The Quest, page 2
The thought of that sped her steps so that the lad had to scurry to keep up.
“There was a battle at Portsmouth, you say?” she asked out of curiosity. “Have you French already invaded England? Where is this city?”
“The southern coast, lady. We had fired the place and were away home when the ship began taking on water. We signaled the nearest of our vessels, but she did not respond. Before we knew what was happening, we listed sharply and many went over the side. Then she sank like a stone.”
He paused, took a deep breath and then continued, “Sir Henri was injured by a broken spar. He fell against it as he released the barrels tied on the deck. We thought everyone might use those to float, though we saw no one else doing so. We believe all thirty souls perished, save ourselves.”
Iana shook her head and clicked her tongue in sympathy. She had no political leanings whatsoever, but it seemed a shame so many should die in any cause. Scotland had always sided with the French, of course. Her own King David had sought asylum in France the past few years while Bailliol, friend to the English king, had usurped Scotland’s crown.
Here in the west country, it mattered little who ruled. Life went on the same as ever. But she would break away from here before the day was out and make her own way in the world.
No one at Ochney Castle would know where she went. Newell would come in three days to ask whether she was ready to surrender her will in the marriage matter. The thought of him discovering her mysterious disappearance made her smile with satisfaction.
They had trudged along for some time when the boy, Everand, suddenly passed her at a run. “There! There he lies! Come quickly, lady. Hurry!”
She watched him drop beside his master and tenderly lift the man’s head upon his knees, cradling the face as though feeling for fever. Soon she stood directly over the two and looked down upon the man she was to care for.
Not an old man, as she had imagined. She guessed him to be thirty years, mayhaps a few past that, but not many. He was a large fellow and darkly handsome. Blood loss accounted for the sickly pallor of his skin beneath the short, thick beard. Sand coated one side of the long dark locks that must reach his shoulders when he stood upright. He was unconscious, maybe even dead already.
“Move out of the way,” she instructed the squire as she knelt. Carefully, she untied the sling and set the baby behind her on the sand. To the boy, she ordered, “Mind the child for me if you wish me to do this.”
Iana tugged aside the blood-soaked clothing and began to pull loose the wrappings around the man’s midsection.
“God have mercy,” she muttered when she saw the angry wound. She spoke to the lad again. “Gather some wood and build a fire. It looks as if we shall be here for a while.” Though she knew it would be wiser to leave within the hour, Iana could not bring herself to desert this knight or to rush his care.
He opened his eyes, but she could see that he did not focus well. Fever, she guessed.
“Take the boy to Baincroft. Anything you want,” he mumbled in her own language.
“And leave you here like this?” she asked wryly. “I do not think your little man would allow it.”
He blinked hard and his lips lifted in either a pained smile or a grimace. “No, I suppose not,” he mumbled. His accent proved faint, but there was no mistaking he was French. “Then I thank you for…helping.” His eyes drifted shut.
Iana uttered a mirthless laugh. “You might want to delay that gratitude, sir. I am about to deal you more pain than you already bear.”
When the boy returned with the dry deadwood, she found her flint and tow to make the fire. When she’d accomplished that, she fished a small metal bowl from her belongings and handed it to the squire. “Fill this with seawater.” Then she sat back to wait, snuggling the silent Tam against her side.
Henri struggled to hold his gaze on the woman’s face as she worked upon him. Efficient as a moneylender counting coins, he thought, while she removed his tunic and bathed his body in the seawater Ev had fetched for her.
The sting of the cleansing troubled him little more than the constant throbbing pain he had endured for days. When she glanced worriedly at his face, he summoned a smile, knowing she would think him brave and stoic. His small deception pleased him, having a lovely woman believe him so. In truth, he was half-dead already and quite well used to the agony of dying. He would make a good end of it. Not one whimper.
She lifted a small container to pour some liquid over his wound. The excruciating fire of it tore a groan from his throat.
“Felt that, did you?” she asked. “It will get worse.”
He clenched his teeth to trap the blasphemy that almost escaped. As reassurances went, hers was not welcome.
She put the jug of that same liquid to his lips and bade him drink deeply. He did so more than once, immediately realizing that it was the Scots’ famous water of life. It burned his throat as viciously as it had his wound. He’d had this stuff before and knew a blessed numbness would follow, a drunkenness from which he might never wake.
“’Twill take a few moments to work upon your senses,” she told him. Then she set the jug aside and took out a needle the length of his smallest finger. To the eye of it, she guided a full ell of thread.
“By the saints,” he muttered. “You’d sew me with pikestaff and rope?”
“Aye, and glad of it you’ll be,” she said, adding ruefully, “but not right soon.”
The languor offered by the spirits began to envelop him in its warm cocoon. The sun was setting now. He could see the last rays of it dancing across the waves. Idly, he wondered if he would ever see it rise again. No matter. “Have your way then, madam.”
His eyes closed of their own accord, though he’d faintly hoped to expire while gazing upon her striking features. He forced them open again to see whether he had imagined her beauty. She looked the same.
Strange to find such a one here in the hinterlands. Though he had seen a good portion of Scotland in his day, he had never come this far to the west. For some reason he had imagined there would be only tall, ruddy maids with wild, matted locks and thick, sturdy limbs. Unruly Viking stock combined with the fierce warring spirit of the Old Ones.
Not this woman. She appeared almost delicate, her movements graceful as those of a nimble hart. Her skin brought to mind fresh cream reflecting firelight. Sparks glinted in the depths of her sin-dark eyes each time her gaze caught his own. If only he could see her hair. Smooth, silken and long enough to reach her waist, he imagined, though she had it properly covered so that he could not even guess its true color. Dark, he thought, because her brows were. How he would love to see her hair, run his fingers through its smoothness. Oh well, he supposed he would soon be past pleasures of the flesh.
He turned his head slightly, and there was Ev, sitting cross-legged beside the fire. In his lap sat a small, thin, ethereal creature with eyes the size of walnuts, peering at him curiously. A child? Where had it come from?
It looked unreal, its eyes old, its mouth frowning, its body nearly wasted away. The sight of it made him want to curl an arm around it and shelter it. As though he had sent that silent message to his squire, Everand did so in his stead. The boy’s act comforted Henri as nothing else could have done at that moment. A fine knight Ev would make one day, he thought yet again.
Henri looked back to the woman, wondering whether he had conjured up both these strangers. The fever fogged his brain, he decided, giving him visions of both hope and despair. The one of hope seemed more real to him, definitely healthier, and he clung to her winsome visage.
He allowed his lids to drop once more, content to hold her image for as long as his mind worked. Drifting into permanent oblivion, entertained by such a vision, possessed great appeal.
Suddenly he jerked and howled, “God’s nails!”
She quickly flinched away from his upraised arm, the needle held aloft in front of her. “You must hold still!” she said firmly.
He followed the taut line of thread and saw it attached to the raw edge of his skin. If he was not dying already, she would surely kill him on the spot.
“I shall hold him down,” he heard Everand say in a deep voice, as though he were a man full grown and oak sturdy.
Henri almost laughed aloud at the idea of small Ev rendering him immobile. Instead, he upended the jug and downed the remainder of the strong brew that promised surcease from his torture. He was already drunk, but not drunk enough.
“Go to,” he gasped to the healer. “Everand will restrain me. He has more strength than his size allows.”
Henri knew he must lie still and bear it without moving, or else Ev would lose face. At least one of them should retain some dignity before their lovely benefactress, and Henri knew he had already forfeited his own.
At long last, she announced, “There, ’tis done.”
Henri tasted blood in his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. He turned his head and spat as soon as Ev released his arms.
Again, he spied that child of the ether, the one he had imagined before. It sat upon the sand, silently sucking upon one finger, those large, hopelessly sad eyes trained upon him still, weeping inwardly without sound or tears. Was it a shade awaiting the release of his soul?
Never in his life had he wished to faint. Now certainly would be an excellent time for it. Talons of fire gripped him like the sharp, unrelenting claw of a dragon.
The woman pressed a cool, wet cloth to his face and moved it gently as she spoke. “You must sleep now. I shall return anon with a litter and remove you to a place of shelter. Likely ’twill rain before morn.”
“Will I live?” he asked, doubting even she could save anyone so damaged and untended for days. The fever had caught up with him two days ago and raged worse as the hours passed. Now it had him seeing ghost children and thinking death might be welcome, after all.
She did not hesitate in answering him honestly. “Anything is possible. I have done all that I can do. The rest is up to you and God.”
Henri reached for her hand, grasping the long, slender fingers as tightly as he could. “You will not leave us then?”
Indecision marred her brow, then vanished, to leave a look of resignation. “Nay, I will not. Your lad promised me the silver chain in return for my care of you.”
“Alive or dead. That was to be the offer,” Henri bargained, hearing his own words slur. “You will see me to my brother’s home…either way.” When she looked as if she might object, he added, “It is too much silver for so few stitches and a meager taste of spirits. Be fair.”
For a time she considered his words, then she nodded, replaced her implements within their sack and pulled the cord tight to close it. “If you live, I will tend you until you can do for yourself. If you do not recover, I shall wrap you, pack you in clay and transport you to the place you wish to go. Your squire will show me the way, aye?”
Henri heard Ev’s sound of protest and turned to him, though he also spoke for the woman’s information. “Go east and cross the Firth of Clyde. After you pass the hills on the far side, ask directions either to Baincroft or the castle of Trouville.”
“So be it,” she declared, then pulled her hand from his, rose and turned away.
“A moment more, madam,” Henri rasped. “I would know your name.”
She looked over her shoulder and, after a brief hesitation, told him. “Iana…of Ayr.”
“A free woman?” he demanded gruffly, though he would not retract the offer even if she were not. He only needed to know whether they would be followed by some irate laird intent on recapturing his comely healer.
“Free?” she asked, puzzled, as if the word were foreign to her. A light dawned in her eyes, even as he watched. “Aye, I am that,” she said then, “free as a lark. And I fully intend to stay so for as long as I live. I shall see you to this place called Baincroft, and your family will reward me by giving me work to do.”
Trusting that Everand would be in capable hands, Henri surrendered to his fevered dreams.
Chapter Two
Iana instructed the boy to mind Tam for her, and hurried away into the night. She had warned him that his master’s fate rested upon how well he minded the child. His lack of reluctance for the task surprised her and made her feel guilty for the untruth. She hated lying.
It was no lie she had told the knight, however, saying that she was free. This heaven-sent bargain of his had granted her that freedom. He did not need to know how long she had considered herself unfettered, now did he?
Iana felt fairly certain she could keep him alive, and devoutly hoped she would succeed in doing so. The wound was not deep, nor had it festered. However, the loss of blood or fever might well take him yet, unless she dosed him heavily with herbs and kept him warm and dry for several days before attempting to travel.
It certainly would be more advantageous for her if she did not arrive at his brother’s home with a dead body. Besides that, she rather liked the lad, Everand, who doted on his master and was kind to Tam. Iana did not want to see him grieve.
Taking the man to her cottage at the edge of the village was not possible. He might be discovered there. If it became known that she entertained a man within her temporary home, her brother would likely do more than beat her when he found out. And if they remained there until the knight was fit to travel, it would be time for Newell to come for her answer. They had but three days to get well away.
’Twould be best if they repaired to a nearby cave. She knew of one that would suffice. It was where she had planned to go with Tam and hide from her brother until he gave up searching. Getting the knight there would be the problem. He could not walk and she had no beast for him to ride. Her only recourse was to obtain one somehow.
Or why not three? She’d pay no more dearly for them than for a single animal if she were caught. Hanged was hanged. Besides, she did not fancy trudging the breadth of Scotland with Tam on her back, dragging the knight on a litter with only the help of a lad.
The nearest village to Whitethistle stood at least two leagues distant. She knew it well, for it rested upon the estate of her dead husband, the demented old lout who had never given her anything before he died other than two years of abject misery.
His family had taken all of her jewelry from her and kept her dowry as well, so surely his cursed sons by his first wife owed Iana something for enduring their father without complaint. There should be at least three mounts enclosed in a stable somewhere thereabout.
Iana lifted her skirts and quickened her pace. If she was to become a reiver tonight, then she had best be about the business of it before good sense took hold.
Henri opened his eyes to total darkness. There were no stars above him. No moon. Nothing. For a moment, he believed death had claimed all but his awareness and the ever-present pain. He sensed he was enclosed somehow, not out in the open. Then he heard Everand’s almost inaudible snoring nearby, interspersed with the distant, soft whuffle of a horse. Was this a stable?
“Ev?” he whispered.
A cool hand brushed his brow. The woman. He drew in her scent, that of sweet grasses and the underlying essence that marked her gender. “Where are we?” he asked.
“In a cave,” she answered, her voice dulcet and comforting. She placed something to his lips. “Chew upon this. It will aid your rest and cool your fever.”
He accepted it and tasted green bark. Foul stuff, but given that she had sewn him up and rescued him from the elements, he granted her that modicum of trust. Henri chewed for a few moments, then removed the bitter residue from his mouth.
“We leave here come morning,” he told her.
“So eager,” she commented with a soft laugh. “I fear it will be at least another day before you are well enough to ride, good sir.”
“I have sailed the entire length of England in worse condition. I daresay a few days on horseback will not prove any more life-threatening.”
“As you will, then,” she replied softly. “But now you must sleep, sir.”
“Henri,” he whispered, groping about for her hand until he found it and threaded his fingers through hers. It helped to feel grounded here in this dark place, so he would not go flying off into the beyond. The feeling of hanging suspended in purgatory when he’d awakened must have affected him more than he realized. “My name is Henri.”
He realized he must be more fevered than he thought, to invite this informality with a woman. Even his mistresses did not address him so, and he had never before encouraged such a thing. However, she thought him but a simple knight, apparently. That made sense, for when they had set out upon their voyage, he had instructed Everand not to call him “lord.” Most of the time Henri preferred the simplicity of being a knight among other knights, instead of the heir to the Trouville dynasty. It afforded him more friendship and camaraderie. He definitely wished a friendship with this woman, he thought with an inner smile.
“I am Iana,” she said.
“I remember. Iana,” he added, for no reason but to say it, tasting her name on his tongue. Like honey, it sweetened the bitter taste of the bark. “Your father is called Ian, I would wager.”
“My grandfather,” she replied. He could hear the smile in her voice.
“I know an Ian,” he told her idly, his words slurring as his mind grew heavy with fatigue. “A rogue, he is.”
Again, she laughed, a mere flutter of sound that soothed him immeasurably. “Rest now…Henri,” she advised softly.
The sharpness of his aches had subsided. The coolness of her palm seemed to draw the heat from him. “Magic,” he commented, smiling into the dark.
He listened, imagining he could hear her heart beating a steady rhythm, or mayhaps it was his own. A horse whuffled again and Ev made a sleepy sound of protest, likely in response to a dream. For the first time in weeks, Henri felt safe enough and well enough that he could willingly embrace sleep without thinking of death.
