Carolyne Cathey (25 page)

He straightened
and pushed away from the wall.  "Instead of bringing about his death, I
fight to save him.  If you become his lady, the wrath of the king will slice
like a saber."

Distraught, she
watched the firelight shimmer on the billowed sails.  How naive of her to think
she could make a difference.  How naive to believe she would be Kyle's lady,
his love.  Agony swept over her like a killing storm.  She angled her head
toward Sir Jerrod.  "I would never want him to die because of me."

He met her gaze. 
"Then you must make a painful decision."  He closed the door behind
him.

Eleanor's hopes
lay shattered on the rocks of reality.  She and Lord Kyle could never be as
one.  Now she knew for certain the true purpose of her mission.  To relay the
dream, naught else.  How cruel.  And yet, Kyle intended to honor his knight's
vow, no matter the consequences, a decision she must thwart.  Like the carving,
the matter now lay in her trembling hands.  To save him, she must lose him.

T
he rattle of jars sounded
from the doorway.

Eleanor wiped her
tears on the edge of the linen and looked up as Nurse entered. 

"I know ye
fear fer him, milady.  As do I."  Nurse's footsteps shuffled in time with
the clank of her jars.

Eleanor sniffed
and cleared her throat.  "He lies so still, Nurse.  Too still."

"Aye." 
The old woman labored around the end of the bed and set her basket on the floor
beside Eleanor.  "Let me look at him."  She groaned from the effort
as she leaned over to examine Kyle's gash across his shoulder.  "Tsk tsk. 
What a sight."  Then she felt the lump above his brow.  "I brought a
poultice, but I need more garlic from the herb garden.  Then we need to rouse
him.  I've seen souls who never awakened from a blow to the crown."

"What's this
you say?"  Sir Jerrod entered the chamber and strode to the far side of
the bed.  "Lord Kyle succumb to a blow on the head?  Nay, nurse.  'Tis the
rock that needs your attention."

Eleanor smiled
despite her fear.  The return of Sir Jerrod's humor brought a surprising lift
to her battered spirits.  She glanced up, then saw the concern behind his
forced smile.

Nurse groaned
again as she straightened.  "I need ye to assist me, Sire.  See if ye can
lift him like ye did afore.  The last time, the master awakened fer a
bit."

"'Twas the
magnificence of my presence that brought him to, Nurse.  Not even a dark soul
such as Lord Kyle can withstand my brilliance."  He moved around the bed
to stand between Eleanor and the woman who doted on Kyle like a mother.

Eleanor grinned
and released a sigh, grateful for Sir Jerrod's presence, magnificent or
otherwise.

He sat on the bed
and wrested Lord Kyle to a recline on Sir Jerrod's chest, but Lord Kyle's head
slumped to the side.  His eyes remained closed.

Eleanor's heart
remained a tight knot.

"Master?" 
Nurse shook his head.  "Lord Kyle?"

He hung in Sir
Jerrod's arms, unresponsive.

"Me needs
fresh garlic, milady.  Would ye ask John or Beth to fetch some?"

"I'll go to
the garden, Nurse.  'Twill be faster."

Sir Jerrod jerked
up his head.  "I'll go with you, lass."

Eleanor saw his
alarm, but unwilling to leave Kyle unattended, she hurried to the wooden chest
beside the hearth and pulled out another of Cathryn's silk gowns, this one a
periwinkle blue.  "Please, Sir Jerrod.  See if you can awaken him.  I
won't be long."  She slipped the gown over her chemise. 

"Nay,
lass."  Jerrod struggled to rid himself of Kyle's dead weight.  "I
promised Lord Kyle I'd protect you."

Needing the feel
of Kyle with her, she rushed to snatch the little ship from atop the fox cover
and ran through the doorway, down the spiral steps, through the empty solar and
out into the night-darkened garden.  She knelt beside the weedy patch, the
leaf-covered stones cold and rough beneath her knees. 

The brisk wind
lifted her hair from her nape, then sighed a moan through the baring branches,
quivering the moonlight.  Leaves fluttered and swirled, scuttling across the
garden, a few settling into a small pile beside her knees.

Eleanor
shivered.  Placing the carving gently atop the leaves so as not to scratch the
wood, she pushed aside the tangled weeds, searching in the direction of the
pungent aroma for the tall stems of the garlic plant.  She grasped the coarse
leaves and followed them to the earth.

"How goes
he, wench?"

Brigham. 

Eleanor's breath
caught in her throat.  Determined not to reveal the fear his presence caused,
for the mere sound of his voice convulsed her heart, she dug her fingers into
the soft earth.  "He...he will be fine, Sirrah."  She found the
papery bulb and pulled, then pulled another.

"He'll not
be fine until you are gone, witch."

"I will stay
until he is well." Fighting the urge to run, Eleanor gathered more garlic,
then lifted her gown and piled them into the well of silk. 

"What if he
never rouses?"

She heard the
hope in his voice.  Holding the fabric in one hand and the ship in the other,
Eleanor pushed to a stand and faced him.  "You show little concern for
your brother."

He laughed, harsh
and ugly.  "So Kyle told you about our...kinship.  Were they the first
words out of his anxious mouth?"  He stepped closer, his lips an angry
line beneath the whiskered edges of his beard.  "Or did he order you to
spread your legs first, then while he rutted you, tell you about his bastard
brother?  Did he tell you that my mother was the village whore, like you, and
that she died at my birth?  Did Kyle tell you that because of my mother's
status in life, I've had to fight for what he is handed freely?"

Brigham gripped
her chin and forced her attention to the hatred that glimmered in the cold
steel of his eyes.  "If you think I will allow you to be what my mother
could not, the lady of Trystonwood, you have a terrifying revelation in wait
for you."

She jerked away
from his grip.  "I do not seek to be his lady."

"You lie. 
Your dress and behavior flaunt your true motive."

Shaken, Eleanor
shoved past him and moved toward the keep.  Now she knew the reason for
Brigham's hatred toward her, a hatred branded so deep within his soul she would
never win his acceptance.

"What do you
suppose will happen to you when Kyle dies, witch?"

She spun to
confront him.  "Lord Kyle will not die!"  She refused to call Brigham
a title.  Except the appropriate, bastard.

Brigham grabbed
her arm in a bruising crush, his face close to hers.  "I'll tell you this,
wench.  You'll not best me.  You'll not steal from me what should have been
mine.  Whether Kyle lives or dies, you'll not be upon this earth for
long."

Struggling to
steady the wild beats of her pulse, she wrested against his hold.  "If you
think me a witch, you should fear what I might conjure against you."

He shook his head
and laughed.  "If you were truly a witch you would have vanished me by
now.  Nay, I only use the term to frighten those of dense minds, to gain
control."

She couldn't even
threaten him with her supposed powers.  Eleanor turned her back on him and
forced a controlled pace through the doorway and into the firelit solar.

Brigham's
footsteps sounded in syncopation with hers.  He jerked her around to face him,
then yanked the ship from her grip. 

"Nay!  'Tis
made by Lord Kyle!"  She reached out but he gripped her wrist much like
when he first captured her on the fog-veiled green.

"Help me
solve my dilemma, wench.  When Kyle draws his last breath, should I enjoy you
first?  After all, 'twould be sweet revenge to misuse Kyle's whore.  Or should
I..." He paused.  "Burn you outright?"

Terror swallowed
her response.  Every muscle in her body cramped.  The vision flashed into her
memory: the smell of burnt flesh, screams, death. 

Hers. 

Eleanor clutched
the silk gown tighter to hide her tremble. 

Brigham laughed. 
"Nay.  I'll give you as a gift to Lady Mellisande."

Eleanor's intake
of breath echoed within the stone chamber.

"I see you
choose that option.  Aye.  'Tis the best."

Red and gold
flared in the dying flames.  Gold for Mellisande's hair.  Red for Eleanor's
blood.

Her mind shouted
"run", but her feet became as the stones of the floor.  Paralyzed,
she couldn't even force a movement of protest.

"Either the
tower or the dungeon will be your future abode, witch."  He paused as if
in thought.  "Nay, not the tower.  The dungeon, at my...uh...secret
place."

Horrified, she
stared at him, caught by his eyes that gleamed the unspeakable.

He nodded. 
"No one will hear your screams from beneath the ground."

Oh, dear God. 
Beneath the ground.  Like the black hole.

A spasm of panic
shuddered through her body.  Refusing cowardice, she met his gaze.  "Give
me the ship, Sirrah."

"'Tis you
who will be doing the giving."  He ran the back of his other hand across
her cheek but she felt not heat, but ice.  "My love and I will take much
pleasure from your whore's body.  No one will know where you are.  No one will
come to your rescue."  He paused.  "Kyle will be dead, you see.  We
may do with you what we will."

Alarm numbed her
response.  She could but watch as Brigham strolled to the fire, picked up the
poker and stirred the lazy embers to a glow.  "But even then, when you beg
us to end your torture, you will not draw your last breath.  Not yet.  For we
will have one last glory for you..." He dropped the carving into the
flames.  "Witch."  

"Nay!" 
Eleanor shoved to the hearth, reaching to grab the precious work of art.

He grabbed her
wrist, holding her hand over the heat while the wood flared, burned bright, charring
into an unrecognizable shape.

Crying out with
pain, she jerked against his hold.

"Feel the
heat, witch." 

Releasing her, he
laughed, deep, menacing, and strode from the solar.

Her palm stung,
and yet 'twas but a superficial heating of her flesh, thus a mere hint of the
agony she would suffer if he succeeded.  He predicted the tortures of
hell...while she still lived.  And yet, Brigham wouldn't stop with her death,
for he would find others to terrorize.  Including Kyle.  She watched the
intricate carving crumble into ashes.  Guilt ached within her for allowing the
loss of the precious treasure.  But Kyle was infinitely more precious.  Somehow
she must stop Brigham.  But how? 

She turned and
ran up the spiral steps.  If she could find Kyle's knife, she would hide the
weapon beneath the mattress.  She must ask Sir Jerrod. 

Eleanor rushed
into the chamber, dropping her load of garlic on the fur cover. 

Sir Jerrod looked
up from where he sat in the chair beside the bed.  "My word, lass.  You
look as white as Lord Kyle's linens.  What happened?"

"How is
he?"  Her voice sounded hoarse, raspy.  She moved to the laver and plunged
her hands into the cold water, audibly sighing with the relief of her stinging
flesh.

"This
brute?  Don't worry about him, lass.  He's always had the strength of four
men."

As she scrubbed
the soil from her trembling fingers, she wondered how much to tell Jerrod when
she asked him to protect Kyle.  Dare she admit about the visions?  Brigham
didn't even know of her dreams, yet he called her a witch, although he had
admitted he did so in order to gain control through fear.  But to confess the
revelations to Sir Jerrod would heighten the danger of her being punished as a
daughter of Satan.  And yet, if Sir Jerrod knew what future dangers she had
seen, he might take more care in defending Kyle.

"Eleanor,
something smells foul here.  What is amiss?  And where is the ship?  I saw you
snatch the carving on your way out of the chamber as if by grasping the wood,
you assured that Kyle wouldn't draw his last during your absence."

"Bastard!"

Eleanor whirled
to stare at Kyle.  "Did he speak?"

"Aye." 
Sir Jerrod grinned, his concern over her and the ship apparently forgotten. 
"What a glorious sound."

Nurse smiled. 
"Like the song of an angel."

Eleanor ran to
the bed and brushed Kyle's disheveled curls from his face, but his eyes
remained closed, shutting her from his world.

Nurse gathered
the garlic from the bed and shuffled toward the door.  "I'll take these to
the scullery, milady.  I used all I had on the poultice for his
shoulder."  Then she scuffled past Eleanor's view.

"Evan...Mother." 
Lord Kyle rolled his head from side to side.

"Ah." 
Sir Jerrod pushed to a stand.  "He relives what he believes to be his past
failures." 

Eleanor's pulse thrummed
in her ears as she sat on the side of the bed and took Kyle's hot, dry hand
into her cold, wet ones.  The stench of the garlic poultice permeated the
chamber.

"Sir Jerrod,
who is Evan?"

"His
squire.  Skewered protecting Lord Kyle from Hanley's men.  Kyle took the life
of the man who slew the young lad, then he killed ten more for vengeance.  You
should see him in battle, lass.  He's fierce, magnificent.  And when he wields
his sword, raw power."

"Nay, not
the lass."  Lord Kyle moaned, his eyes squinched tight.  "Unhand
her.  Nay!"

Sir Jerrod
released a sigh.  "'Tis another failure he broods upon.  'Tis the young
lass."

Eleanor glanced
up at Jerrod through her dark strands of now-tangled hair.  A pang of unwanted
jealousy pricked her mind.

"What lass?"

"'Twas after
our first battle when we were swept up in the exhilaration of victory.  The
knights pillaged and burned the village.  In the process, they attacked a young
girl.  She couldn't have been more than ten and three."

Resentment
against the not-so-noble knights clamped Eleanor's mouth shut.

"I'm certain
other maids were raped that night.  'Tis the aftermath of war.  But 'twas Lord
Kyle's and my first witness of group male brutality upon a female.  Kyle fought
like a barbarian to pull her out from the melee.  He received a broken nose for
his attempt." 

Memory of Lady
Mellisande’s similar threat taunted Eleanor as she reached to stroke the bend
of Kyle's nose, a beautiful symbol of his bravery.

"Men cursed
the lass because she died before they'd had their time with her."  He
paused.  "Lord Kyle lost his stomach at the sight."

Mayhaps she would
die in like fashion, a much preferable end than the burning death the two
sadists intended for her.  "Then, 'tis why you claimed he'd not take me
against my will?  Because of the lass?"