Serpent (56 page)

Her hair licked at him as she moved and the scent of lavender was unmistakable. Her hair was dark blond, straight and silky. Every time she threw the satiny mass over her shoulder to keep it out of her way, he was greeted by the perfume of the purple buds and found it utterly captivating. Even as he stared at her, he could not believe this woman was a Scot; she embodied everything he had always believed they were not.  In fact, it took him a moment to realize that she was physically perfect. If God himself had come to him and asked him to describe his perfect mate, he would have described Jordan feature for feature. It was an odd realization.

Unaware of the knight’s thoughts, Jordan glanced up and met his gaze and was faced with the most fascinating shade of hazel she had ever seen. Yet for his size and his strength, and the fact that the man was obviously a seasoned knight, they were the kindest eyes she had ever encountered. Unnerved, she tore her eyes away and continued her good deed with draining concentration. The man intimidated her in too many ways to comprehend.

The armor off, Jordan could see the wound in his thigh was substantial. He had packed linen rags on it in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but he had quickly become too weak to do much more. It was a deep, long gash that ran nearly the entire length of his long thigh. She tore his breeches away in an attempt to have a clear field to tend the wound, noticing that his legs were as thick as tree trunks.

Jordan picked bits of material and mail from the wound, wiping at the clotted blood and dirt that had invaded the area. The further involved she became, the more she could see that the gash was all the way to the bone.

Jordan retrieved her bag and began to pull out her aids; whisky, silk thread and needle, and strips of boiled linen.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the open whisky bottle at him and keeping her eyes on the wound. “Drink this.”

He accepted the bottle from her and he took several long swallows. She took it back from him and set it beside her, pausing with a furrowed brow and thinking that even if he survived the wound, he would surely loose the leg. She did not know that he was still watching her face intently, marveling at the incredible beauty of it.

The knight, in fact, did not make it a habit of gawking at women. Outside of an occasional whore, he had never had a remotely serious relationship with a woman, although there had been many a female who had tried to woo him. He had a great deal of respect for the opposite sex, but Northwood Castle was his life and a wife did not fit into his plans.

“Will I live, Lady Jordan?” he asked after a moment. “Or should I prepare my greeting for St. Peter?”

She sighed and picked up the whisky bottle. Reluctantly, she met his eyes for a brief moment to convey a silent apology before dousing the entire length of the wound with the burning alcohol.

             
The knight's only reaction was to snap his head away from her so that she could not see his face. Not a sound was uttered nor a twitch of the muscle seen.
Remarkable
, she thought. She had never seen anyone take the pain of a whisky burn so well.

Some women preferred to wash the whisky away with water before closing the wound, but not Jordan. The liquor itself did incredibly well in helping heal wounds and preventing infection, so she left it on and took her threaded needle and began to sew up the laceration. She worked quickly, knowing the pain was unbearable and was continually amazed that the soldier had yet to utter one word. She had seen men scream and faint in similar situations.

When she was finally finished, she laid a strip of clean linen the length of the wound and bound him twice about the thigh to hold it in place, once at the top of his leg and once near the knee. She worked so fast that she knew she was not doing a very good job, just wanting to be done with her charitable act hurriedly lest she be discovered.  She was increasingly concerned that her aunts and cousins would come looking for her. She knew that jostling him about must be excruciating, yet he had not so much as flinched.

Only when she had stopped completely did he turn his head back to look at her, and she swallowed at the agony she read in his eyes. She found new respect for this Englishman who bore his pain with stoic silence. She began to hope that he would live, although she did not know why. She furthermore wished she had done a better mending job on his leg, taking the time she took with her own wounded.

“I dunna know what good I have done for ye,” she said quietly.

He grasped her soft hand tightly in his clammy one. Jordan stiffened, startled by the action and fighting the urge to yank her hand away.

“You are an angel of mercy,” he whispered. “I thank you for your efforts, my lady. I shall do my best not to betray them.”

His sincerity was gripping. Gently, she removed her hand and put her things away. The half-moon was high above and the scattered clouds had disappeared, bathing the land in a silver glow. Jordan felt as if she had done something good this night, albeit to the enemy and she felt better now than she had earlier when she first descended to the stream. Mayhap fate had led her to the stream purposely to find the soldier and tend him. She suddenly felt like returning to the battlefield to continue with her expected duties.

“I must return, English.” She rose and gave him a long look. “I will forget that I saw ye here.”

She turned to leave but he stopped her.

“My name is Sir William de Wolfe,” he said with quiet authority. “Remember it, for I shall return one day to thank you properly and I do not wish to be cut down while bearing a gift.”

It took a moment, but even in the moonlight he saw her face go white and her jaw slacken.

“
Sweet Jesu’,”
she gasped. “Surely ye're not the English captain they call The Wolf?”

He looked at her, sensing her surge of fear. He sighed; he did not want her to fear him. This was the one time when he wished his reputation had not preceded him.

“I simply said my name was de Wolfe, not
The Wolf
,” he murmured.

She looked extremely dubious. “But ye were in his command?”

He shrugged vaguely. “Now, back to what I said,” he said, shifting the subject. “I will return with a proper reward for you. Will you accept it?”

She could not be sure that the knight wasn’t, in fact, the hated Wolf, but it was truly of no matter now.  It was done. Perhaps she did not want to believe he was the hated and feared devil, so she chose to believe as such. How could she live with herself if it was discovered that she had tended to the man that had killed more kinsmen that she could count? She knew she could not, so she forced herself to believe his words. Furthermore, her aunt had said The Wolf was dark and devilish. This man was uncannily beautiful in a masculine sense.

After a moment’s pause, she finally spoke. “English, if ye survive this wound then I will gladly accept yer gift.”

He smiled weakly, deep dimples in both cheeks and her heart fluttered strangely in her chest. He was indeed the most handsome man she had ever seen, even if he was English. But she had the most horrible lurking feeling that he was indeed who she feared he was. It made her want to run.

“Luck be with ye,” she said as she abruptly turned and trudged back up the hill.

William watched the figure in the billowing cloak, his pain-clouded mind lingering on the silken hair and beautiful face. He had never seen such a fine woman. Angel was certainly an apt term. If she were to be the last person he saw on earth then he would die a contented man.

He suspected that she did not believe his evasive answer but, thankfully, had made no more mention of it. The thought that she feared and hated him brought a curious tightness in his stomach that he quickly attributed to his helpless state. He did not want to admit that it might be regret.

He was growing weaker with each breath. His strength was waning as he leaned back against the tree, wondering if he would again see the light of morning. He closed his eyes for he could not keep them open, and without realizing it, his mind drifted into unconsciousness, safe and warm and dark.

₰

FRAGMENTS OF GRACE

Prequel to the DRAGONBLADE series

12 five-star reviews

“A beautifully written 13
th
Century romance”

(Make note that this book is classified as a tragedy but with a positive, bittersweet ending
).

CHAPTER ONE

September 1294 A.D.

The siege of Exelby Castle

“You have your orders, St. Hèver,” an older, much muddied warrior snapped at Keir. “Get moving.”

Keir’s jaw ticked but it was difficult to see beneath his wet and dirty hauberk.  He said nothing in response, knowing his liege knew how he felt but disregarding his feelings completely.  They had a job to do.

It had been raining heavily for three days, turning the ground in and around Exelby Castle into a quagmire of putrid muck.  The army from Aysgarth Castle, seat of Baron Coverdale, was well acquainted with the mud and its detriment to a successful siege. The baron’s powerful army could not move their five big siege engines into position because the mud was so thick, so the archers had taken to shooting heavily oiled projectiles over the wall in the hopes that they would burn long enough in the heavy rain to do some damage. This madness had gone on for two long days.

Keir had charge of the portcullis and the great iron and wooden grate had been heavily bombarded by flame, followed by the battering ram to twist the heated iron.  Keir was methodical and skilled in his approach and made sure to keep the enemy soldiers on the battlements above the gate out of range by regular barrages from the archers.  Over the course of the two days, wild wind and driving rain, Keir and his men were able to bend the portcullis enough so that two men at a time could squeeze through, and that was exactly what Baron Coverdale had in mind.

By dawn of the third day, the castle was finally breached. Now, Coverdale was shouting orders to Keir who was extremely reluctant to do as he was told.  But Baron Coverdale, Lord Byron de Tiegh, was in no mood for disobedient knights. He was ready to be finished with this obligatory support of Exelby and return home to a warm fire and his young wife with her big, warm breasts.

“Take Pembury and de Velt with you,” Coverdale barked again, scratching at his dirty, wet scalp before pulling his hauberk back on. “Get inside and get those women or Lord de Geld will lose his entire family. Of all people, surely you can understand what it means to face the loss of one’s family, St. Hèver.”

It was a tactless remark, one that had Keir’s unusually cool temper rising. He felt disgusted and sick. Coverdale was a good commander but an insensitive man. Frustrated but driven by his sense of duty, Keir stormed off with Pembury and de Velt following, marching across the muck, puddles of urine and rivers of blood, until he came within range of the gatehouse.  Keir’s men were already gathered there, all one hundred and nine of them, awaiting direction from their liege. 

Keir reached his men, standing beneath a pair of denuded oak trees, and bellowed orders to them, courtesy of Coverdale. They were to breach the keep and find Lord de Geld’s wife and two daughters.  De Geld was the lord of Exelby, his castle having been attacked and overrun in nearly the same situation that Pendragon had been those years ago.  A neighboring war lord, covetous of de Geld’s very rich castle and lands, had waited until the old man was away on business before laying siege and conquering.  Coverdale, an old friend of de Geld’s, had been tasked with regaining the fortress.

Infuriated and exhausted, St. Hèver was the first man through the twisted wreckage of the portcullis.  He was immediately set upon by defenders but Keir had the advantage of tremendous size, strength and height.  He was moderately tall, but the sheer breadth and circumference of his arms and chest made him a man above men. As he plowed his way through the gatehouse, he used his sword and fists to drive away attackers.  Pembury and de Velt were right behind him, powerful and skilled men in their own right.

Miraculously, they made it through the gate house without injury.  Considering those who held the castle were using the murder holes in the gatehouse entry to their advantage, it was something of a feat.  Bursting into the cluttered and muddy bailey, which was oddly empty, Keir directed more than half of his men to take the walls while he took another twenty men with him and headed towards the keep. 

They fought their way through enemy soldiers, having suddenly appeared from the interior of the keep.  The soldiers came rushing down at them from the keep entry, down the narrow wooden retractable stairs that were half-burned, and Keir found himself slugging men in the face and throwing them over the railing. 

Because the stairs were so precarious, they could only mount them in single file and Keir was at the head, taking the brunt of the warriors coming at them.  At one point, an enemy soldier managed to send him off-balance and he gripped the railing, almost falling fifteen or so feet down to the muddy bailey, but he managed to hold on to the broken railing even in the wet rain that was making everything dangerously slippery.  Pembury, a mountain of a man with enormous fists, pushed forward and took the lead, throwing men aside with his enormous strength.  De Velt pulled Keir away from the edge and steadied him and the three knights, along with their men at arms, continued up the stairs and eventually in to the keep.