not move her head, the effort to turn it once had been too dear. She could not see who or what stood over her, but a whimper shivered in her throat as a cool, wet cloth was pressed over her cracked lips. It dabbed her cheeks and blotted the heat off her neck and chest. Dipped in cool water again, it stroked gently down between her breasts, then ran the length of each arm, each leg. A hand cradled the back of her head and raised her up enough to tip a cup against her mouth, but she was shaking too hard and the liquid spilled down the sides of her chin and puddled at the base of her throat.

  “Drink, Little One, drink. It will ease the pain, I promise.”

  Amie rolled her eyes open but the voice had no face. It was just a shadow blocking out the light.

  “You are safe. You have nothing to fear. There are strong walls around you now and many men with swords to guard you against further harm. Believe what I say, for I speak only the truth.”

  The shadow leaned forward again and the cup was tipped to her mouth a second time. She managed to swallow a few drops, then a few drops more, but the liquid was bitter and she nearly gagged on the taste.

  “You have done well, Little One. Better this time than the last. A moment, no more, and the pain will fade. By all my skill, it will fade.”

  He reinforced his soothing words with gentle strokes of the cool cloth and Amie spiralled slowly, gratefully back into the darkness.

  ~~

  “She is still alive?”

  “It would seem as though she does not want to leave this life so easily. The maggots have done their work at last and the wound is clean. The fever, also, has finally broken.”

  “Has she wakened at all?”

  “A moment here or there, no more.”

  “Has she spoken?”

  “The fever talked, but said very little that made sense.”

  Amie had come awake at the sound of voices but had not moved or made a sound to betray that fact. There was still pain in her body, the worst of it concentrated in her left shoulder.

  The arrow. Jesu, she remembered now. She had been running, trying to reach the safety of the forest, and the arrow had struck her in the back. She had found the river... but a fall... then more pain... then the figure of a knight standing over her, his sword drawn, his eyes blazing with bloodlust behind the hammered iron nasal of his helm.

  Was it he who stood over her now, waiting for her to show signs of waking so that the torment could continue?

  She remembered nothing after the sword scoring lines up her thighs, nothing aside from white-hot pain and dark, misshapen images. She had no idea where she was or how she had come to be here. If she had wakened before, she had no recollection. If she had spoken through the fever... what might she have said?

  Something else stirred at the edge of her mind but she was having difficulty concentrating. Someone was standing beside the pallet, very close and very still, as if he was trying to detect whether she was awake or asleep. She could feel his shadow blotting out the warmth of the fire, miserly as it was.

  Were her hands bound? Her feet? Was she pinned there while irons were being heated to further her torture, for surely, if these were men sent by her husband to hunt her down, Odo de Langois’ punishment would be neither swift nor merciful.

  A soft, involuntary moan escaped her throat. The sudden sound must have startled whoever was hovering over her, for the shadow moved back and called to another.

  “Marak—? She stirred.”

  A second shadow came up beside the first. A cool, dry hand was laid across her brow and when she whimpered again, she heard a faint shuffling of robes and sleeves and felt the corner of a blanket being lifted off her arm and shoulder.

  The gentle sliding of the wool against her skin made her realize she was naked beneath the blanket. Naked, stretched out flat on a table with nothing to shield her from the probing eyes of her captors.

  “Have you decided to come bac
k to us, Little One?”

  The voice. It was soothing and soft, and she knew instinctively she had heard it many times already, through the pain, the fever, the brief periods when the darkness gave way to light and awareness. It did not sound like the voice of a tormentor, although she had been duped before by silky words and a glib tongue.

  She attempted to turn her wrist, testing to see if there were bindings. Her hand came up freely and despite the fact that it felt like a deadweight, she dragged her fingers upward to search for the crucifix that lay between her breasts.

  It was not there.

  Amie opened her eyes. The first, the only thing she saw was the silhouette of a hooded man standing beside her. The room was so dark, the shadows so thick, she feared perhaps her eyes had been partially scorched by the fires in the village.

  But then the shadow of the second man moved and her gaze was drawn to him. He stood closer to the fire and she could see the blurred lines of his profile, the rim of brighter light around his hair, the glow that outlined his shoulders and chest.

  The hooded figure moved and Amie’s gaze flicked sharply back.

  “Wh-who are you?” Her voice was barely a whisper, emitted from a throat that was so dry the words cracked and broke. “Wh-where am I?”

  “You are safe, child. There is no one here who wishes you harm.”

  Here? she thought wildly. Where is here? Where am I? Who are you and why have you brought me here?

  “My name is Marak,” the stranger continued, his voice soft and soothing. “And this—” he turned slightly, “is Lord Tamberlane. He was the one who found you in the woods and brought you here, to his castle. I have been tending your wounds these past six days.”

  Amie released another small sound. Six days? She had been lying here fevered and oblivious to all for six days?

  “Where is F-friar Guilford—?” The rasp that came out of her throat contained more pain than sound and it was just as well, for she had blurted the question and the name without thought.

  “Wait, child, wait.” She must have tried another abortive movement, for the pale hand moved from her brow to her arm as if to keep her from leaping off the table. The one called Marak murmured something over his shoulder, and when he turned back, there was a cup in his hand. He slid an arm gently beneath her shoulders and raised her head enough to tip the rim of the cup to her lips.

  “It is only wine and water,” he assured her, “ mixed with a little honey to help restore your strength.”

  Amie looked from the elongated black shadow where his face should be... to the cup... back to the hidden face. If it was true he had been tending her wounds for six days, it was unlikely he would poison her on the seventh. Bolstered by the thought, she parted her lips and let some of the liquid trickle into her mouth. It was warm and sweet and she took a second sip, then a third. She forced herself to keep drinking, knowing she needed to get her strength back. She might be naked, wounded, and without weapons, but she still had her wits about her.

  When she had emptied the cup, he lowered her head carefully back onto the pallet with a promise to bring more.

  The other shadow, Lord Tamberlane, had not moved. His profile revealed a jaw that seemed carved from a square ridge of granite, a nose that was long and Romanesque, a mouth hinting at an utter lack of compromise or compassion. Amie had seen enough knights to recognize the musculature and bearing of a man accustomed to wearing armor. She stared hard and tried to concentrate, but neither his face nor his name was immediately familiar to her, making her wonder, again, where she was.

  The knight stood with his hands clasped behind his back, but the longer she stared, the more he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  You have the advantage, sirrah, she thought. You are not lying naked and helpless on a tabletop.

  Amie moved her hand again—the left, this time—and the effort brought forth such a bolt of pain that she dropped it back with a stifled gasp.

  “The arrow struck you in the shoulder,” Marak explained. “These past six days, while you burned with fever, I have given you herbs to keep you from moving it too much. I can give you more if you wish it.”

  "No!" Amie released a pent-up breath, feeling it take the rush of pain with it. Herbs to keep her from moving too much...was that why she felt dull and stupid? No, she did not want to have her wits dulled by potions and possets. She needed her strength back, and she needed it soon. "No... I ... no, good sir. The pain is tolerable."

  Marak studied her a moment then refilled the cup with sweetened wine.

  “In any case, you must be hungry. Drink this, then we will try some broth.”

  The wine tasted different. There was a slightly bitter edge to it and she refused to take more than a few drops on her tongue before pushing it away.

  “Willow bark,” he assured her at once. “For the pain, nothing more.” He turned and held the goblet out to the knight. “Drink some and show her that no harm is intended.”

  “Me? Why not show her yourself?”

  “Because a clever poisoner would know how to protect himself.”

  "Would he not protect me as well?"

  "On some days, yes. On others... no."

  The knight scowled but took the cup and indulged in a long, deep swallow—more than was necessary for a simple demonstration—then handed it back. His gaze locked briefly with Amie’s and she saw their color for the first time. Such a brilliant, crystalline green they were, rendered strangely luminous by the shadows and scant light.

  The intensity of those eyes caught at her breath and she found it difficult to look away.

  He moved closer and she felt the skin across the nape of her neck tighten. “Are you well enough to answer a few questions? Can you tell us what happened at your village? Do you know who the men were who attacked you, or why they attacked?”

  “Must you do this now?” Marak asked in a murmur. “Can you not see the child is frightened beyond any clear thought?”

  “Frightened or not, the questions need answering and she is the only survivor.”

  Amie’s eyes rounded. The only survivor? Dear Jesu...!

  “Did you know the men who attacked your village?”

  The tightness she was already feeling in her throat and chest spread, sending chilling little pinpricks of sensation rippling the length of her spine, making her heart beat faster, her breath come quick and shallow.

  Unsettled to the core, she could do nothing but shake her head.

  “Do you know why they attacked or who sent them?”

  She shook her head again and prayed that God would forgive the lie for it was almost a certainty this cold, darkly visaged knight would not. The healer, Marak, had attempted to reassure her with words of safety and protection, and in her weakened state, she desperately wanted to believe him. But there were no such soothing promises reflected in the knight’s eyes. They were cool and forthright; there was nothing to suggest he would not send a messenger to her husband upon the instant simply to avoid any further complications.

  What would he do if he knew he harbored a would-be murderess under his roof?

  Her hands curled into small fists beneath the linen sheet. A wave of unbidden images filled her head, not of the attack on the village this time, but of a man’s hairy, muscular body sprawled face down and unconscious on a blood-soaked mattress beside her, and of her kneeling over him, the weight of a heavy silver candlestick gripped in her hand. She had smashed his head once, but she had wanted to smash it again and again until it was crushed to a pulp. She had wanted to kill him a thousand times over, and then kill him again just for spite. His whore, he had called her. His brood mare. Each time he took her, it was with a brutality that promised worse to come.

  “What is it? Are you remembering something about the attack?”

  The sound of the knight’s voice intruded and Amie blurted an answer without thought. “No. No, I cannot remember what happened. I w-was asleep and heard him scream, then...”

 
; “Him?”

  Shocked by yet another blunder, she focussed blankly on the knight’s face.

  “You said you heard him scream.”

  “M-my husband. I heard my husband scream,” she stammered, thinking that much, at least, was no lie. Even so, she could scarcely breathe through the incredible pressure in her chest.

  "What happened next?"

  She drew a shaky breath, hoping to pull her thoughts into line, then added what she prayed was an adequate elaboration which was, again, mostly the truth. “The bothys were on fire and everyone was running, everyone was confused and trying to escape. I... ran into the forest, but I was followed.” She paused again and attempted to moisten her lips with a dry tongue. “Did you say... I was the only one who survived?”

  “We found no one else alive.”

  “Not even the children?”

  The healer reached out and touch her arm.

  “Enough questions for today,” he told the knight quietly. “She needs to rest or all my work will have been for naught. Tomorrow she will be stronger, and stronger the day after that.”

  Amie felt a scalding hot tear slide from the corner of her eye and trickle down her temple. She turned her face away from both men and let the guilt flow unchecked alongside the tears. It was her fault. Her fault that they were all dead. They had been good, simple people who had offered her sanctuary and they had suffered the ultimate consequence for their kindness.

  Odo de Langois was a black-souled devil and God only knew what he would do when he discovered that she had escaped the raid on the village. Certes, he would send more men to hunt for her—men who would burn a castle as easily as they would burn a village.

  She also knew he would not rest until he found her. And this time, to be sure there were no more mistakes, he would kill her with his own bare hands.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Odo de Langois did, indeed, take great pleasure in killing. He was kneeling beside a thin bright stream of water and washing smears of blood from his hands. The deer he had just gutted hung from a nearby tree. The carcass was steaming in the cool air, the entrails were lying in a pile to one side being fought over by a pack of long-nosed hounds.