Knight's Lady, page 7
part #1 of Tenebrae Series
“You will. Furthermore, by the time it happens I think you’ll want it. And it will happen whether you do or not.”
“I’ll die first.”
“Don’t be that way. I’m wealthy and can give you everything you’ve ever wanted; why not make the best of it?”
“You can’t give me anything I’ve ever wanted. You don’t love me; you don’t respect me. I have a son, so you’re too late to make me a mother.” Reubair already knew that, but he didn’t know Trefor had grown to adulthood in another century, just as he didn’t know she herself was not of this time. She figured all that was best left unsaid. She continued, “I’m not impressed by great wealth; you’re not so good with a sword as to make me swoon at your prowess; and whatever magic abilities you have would leave me cold even if I ever saw them. In short, you have nothing to offer me.”
“Then I must take you by force.”
“And, as I’ve already pointed out, that’s far easier said than done. I will not only fight you every moment, but I will make every effort to ensure that any child you foist on me will not come to term.”
“Also easier said than done, short of killing yourself.”
She gave a slight nod in acknowledgment of the truth of that, which brought raised eyebrows and, she thought, a bit of apprehension to his eyes. “You can be restrained,” he pointed out.
“I recommend it.”
“Be reasonable.” He leaned forward and stared into her face, his voice almost pleading.
A blurt of laughter bubbled from her, and she glanced around to indicate her surroundings. “This is hardly a reasonable situation!” She took a sip of the spiced mead and continued, “The idea that I could ever want to forsake a husband who loves me and willingly spend the rest of my life with someone who wants to use me for an incubator is utterly ridiculous. Absurd, impossible. Come to your senses, Reubair. Reason has no place here.”
He sat back and sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m the one who has been less than realistic.”
His sudden capitulation gave her pause. She looked at him and wondered what was afoot.
But he continued, “I hope you’ll consider my words. Once I have received confirmation of An Dubhar’s death, I think your feelings might change. A woman alone can be terribly vulnerable.”
“I’m not like most women, and you know that.”
“You’re enough like other women, where it matters, that you must see the advantage of being my wife rather than Cruachan’s widow.”
“Dowager Countess.”
“Only until Robert marries you off.”
“Better to anyone but you.”
Now he sighed in frustration. “Well, Sir Lindsay, you see that’s where I would convince you you’re wrong. ’Tis better I should be your husband, for another husband might be fool enough to beat you.”
“Only once.”
“Then you would be a widow again, but not for long, for you would be hung. Or burned. You wouldn’t want to be burned.”
“Of course not. No more than I would want to be married to you. In fact, it’s rather a toss-up to determine which would be worse.”
There was no reply to that, and Reubair’s eyes narrowed at her.
She looked around the room, then at her empty plate. Unfortunately her shrunken stomach couldn’t hold any more and now ached with fullness. She contemplated the remaining food on the table, then said, “I’m finished here. Is there any chance of having a wash before you return me to the bailey and take back these clothes?”
Reubair’s lips pressed together in disgust, and he reached for a bell sitting on the table. It gave a tiny, musical tinkle, and a servant entered the room immediately. Lindsay noted the valet was human. It occurred to her that humans might be the second-class citizenry in Reubair’s domain, and she wondered if his fixation on her constituted a form of slumming.
Without a moment of hesitation, Reubair gave orders for a bath to be set up before the hearth, and Lindsay’s heart couldn’t help but soften. A bath. Not just a ewer and bowl, but actual immersion in hot water. Reubair owned a tub, apparently, and he was going to let her use it. She reached over to break off a rose made of sugar from the arrangement before her and sucked on it thoughtfully. For a hot bath, she wouldn’t even care that she was going to have to strip in front of him.
***
The tub was heaven after so many days in dirt, cold, and darkness. Hot water soaked into her corners. She picked fleas from her head and flicked them lazily into the fire and hoped Reubair would let her stay until she turned entirely into a prune. He sat at the table and kicked back in the chair, lounging and gazing at her and saying nothing. No bubbles in this bath, and he was getting an eyeful, but she ignored him and began picking the dirt from under her nails. Even if he was going to send her back to the dungeon or the bailey, she would have these moments of comfort and he could look all he wanted. There was no fear of him. If he tried to touch her she would damage him, and he knew it.
There was a knock at the door, and at Reubair’s bidding a faerie knight entered, breathless and unhappy. Pale, even for a Danann; his cheeks held no roses, and he’d even broken a sweat. “I’ve bad news, sir.”
Reubair pursed his mouth, then said. “Let’s have it, then.”
The knight gawked at Lindsay in the tub.
“Look over here,” said Reubair and pointed to his own face so the knight would leave her alone.
The knight looked away from the tub, then said, “News from Scottish Eilean Aonarach. Cruachan has set out to find you.”
Lindsay went utterly still. Relief was so profound her eyes stung and she struggled to not put her hands over her face. Alex was coming to get her. Knowing that, all else dimmed in importance. Her husband was still her husband, and Reubair could do nothing about it. She stared at her feet under the water and continued to ignore her captor. Alex was coming and soon she would be returned to him.
“When can we expect him?”
The messenger wagged his head. “There is no way to know, for he was well gone by the time I learned it. Indeed, I expected to find he’d been here before me by the time I arrived. He left no word of the direction he would take; he could be near, or far. I cannot say.”
“Can he find his way through the mists?”
“Rumor says he has recourse to Danu herself.”
Reubair bit a corner of his mouth and thought that over for a moment. Then he dismissed the messenger and said to Lindsay, “Unlucky.”
Lindsay declined to reply, but continued to groom herself, slowly, certain she would be sent back to the dungeon in a moment.
But instead he said, “Climb out of that tub, dry off, and restore your shift. You’ll sleep in the servant’s bed. Go there now.”
She looked at him, then at the closet bed in the corner. Sleep here? But not in his own bed? It sounded like a pretty good deal, and she looked to him for explanation, but it appeared he had nothing further to say. Instead he turned his attention to the food on the table and took a stuffed pear to chew on. Elbows leaning heavily on the board before him, he stared into the middle distance, thinking.
Lindsay wondered what was next in his plan.
Five
By the time Alex reached the mainland with his small contingent, it was apparent he wasn’t going to die of his wound. Not directly, in any case, and not right away. Infection was still a possibility, for the opening hadn’t closed entirely yet. Mary had sewn him up like a rent T-shirt, in a neat row of black stitches. He could feel each and every one of them pulling at his skin. They itched already, and he wished he dared take them out.
As they neared the English border, headed for Carlisle where rumor had it rogue knights were harrying nearby villages, Alex realized he wasn’t healing as quickly as he should. Still no visible infection, but his strength wasn’t returning the way it always had before when he was wounded. The possibility of internal damage turned over and over in his mind as he rode. Sometimes, in a stabbing, a weapon would go straight in and hit nothing. Other times it would slice up everything in its path. Without enough immediate blood loss, it could take weeks to die even if the bowel was cut. Longer, if the source of infection was small and slow growing. There was no knowing what damage might have been done to his guts, and only time would tell if he could survive it.
He’d been stabbed before. Shoot, he’d been stabbed in the belly before, but this was different. This time his peritoneum had been breached and there was a deep sense of alarm underlying every thought and movement. His body knew it was in danger. His gut felt as if his entrails were ready to spill out, and he rode with one arm pressed hard against his side. Cold sweat popped up every so often. Every step of his horse was a jolt of pain, and he had to remember to breathe. Even that small action was painful, and he did it in short, panting gasps. Hour after hour, his horse plodded along the track south to the Borderlands. It didn’t take long for him to sag in his saddle. More than ever in his life he longed for the days when he could have made this trip at Mach 3. The days when he might not have been so terrified of infection.
He looked around him at the knights he’d brought. Each bore scars from fights, and two of them had skin lesions from infection. Kept hidden, for sores were always thought to be leprosy. Alex had glimpsed them once or twice. More knights might have them, that he hadn’t seen. Having come from a culture where even acne was considered unforgivable blemish, he’d never seen anything like this until coming to this century. Here, acne was taken as nothing. Harmless, and therefore something to be ignored. Smallpox scars were even considered a good thing, since it meant one had contracted the disease and survived it. Lesions were more common among the poor, for rich men tended to marry healthy, unblemished women, but were common enough among the knights of Alex’s household. Sight of nobility bearing open sores brought home the understanding that in this century there was no recourse once an infection got hold. No antibiotics. Nothing to take down inflammation. Nothing to help his body fight off a general infection if something nasty were to take up housekeeping in his gut. Each time his thoughts wandered in that direction, the panic renewed and breaths came hard.
Father Patrick sidled close and rode next to him. “Should we find a farmhouse and obtain a wagon for you, my lord?”
Alex gathered himself and sat straight. One big, deep breath, and he held it for a moment before letting it out in a long sigh. “No. I’m fine.”
“One should have a care for lying to a priest.”
A corner of Alex’s mouth lifted in the best grin he could manage. “I suppose you’ll tattle on me to God.”
“If ever I have His ear, which I admit is less often than one might hope.”
Alex wanted to laugh but didn’t. Instead he pressed his arm more firmly to his side.
“Is your wound still red?”
The earl nodded. In fact, it had grown redder. He’d been watching carefully for red streaks or yellow patches on his belly, but beyond lancing and cleaning any pustules he had no idea what he might do if he found them. Distilled alcohol hadn’t even been invented yet, and he had no idea how to make it himself. All he had going for himself was determination to not die before finding Lindsay.
Patrick rode on beside him in silence. Alex got a sense he was praying.
He and his five men were hot on the trail of Reubair’s troupe, acting on information they’d had in Lochaber, and Alex wondered how he was going to get Lindsay away from them. Pitched battle wasn’t an option — not with only five men behind him. He would have to take her by stealth. He sent a scout in search of sign, and hoped if the faerie knights were found she wouldn’t be heavily guarded.
Faeries. That meant magic. He hated magic, because he didn’t know how to fight it. God knew what fey protections those guys might have on their campsite.
Lindsay was undoubtedly restrained by Reubair somehow, or she would have escaped from him. It occurred to Alex she may have escaped and be on her way back home. He could search all summer and never find her. He could be killing himself for nothing, but there was no way to know. All he could do was keep after the band of raiders and hope for answers when he caught up with them.
***
At night he lay beside the small cook fire dying to ashes as the other knights slept. One of them snored loudly enough to make Alex wonder why they hadn’t been detected by those they pursued. He should go over and give the guy a shove with his boot — shut him up — but that would involve getting up, and he wasn’t sure he could. He lay on the ground and listened for approaching enemy.
In the dim, barely flickering light, Father Patrick prayed on his knees atop his bedroll, his rosary woven between his fingers as his lips formed rapid, nearly breathless words. Alex watched him and wondered, as always puzzled by the man. Patrick was several years younger than Trefor, wielded a weapon as skillfully as Alex’s best swordsman, and yet despite his physical energy, he embodied the sort of emotional aplomb usually found in very old men. There was none of the raw edge of youth, not even zeal for his sincere faith. Only a core of hope. Not stoicism, but real hope, which Alex had never understood in anyone, no matter how young or old.
When Patrick was finished with his prayers and hung the string of beads around his neck for safekeeping, Alex said softly, “How about a prayer for me?”
Patrick turned to him and smiled. “Several for you, my lord. Each day.”
“Afraid I’ll go to hell?”
“I know you won’t. I’ve heard your confession and I believe your repentance for transgressions is sincere.”
“But you pray for me anyway’.”
Patrick shrugged. “It’s all to the good. Your spiritual life is my responsibility, and to pray for you is to know you better.”
Alex wasn’t so sure about that. He looked toward the fire and wished the pain in his gut would ease up. These days his spirit was pretty much wrapped up in ignoring pain in this life, never mind the next. Patrick was waiting for him to speak, so Alex said, “What makes you so sure there even is a God?”
Bald surprise made Patrick’s face go slack. “Never say such things.”
“You’re offended?”
The priest glanced around at the sleeping knights, his expression boggled, and when he spoke his tone suggested astonishment that he needed to explain this. “I fear for your life. An enemy — or even a devout friend — would see you burned, were he to hear that.” It went without saying he thought enemies could be anywhere, for his eye was on Alex’s four other retainers who, with luck, were truly asleep and not listening.
Alex gave a wry chuckle. “Aye. If I die, then where would you be?”
Patrick raised his chin. “Serving God as always, but someplace other than Eilean Aonarach. However, I’ve grown fond of the place, for its laird is a rare good man and I would hate to see him brought down by a careless word. Never let anyone hear you express such doubt.”
“You’re my confessor. You won’t tell anyone.”
“And that is your salvation, my lord.”
“Seriously, Patrick, surely even you’ve had moments of doubt.”
“Moments. Very brief and under severe circumstance. I’m as flawed as any other man.”
“How do you cling to hope then? With all the flawed men everywhere, how do you keep thinking all is right with the world when you see horrible things happening all the time?” Alex wanted to ask how Patrick could be so infuriatingly calm every minute when the world was going to hell in a handbasket, and Alex knew it would continue to do so for at least seven more centuries, if not forever after. No end in sight. It was a terrible thing to know so surely.
Patrick shrugged. “Faith.”
“And why is that such a good thing?”
Now the priest smiled. “Because the alternative is constant doubt and worry. Worry corrodes the soul. It gives nothing but pain. Have faith, and the pain goes away. Fear is defeated.”
“So you think it’s a good thing to be purposely stupid?”
“Purposely stupid? No. Ignoring the circumstance isn’t the same as being certain of something for which there is no evidence. What one can see, touch, and hear is undeniable and requires no strength of spirit to understand, but not everything is knowable. What one cannot sense, except within one’s heart, is the purview of faith.”
Alex thought about that for a moment, then Patrick said carefully, “Tell me, my lord, are we talking about faith in God, or might we be talking about someone a little more down to earth?”
Trefor? Lindsay, even? Alex gazed at the priest, then replied, “Easy enough to talk yourself into thinking a well-meaning God will make things turn out well in the end, but people are nearly always a disappointment.”
“True, it’s more difficult to depend on a flawed relative than on an omniscient being who is always right because rightness is defined by His actions. But often your very faith and influence — your strength of spirit — will help that flawed man want to make the right choices.”
That made Alex chuckle, and a shot of pain pierced him. His eyes shut and he said, “If I believe in Trefor, he’ll like me better and want to please me?”
“If you believe in him, he will believe in himself and be stronger for it. He will be a better man and therefore better in your eyes.”
Alex gazed into Patrick’s utterly sincere face and considered his words. Then Patrick said something that nearly made Alex’s jaw drop.
“You are his family, after all. He seems closer to you than a cousin.”
Alex’s attention on Patrick sharpened. What did he know? What could he have heard about Trefor?
But Patrick continued, “It’s plain he wishes he were more closely related to you, and holds you as more of a brother than a cousin.”
Brother. Alex could accept that. Patrick hadn’t said “son.” Alex said, “He doesn’t show it much.”
