Читать книгу A Knight Well Spent - Jackie Ivie - Страница 11

The man she feared was carried in. Aislynn stood in one corner of the filthy room they’d placed her in and watched. She didn’t dare move. She was afraid they’d spot her. She hadn’t been still. She’d wrenched an arm, trying to work it free, and had ended with it crooked at the elbow, making her look like an awkward one-winged bird. She was in the process of working it back before she ran out of time.

She would have tried getting loose sooner, but she’d had to face her own panic and fears first. In the darkened, smelly room they’d put her in, dampening fear hadn’t been easily accomplished. She was afraid she looked it.

The four men carrying their burden dumped him onto his bedstead. There were more men following, bearing torches. Aislynn almost wished for the darkness again as heaps of discarded clothing, food trays, and upended pieces of furniture came into being with the light.

She moved her head, swaying the disheveled curtain of hair out of her face. The fact it was loose wasn’t her fault. Her captor had wanted it that way. His hands undid the braids as they rode. Aislynn made a face at him. Then she noticed the lack of color to his lips.

“What’s happened?” She asked it as she approached, managing shuffling, sliding steps that were the equivalent of the length of a half-foot. It was the only movement her strapped and joined knees allowed her.

“He took a blow.” One of them answered.

“Turn his head! Now! Quickly!”

“What?”

Aislynn didn’t think through her actions. If they hesitated, the man was going to perish on his own blood. “Turn his head now! He’s got a mouthful of his own blood and is sucking it in with each breath. Do you wish his death?”

All nine of them looked down at the prone man. Aislynn rolled her eyes and scooted closer, so she could do it. She used her shoulder to roll his head to one side. All of them watched the blackish fluid spilling onto his blanket. “You see?”

“I—”

“Dinna’ waste breath on your actions. Roll him. Pound his back! Now!”

“Pound his back?”

“He takes nae breath. You see? Dinna’ just stand there! Tip him forward over his bed and pound!”

Some of her urgency got to them and the largest of them moved to help. Aislynn hopped backward, out of the way, as he shoved Brent onto his front. Then he slammed a fist into the man’s back, splattering blood onto the blankets and wetting the dust on the floor with it.

“Again!” she hissed.

“But, he’s—”

“He’s without life if you dinna’ get it back into him! Hit him again. He is na’ taking breath. You have to remind him how to do it. Now pound!”

He slammed another gauntleted fist into Brent’s back and all that happened was Brent’s body moved on the mattress, making it creak a bit.

“Again! He wears his mail. He can hardly feel such slight tapping!”

The man she taunted glared at her, before turning to hit the body before them. This time Aislynn knew he used force. It sounded like he was cracking bones. It worked. All of them heard the weak cough, followed by a spasm of Brent’s body. Aislynn gulped. She knew they all stared at her.

“N-now—” She stopped, before the tremor betrayed her. If she were going to assume her assertive Lady of the Brook mantle, she had to sound more like a confident healer and less like a frightened village girl. She cleared her throat. “Tell me what ails him.”

Aislynn went to her knees to look over the unconscious man’s face. The blow had worked. He was getting his color back. She didn’t think it lucky for her, however.

“Bring a light closer,” she ordered, since no one had answered her question. One of them held a torch aloft, where it shed more light. Aislynn’s upper lip lifted as she watched vermin scurrying for the darker corners. She barely kept the shiver inside. He lives with rats? Ugh!

“What is it? Will he live?”

They’d misinterpreted her expression. Aislynn gulped and stood back upright, using the mattress with her crooked arm as a leaning post for the movement. No one offered help. If they had, she’d have shrugged it off. The fact that they hadn’t made her lip curl worse. Brent’s knights were an unchivalrous lot. Every one of them.

“I canna’ tell that if I dinna’ know what happened to him. Well?”

No one answered her again. Aislynn favored them with narrowed eyes and stifled her own gulp. She didn’t like the way they were looking at her. Men didn’t look at her like that. She rarely gave them the opportunity. Mother had spoken of how surprisingly lovely their faery-child was, if Aislynn stopped moving long enough for a body to get a good look at her.

Aislynn knew it was what was happening to her right now. The way he’d left her hair unbound and rippling probably made her look wild and untamed, and the tight straps about her were making every swell of her body apparent. She could sense the difference in the room and it stalled her breath. She swallowed. Her throat went as dry as barley dust. She was in a lord’s chamber, deep in his castle, while his knights looked at her, lust written on every feature. Lust! Men and their lusts! She hated them even more than before.

She looked back down at the man who had caused her disarray and situation. He was creating havoc and he wasn’t even awake. She set her shoulders. Very well…she couldn’t change it. All she could do was keep their attention on him, and hope they had some valorous instincts hidden.

“Are you his knights, or na’?” she asked, in a sarcastic, loud tone.

“What?” One of them spoke. It was obvious he’d forgotten her question.

Aislynn slanted her head toward Brent. “He bleeds from the nose and mouth. You were leaving him to die if I had na’ been here. What happened to him? I canna’ heal him if fright holds tongues silent. Are you his men, or na’?”

“He took a blow,” one of them finally said.

“A blow? Just one?”

The one who had spoken nodded. She could tell her plan was working as one by one, they looked from her to Brent. Aislynn swallowed. “One blow? Just one? With what? One of your Sassenach clubs?”

“A fist.”

Aislynn gasped and looked at the blackish coating on Brent’s face again. He was breathing smoothly and deeply now. “Was it a mailed fist, then?”

“Nay. It was bare.”

“I have heard of the games you English play. ’Tis stupid and wasteful. Just look at the results. He may lose teeth and I suspect his nose is broken. I will need herbs. Spices. I need them fetched. Now.”

The man who had pounded breath back into Brent jerked his head at another of them. “Fetch what she needs,” he said.

“Why should I?”

The one who’d commanded it raised his fist at the other. Aislynn watched them. She was going to name him Brute and the other Weasel. The names fit. Brute had his helmet off and was in the light. She could see he sported dark hair, dark eyes, and slashes of black for his eyebrows. Still, in all, he hadn’t been unpleasant to look upon, until a scar had scored across his nose and both cheeks, halving his face. Brute was an undisciplined, large, bullying sort. Most of them were. She knew that from the ride in. Not one of them obeyed willingly or without question. They obeyed because someone forced them to.

“Stay your blows,” she said sarcastically. “You men use it too oft. I will tell you what I need and the why of it.” She shuffled into the space between them, using her bent arm for propulsion.

Brute’s fist slowly dropped. Aislynn turned, placing her back to him and looked up at Weasel. She’d rightly named this one as well, she decided. His eyes were closely set, and he had a thin, long, spiky nose. She didn’t think he’d ever been pleasant to look upon.

“I need mistletoe and valerian for his teeth. Or you can bring dried linden flowers. Check the kitchens. I’ll also require boiled water. A pail of it for his face, and at least six buckets of it for cleaning this hovel of a room. I need kelp or peat, as dry as you can find it. This is to stop bleeding. I will also need rosemary. It will prevent blockage of his nose while it heals. That should also stay his temper once he awakens and looks at the damage done to his face. Bring me mint, too. Four leaves of it.” She stopped, afraid of her own impudence.

“What is this mint for?” Brute asked from behind her. Aislynn hopped as she turned to face him.

“For his breath. It reeks.”

“You’re a saucy wench. Brent has my sympathy.”

“He’ll need it. He will learn this soon enough. You will see this fetched—finally?”

Another jerk of his head and the door opened and closed. Aislynn caught the reaction of shivers and stanched them. She couldn’t have another recurrence of panic! Not now. Not when Brute was looking her over as he was.

“You still have na’ told me what happened,” she reminded him.

“Then you don’t listen. A fist. He took a blow. That’s all.”

“With this much damage?” Aislynn shuffled the six mini-steps over to Brent again. “And it was just once? Truly?”

“Aye. But once.”

Aislynn’s eyebrows rose. “So,” she mused aloud, “he does have a brother he fears. And it looks to be with good reason.”

One of the others nodded; his eyes wide and frightened. Aislynn looked at him. She was going to call that one Rabbit. The door opened again and then closed. She suspected they were slinking out, deserting their lord before they were put to his assist. She didn’t check to verify it. She expected Brent’s knights to be disloyal as well as undisciplined. What was interesting her was that Brent had a brother, and he was a force to be reckoned with. It was all she had.

“You must all fear him.” She sneered as she said it.

“And with good cause. The man must be the size of his donjon and carry the force of a battering-ram in his arm.”

“You make light of what isn’t,” Brute answered, his voice gruff.

“I make light of naught. I am deciding the where-all of your lord’s injuries. You say it was a blow? I merely state that if this was one blow from a bare fist, then a man powerful enough to do such a thing actually exists. Furthermore, I’m surprised your lord received such a blow when he had nine, brave, strong men like you…guarding him. And yet none of you have the slightest mark.”

“It didn’t kill him,” Brute said.

Aislynn could tell he didn’t like her words or the long, drawn-out way she’d said them. There was a flush rising from the unshaven portion of his cheeks to stop at the scar-line. She had to duck her head to hide the smile.

“Well, it would have, without my help.”

“That’s right, wench…or should I call you witch? You saved him. Soon he’ll be right as cake and wanting to finish with you. I hadn’t thought you desirous of it a-fore. You must hide a lusty nature, although faith; there’s not much hidden about you.”

The one who spoke now had the aggressive, swaggering behavior that she’d noted during their ride firmly in place. Aislynn lowered her head and favored him with an upward cast, narrowed glance. She was going to name him Rooster. Unlike Brute, Rooster had always been pleasant to look upon. It was obvious he’d never taken any type of weapon to his face. There wasn’t a mark on it. He was handsome and cocksure, from his dark hair and eyes to the muscular frame his tabard-draped mail wasn’t hiding. Rooster was an apt title for him: all show; no substance.

Aislynn smiled widely, surprising them. She couldn’t help her attire. She couldn’t help the wild look of her. She couldn’t help that she’d just been called a witch. She could use it, though. “Too bad the worst is hidden, Sir Knight. Why, the man who beds me, withers a-fore he’s finished and then he stays the same. ’Tis a curse I bear from birth. I carry a mark. Is that what you wish?”

“Is that proof you’re a maid…and the smithy lied?” Rooster asked.

Aislynn swallowed back on her own stupidity. It tasted slightly metallic at the back of her throat. She lifted the bent shoulder, trying to make it a seductive gesture. “As maidenly as any other lass. I’ll be the last you bed, though. Dinna’ you mark my words? Now, untie me. I have to see to your lord.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I rather fancy you this way. I think my lord may have the same opinion, if he were awake and looking at what I am.”

“Do as she says.”

Aislynn gasped. She knew that voice. Every man within Aislynn’s sight did, too. She watched the change. It was immediate and total. Her own eyes were probably just as wide and frightened. It was the troubadour from her glade, yet it wasn’t. His voice was the same velvet-smooth timbre, although the strength and depth of it were awe-inspiring in the small room.

Rooster stepped forward, reaching for the dagger at his side as he moved. He slipped it under the binding at her elbows, then the one at her knees. Aislynn moved her arms forward, more to have something to clasp onto. Rooster had lost all his bravado. He wasn’t looking at her any longer. He wasn’t looking at anything except the floor.

“Now leave us.”

It wasn’t said twice. Aislynn watched them file from the room, all of them looking to the floor. The door’s opening silhouetted him, then it shut. He was more immense than she’d suspected, from how he’d lain between her legs in the glade. She couldn’t see more. The torchlight wasn’t illuminating the area beyond Brent’s bed and she wasn’t capable of facing him, yet.

“Is any of that true?” he asked.

He was coming closer if the voice was any indication. Aislynn backed a mini-step, then another. Her action didn’t please him. She could tell as he halted just shy of the light and breathed out a loud sigh.

“You dare fear me? Now?”

“I fear nae man,” she replied.

“Then why do you back from me?”

She took a deep breath. “Because you dinna’ tell me the truth. You’re nae troubadour,” she said to the floor.

“’Tis but one title I claim. I am anything. Ask me.”

“Liege lord? Sassenach liege?” She tried not to give it any inflection but knew she failed.

He gave another loud sigh. “Aye. Liege. Lord Rhoenne Guy de Ramhurst. First Earl of Tynebury. Lorded to it by Scotland’s King David. Norman by birth.”

“The Lion?” she asked, in the silence that followed his voice.

“Some refer to me as such. I cannot stop it.”

Her heart was hammering to her throat. She moved a hand there. “La Bete Grande?” she whispered.

He chuckled. “Great beast? If you’ve heard it, then it’s still said. Such a title was earned from my prowess at Brittany. I demanded a high price for surrender. They didn’t pay it…at first. It may also be due to my size. Or mayhap it’s my temperament. I cannot say. Besides, at times such a title is apt.” Torchlight fluttered down from the top of him, highlighting a sinister-looking nose and deepening the cleft in his chin.

“I may also have earned such a name from my tourneys. There are none I lose to. If there are, I have yet to be challenged by him. Some even refer to me as Avenger. It’s said I fight as one. I am called all these things…witch.”

Aislynn curled her tongue into the back of her throat to stop another word.

“Since we have this between us, what of it? I have titles I bear. You have named some. There are more. A title does what it needs. It convinces and sways others. What of yours…my Lady of the Brook? Are you this witch they accuse? ’Tis not a far stretch. Healers are ugly crones or men of great years. I’ve never known one to possess great beauty and skill. Nor a healer who appears without warning and disappears with the same…just like this witch you’re called.”

He was accompanying his words with two more steps toward her, losing the light’s illumination, save as a means to outline him. He wasn’t wearing chainmail or padding about his form. His arms were still held slightly outward away from his form, almost as if the size of them prevented their closure. With such shadowing, he not only looked the size of a great beast, he resembled one. Aislynn gulped.

“Alas…my lovely; I am also a troubadour, just as I told you.”

He was bowing as if they were at a king’s court. Aislynn glanced that way, then back down. Her face was hot with the blush. She’d been kissed by the liege lord this very morn? And she hadn’t even known it was him?

“You needn’t fear me. You can see for yourself that I have not reached the size of my home, be it known as keep or donjon. Nor, I might add, am I about to.”

“You…heard that?” she asked, and frowned at the timid-sounding words from a like voice.

“That, and the battering-ram reference to a blow from my fist. I enjoyed the listening. It showed wit to use such to control them.”

“Words?”

“Nay, fear. Their fear.”

Aislynn’s eyes went wide on the dust at her feet. He was this perceptive and she’d thought him a dimwit just this morn? She couldn’t believe her naiveté.

“You listed titles and I believe you know the why of them. They inspire fear. You knew that and you used it.” He was right in front of her. Aislynn took another step back, but he matched it.

“You needn’t back from me. You need only say the words. Grant me your service and your fealty, and reap the rewards. Your every desire I would grant. Your every whim I would see to.” His voice was lowering.

“I—” she began.

“Nay.” He put a finger to her lips, silencing any desire to speak. Then, he moved it away. The spot tingled…burned. She almost licked at it.

“Don’t answer yet. Not until you know the offer. I put it forth now. I would have you for my healer, just as I spoke this morn. I would protect you from further ravishment. By anyone. You would be mine.”

The inflection on the word started such a swell of warmth through her belly that Aislynn’s eyes widened.

“You’d wear Ramhurst blue—legally and in full view. You’d sleep in Ramhurst linens. You’d be served. You’d be safe. There is no man to dispute it. Or, if he does, he can feel my wrath. You have already seen some of it.” He gestured with a head movement over to where Brent lay.

“Is that all?” she asked.

She assumed he was smiling as he answered, since it sounded in his voice. “You would also have the duty of overseeing my household…and you would have the care of me. All of me. I would put myself in your hands. I have needs. I would have them seen to.”

Aislynn’s heart felt like it did a dive to the depths of her before resuming its position. She was choking, but he just kept talking through it.

“…and start with this leg of mine.”

She glanced down at the hose-covered calf. Then, she raised her eyes to the black holes that were his. “You dinna’ speak of your hand, My Lord,” she replied, finally.

He reached out with his left hand and took her arm, bringing her close enough she could smell the wood smoke, pine soap, and mead scent of him. That was just what one of her senses was experiencing.

“How do you know about that?” he asked softly, his voice a rumble of sound while his breath fanned her cheek.

“I have brought all she requires. I only have one bucket of water. I am no serf. They can haul more water if she needs more.”

The door slammed open with a shoulder applied to it and Weasel stomped in, setting a bucket noisily on the floor. He took exactly three more steps before stopping, mouth wide as his arms opened, spilling her supplies.

“What is it you’ve brought?” The liege swiveled both of them to ask.

Aislynn was being held against him, where her cheek rested against his chest. From this hearing distance, his voice was a thing of immensity in one ear. She didn’t hear Weasel’s answer, or even if he gave one. All she heard was the door slamming and the liege’s huge sigh. The whiff of air touched her head.

“That one reminds me of a weasel.”

She started and moved her head to stare. He’d turned them toward the light and the look on his face wasn’t sinister or fearsome. He looked more like he was hiding a smile.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t note it.”

Aislynn caught the answering smile, probably giving her the same expression he had.

“So…you did see it. This is good. Such a thing binds us. You and me. The beast and the witch.”

Aislynn stiffened. It was stupid, since her movement put her entire frame against his. Beyond a blink, she ignored how it felt as she glared up at him. “I’m nae witch,” she said finally.

“I’ve said something to distract you from fear? Good. Come. Show me what you plan to do to my brother with these weapons you’ve requested.”

Brother? Aislynn wondered at her blindness as he moved them back to the pool of light above Brent’s prone form. There was a pile of herbs and a broken jar on the floor.

“You must unhand me,” Aislynn told him.

He sighed, moving her with it. Her eyes widened. “If, as you say, I must do this, then I must. But only for the moment, I fear.”

“I dinna’ understand,” she replied.

“You haven’t given an answer. Without it, I have nothing. You’ll escape me. I think you a mountain sprite, or a lowland faery, or an enchantress; one possessing uncommon beauty, and a heretofore unknown sweetness of smell. If I release you I have nothing.” He released her and stepped back.

“You…jest.” Aislynn choked out the words, and went to her knees to check the supplies and keep the reaction on her face to herself.

“I never jest,” he answered.

“You flatter, then.” Her voice was stronger.

“I never flatter.”

“I tire of the telling. I am neither faery, sprite, or enchantress. I’m a healer.”

“You didn’t tell me I would ponder the methods of bewitchment you practice, though. You forgot to speak that part.”

She gasped at the floor. “I’ve done naught,” she whispered.

“Here. Cover yourself.”

It was his short cloak falling onto her shoulders. Aislynn had a moment to enwrap herself in his smell, before she stopped.

“Make certain there are no escaped locks of hair. Cover that skin. Such perfection was meant to be touched and savored…enjoyed. You’re a bewitching maid. Almost too much so. I’ll not leave. I will give you distance. I will give myself the same.”

He was speaking the soft words in an ongoing cadence of sound, making a sonnet of words. She could believe him a troubadour. She could believe almost anything of him. She focused on her supplies. It was all she could think of.

Weasel had broken the jar containing her herbs. The floor held the fragrant aroma. Aislynn picked up each linden flower petal, scraping them with her fingernail to release the aroma before mashing them in the jar bottom. Then, she moved toward Brent.

“What is it you do?”

“Make certain he does na’ choke on his own blood,” she replied.

He grunted. Aislynn ran a hand over Brent’s jaw, feeling for the joints.

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

“Checking for breaks.”

“I broke no bones.”

“Nae? You loosened teeth and I fear his nose is broken. You must na’ realize your own power.” She was adding scooped water into the jar and mashing the linden flowers with her fingers into a paste.

“Tie the cloak more securely. Cover your head.”

Aislynn glanced from the corner of her eyes at him. He was pacing; silently and stealthily…passing through the light before disappearing into the gloom. Reappearing. Disappearing. In a leonine fashion. Prowling. The word flashed through her mind.

“I will na’ be able to see, if I…cover myself,” she replied.

“I did not save you from ravishment only to practice it myself,” he answered from the darkest corner.

Aislynn lifted the cloak over her head.

“What is it you do now?” he asked, with a rough edge to his voice.

She glanced at him and then back to her supplies. “’Tis linden flower and mistletoe to make a paste for his teeth. I dinna’ know how many are loose. I am checking.”

“What good is this paste?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It takes away pain. And lessens swelling.”

“He cannot feel pain. He’s yet to awaken from my blow.”

“True.” Aislynn dipped a finger of the herb mixture and filled Brent’s lips with it. The liege had loosened four teeth that she found, two seriously. If the man gave them time to heal, they’d seat themselves again without trouble. The paste would help.

She finished and ran her fingers lightly down the bridge of Brent’s nose. It was crooked.

“What is it you do now?” he asked.

“It needs straightening. It will heal faster and look better for him.”

“What is it to you, how it looks?” His voice wasn’t the same warmly embracing tone. It was cold.

Aislynn moved her hands to her lap and watched them. “The same I have for any creature in need; even a creature of prey. I know it will attack again, yet I still heal it. Because a gift is na’ something to spit in the face of. ’Tis exactly as I did this morn. To you.”

He didn’t say anything for long enough, Aislynn had time to wring her hands, run them over her hips, tuck a lock of hair back behind her ear, and then glance in the direction he’d last moved to.

“Finish,” he said.

She went onto her knees, put a hand on either side of Brent’s nose, placed her fingertips along it and said the silent words of prayer. Then she was gripping his nose and wrenching it sideways, using both wrists. The result was an instant release of blood all over her. “Quickly! Hand me the peat!”

He was on one knee beside her, putting the crumbles of dried moss in her hand and pulling back the moment he did so. Aislynn forced herself to ignore it. Then she was packing the moss into Brent’s nose, stopping the bleeding, and putting it back into alignment. Through it all, she was aware of the liege watching, his eyes boring into her.

“Have you finished?” he asked, when she was satisfied and sat back on her haunches to look at Brent.

She nodded. “It will heal well if he keeps still. I must make certain he rests without moving.”

“You’re coming with me. You’re bathing his blood from yourself and finding suitable clothing. A serf can stay with him.”

“I am a serf,” Aislynn answered softly.

His voice lowered further. “Oh no. I don’t know what you are as yet, nor do I know all that you are. Of one thing I’m certain, though. You’re no serf.”