Читать книгу Briana - Ruth Langan, Ruth Ryan Langan - Страница 10

“Bloody barbarians.” The old man from the nearby village knelt beside the body of his brother, cradling the familiar head in his lap.

“Aye.” His son nodded toward the lord of the manor, who had brought a wagonload of servants to survey the carnage. “And there’s another one of them.”

“Aye. Bloody Englishman. A pity, what he’s become. I knew his grandfather. Now there was a true and loyal son of Ireland.”

“You can’t say the same for his father.”

“Nay. A wastrel, true enough. And now his son has returned as a titled gentleman. The only reason he came home was to claim his inheritance. With his father dead, he’ll take the fruits of our labors back to England, to live as his father before him, like royalty.”

“The bloody English will soon enough own all the land and everyone on it.”

Though Keane O’Mara couldn’t help but overhear the mutterings of the villagers, he gave no indication as he moved among the dead. On his face was a look of complete disdain. It was the only expression the villagers had seen since his recent return to his childhood home.

When he came upon a body that had not been claimed, he paused.

“How many, Vinson?” he asked his servant.

The old man hobbled closer. “I’ve counted a score and ten, my lord.”

Keane struggled to show no emotion. Thirty men, women, even a few children. All caught by surprise, apparently, while tending the fields. With nothing more than a handful of weapons among them with which to defend themselves.

He’d come upon this sort of thing so many times lately, he’d begun to lose count of the bodies. The bloody scenes of carnage had begun to blur together in his mind, so that they all seemed one and the same. And yet, each was different. Each time, he was reminded of the families who would grieve. The widows who would never again see their husbands. The orphans who would grow up without knowing their parents. He winced. The parents who would carry the loss of their children in their hearts forever.

“Has Father Murphy finished the last rites?”

The old man nodded.

“Order the servants to begin loading them into wagons for burial.”

“Aye, my lord.” Vinson shuffled off, and soon a staff of servants began the terrible task of lifting the bloody, bloated bodies onto carts and wagons for burial in the field behind the chapel, on the grounds of the family keep.

Many of the villagers had brought their own carts, and they now trailed behind in silence, unable to give voice to their grief. Only the anguish in their eyes spoke of their pain and sorrow.

As Keane approached yet another bloody section of field, his servant looked up. “These five were not of the village, my lord.”

“You’re certain?”

“Aye, my lord. Neither the priest nor the villagers has ever seen them before. They must have been strangers, who were just passing through.”

“A pity they chose this time.” Keane turned away. “Before you bury them, examine their cloaks and weapons. Perhaps you’ll find a missive or a crest that will tell us the name of their village.”

He hadn’t take more than a dozen steps when the elderly servant called excitedly, “One of these lads is alive, my lord.”

Keane returned and stared down at the figure, crusted with mud and dried blood, the face half hidden in the folds of a twisted hood.

“You’re certain?”

“Aye, my lord.” Vinson leaned close, feeling the merest puff of warmth from between lips that were parched and bloody. “There’s breath in him yet.”

“From the looks of him, he put up a bit of a fight. Take him to my keep and see to him, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man got to his feet. “Though his heartbeat’s so feeble, he might not survive the trek.”

Keane gave a sigh of disgust. So many wasted young lives. “All we can do is try. And hope he survives.”

A servant approached, leading the lord’s stallion. Keane pulled himself into the saddle and began the long sad journey to the chapel, where he would try to give what comfort he could to the grieving villagers. If he were his grandfather the villagers would accept what he offered. But because he was viewed as an outsider, his attempts would be rebuffed.

All along the way he prepared himself for the storm of anger and grief and bitterness that would be expressed. There was a groundswell of hatred festering, and for good reason. There would come a time, he knew, when it would spill over into war. And when it did, there would be even more death and destruction. For the English would never give up their hold on this land and its people. And though he understood the need for vengeance, he also knew the futility of it. Despite the growing tide of sentiment against the English, this small, poor land was no match for England’s armies.

Hadn’t he learned the lesson well enough? And hadn’t he already paid the supreme sacrifice for his devotion to the wrong cause?

The thought of his loss brought an ache so deep, so painful, it nearly cut off his breath.

Aye. He’d paid. And he’d learned. But that didn’t mean he’d given up hope. It just meant he’d mastered the art of patience. For a while longer he would bide his time and get his father’s affairs in order. And then he would leave this sad land, with its sad memories, and try to make a life somewhere. Anywhere. As long as he would no longer have to remember the past with all its bitterness.

“Good even, my lord. Mistress Malloy has kept a meal on the fire for you.”

Keane shrugged out of his heavy cloak and shook the rain from his hair. “I’ve no appetite, Vinson. Bring me a tankard.” He started toward the stairs, favoring his left leg. He only gave in to the pain when he was too tired to fight it. At the moment, he was on the verge of exhaustion. “I’ll be in my chambers.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old servant cleared his throat and Keane paused, knowing there was something important Vinson needed to say. It was always the same. When the old man needed to speak, he first had to clear his throat and prepare himself for the task.

“Perhaps, my lord, you could step into the chambers next to yours on your way.”

Keane gave a sigh of impatience. The events of the day had dragged him to the depths, and all he wanted was to wash away the bitter taste with ale. “I’m sure there’s a good reason?”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man carefully hung the damp cloak on a hook, then picked up a tray on which rested a decanter and a silver tankard. He climbed the stairs behind his master.

At the upper hallway Keane gave a fleeting glance at the door to his chambers, then resolutely moved past it to tear open a second door. Inside a serving wench looked up from the figure in the bed, then stepped aside to make room for the master.

“Ah. The lad.” Keane walked to the bedside. “With all that transpired this day, I’d nearly forgotten about him. I see he survived, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord. But…” Vinson cleared his throat again.

Keane waited, a little less patiently.

“The lad isn’t. A lad, I mean. He’s a…lass, my lord.”

Keane turned. The old man was actually blushing. Carrick House had been, after all, a male bastion for a quarter of a century. Except for the serving wenches, and a housekeeper who had been in residence since Keane’s father was a lad, there had been no females under this roof.

“I’d managed to wash away most of the mud and blood from his…her face. But when I cut away his…her cloak, I…” Vinson swallowed. “I summoned young Cora to see to her.”

Keane took a closer look at the figure in the bed. Several thicknesses of bed linens hid the shape of her body, but he could recall no hint of womanly curves beneath the shapeless robes she’d been wearing on the field of battle. Now that the face was washed, it was obvious that the features were decidedly feminine. A small, upturned nose. High cheekbones. Perfectly sculpted lips. The hair had been cut so close to the head, it was little more than a cap of tight red curls.

“A natural enough mistake. What do you make of it, Vinson?”

“Cora found this around the lass’s neck.” The old man held up a small cross, tied to a simple cord. “A nun, I’d say.”

Keane nodded as understanding flooded his tired mind. “Aye. Of course. That would explain the simple garb and shorn hair. But what of the lads with her?”

The old servant shrugged. “I haven’t fathomed that, my lord. We can only hope that the lass will live long enough to tell us.”

“How does she fare?”

The old man and the young servant exchanged glances. “The wounds are extreme. The one to the shoulder is festering. The one to the chest left her barely clinging to life. The sword passed clear through, missing her heart. She hovers between this world and the next. If her heart and her will to live are strong enough…” The old man shrugged. “The next day or two will tell the tale.”

Keane nodded, then turned toward the door. “You’ll wake me if she grows weaker.”

“Aye, my lord.” The serving wench returned to her bedside vigil, while Keane and Vinson took their leave.

In his chambers, Keane strode to the fireplace and stared into the flames.

Vinson filled a tankard and handed it to him. “Will I fetch you some food now, my lord?”

Keane shook his head. “Nay. The morrow will be soon enough. Take your rest, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man seemed eager to escape to his bed. Nearly disrobing a young female had left him badly shaken.

When he was gone, Keane drained the tankard in one long swallow. Then, after prying off his boots and removing his tunic, he refilled the tankard and drank more slowly, all the while staring into the flames.

He thought about the lass in the next room, hovering between life and death. She’d barely had time to live. If Vinson was correct, what few years she’d had were lived in the shelter of a cloister. No time to laugh, to play. He frowned. No time to know the love of a good man, nor the joy of children.

A pretty enough face. No visible scars, though heaven knew, most scars were carefully hidden. Weren’t his own? Still, he wondered what it was that drove young women to seek the seclusion of an abbey. Were they really there to serve God? Or were they hiding from the world?

No matter. This one appeared young and innocent. Why was it always the innocent who must pay for the sins of arrogance committed by those in power?

He walked to the bedside table and picked up the framed miniature, studying once again the face of the one who held his heart. There were times, like this moment, when the pain was too deep, the sense of loss too painful to bear. But he had done the right thing. The only thing. Yet, if that be true, why did he feel like such a failure?

Suddenly overwhelmed by sadness and frustration, he hurled the tankard against the wall. With a string of oaths he dropped onto his back on his bed and passed a hand over his eyes.

Would there ever be an end to the misery? Or would he be forced to watch helplessly as all those he loved were forced to pay for his mistakes?

Dear God, he was weary. So weary. He prayed sleep would visit him. Else, he would be forced to fight his demons until dawn chased the darkness away.

“My lord.”

Keane awoke instantly and found himself bathed in sweat. The demons, it would seem, were especially vile this night.

“Aye, Vinson. What is it?”

The old man stood beside the bed, holding aloft a candle. His robe had been hastily tossed over a nightshirt, his silver hair sticking out at odd angles. “The wench, Cora, summoned me. She feels the lass is at death’s door.”

Keane sprang from his bed. Without taking time for a tunic or boots he led the way to the room next door.

The young servant straightened when the lord entered the room. In her hand was a square of linen, which she had been wringing out in a basin of water.

“Oh, my lord,” she whispered. “The lass is slipping away.”

Keane touched a hand to the lass’s forehead and pulled it away with a jerk. “Her flesh is on fire.”

“Aye. I can no longer bring down the fever, my lord.”

He studied the still, pale figure in the bed, seeing another’s face in his mind. How tragic that so many innocents were lost in battles not of their making.

“I’ve done all I can, my lord. But I fear we’ve lost her.”

Perhaps it was the finality of the servant’s words. Or the futility of his own nightly battles with his demons. Whatever the reason, Keane became infused with a new sense of purpose, a fresh burst of energy. This was one battle he wouldn’t lose without at least putting up a fight.

“Wake Mistress Malloy. Tell her to prepare a bath.”

“A…bath, my lord?”

“Aye.” He took the linen from her hand and dipped it into the basin. “A cold bath, Cora.”

As Vinson watched, Keane placed the cool cloth on the lass’s forehead, then moved it across her cheeks, her mouth, her throat. As quickly as the cloth touched her fevered flesh, it became warm to the touch. Keane then dipped it into the basin once more, wrung it out and repeated the process.

Holding the candle aloft, the old man watched the lass’s face for any reaction. There was none. No sign of relief from the fever that burned. Not even a flicker of movement from lids that remained closed.

“My lord. I fear the lass is beyond help.”

Keane didn’t even look up. “Go to bed, Vinson.”

“My lord…”

“If you cannot help, leave me.”

The old man recognized that tone of voice. It had been the same for the young lord’s father and his father before him. With a sigh of resignation he placed the candle on the bedside table and shuffled across the room, taking up a second cloth. The two men worked in silence, taking turns bathing the lass’s face and neck.

Minutes later the housekeeper bustled in, trailed by half a dozen serving wenches, carrying a tub and buckets of water.

“You ordered a bath, my lord?”

“Aye, Mistress Malloy.” Keane wrung out the cloth, and placed it over the lass’s forehead, while Vinson dipped his in the basin.

The housekeeper watched for several seconds, then motioned for the servants to begin filling the tub. When that was done they waited for further instructions.

They were shocked to see the lord of the manor pull back the bed linens and lift the lass from bed. With no thought to her modesty, he carried her to the tub, where he plunged her, nightshift and all, into the cold water.

“My lord,” the housekeeper cried, “on top of a fever, the cold water will cause her to take a fit.”

“Perhaps, Mistress Malloy. But since she’s near death, it’s a risk I’ll have to take. Fetch some dry blankets, please. And clean linens to dress her wounds.”

While the servants scurried after fresh bed linens, Keane gently cradled the lass’s head against his chest and splashed water over her face. Within minutes he could feel her body temperature begin to cool.

He glanced at his butler, who had knelt beside the tub. “She weighs almost nothing, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord. I thought that same thing when I carried her up the stairs. Though at the time, I thought her a young lad.”

When the housekeeper and her servants returned with blankets, Keane lifted the lass from the bath, dripping water across the floor as he carried her to the bed.

“You’re not going to return her to her bed in that soaked nightshift, my lord.”

At the housekeeper’s outraged tone, he shook his head. “I thought I’d remove it first.”

He glanced down. Now that her gown was plastered to her body, the decidedly feminine outline was plain to see. Small, firm breasts, a tiny waist, softly rounded hips.

“I’ll do that.” The housekeeper’s tone was brisk and left no room for argument.

Keane stepped back while Mistress Malloy and her servants removed the lass’s wet garments and wrapped her in fresh blankets, after first dressing the wounds to her chest and shoulder.

“Now what, my lord?” Mistress Malloy asked.

“You may all return to your beds.” He turned. “And you, as well, Cora.”

“But what about the lass?”

“I’ll sit with her. I’ve no more need for sleep.”

When his elderly butler made ready to pull a second chair beside the bed, Keane shook his head. “Nay, Vinson. You require your sleep for the day to come.”

While the others eagerly sought their beds, Vinson remained a moment longer.

He cleared his throat. His voice was low, so that a passing servant wouldn’t overhear. “I know the battles you fight each night, my lord. And why you have decided to fight for the lass. But this one is futile. You can see that she is at death’s door.”

Keane met the old man’s look. “You know me well, old man. It’s true. I have no desire to face my demons again tonight.” He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, in exactly the same way his father used to. “But this is one battle I don’t intend to lose. Now go. Leave me.”

When the old man shuffled out, closing the door silently, Keane turned to study the lass. Her breathing was ragged, her lips moving in silent protest. Or perhaps prayer.

“Go ahead, little nun. Pray. But I hope you know how to fight as well.” Aye, he could see that she did. By the jut of her chin. By the clench of her fist. The lass was a scrapper.

He sat back, his eyes narrowed in thought. Vinson was right, as always. This was, he realized, the perfect excuse to avoid returning to his own bed. But he had meant what he’d said. This was one battle he intended to win.