Lord of Secrets

by Gillgannon, Mary

  William forced his thoughts back to the present. Having met the important villagers, he should go back to the castle and see to things there. But he dreaded doing so. All he could think about were all the problems and responsibilities he faced.

  And it was so lovely and peaceful here. The air was filled with the sweet scent of new mown hay. Bees buzzed lazily in the clover. The hot sun beat down, causing a pleasant lethargy. Here, outside the castle, he might be able to sleep, to doze peacefully instead of tossing and turning, tormented by dark memories. It had been weeks since he’d truly slept properly.

  That was it, his excuse to remain here a while longer. He would ask the healer for a sleeping draught.

  The villagers drew back as he strode through them, looking startled. William hesitated when he reached the dainty woman. How was he to address her? It was unlikely she was wed, so goodwife didn’t work. Lady or mistress hardly fit her circumstances either.

  He inclined his head politely. Something about her inspired all his notions of courtesy. “Maid Rhosyn, I understand you are a healer.”

  *

  Why was this man speaking to her? Had he already heard the tales from Cardiff? Did he think to have her seized and taken back there to suffer the same fate as her mother?

  She was being foolish. He was probably seeking advice about some ailment. Rhosyn licked her dry lips. “Aye. I’m a healer.” She wished she didn’t sound so uncertain. Her mother always told her to be bold and firm. It was important to inspire people’s confidence.

  Fitzhugh spoke impatiently. “I need something to help me sleep. Can you provide me with a potion that will aid me?”

  He probably couldn’t sleep because he was haunted by the terrible things he’d done. Although it seemed unlikely men like him had consciences to haunt them. She turned to leave. “I will bring you something.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She shot him an exasperated look. Did he think she carried her medicines on her person? “I must go to my cottage to fetch the sleeping draught.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Panic surged through her as she remembered her terrifying experience the last time she’d been alone with an English lord. This man meant to rape her. There could be no other reason for him wanting to accompany her.

  She managed a small nod and started walking. As soon as they reached the woods, she would run. But one of his strides would easily match two of hers. It would be better to wait until they reached the cottage and she could get a weapon. Although one of her puny knives would do little against this giant. To reach his eyes or throat, any part of him that was vulnerable, she would have to wait until he was already on top of her.

  Dread made her breathless as she took the path to her cottage, but she forced herself to walk slowly and steadily. Do not let him see your fear. He followed a few feet behind. The path twisted through the trees, and she remembered how pleased she’d been to discover the healer’s cottage was set away from the other houses. Now the isolation of her dwelling horrified her. If she screamed, no one would hear her.

  Not that it mattered. Even if they wanted to help her, none of the villagers would come to her aid. He was the lord of Higham. He could do whatever he wished. Thoughts of the pain he could inflict made her tremble. He was so big and she was still a virgin. And this was a Saeson, a race known for their cruelty.

  You cannot change what happens to your body, but you still have power. You must find a way to keep him from damaging your spirit. She would go away from herself, as her mother had taught her. Doing so was clearly how her mother had endured her horrible death. Rhosyn had also learned to detach herself from what was happening around her. That’s what had allowed her survive this long, pushing the fear and horror down so deep it couldn’t reach her. Although what was about to occur now would bring it all back. Somehow she must find a way to stop him.

  If she merely injured Fitzhugh, he would be even more vicious. She would have to kill him. And then what? Flee again and try to find another place to serve as healer? This was the king’s man. If she murdered him, she would be pursued relentlessly, even into her homeland.

  Still, was that not better than being raped? She had fought off one man and managed to survive; she could do so again. Her mind told her that enduring his violence was a wiser choice than killing him, but her instincts insisted otherwise. She would not be a helpless victim. She would not.

  Her small dwelling looked so peaceful in the dappled sunlight trickling down through the trees. Near the daub and wattle cottage, her garden of medicinal plants grew in neat rows. Inside, everything would also be ordered and serene. Into that tranquil world, the man behind her would bring violence and horror.

  He probably wouldn’t bother to take her up to the loft to her bed. The ladder leading there might not bear his weight anyway. He would rape her on the floor, on the woven mats near the hearth. A shiver of dread went through her. Although she had managed to escape Bellame, this man was so much bigger and more powerful. She must get a weapon if she was to have any chance of escaping.

  She hurried into the cottage ahead of him. He had to move the hide door covering aside and duck down to enter the low doorway. It did not slow him long. In seconds his massive presence filled the small space.

  She gestured to the passageway leading off the main living area. “I will go and get the sleeping draught.” She worried he would follow and rape her on the table where she prepared her elixirs, ointments and brews. She must grab the knife instantly. Then drive it into his gullet as he loomed over her.

  To her surprise, he didn’t follow her. She had plenty of time to seize the implement she used for chopping herbs. It was small but sharp.

  Chapter Two

  William perused the interior of the small cottage with interest. He’d never been inside a dwelling like this one, the walls lined with hanging bundles of dried herbs and plants. They gave off a strong scent, so pungent and intense it almost made him dizzy. But it was not unpleasant. Many of the fragrances he could detect were sweet or spicy.

  Other than the herbs hung on the walls and piled up in baskets around the edges of the room, the rest of the cottage was extremely orderly. The woven mats on the floor were spotless. The cooking implements and pottery dishes were carefully arranged by the fire. A small stool was tucked underneath the table where she must prepare her food. In the loft above, he observed a small bed with a purplish-pink coverlet smoothed over it.

  The coverlet was clearly the work of a skilled dyer and weaver. The furniture in the cottage had also been expertly crafted. All these fine things suggested a woman of resources. Was she a widow? She seemed very young to have already lost a husband. But then, it was not uncommon for girls to be married at fourteen, often to men far older.

  The thought reminded him of Emma. She had been fifteen when they were wed, and so slender and slim-hipped she appeared even younger. He closed his eyes, wishing for the thousandth time he’d heeded his instincts and not consummated the marriage. Instead, he’d followed his father’s order and done his duty as her husband. Now she was dead.

  He took a shaky breath. He must forget the awful memories and concentrate on the future. What was taking the healer so long? Perhaps she had to mix up something. He wondered what she would give him. Poppy juice was the best, but it was costly and not something a healer would likely offer for sleep. His mother had saved her small supply for extremely painful injuries or for when someone needed to be rendered insensible. But there were other herbs that could help with sleep. A skilled healer would know all about them.

  She seemed very young to be a healer. An apprentice, aye, but a wise woman on her own? Healers held the power of life and death over those they treated. Not many people wanted to trust their life and well-being to someone who looked as if they had only had a few years of experience.

  But that was exactly what he was doing. The healer could bring him poison and he would never know anything was amiss until he was in his death thr
oes. But it seemed very unlikely she would risk such a thing. Many people had seen him follow her to her cottage. If he died soon after, the consequences for her would be severe. She would likely be hanged, or even burned to death.

  Besides, why should she want to poison him? She knew nothing about him. Unless she was a Welsh spy. Perhaps he was too trusting. His father always said so.

  The thought made up his mind and he ducked into the passageway the healer had taken. He barely caught a glimpse of a small room with a table piled with herbs and jars and then she was on him. There was a sharp pain in his neck. He grabbed her wrist and twisted until she dropped the knife, then seized her other wrist and shook her. “By the saints, what are you doing?”

  When she didn’t answer, he dragged her out into the cottage proper. In the middle of the room, he shook her again, more gently this time. “Why did you attack me?”

  Her dark eyes were wild, her breast heaving. She began to strain and twist so violently he feared she would hurt herself.

  “Stop! Stop! I don’t want to injure you!”

  She let out a sob and kept fighting.

  He softened his tone. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you. I vow, if you stop struggling, nothing terrible will happen. I only want to know what this is about. Why did you attack me?”

  She grew still, but her eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

  “Why?” he repeated. “Are you a spy? Do you hate me because I’m English? Is that it?”

  He wanted so badly for her to give him a halfway sensible reason for what she’d done so he didn’t have to punish her. It would break his heart to mete out harsh justice to such a lovely young woman.

  Her expression remained desperate, reminding him of a frantic wild creature. She began to struggle again. Fearing he would accidentally snap one of her dainty wrists, he shifted his hands so he was holding her upper arms. This close, he could smell her female scent. Her mouth was a dainty rosebud. Her soft brown eyes had flecks of gold. Against his will, he was aroused.

  As she grew more terrified, he finally understood. She thinks I mean to rape her.

  He eased his grip on her arms and spoke softly. “I will not harm or abuse you in any way, I vow it. I’m going to let go. All I ask is that you don’t attack me again. I came here for a sleeping potion. I have no other designs upon your person. I’m not that sort of man.”

  Except he was. If he had not lost control and allowed Emma to entice him, she would not be dead.

  He pushed the thought away and released the healer. She exhaled and some of the tension left her expression. He wondered how badly she’d cut him with the knife. He touched his neck and found a small wound, hardly more than a scratch. But it was bleeding. He fixed her with a stern look. “It seems I need a bandage. Will you fetch me one?”

  She stared at him a moment, then she went to a corner of the cottage and retrieved a cloth from one of the baskets. “I need to clean the wound first.” She disappeared into the still room. He wondered if she would retrieve the knife and attack him again. Surely she was not that foolish.

  A short while later she came back carrying the cloth. He bent down to allow her to clean the wound. Her touch was gentle and he was keenly aware of how close she was and the warm, sweet scent of her skin. She smelled of sunshine and flowers and female sweat. All of it mingled with the heady odors of the dwelling and made him almost dizzy.

  She left him to wet the cloth in a jar by the fire. When she returned she resumed cleaning the wound. He jerked back. “What is that? It burns.”

  “Vinegar. It helps keep the wound from becoming poisoned.”

  He gave her a wary look, then nodded that she should continue. The stinging the vinegar caused was nothing, but he could not help wondering if she was making him suffer on purpose.

  “I’ve never heard of using vinegar to treat a wound.”

  “That’s because army surgeons don’t know what they are doing.”

  “But wise women do.”

  “Aye. We’ve learned over many years and passed on our knowledge.”

  “Who did you learn from?”

  “My mother.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Her hand stilled on his neck. He saw her take a sharp breath. Although she did not say it, he felt certain her mother was dead. He could not help wondering how she had died and why this woman was being so secretive.

  The healer drew away. “I will get a bandage.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think a bandage is necessary.”

  “The cut still seeps blood.”

  “Press on the wound for a time and the bleeding will stop.”

  She raised her fine, dark brows. He regarded her steadily. She’d attacked him. The least she could do was tend him until the bleeding stopped. She sighed and again pressed the cloth to the wound.

  The vague pain in his neck was not nearly enough to distract him from her nearness. Her slim, delicate body so close to his. Her thick dark hair and smooth tanned skin made his fingers ache to touch and fondle. Her scent, so delicate and yet so heady, rich with the promise of female mystery and sex.

  His arousal increased. He hoped his mail shirt and padded gambeson would hide the evidence. But she had known before when his body reacted to hers. She’d probably guessed from his quickened breathing. Or maybe it had it been something in his expression that gave him away. At least she wasn’t looking at him now. Her gaze was trained firmly on the wound, all her focus on halting the bleeding.

  What was it about this woman that so enticed him? How was it that she could try to murder him and all he could think about was holding her in his arms and kissing her beguiling mouth? He wanted to stroke her dark hair and feel it brush against his bare skin, the soft strands caressing and tickling. He wanted to…

  Nay, he did not want that. He was not that sort of man. A crude beast, who used women as if they were only vessels for his lust, without worrying about the consequences. And there could always be consequences, whether it was kitchen maid or his lawful wife. The only time he had not worried was when he bedded whores in the stews of London. Those women—hard-eyed and world-weary—knew how to rid themselves of unwanted babes.

  But a wise woman might also. ’Twas whispered so. That was why many churchmen and priests abhorred them as wicked daughters of Eve. Because they possessed the power to subvert the natural laws of God.

  But he could not see this woman as wicked, even if she had attacked him. It was probably reasonable of her to fear him. He was her lord, a powerful knight who was near twice her size. And since she was Welsh, she likely saw him the enemy. Most of her people had never accepted English rule.

  Yet, she spoke his language easily, as if it was her mother tongue. So many mysteries. He should question her and find out more about her past. But that would only set her against him, and he did not want that. He wanted her to be his ally, his friend.

  He felt himself softening towards her even more. Which was utterly foolish. He did not know her at all.

  “The bleeding has stopped.”

  He glanced down, as if he could see the wound, although of course he could not. She moved away. Her closed, wary expression made it clear she wanted him to leave.

  “The sleeping draught.” He nodded in the direction of her still room. As she went to fetch it, he wondered why he was being so persistent. But the medicine was why he had come here in the first place.

  *

  Rhosyn stared at the jar holding the tincture made from valerian and wild lettuce juice. How much should she tell him to take? How many stones did he weigh? She could not seem to do the calculations. Her thoughts were like birds fluttering around in head. What was it about this man that so unsettled her? He certainly didn’t behave as she expected. Most noblemen would have killed her if she attacked them. They would have been enraged. This man had seemed puzzled. He treated her like a child who has done something foolish and who must be gently reprimanded.

  But then he turned stubborn, insist
ing she treat his wound and stop the bleeding. Refusing to leave until she gave him the sleeping tincture. Was it because he still hoped to bed her? Perhaps he was trying to be courteous and win her favor. Seduce her instead of raping her. It was an unlikely approach for a man like this one.

  Was it possible he sensed her body’s response to his? Because, incredibly, absurdly, when he held her so close, she had felt something akin to desire for him. As if she was naught but a female animal in heat, unable to control the urge to mate. Her body, like a doe’s or vixen’s, could not resist this fine male specimen, knowing he would sire strong, healthy offspring.

  But why was she even thinking about these things? She needed to figure out the dosage, give him the tincture and be rid of him.

  She would advise him to take double what she would prescribe for herself. He didn’t weigh quite twice what she did, but men usually weren’t as sensitive to medicines as women.

  When she left the stillroom, she found him calmly studying the contents of the cottage. “Sometime I should have you tell me what all these herbs are and what they do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it seems interesting.” He turned towards her. “I don’t suppose any of your knowledge is written down. You probably pass it on orally. It seems a bit risky to me. Better to write things down. Then there’s a record, even if the people who have the knowledge end up perishing.”

  She thought about her mother’s grimoire, carefully stored in an oiled leather bag and buried in a stone-lined cistern a distance from the cottage. “If it were written down, such knowledge could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands.”