“Unhand me or face the wrath of God.” Anger rose up and overrode the fear. She elbowed Griswold hard in the ribs, slapped his injured hand, and jerked away. Taking a defensive stance, she fumbled to free the dagger hidden within her habit.
“You little—” Griswold cursed and raised his hand to strike her.
The Frenchman, still mounted, spurred his horse forward and pushed between Evangeline and the cursing brigand. He shoved the basket of herbs and bag down at Griswold and reached for the reins of his partner’s horse. “Take the nun to our guest immediately.” He turned to Evangeline. “Sister, he’ll not harm you.” Spoken as if an oath, he glared down at Griswold. “For it is not only God’s wrath he should fear if he strikes a servant of the church.” The Frenchman led the horses away to the pen where the carriage horses wandered around.
Perhaps she had an unwilling ally in the Frenchman. A shove from behind pushed her toward a large mound of earth at the east end of the farmhouse. Likely the family’s root cellar dug deep into the earth to store food and grain. Had Henry been imprisoned in that forbidding place?
Chapter 8
Evangeline scanned her surroundings. Henry’s carriage, battered and scratched, stood abandoned in the yard. The occasional snuffle of restless horses came from the pen, but there were no other typical farm sounds, not even a birdcall, only eerie silence. Once-majestic oaks that had shaded the tidy farmyard in the past were now charred skeletons. Moss and vines hung from their barren limbs, like the shroud of a ghostly apparition, giving no relief from the oppressive heat. No breeze ruffled the tall weeds engulfing the once happy, pristine home of her memory.
“About time you got back.” A short and stocky, black-haired brigand met them.
“Fisher, you’re a…” The already ill-tempered Griswold didn’t appreciate the snide remark. He shoved Evangeline forward and loosed a string of curses attacking the other man’s parentage and his manhood, and then added a mumbled reference to donkey dung.
Wedged between the two bickering brigands, she was pushed past the farmhouse toward the structure. An open door that led into the root cellar and total darkness.
She hadn’t seen nor heard the child since her arrival. Worry churned within her and increased her pace.
“Wake up!” A shout and the screech of rusty hinges troubled the recesses of Henry’s sleep.
He dismissed the demand, for he and his beloved Evangeline rested in their bedchamber enjoying their private time.
Entwined in each other’s arms, they lingered, discussing the day’s events. He loved the way her mind worked. She gave a unique insight and clarity into problems he’d once wrestled with for days. Inhaling lavender, roses and her special womanly perfection, he relaxed, savoring his time with her. The numbness in his left arm was unrelenting. He tried to shift his position without releasing Evangeline, never wanting to let her go again. This time he would keep her safe.
“I told you to wake up, fancy pants.” Rough hands shook him. “You got a visitor.”
“Ugh-h.” Anger scratched Henry’s parched throat at the intrusion and made his protest weak and garbled. The diversion tore away the remaining image of Evangeline. An unmerciful and pain-filled reality emerged in her place.
“Get in there, Sister.” Fisher, the third of her unwashed kidnappers, pushed her into the dark, earthen room. “There’s your ailin’ patient.”
“Ailin’? Not near what he deserves for this.” Griswold shook his bandaged hand at Henry’s body lying in the dirt. The vile names he spewed were followed by the same vicious curses that he’d just proclaimed over Fisher.
As if he evoked an evil presence in the confined space, a chill spread through the room stayed only by the dim light of the torches.
“Enough.” Evangeline cleared her troubled thoughts and spoke in her most demanding voice, a hoarse imitation of her aunt’s commands. “No one deserves to be treated in such a manner, no matter what they’ve done.” A quick perusal of the confined space confirmed the child and nursemaid were not here.
She knelt beside Henry. He was barely conscious, dirty, and, by the sounds of his groans, in considerable pain. The anger she’d carried for his neglect and betrayal these last eighteen months had hardened into a wall of bitterness after the fire. The time spent with the nuns at the convent as they’d ministered to her burns and broken spirit had mellowed those feelings into cold indifference. Or so she’d thought until yesterday when Henry leaned out of his carriage and spewed his haughty diatribe about protecting his own. A reserve of hidden resentment had burst into a flame of full-blown hatred quenched only by the sound of the child’s cry. A total contradiction to the alarm she now felt. Left in this filthy, dark and dank place, he would surely perish.
“He must not remain here.” She straightened to her full height. “If you want my help, then this man must be taken to the house and put in a clean bed.”
Something moved in the dark recesses, stirring up an eerie stench of decay. Evangeline suspected a rat. One glance at the fear she saw in her captors darting gazes, and she knew what to do.
“Did you hear that?” She crossed herself and kissed the cross now clutched in her hand. She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “I heard rumors that the owner of this farm, and his sons, all good men, were murdered defending their home. They say their spirits roam here hunting the evil men who took their lives and any others with malice in their hearts.” She paused and crossed herself again. “Surely men of the world such as you can feel this place is haunted.”
The men grumbled a muddled protest of disagreement, but their eyes grew large. They searched the space around them as if they too had heard the scratching and felt the chill enter the darkened cellar. They turned toward the open door as if to assure a way of escape if necessary.
While they were distracted, Evangeline sent a stone flying into the side of a wooden crate with the toe of her shoe. A large rat darted out, dislodging a bundle of straw leaning against the wall. The men turned back in time to see only the straw falling—for no apparent reason. Eager now to leave, with a man on each side they picked up Henry by the arms and dragged his limp body toward the house. Evangeline followed them, eager to check on the child.
The heat slammed into them as they left the clammy gloom of the old root cellar. The men bickered back and forth, each voicing his disbelief in vengeful spirits but hauled the unconscious Henry inside the house. Their complaints increased every step it took to reach the third floor attic. They put him in the larger of the two rooms under the thatched roof. It could have housed one of the older sons by the size of the extra-long bed. Bird and rodent droppings littered the area, but the holes in the thatched roof also allowed light and air to circulate. Not ideal, but, once cleaned, the space would be a healthier environment than the rat-infested earthen dungeon. Evangeline set her bag of healing supplies on a wood crate by the door and stepped out of the way.
Her captors dumped Henry onto the bare bed, sending up a cloud of dust, and headed to the door.
“Wait.” She did a quick evaluation of Henry’s injuries. There was bruising around his ribs and a large bump on the back of his head. She touched his forehead and flushed cheeks. He had a slight fever. She could do a more thorough exam once he was washed. “I need hot water to bathe his wounds and bring me a broom and scrub brush, if you can find them. This whole room needs to be swept and cleaned immediately.”
“I also need clean straw for the bed and blankets from the carriage.” She softened her tone when she saw their rebellious expressions. “After I’ve seen to his Lordship, I will tend to your wounds, also.”
Fisher and Griswold grumbled but moved Henry to the floor before they left. The bed’s old cloth ticking was torn and had become a cozy place for mice to live. While the men were gone doing her bidding, she dragged the old bedding to the window and pushed it out. She did a quick cleaning of the area as best she could. After the men returned with the items she requested, she covered the fresh straw, the men
had piled on the bed, with a woven blanket of fine fabric taken from the carriage. When Fisher returned with another pail of the water, she had him help her get Henry onto the bed.
“You need more fetching, you do it.” Fisher gave Evangeline a menacing glare and stomped off down the stairs.
She stripped off Henry’s dirty, bloodstained clothing to further assess his injuries and cleanse his wounds. A groan escaped when she washed his neck and shoulder.
An unexpected wave of emotions and memories rose like a tidal wave within her. She knew his body almost as well as her own. She had surprised and delighted him with her curiosity and questions as they had unashamedly explored each other.
How easily he had abandoned her when she’d needed him most. He moaned and pulled away from the tight hold she had on his bruised shoulder. She released him, appalled at the fresh hurt the memory had loosed within her.
After a few cleansing breaths, she resumed her exam. She ran her fingers over the dark bruising over his ribs, relieved they didn’t appear broken. He had lost weight to the point of being gaunt, though his muscles remained firm and well defined, as if he’d spent many hours sparring. She touched a small scar on his chest, an accident caused by his younger brother, Robert. Henry had regaled her with hilarious stories of his childhood growing up with such a mischievous younger brother. His stories had only confirmed her conviction that she wanted many children. Growing up as an only child was not a fate she’d wish on anyone.
Helen had been as close as a sister, but the difference between servant and royal kept a barrier between them not of their making.
Henry had been crushed when the news of his brother’s death had reached the castle.
Regret settled into a pool of mourning within her soul at what she’d lost that day. She and Henry had been blissfully happy until then, especially with the news of her pregnancy only days before. After the news of Robert’s death, the castle’s populace went into mourning. Henry and Evangeline had spent many hours consoling each other within their bedchambers.
Warmth flushed her face when she realized her train of thought and how easily she’d found solace in touching her husband. Taking a deep breath, she stood and poured the pail of dirty water out the small attic window, replacing it with clean water from the pitcher. She wished she could get rid of her hurt as easily, but she was no longer the innocent she’d been back then. Betrayal and nearly burning to death had seared more than her flesh.
Determined to keep her emotions and memories in check, she pushed back the veil to see unhindered and returned to her task. She rubbed crushed lavender over his numerous cuts. The deeper wounds she smeared a mixture of herbs boiled down earlier at the abbey to make a poultice and wrapped each place with clean linen.
Her emotions tormented her, from fury, at his betrayal to fear for his life. She fought for control while she finished washing her husband’s battered body and completed her examination. In spite of the anger that rose from the ashes of her grief, his weakness stirred up compassion that she justified by her time spent in the convent.
Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. She prayed the Lord’s Prayer every day. Why, Lord, must forgiveness be so hard? Tears came unbidden for the man she’d not long ago wished dead for the misery she’d endured. Now...
She stood, stretched, and took a deep breath to calm her wayward emotions. She needed to remember why she was here. Focus. She must finish doctoring Henry, locate the baby, then figure a way to free them all.
His groan drew her to his side, and she bent over him. With a light touch, she wiped his face with a damp cloth that she’d soaked in lavender water. The large knot behind his right ear concerned her most. It did not bode well if he remained unconscious for long. She dabbed the wound with camphor, the strong scent lingered in the space. Packing the area around the wound with dried herbs she’d combined with more camphor would help reduce the swelling. She then wrapped a linen bandage around his head to keep the poultice in place.
She mixed a combination of fever and pain-reducing herbs for him to drink. Seeing him injured and helpless was hard enough, but holding him close to administer the medicine evoked a deep fear that he might suddenly awaken and see through her disguise. She wished she’d tugged the veil down to cover her face.
“No.” Henry mumbled and pushed at her hand that held the cup.
Tears of relief blurred her vision. His resistance was a good sign, even though his eyes remained closed.
“You must drink this.” She knew her voice was far different since the fire, but still he might recognize her. The passion they’d felt at first glance had never gone away. Could he feel it too?
“You’ve come back to me.” He blinked and smiled up at her, his voice a husky whisper that stirred a familiar longing. Shock that, even in his dazed and fevered state, he too felt their connection intensified her hold, pressing against his injured shoulder. He groaned, pain furrowing his brow. Immediately she relaxed her grip.
“Don’t leave me-e.” His words slurred, and his feverish gaze dulled. He slipped back into unconsciousness. She shook him.
“Henry, you need to swallow all of this to get better. Do you understand?” Cradled against her like a child, she supported him with one arm and tilted the cup containing the herbal draught to his lips with her free hand. He accepted the drink this time but grimaced at its bitter taste.
“I know it’s unpleasant but it will help with the pain.” She eased him back, but he grabbed her arm.
“I’m sorry.” Tears pooled in his eyes. Gone was the arrogant aristocrat, but for how long? His grip tightened. “I-I love…” Though she longed to hear the rest, his voice faded.
“Rest.” She set the cup down and smoothed his hair away from his face. He relaxed, his hand dropped to his side. His features smooth. The draught was working. He would sleep for a few hours, until the next dose of medicine.
Heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs. She stood and tugged her veil back into place.
“Come down and doctor my hand, Sister.” An angry Griswold stopped at the doorway and waved her to the stairway. “Now.”
A young child’s cry echoed from below. Grabbing her bag and basket of supplies, she followed Griswold down to the first floor, excitement thrummed within her. She would finally get to meet the child and question the nursemaid about many things, including the child’s parentage.
Chapter 9
Griswold stopped Evangeline with his beefy grip before she could search out the child.
“I need to tend to the…”
“You need to fix me hand first.” He tugged her into a small sitting room to the left and shoved her toward one of the two oak armchairs and dropped into the other. With the audacity of a bully used to getting his way, he extended his arm on the table between them.
“Get to it.”
She could barely concentrate for the loud wails coming from the room across the hall. The child’s distress and Evangeline’s need to intervene grew more intense by the minute.
With little care for the pain she must inflict, she stripped away the brigand’s nasty bandage, which had stuck to the wound in several places.
“Aargh-h!” He jerked his hand back and glared at her with murderous intent, uttering a string of threats and curses for the pain she’d inflicted. The missing bandage revealed two missing fingers. Losing the index and middle fingers on his sword hand would certainly hinder his ability to continue his life as a mercenary.
“It had to be done quickly. If you wish, I can leave it untreated, but I warn you that you’ll not live out the week by the looks of it.” She leaned back and crossed her arms. “Your choice.”
“Fix it.” He shoved his mangled hand back at her. Fear had won out, but by his mumbled complaints and scowl, it angered him more by the weakness his acquiescence had revealed.
There might be a human hiding within that angry exterior after all. She almost laughed at that thought.
The big man
wore a filthy, sleeveless tunic covered by a stained leather vest and equally worn and stained boots. Whatever the color of the original cloth tunic, it was now a faded gray with blood stains, dried black and crusty. His bare face, neck, arms and hands were littered with scars revealing a harsh existence.
A sharp sword had removed the digits as smooth as a surgeon’s knife. The wound was red and swollen, making it impossible to stitch the cuts close. All she could do was clean the area and pack it with a poultice made up of a mixture of herbs and dried garlic to help ward off infection. The bandage should be changed often, a chore she didn’t relish, considering his foul mouth and angry threats, which had continued throughout the bandaging process.
It was a good thing that thoughts were not daggers or this brigand would be dead. In her opinion, he deserved to die for his part in the kidnapping and murder. Fortunately for him, her greater concerns were seeing the child and assessing their best way to escape.
She tied the last knot of the bandage and put away her supplies.
“Go! Do something to shut up that caterwauling, or someone else will.” Griswold stood, drew his dagger with his left hand, and waved it in the direction of the child’s distress.
“I suggest you put away that knife lest…” She stood and walked away mumbling the rest of her tirade out of his earshot, knowing her words would reveal her grievous lack of Christian piety where he was concerned.
She crossed the hall and into a large open room filled with furniture. A huge stone fireplace filled one end of the space. The great room must have been the family’s favorite, by the care that had gone into the fine wood and stonework.
Movement drew her attention to a disheveled young woman of slight build pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. She carried a red-faced toddler, who pushed and squirmed against the nursemaid’s hold. The child’s angry cries were interspersed with the toddler’s demands. “Down!”
The Secret Life of Lady Evangeline Page 8
