Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  The boat wobbled, causing water to splash inside. She lost her balance, fell against him, and as he cried out in alarm, the boat tipped over.

  ***

  A shrill scream searing her throat, Helena tumbled sideways into the frigid water. She barely managed to close her mouth before she plunged down, down, water filling her nose and streams of bubbles billowing around her in the murky darkness.

  She was going to die.

  She kicked hard and flailed her arms. Water gurgled, the sound akin to the rumbling gut of a submerged lake monster.

  Oh God, Oh God.

  Her lungs burned. Her heart pounded as, struggling, she looked up at the surface, where the overturned boat listed, the oars drifting nearby. Where was Tavis? He must be in the water too.

  She kicked harder, tried to propel herself upward with her arms. The two waterlogged cloaks around her shoulders weighed her down.

  Helena grabbed for the pin securing the top garment, but her numb fingers slipped over the jewel, unable to find the catch.

  She couldn’t hold her breath much longer.

  She was going to drown.

  Panic seared through her. She didn’t want to die.

  “Helena!”

  ’Twas Tavis’s voice, distorted by the water. She fought the painful pressure in her breast and kicked as hard as she could, a last, desperate attempt to reach sunlight and air. If she could hold on for just a moment more…

  The cloaks pulled her back. Down…

  Bubbles rushed from her nose, and her vision filled with shadows.

  Water sloshed close by, and then strong arms grabbed her. Tavis. He propelled her upward toward the sunshine with strong kicks, his legs knocking against hers, her garments tangling around them both. The darkness around her lightened as he forced her up…up…

  Her face broke through the surface, and her burning lungs filled with air. Water ran into her mouth, and she coughed, gasped, and vomited out water as she clung to Tavis.

  The soggy cloaks tightened around her neck, trying to pull her back down into the depths.

  She clawed at Tavis’s shoulders. “Help me—”

  “Kick your legs,” he commanded, “as hard as you can. Do not stop kicking.”

  His tone was so ferocious, she immediately obeyed. But, she could hardly breathe. “Cloaks,” she wheezed. “Cannot…unfasten…”

  Tavis swore. His right hand fumbled with the cross-shaped pin, while his left arm continued to hold her up. At last, the pin came loose. The weight of the cloak sank from her shoulders, and her lips parted on a shaky but relieved moan.

  “I do not…want to die,” she sobbed.

  “You are not going to die.” Water ran down his face from his wet hair. His arm tightened around her. “Hold this. Do not let it go.” He pressed the pin into her hand and closed her fingers around the jewel. Her hand was so cold and numb, she couldn’t even feel the brooch against her palm.

  His hand shook as he swiftly unfastened the second cloak. The silver pin—it had been her mother’s—fell into the water. Helena grabbed for the jewel, her fingers bumping against his belly, but with a despairing cry, she watched the pin sink beyond her reach, followed by her garment.

  “M-my mother’s pin—”

  “You cannot get it back,” Tavis said firmly, spitting out water. “Now, listen to me. I need to remove your gown.”

  “W-what?”

  “We must lose as many garments as we can.” Still supporting her, he reached down to his belt and drew a knife. He must have shed his tunic earlier, for he now wore only a sheer linen shirt.

  His hand moved, slicing through the front of her costly gown. She gasped, but he kept cutting, tugging, and tearing, until the garment fell away, revealing her gossamer-thin chemise. She longed to cover her breasts, and yet, such modesty seemed foolish when she was close to drowning.

  His gaze locked with hers. “I can get us to shore, but you must not struggle. All right?”

  Teeth chattering, she nodded. Tears filled her eyes.

  “I need you to turn around. I will support your body with mine as I swim.”

  Shivering, and with his help, she slowly turned. He set his arms under hers and then drew her backward so she was lying with the back of her head and shoulders pressed to his torso. His breaths warmed the crown of her hair as he kicked hard, drawing them both backward through the water.

  “Kick, Helena,” he said.

  She moved her legs, but they felt as if they had been turned to stone.

  The breeze hissed, spraying water over her face. She coughed, unable to quell a sharp flare of panic.

  “Stay calm,” Tavis said, his breathing labored.

  “I do not…want to die,” she moaned.

  “Then you must be calm and kick. Do it. As hard as you can.”

  Closing her eyes, she forced herself to kick. Soothing blackness taunted. If she closed her eyes, surrendered to it, she’d be free from the terrible coldness and fear…

  Do not give in. Keep fighting. Kick, Helena. Kick!

  She and Tavis were going to reach the shore…

  “Helena.” Tavis’s voice reached her as though he spoke from a distance.

  “Helena, please…”

  The darkness clouding her mind dissipated. With a low groan—Oh, mercy, she ached all over—she opened her eyes and winced at the bright light. Tavis hovered over her, his face ashen. When their gazes met, he exhaled, a sound of immense relief, and bowed his head.

  As her senses sharpened, she became aware that she was reclining on a hard, uneven surface. She turned her head, and stones pressed into her nape. Tavis had brought her to the lakeshore. She was safe.

  Relief catapulted through her, and her stomach twisted violently. Bile flooded the back of her mouth and, rolling onto her side, she emptied what was in her belly. Sobs wrenched from her as she remembered losing her mother’s pin and the terror of almost drowning.

  Tavis stroked her hair. “I am sorry,” he murmured, his tone ragged. “I am so sorry.”

  Once she’d finally finished vomiting, he tore off part of his wet shirt and handed it to her to wipe her mouth.

  She lay limp with her eyes shut. Icy tremors rippled through her, for she was cold right to her bones.

  Tavis was shivering, too.

  Meeting his gaze, she croaked, “I…want to see…my father.”

  “Of course. I will carry you—”

  “I will walk.”

  Tavis’s lips flattened. “You are too weak to stand, let alone walk.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  “I told you I could not swim,” she rasped. Tears streamed from her eyes. “Still, you convinced me to get in the boat—”

  “Later, we can discuss blame. Right now, we must both get warm and dry.”

  Despite her feebly slapping his arm, he crouched beside her and lifted her into his arms, as if she weighed no more than a rolled blanket. Her cheek resting against his shoulder, she sucked in a breath to protest, but he shook his head. “Hush, Helena. Save your strength for that scolding you are sure to give me.”

  ***

  Tavis stumbled to a halt in the field surrounding the castle’s outer wall. His lungs were on fire, and his arms ached, but he would rest only for a moment. Helena’s lips were blue, and her hands linked around his neck felt like ice. She’d lost consciousness a short while ago.

  Dragging in a fortifying breath, he pushed on, hoping to catch the attention of the sentries patrolling the wall walk.

  “Lord de Rowenne?” a guard shouted down.

  Misgiving clutched at Tavis. “Summon Lord de Verre,” he yelled. “’Tis urgent.”

  The man vanished from view. Tavis reached the postern, stepped through, and saw his lordship hurrying toward him, along with Helena’s father. Several guests, whispering behind their hands, followed close behind.

  “God’s holy blood,” Lord de Verre shouted.

  “Helena?” Her sire r
ushed to her side. “What happened?”

  “I took her out on the lake. The boat capsized.” Shivers racked Tavis, but he forced his shoulders back. He would not yield to discomfort or cowardice. He would accept full responsibility for what had taken place.

  Scowling, Lord Marlowe yanked off his cloak. “Helena cannot swim!”

  “I know.” Tavis swallowed hard. “She told me.”

  “Where is her gown?” Lord de Verre demanded, as Lord Marlowe draped his cloak over his daughter’s almost nude body. “What happened to her cloak?”

  “All lost in the lake.”

  “Tavis?” Shock and disapproval blazed in his liege’s eyes.

  “I never meant for her to be hurt. You must believe me.”

  Turning to a maidservant hovering nearby, Lord de Verre said, “Summon the healer to tend to Lady Marlowe. Heat water and have it sent up to the guest chamber near the solar.”

  “Aye, milord.” The servant hurried away.

  With an indignant huff, Lord Marlowe took Helena from Tavis’s arms. As her hand brushed against her sire’s tunic, she stirred, her eyelids fluttering. Her fingers uncurled, and the cross pin fell to the ground. “F-Father?” she whimpered.

  “You are going to be all right,” her sire said gently, his love for her easing some of the fury from his expression.

  Tavis’s gut clenched with regret as he bent and picked up the pin. “Lord Marlowe—”

  “Tavis, go and don fresh garments,” Lord de Verre cut in. “You will remain in the garrison until I summon you, and then you will give a full account as to what happened.”

  “Aye, milord.” Ignoring the conspiratorial murmurs of the onlookers, Tavis strode away. Shame burned within him. The brooch in his hand gleamed, its cold inner fire akin to a silent mockery of his torment.

  Mayhap the jewel was cursed after all.

  ***

  Helena lay on her side, blankets heaped over her. Her sire sat in a high-backed chair nearby, holding her hand. He’d been there when she’d woken to find herself tucked into an unfamiliar bed, wearing a linen chemise that wasn’t her own, in a chamber she didn’t recognize. Her last, hazy memory had been of her father taking her in his arms and assuring her she would be all right.

  She sighed against the soft linen pillowcase. The servants who had tended her had been very kind. Still, she felt utterly wretched. Her eyes ached, every limb hurt, and she felt as if she’d run into a tree trunk.

  All because of him.

  A knock sounded on the chamber door. She tensed, and her sire squeezed her fingers before he rose and answered the door. He spoke in hushed tones, but she discerned his displeasure.

  Her father returned to the bed. “Tavis would like to speak with you.”

  Fury and dismay warred in her breast. “I do not want to see him.”

  “He says ’tis important. I know you are upset, and rightly so, but he did save your life.”

  Hot, angry tears threatened. She blinked them away as she slowly pushed up to sitting, holding the bedding to her bosom.

  “Will you see him for just a moment?” When she didn’t answer, her sire added, “’Twould be best if today’s incident does not destroy the growing friendship between his family and ours.”

  Helena averted her gaze, barely able to control her resentment. She’d almost drowned, and her sire was still thinking about alliances?

  The mattress jostled as he sat beside her and touched her arm. “Forgive me if I sounded insensitive. These are troubled times in England, Helena, and I…I must think about what might happen in the coming months. I would be foolish not to. Since we will be leaving Bremworth as soon as you are well enough to travel, this might be your last chance to see Tavis.”

  The plea in her father’s voice wore down her anger. “I will see him if I must.”

  “I will be right here with you.”

  Her sire strode to the door, opened it, and motioned for Tavis to enter. She turned her face away and stared at the stone wall, although she heard his footfalls on the planks.

  The chamber door clicked shut.

  “Tavis,” her sire said firmly, “you must keep your visit short.”

  “I will, milord.”

  Her spine rigid, Helena listened to Tavis approach the bedside. “How are you?” he asked, his tone lacking any trace of arrogance.

  “I am improving,” she said crisply.

  “’Tis excellent news.” Silence lagged, and she fought the urge to glance his way. She sensed his gaze traveling over her wrapped in the blankets, and her skin tingled, the way it had done in the tiltyards. “I really am sorry for what happened, Helena. If I could start this day all over again, I would.”

  She trembled, for there was no mistaking his genuine remorse. Yet, fury crackled within her; she had every right to be angry with him.

  “I hope one day, you will be able to look upon me again and…forgive me.”

  One day, mayhap. Now? Not a chance. Tightening her hands on the bedding, she said, “Please. Just go.”

  “Helena, I—”

  “Go.”

  A strangled sound broke from him. With a faint rustle, something landed on the bed, and then he hurried out. She remained as she was, not moving, until the chamber door shut, and her father crossed to the chair by the bed.

  She dared a glance. Lying on the coverlet was a perfect, dried thistle.

  Helena curled beneath the blankets and wept.

  Chapter Three

  Kellenham Castle, Cumbria

  Early July, 1214

  Standing beside her father in the bailey, Helena watched Lord Lyndon Crandall swing up onto his horse’s saddle, his four armed guards already mounted and waiting to depart. Afternoon sunlight fought to break through the blackening clouds overhead, and a harsh wind howled down off the battlements. Without doubt, a bad storm was gathering. Yet, despite her sire’s offer of lodgings for the night, Lord Crandall had insisted on riding on to the next fortress on his list of estates he’d been ordered to inspect on behalf of King John.

  “The storm is moving in quickly,” her sire noted with a frown. “Are you certain you will be able to reach Fremley Keep before the tempest strikes?”

  “Our horses are swift. I see no reason why not.” Lord Crandall shoved windblown gray hair back from his face and gathered his mount’s reins.

  The breeze whipped at Helena’s gown. She hated storms, and longed to dash inside, but she didn’t dare risk offending this important crown official by not properly honoring his departure. Her sire’s situation was already far too precarious.

  “I wish you a safe journey, Lyndon. I trust the rest of your visit to these northern parts of England will go well,” her father said.

  “Thank you, but I have no reason to expect otherwise.” Lord Crandall glanced toward the gatehouse, where beyond, the drawbridge had been lowered. “I will be certain to give your regards to the King, milord.” He spurred his horse forward, and the gritty clatter of hoof beats filled the bailey. Helena remained standing at her father’s side until Lord Crandall and his guards had crossed the drawbridge and the heavy platform began to rise.

  Her father dragged a hand over his jaw and sighed. “God’s blood.”

  Turning to him, she caught his callused hand. “I am very proud of you. You were an excellent host.”

  Her sire grunted. “I hope so. Every moment was bloody torture.”

  She couldn’t agree more. She’d had a knot in her stomach ever since she’d woken that morning. Only now was it easing a little.

  “I regret I could not have provided a better meal, especially for a man of the crown.”

  “Father, the servants did well with what they had. In a few weeks, we should be able to replace the milk cow that had to be slaughtered to provide the roast beef.”

  In the darkening afternoon light, her sire looked pale, and beads of sweat covered his brow. “Let us hope that our efforts today will make a difference.”

  Shivering on another fierce blas
t of wind, Helena pressed his roughened fingers. Without doubt, the past few years had been difficult. A pestilence brought on by a wet spring had destroyed a third of the grain crops the previous year, which meant he’d collected far less than usual in tithes. Then part of the fortress’s outer wall had collapsed under heavy snows last winter; the majority of the wall had been deemed unstable and had to be dismantled and rebuilt. With the King’s ongoing and ever-increasing taxes, the castle coffers had been emptied long ago.

  Helena had sold her finest gowns and her jewelry, including the pieces she’d inherited from her mother, convinced her sire to sell the silver that had only been used during feasts, and traded furniture and rugs for food and other household necessities. Despite what her sire had paid to the crown, the debt increased. Unable to pay the last few demands, her sire had written and explained his situation, and asked for leniency, but in reply, the crown had asked for immediate payment, plus additional fines for the inconvenience suffered by the sovereign.

  When her father had written back that he would pay what he could right away, and would do his best to be forthcoming with the rest, the King had sent Lord Crandall, a man whose hard eyes and beak-shaped nose had reminded Helena of a crow. He’d said he was visiting a number of castles in Northern England to confirm they were being managed to the standard that the King expected of his loyal knights, but Helena and her sire both knew better. Lord Crandall had come to confirm that conditions at Kellenham were really as bad as her father had said. He would have had to be blind not to notice the disrepair of the stable and other outbuildings, her and her father’s worn garments, and the meager food stores in the kitchen pantry.

  “Let us not worry any more about his lordship’s visit,” Helena insisted, sliding her arm around her sire as together, they started for the iron-banded door of the forebuilding. “You know, I did not hear you curse once while he was here, not even when that juicy piece of beef dropped from your eating dagger onto the floor.”

  “I cursed,” he said, kissing her brow. “I just did so silently.”

  She laughed. “Well, I think you were—” He looked even more ashen than before, and he was rubbing his belly. “Are you all right?”