Dragonblade Trilogy - 03 - The Savage Curtain (25 page)

“What more do you want me to do?”
he asked quietly.

Stephen glanced at his sleeping
wife. “You have tended battle wounds before. “

“I have.”

“I am going to need you to hold
her still while I operate.”

“Operate?”

Stephen nodded, removing a tiny
razor-sharp dagger from a leather sheath. “I need to work very quickly so I
need for her to stay very still.  You must hold her down by the shoulders so she
cannot move her upper body. I am fearful that if I do not sew quickly enough,
she will bleed to death. And I cannot sew if she is thrashing about.”

Tate watched him carefully lay
out his instruments. Tate had known the man for almost twenty years and knew
him to be perpetually stoic and perpetually in control. He’d never seen him
otherwise until the past few days.  The introduction of a wife had rattled
Stephen to the core and Tate felt a good deal of pity for him. He knew, from
experience, how a woman could unbalance a man’s normally calm character.

“I am sorry, Stephen,” he said
after a moment. “Sorry that your post as Guardian Protector has been nothing as
you expected.”

Stephen looked up at him, the
cornflower blue eyes bright. “Nothing as I expected but better than I could
have dreamed,” he forced a smile. “Make no mistake; Joselyn is the biggest
prize of all. Had I known I was to marry her, I would have insisted we make
much shorter work of the siege of Berwick.”

Tate smiled faintly. “I am
pleased to hear that.  You and I have been through much together, have we not?
I am pleased that you found a woman that you are fond of.”

Stephen scowled gently. “Fond of?
I love her.”

Tate laughed softly, scratching
his chin as the heady mood lightened, if only for a moment. “Then you
understand how I feel about my wife.  Love is a whole new world to experience.”

Stephen’s eyes twinkled dully as
his gaze moved to the sleeping form on the bed. “Do you remember that before
you married Elizabetha, I tried to woo her from you?”

“I do.”

Stephen looked at him, then. “I
am glad I did not.”

“So am I.”

They laughed softly, remembering
those days of love and war and competition. But it was a fond memory, one that
made their friendship stronger.  Tate and Stephen, and Kenneth who was off on
the Welsh border, had a stronger bond than even most brothers.  As they shared
a quiet moment before the storm to come, Lane reappeared with a small,
gray-haired man; Kelvin of Gloucester had been a physic for many years but not
long in the service of the Earl of Carlisle.  Still, he had a strong
reputation, almost as strong as Stephen’s.  One look at the woman on the bed
with the arrow protruding out of her back and he went straight to Stephen.

“How can I assist, my lord?” he
set his ratty satchel down next to Stephen’s neat and organized bag.

As Stephen and the old physic
conferred, Lane made a few attempts to quietly get Tate’s attention. The fourth
attempt worked and Tate left his stool to go to Lane.

“What is it?” he asked.

Lane cast Stephen a glance before
answering. “Rebels are in the town once again,” he said quietly. “They are
beginning to burn to the south. The castle is sealed and the battlements are
preparing; Sir Alan and Sir Ian have seen to it.”

Tate hissed, knowing why Lane was
keeping his voice down; Stephen had enough to worry over.  If he knew the
rebels were on the move again, he would be extremely torn between aiding his
wife and doing his duty as Guardian Protector.   Before Tate could reply,
however, Stephen turned to them both from his crouched position on the floor.

“Probably the same rebels who
ambushed us,” he said. “If they are burning to the south, then they are more
than likely moving north from the church where we were attacked.”

Tate lifted an eyebrow. “You must
have the hearing of God to have heard the sergeant’s report.”

Stephen nodded faintly although
there was no room in his expression for humor. His gaze moved to Joselyn,
sleeping deeply on the bed, before looking down to his instruments carefully
laid out on the floor.

“It should take me a few minutes
to remove this arrow and stitch the wound,” he sounded firm, decisive. “Have my
charger readied. Mount one hundred men and wait for me in the bailey.”

“I shall go,” Tate countered.
“You must stay here with your wife. She needs you more than Berwick does.”

“And I shall do my duty to both,”
Stephen still would not look at him, more focused on what he was about to do
with Joselyn. “De Norville, get my soldiers mounted.  Have Ian join the party
and wait for me in the bailey. Those are your orders.”

Lane looked at de Lara, who
nodded faintly.  When the sergeant left to carry out Stephen’s orders, Tate
moved towards the bed where Stephen and the physic were preparing to begin
their operation. 

“Do you still want me to hold
her?” Tate asked quietly.

Stephen nodded. “Aye,” he finally
looked up at Tate and the turmoil in the man’s eyes was unfathomable. “Hold her
tightly. She’ll not like this in the least.”

Old Mereld arrived with steaming
water and hot, boiled linen just as they were preparing to cut into Joselyn. 
The old woman whimpered at the sight of an arrow protruding out of her
mistress’ back but kept her head. She’d heard the rumors of Lady Joselyn’s
injury but the reality was sickening. She busied herself with the linens and
hearth as the operation began.  The mood grew serious, critical, as Stephen
went to work.

He had been right; at the first
jostling of the arrow, Joselyn awoke with a howl.  She screamed into the
mattress as Tate held her down and Stephen’s skilled hands worked quickly and
steadily.  Stephen blocked the screaming from his mind, focusing on what he
needed to do in order to save her life. He had to push it all aside and detach
himself. But it was the hardest thing he ever had to do; had he let himself
feel her screams, it would have cut him to shreds.

As the war party gathered below
in the bailey, they could hear the screaming from the Guardian Protector’s
third story window.  It went on for what seemed like hours, abruptly stopping
as if whoever were doing the screaming had been suddenly silenced.  The men
looked at each other uneasily, knowing the sound had been coming from Lady
Pembury.  Lane and Ian exchanged apprehensive glances, especially when the
sound abruptly stopped.  In uncomfortable silence, they waited.

When Stephen made his appearance
in full battle armor minutes later, no one dared say a word. De Lara was right
behind him and the two of them mounted their chargers, very business-like, and
led the war party out to meet the rebels as if nothing else in the world
mattered.  

Some wondered if Lady Pembury’s
agony had affected her professional-knight husband. He seemed completely
unmoved. But in truth, the lowered visor prevented anyone from seeing the tears
covering Stephen’s face.

He was devastated.

***

The cell door slammed open with
enough force that dust and flotsam rained down from the ceiling.   Shaken from
an exhausted sleep, Kynan looked up to see Stephen bearing down on him.  The
big knight reached down and yanked Kynan into a seated position, the cornflower
blue eyes blazing.

“Enough of this,” Stephen
snarled. “I have had enough of you and your reckless rabble. If you do not help
me put an end to these constant raids, I shall hang you from the battlements as
we hanged your cousins.  I shall leave you for the ravens to pick the eyeballs
from your rotted skull so listen to me and listen well:  there is much I can
stand in warfare and very little I cannot.  What I cannot stomach are reckless
idiots who have no true direction or conviction as they wreak havoc.  Your
rebels from the church at the southern end of town launched an ambush that
seriously wounded my wife.  Then they proceeded to burn a large section of the
southern end of Berwick and murdered one of my knights.  This has to end,
MacKenzie. It has to end now.”

By this time, Kynan was wide
awake and staring balefully at Stephen. “What do ye mean about Jo-Jo? How did
they hurt her?”

Stephen slammed the man back
against the stone wall, speaking through clenched teeth in an uncharacteristic
fit of anger. “She took the information you gave her about seeking the priest
at the church at the southern end of town and went there.  Your rebel brethren
were waiting and launched an ambush. They struck her with an arrow. Even now
she fights for her life and I swear by all that is holy, if she dies, every
Scot within a fifty mile radius of Berwick will die. Man, woman, child; I care
not. I shall slaughter them all unless you help me end this rebellion. Is that
in any way unclear?”

Kynan was pale with fury, with
distress over Joselyn’s injury.  “She is dying?”

Stephen was a wreck; not only had
he seen Joselyn injured this night, but he’d watched Ian fall to a morning star
that nearly tore his head from his shoulders.  That same morning star ripped
through de Lara’s left arm.  Now Stephen’s fury was unleashed and he was
focused on Kynan as the source of his anger.  He had little control over it at
the moment.

“She is very sick,” he said
honestly, calming for the first time since entering the cell. He was so unused
to fits of fury that he was sweating profusely with it. “I do not know if she
is dying. Only time will tell.”

Kynan sighed heavily, scratching
his dirty head.  His defiance was leaving him now that those he was allied with
had injured his cousin. Somehow the situation was not clear cut any longer;
Joselyn was hurt by men who Kynan had said would help her.
His
men.  He
was beginning to feel some guilt for that and with that guilt came defiance.

“Ye only married her ta cement an
alliance,” he growled. “She’s a Scot. She’s a symbol of submission ta ye. Dunna
pretend as if her sickness tears at yer heart.”

It was the wrong thing to say.  
With a roar, Stephen grabbed the man by his tartan and lifted him off the
floor, tossing him to the opposite side of the cell.  He would have killed him
had de Lara not been there to stop his rage, the man’s left arm heavily
bandaged.  Trying to hold Stephen back was like trying to tackle a raging bull;
doing it with a bad arm was nearly impossible.

“No, Stephen,” Tate hissed at
him. “You’ll not kill him. We shall never get to the bottom of this if you do.
Think, man;
think
. He is your only link to the rebels.”

Stephen stopped pushing against
de Lara long enough to pause, his cornflower blue eyes blazing with unbridled
rage.  His gaze was fixed on Kynan even as Tate tried to calm him.

“No killing,” Tate’s voice was
firm, steady. “You need him if you are to end this.”

Stephen was visibly shaken,
struggling to calm himself. He’d nearly killed the man with his bare hands
purely out of anger. He’d never snapped like that before, not ever, and it was
an awesome realization.  He took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, and
seemed to cool.  His characteristic calm began to take hold again. But it was
difficult.  Eyes still on Kynan in the corner, he rubbed wearily at his neck.

“I need Ken,” he muttered. “I
need the man here. I need his wisdom and his sword.”

Tate nodded faintly “I agree,” he
said. “I shall send for him tonight.”

“Do you think Mortimer will spare
him?”

“He will have to.”

Tate tried to tug him from the
cell, but Stephen was still fixed on Kynan. After several long moments during
which Stephen further calmed, he eventually dislodged Tate’s grip from his arm
and took a couple of steps in Kynan’s direction.  He faced the prisoner much
more like his old self and not a raging lunatic.

“You and I will be very clear
from this moment forward,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “I married
your cousin to form an alliance; that is true. But she loves me and I love her,
and there is nothing in this world that I would not do for her.  I would pull
the stars from the heavens or walk through fire if she wished it.  Now she lies
gravely wounded and my heart is in pieces in spite of what you think.  It aches
as no man’s heart has ever ached. If you have any loyalty to your cousin, then
you will help me end these raids. The Scots are defeated; the English are in
charge of Berwick. The sooner your people come to terms with this, the better
for all of us. I need your help; Joselyn needs your help. Do right by all of
us.”

Kynan’s glare was dull,
bottomless as he gazed up at Stephen. “I can find out who did this to Jo-Jo but
I canna do it from inside this coffin.”

“’Tis more than that and you know
it. You will rot here unless you tell me what I want to know.”

“I shall not help ye crush my
people more than ye already have.”

“If that is all you can see in
this situation, then you are a fool.”

With that, he turned and quit the
cell with Tate and Lane on his heels.  The guard locked the grate and the cold
clang of the bolt being thrown echoed through the vault.  Kynan sat against the
stone where Stephen had tossed him, smarting and disoriented with the turn of
events.  The conversation with the English knight had him reeling in spite of
everything.