Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “The cabbage pottage is not agreeing with me.”

  “You did eat rather a lot during the meal.”

  Her sire grumbled. “We have not eaten beef in months. Why should I not indulge?”

  “You also finished with a slice of that fruit cake Lord Crandall brought.”

  “He wanted me to taste it. I could hardly refuse when ’twas made by cooks who prepare food for the King.”

  She tsked. “You could have refused, Father.”

  “Well, I wanted to show that I appreciated the gift.”

  “Mayhap all of those different foods did not go together very well.”

  Wincing, he groaned again. “I know they did not.” As they neared the forebuilding, he drew out of her embrace and staggered to the mortared wall to lean against it. He inhaled and exhaled slow, ragged breaths. He was now as white as a bed sheet.

  Panic whipped through Helena. Something was very wrong. “Father?”

  He raised a hand, urging her to stay back. “I will be all right. Give me a moment—” A shudder racked him, and then he clutched at his gut, crying out in discomfort.

  “You need the healer. I will go and find Delfina—”

  Groaning again, he doubled over and vomited.

  ***

  “Lady Marlowe, why do you not retire to your chamber and get some sleep?”

  As Delfina spoke, distant thunder rumbled from beyond the solar’s shuttered windows. Sitting on the edge of her father’s bed, Helena wrapped a woolen blanket closer about her. In her childhood, when storms had terrified her, she’d run to her parents for comfort. Her sire had sat her down on the thick rug by the hearth in the solar and had calmed her fears with stories of ancient knights of good and evil battling in the skies overhead: their fighting caused the storms. Yet, there was no chance of a story now. Propped up by pillows, her beloved father lay in a fitful slumber.

  “Milady,” the healer urged.

  Helena shook her head. She was indeed weary after the strain of Lord Crandall’s visit, but she couldn’t abandon her sire. Not when he was gravely ill. Not when he needed her. Her fingers clasped his clammy, limp hand. “I will not be able to rest even if I try, Delfina, so I will stay here.”

  “I could sit with him and summon you if—”

  “Thank you, but nay.”

  Her chestnut-colored linen gown whispering as she walked, Delfina approached the bedside. She gently washed Helena’s sire’s face and then laid a damp cloth on his brow. In the flickering light of the bedside candles, the older woman’s face looked grim.

  Thunder growled again, the sound ominous in the nearly silent chamber.

  “Will he be all right?” Helena asked. She couldn’t bear to lose him, not when losing her mother had almost shattered her heart.

  Without answering, Delfina crossed to the nearby trestle table laden with a large bowl of water, folded cloths, and healing potions. “I will do my utmost to ensure he will be well again.”

  Such careful words. The fear taunting Helena wove deeper.

  Her father couldn’t die. He simply couldn’t.

  “You must have treated similar ailments before,” Helena said. “The sickness a few summers ago…”

  Delfina frowned. “This is a different kind of illness.”

  “Do you mean to say…you do not know what is wrong with him?”

  The woman’s brown eyes shone with remorse. “’Twould be easier for me to cure him if I knew what had caused him to become ill. No one else at the castle is unwell, even those who also dined in the great hall earlier, which is most puzzling.”

  Helena couldn’t bear to consider the dark thought creeping into her mind, and yet, she must. “Could he have been poisoned?”

  “’Tis possible, I suppose, although I cannot imagine anyone within these walls wanting to commit such a loathsome act. Your sire is a good man, and well liked by the servants.” The older woman shook her head. “I might suspect our guests today, except that you were with your sire during Lord Crandall’s visit, were you not?”

  “I was indeed, every moment of it, along with two of Father’s most loyal guards. Father asked me to accompany them on the inspection and to take part in the review of the accounts, since I approve most of the household purchases, as Mother used to do. Father and I handled the same items, and we ate the same fare and drank the same wine during the meal.” Helena hesitated. “The only exception was the fruit cake Lord Crandall brought. Father ate some, but I did not.”

  “I dare not suggest a gift given by our King was tainted.” Delfina’s face paled. “Could that not be considered treason?”

  “We must think of all possibilities,” Helena insisted.

  Shaking her head, Delfina said, “Cake could not have caused such sickness. As I said, milady, this situation is most puzzling.” A bowl scraped on the table as Delfina sorted items lying before her and then dropped wet cloths into a woven basket. “I must gather and prepare more herbs. I will ask the cook to send up some more broth. Wake your father if you can, and try to get him to take a few sips.”

  Helena gnawed her bottom lip, for they’d spoon-fed him some broth earlier, and he’d vomited it all up moments after he’d swallowed it. He’d also failed to reach the chamber pot before his bowels had erupted, a tremendous humiliation for a man as proud as her sire. The servants had already changed the bedding twice.

  “With luck,” Delfina said, “he will have improved a bit, and he will be able to keep the broth down.”

  “I will see that he drinks some.”

  Delfina curtsied, picked up her basket, and left the chamber, leaving Helena in the silent room. Thunder growled again, sounding closer this time.

  Helena looked down at her fingers entwined with her sire’s. His hands were so broad and strong, and hardened with calluses—just as Tavis’s had been years ago.

  Anguish lanced through her, and she mentally tried to force aside all thoughts of the young Scottish lord. She did not want to think of him right now, but her fear of losing her father had clearly stirred up memories of her own near-death years ago.

  Her sire still received missives now and again from Matthew de Rowenne. Months ago, as she’d walked through the great hall, she’d overheard her father speak Tavis’s name, but hadn’t lingered to hear more. She hadn’t spoken to Tavis since he’d left the thistle on her bed. She’d kept the thistle—it had been too exquisite to throw away—but had hoped not to see or speak to him ever again.

  Frowning, she recalled Dumfries had been among the castles that Lord Crandall had visited. He’d mentioned it during the midday meal.

  At a menacing snarl of thunder, Helena jumped. Her sire groaned softly, and his head turned on the pillow. “Father?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer, or otherwise acknowledge her. For now, though, she’d leave him to rest, until the broth from the kitchens arrived.

  Her eyes stung as she leaned over and brushed aside silvery hair that had fallen into his face. He had to get better. That meant uncovering what ailed him, and she’d do all within her power to find out.

  ***

  “Da, Dandelion is afraid of the storm.”

  From the upstairs window of the inn on the outskirts of the town of Kellenham, Tavis studied the black sky. Lightning ripped across the heavens, while wind tore at the branches of the oaks across the road. “’Tis indeed a bad thunderstorm,” he said, pushing the shutters closed. He turned to face his five-year-old daughter sitting near the hearth along with a small cage made of wood and sticks bound together with twine. “The tempest should be gone by morning, though.”

  “I hope so.” Meredith pulled a loose bit of wood from the cage. “So does Dandelion.”

  Tavis smiled. “How do you know what your kitten is thinking?”

  “I can tell by his eyes.”

  As she peered into the cage to check on the feline, Tavis caught his breath. With the light from the candles and the nearby fire flickering over her and her pale blue gown, she looked jus
t like her late mother: the same graceful line of her jaw, honey-brown hair, and expressive brown eyes. Anguish cut through him, for while he hadn’t loved Elyse, not in the intensely passionate way he’d always imagined he’d love the woman who’d be his wife, she’d gifted him with Merry. Elyse would have given him a son, too, if only the birthing hadn’t gone terribly wrong and she and the babe had perished. He’d held her hand as she’d passed, and promised her he’d take good care of their daughter.

  Thunder crashed overhead, and Merry murmured soothing words to the kitten. Tavis crossed to her and sat on the woven rug stretched out by the hearth. He peeked into the cage, where fluffy, golden-and-yellow Dandelion was huddled under a length of cloth.

  “Did he eat the bits of fish you gave him?”

  “Some of them. The rest are under his blanket.”

  Tavis tried very hard not to grimace. Those morsels would smell foul by morning if they weren’t eaten. He must remember to have Merry clean out the cage before they continued their journey.

  “I told him to save the fish if he was not hungry,” Merry continued. “Eating during the storm might upset his tummy.”

  Tavis fought the urge to laugh; Merry looked so serious, and he didn’t want to upset her. “He is a very wise kitten,” he finally said.

  “’Tis why I wanted to keep him. He and I understand one another.”

  A dull ache gripped Tavis, for she’d found the animal, the smallest of a litter of seven kittens, in the stable on the English estate ruled by Elysa’s father. Elysa’s parents had fallen in love with Merry when they’d first seen her days after she’d been born, and even after Elysa’s death, had continued to send letters to her and had encouraged Tavis to bring her to visit them.

  Last week, Tavis had delivered swords to several noblemen—including Godwin, married with two children and with a third on the way—who had commissioned them from the famous forge at Dumfries. Years ago, the forge had been located at Lincluden, but maintaining the older fortress had become too costly, and his sire had given the castle to the Benedictine nuns of nearby Lincluden Abbey.

  Dumfries’s forge continued to produce weapons of the finest quality. While Tavis had completed the deliveries—and further secured his political alliances with those lords who, like he and his sire, were fed up with King John’s corruption—Merry had stayed with her grandparents.

  When he’d arrived to collect her, she’d insisted on showing him Dandelion. He’d suggested that she leave the kitten with its mother and siblings, but Merry had wept as if he’d crushed her very soul. Tavis had finally relented and let her keep the pet. He had no idea how it would fare on the journey back to Galloway, but cats were resilient creatures, and Merry was taking good care of Dandelion so far. Within a few days, the kitten would be exploring its new home in Scotland…as soon as Tavis had delivered the last sword to Lord Marlowe.

  His thoughts drifted to Helena, as they had done so many times during his recent travels. She was no doubt married with children, and living with her lord husband in another part of England. He intended to ask her sire how she was faring.

  The anguish of that long-ago accident on the lake lived with him every day. His jeweled pin, which he always wore, was a permanent reminder of his foolishness. Whatever ancient curse the pin held, he was damned to live the rest of his life knowing he might have killed Helena if circumstances had turned out differently—and he would never endanger a lady’s life again.

  “Da,” Merry said, touching his arm, “do you think—?”

  Thunder boomed overhead. Wind battered the shutters, and as they crashed inward, most of the candles extinguished.

  Merry shrieked.

  “’Tis all right.” Tavis pushed to his feet and latched the shutters, just as rain began to pelt. Wind howled outside, the sound akin to a feral beast demanding to get in.

  “Dandelion does not like that noise,” Merry said with a shiver.

  Tavis sat again and drew her in close. He kissed the top of her head. “I do not like it either. However, we are quite safe in this room.”

  Merry was silent a moment. Then, gazing up at him, she said, “Dandelion thinks I would feel better if I drank some warm milk. Can I have some, Da?”

  “You may.” He wouldn’t mind a drink himself, but one stronger than milk. “I will go and find the innkeeper and order us all some drinks.”

  ***

  “Father, you must try to swallow a bit more of this broth.”

  Seated at his bedside, Helena held the earthenware mug to her sire’s mouth. Groaning, he shook his head against the pillows behind him and pushed away her hand. “Nay, Helena.”

  “’Twill help you regain your strength.”

  “I do not want more broth! I must get out of this damned bed.”

  As he spoke, he reached for the blankets, as though to pull them aside, but Helena touched his arm, stopping him. “You are too ill.”

  “I have matters to attend.”

  “They will have to wait,” she said firmly.

  “’Tis not right, burdening you with—”

  “I will be fine managing the keep until you are better. I promise.”

  Truth be told, she felt as if she were drowning in all of the responsibilities, but she wouldn’t tell her sire that. He needed to focus on healing.

  He slumped back against the pillows, a fresh sheen of moisture coating his face. Fierce thunder erupted outside, and Helena startled, almost spilling the contents of the mug. She was right to convince him to rest. He’d only managed a few sips of the drink, and he sounded very weak. Helena had tended her mother before she’d died, and her voice, always so clear and confident, had lost its strength, too, before she had perished.

  Helena mentally forced aside the painful memories of losing her mother. Her sire deserved her full attention right now. “Father, you have to drink.”

  “So…tired.” He sighed, a sound of utter exhaustion. Sweat dampened his hairline, even though he’d barely moved since she’d woken him. She put down the mug, reached for the wet cloth she’d readied earlier, and wiped his face.

  Thunder crashed again. If there were indeed knights fighting in the heavens, they were knocking castle walls to the ground.

  “Folk have been asking after you,” she murmured while dabbing at his cheek. “They all hope you will soon be well again.”

  “I am eager…for that too.” Meeting her eyes, he said, “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

  “Of course.” A sudden gravity shadowed his gaze. Softly, she asked, “Father, what is—?”

  “I must tell you… ’Tis important.”

  She set aside the cloth and caught hold of his hand. A tremor ran through her, for she’d rarely seen her sire look so concerned. “Go on.”

  “A lord…will be coming to visit. Any day now.”

  “What is his name?”

  “You will know him…when you see him.”

  “Surely you can tell me—?”

  “He…will be delivering…a broadsword. One I specially ordered…from Galloway.”

  She’d seen some of the beautiful and expensive blades made at the renowned forge at Dumfries. Tavis’s father was still lord of that fortress, and while she’d heard that Tavis had returned to Galloway, he wasn’t likely to be involved in delivering weapons. The visitor must be one of the other Scottish lords her father knew. “I will make sure the sword is brought to the solar when ’tis delivered,” she said, even as she frowned. “How did you afford such a commission? The sword must have cost a great deal of coin, and with your debt to the King—”

  Her sire’s face reddened as he shook his head. “I will explain later. There…is also an important letter—”

  A loud peal of thunder sounded outside, just as the chamber door opened. The healer hurried in with her basket; rainwater dampened her gown. “Milady,” she said, sounding as if she’d run all the way to the solar.

  “I tried to give Father the broth—”

  “Milady,
you must go to the bailey right away.” Delfina’s eyes were wild with panic.

  Helena rose, unable to quell a sense of dread. “What has happened?”

  “The stable, milady. ’Twas hit by lightning.”

  ***

  Tavis shut the door of the rented chamber in the inn and loped down the staircase. The main room below was crowded with folk sitting at tables or at the long, polished wooden bar. A fire crackled in the hearth, its smoke wafting up to the ceiling to mingle with the haze from the burning tallow candles on the tables.

  Maids in tight-fitting gowns that revealed plenty of cleavage strolled around the room to take drink orders. Men whistled at them and ogled them, and Tavis grinned, remembering his younger days when he’d loved to tease the wenches. He was a father now. He was Merry’s only living parent, and he would not fail in his responsibilities to her. Idle flirtations and pursuing tavern wenches were no longer part of his life.

  The innkeeper was delivering bowls of pottage to a table of four men. As he hurried back toward the kitchens, Tavis intercepted him.

  “Milord.” The innkeeper dropped into a quick bow. “The room is to your satisfaction?”

  “’Tis fine.” Tavis decided not to mention the lumpy straw mattress on his bed. Merry had said her cot was comfortable enough, and they would only be staying one night. “I would like to order some drinks. A mug of hot milk and—”

  The tavern door flew open. A man staggered in. The wind held the cloying tang of smoke.

  Frowning, Tavis glanced past the man into the night.

  “Fire,” the man said, gasping for breath. “Need help.”

  “Fire?” Tavis demanded. “Where?”

  “Kellenham Castle. The stable is…on fire!”

  ***

  Fastening her oldest cloak—the only one she dared risk being singed or ruined—Helena raced out of the forebuilding into the dark bailey. The acrid odor of smoke assailed her as a short distance ahead, flames leapt into the night sky, casting the bailey and the crowds of frightened onlookers in a hellish, orange-yellow glow.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, for the blaze had already consumed more than a third of the stable’s thatch roof and had moved down to the supporting walls. As the breeze gusted, the flames crackled, hissed, and swirled up toward the sky. Fear propelled her to a faster run, for on such a stormy night, when the summer had been so dry, the fire could quickly spread to the nearby fields of crops…and possibly even the town.