Sworn Loyalty - A Medieval Romance (5 page)

He glanced over at the cold fireplace, his brows creasing. “We cannot risk a fire.”

“No, we cannot,” she agreed. She put a hand out to him. “We will have to keep each other warm; these blankets should be more than enough.”

He glanced again at the fireplace, then the closed shutter, and nodded. He stood, going to the door, closing it and dropping the bar in place. He lay a hand on it for a long moment, as if willing it to provide the final layer of protection for them. Then he turned and came to the other side of the bed, easing beneath the covers, drawing her back against his chest.

To Mary they were together on the horse again, his sturdiness protecting her, his careful attention aware of danger. She was safe.

In a blink she was gone.

Chapter 3

Mary couldn’t breathe. The thick, billowing smoke filled her nose with its acrid stench. The scorching wooden walls of the grain box she hid in blistered her skin. All around her she could hear the agonized screams of her friends and family.

She slammed her hands over her ears, gasping for breath, and she was burning … burning …

A cool cloth was gently pressed to her forehead, and she struggled to open her eyes. It was late afternoon, judging by the streams of sunlight coming through the chinks in the shutters. Erik had a thick, dark brown cloak over his shoulders as he carefully patted down her face. The frosted edges of his breath made plain the chill of the day, but her skin flamed with crackling heat.

Erik’s eyes creased with concern. “You have a fever,” he murmured. “I need to take a look at that leg of yours, now that you are awake.”

She nodded, and he helped her wriggle into a sitting position, handing over a mug of mead for her. She gratefully drank it down, the liquid tracing a silvery path down her throat and into her stomach. He waited for her to finish, then moved down to unwrap the bandage from her leg.

Blood was crusted all along the wrapping, and he used the mead on a cloth to dab away at it, working his way down to the wound itself. The tension in his brow eased.

“No infection that I see,” he told her. “Still, you need to lie still for the day. Get as much sleep as you can. Are you up for some food?”

Her throat ached with rawness. “Maybe an apple.”

He rebandaged the wound with fresh wrappings, then tucked the covers back around her. Soon he was at her side with an apple, cutting off slices for her, handing them over one by one.

When she was finished, he moved over to the shutters, peering out without touching them.

Mary followed his movements with her eyes. “Anything yet?”

He shook his head. “Some pilgrims passed early this morning, and a short while ago a farmer went through with his wagon. Our tracks outside the walls, at least, are now nicely covered. No sign of our pursuers yet.”

“I give them two more days,” mused Mary.

Erik looked over with a question in his eyes.

“They would have found our first horse’s prints from where he waited for us,” she explained. “So they would start by looking everywhere we could have gotten to on that horse. A relatively small radius.”

“And when that fails, they will keep working their way outwards,” agreed Erik. “Plus, as you mentioned, they will think it unlikely I would head in this particular direction.”

His eyes shadowed, and he turned, looking at the thin arrow-slit which pointed west. He slowly moved across the room, hesitating a moment before leaning his head to look through the narrow gap. “You can just about make out the keep from here,” he murmured. “That was my home, until ten years ago.”

And for the past ten years, that keep has been my home.

Mary’s heart filled with a longing to stand by his side, to wrap her arms around him, to soothe his tormented soul. She ached to feel his hands twine into hers. She fought down the desire with effort. The emotion would interfere with her ability to do her duty.

If only she could tell him –

She pushed the thought away. She did not know how much longer she would have to hold back information from Erik, but Lady Cartwright had been clear on this point. Mary had to evaluate him for as long as she could, learn as much as possible about him, before revealing the truth. She had to find out if he was free of Lynessa.

Mary’s brow shadowed. It had been Lynessa who had created the schism, those ten long years ago. Lynessa had driven Erik from his mother’s side, had made Lady Cartwright vow in fury that she would never take him back.

But surely he was no longer under the blonde’s spell, not after she’d led him to his certain death?

 Waves of dense darkness descended on her. Her thoughts muddled and drifted away like sparks floating up from a dying campfire.

* * *

Mary wearily pushed the hair from her face, struggling up to a seated position. Gentle morning sunlight was streaming through the gaps in the shutters, and Erik was standing at them, attentively watching the forest beyond.

Mary drew her gaze along his profile. The painting in the keep had been of a young man, a lad on the cusp of maturity, preparing to set out into the world. The soldier before her was weathered, toned, someone who had seen what life held and had tested himself against it. There was a strength within him, a passion that she had never sensed in all the years of staring into the canvas eyes.

She remembered how he had looked at her, just before turning to fight the five wolves’ heads in the crumbling courtyard. He had laid his fingers against her cheek, and her heart had flamed to life –

He suddenly turned, and she dropped her eyes to her lap. Her cheeks blazed with a heat she knew had nothing to do with any fever.

In a moment there were sounds of motion as he strode to the shelves, drawing out bread, butter, and a mug of ale. He brought them over to her with an attentive gaze.

He knelt at her side. “Feeling better?”

To Mary’s surprise she was ravenous. She could barely wait for him to smear the butter on the bread before she devoured it, washing it down with the occasional draw on the mug. He smiled in appreciation as she tucked the last end of the crust into her mouth.

He turned to refill her ale. “I’m glad to see you’ve got a healthy appetite.” His eyes drew down to the blanket. “How does your leg feel?”

She gave her toes an experimental wiggle. Her calf answered with a solid ache, but it was a far cry better than the searing pain of two days ago. “Healing.”

“Good.”

He paused for a moment, holding her gaze. “I know the leg was the worst of it, but sometimes in combat we end up with other injuries we don’t notice. If they fester, they can cause serious trouble. You should check yourself over to make sure the leg is the only thing to keep an eye on.”

She nodded in agreement. “You are right, of course.”

He moved to the shelves, taking down a fresh dress for her, laying it across the end of the bed. Then he turned, walking to the arrow slit in the western wall, putting his back to her, giving her what privacy he could.

She pushed the blankets off and, starting with her toes, went carefully up her body. She drew off her dress as she went, glancing up at Erik, but he remained resolutely in place.

There were scrapes and bruises in a number of locations, but nothing serious beyond her leg wound. The rest would heal quickly and easily. The leg would take longer, and would leave a nasty scar, but the limb would remain fully functional.

She drew on the new dress, and then looked at her hands. The brown gloves were still in place, almost a part of her, and she hesitated before drawing them off.

Even after all these years it was still a shock to look at her hands. She had worn these gloves for so long – almost a decade – that the gloves seemed the natural state of her hands, not this twisted, scarred flesh beneath. The burns had been severe, and it was only through God’s grace that the digits remained functional, that she could still wield a sword and manage a knife.

She turned her hands before her, fascinated by the mangled flesh. That she could have endured that pain …

Erik’s voice came from across the room. “Everything look all right?”

Mary glanced up in panic, but he had not turned. He still stared out into the distance, to the keep he had abandoned ten years ago, the family he had left behind.

She quickly pulled her leather gloves back into place. “Yes, everything is as it should be,” she informed him. “Only the leg needs tending to.”

She pulled the blanket back over her. “You can turn around now, if you wish,” she added. “I am decent again.”

He turned, moving over to one of the chairs, sitting on it and picking up a whetting stone. He took the sword from the table and began sharpening its edge with long, steady strokes. Mary could see the slight hitch in his movements, as he tried to do the action with his left hand when clearly he was used to doing it with the right.

Mary looked down for a moment. “How is your sword hand doing?” she asked quietly. “I am sorry to have wounded you in such a vital place.”

He shook his head, not pausing in his motions. “You risked your life to come in to get me, when nobody else stirred a finger on my behalf,” he pointed out. “A cut on my hand is a small price to pay.”

Mary’s gaze moved to his jerkin. The thickness of the bandage bulked it out around his abdomen, and she could see the fabric’s whiteness through the slice in the leather. “And the other wound?”

“It lets me know it’s there, like an angry wildcat, but I am cautious not to twist it open again. If I can be easy on it for another few days it should start to mend.”

Mary pursed her lips. “The gash was long. Surely we should stitch it?”

Erik’s voice was dry. “Already did.”

Mary looked at him in shock. “What, you stitched your own stomach wound?”

He nodded. “You were both exhausted and feverish. The wound needed stitching to avoid infection. Not much other choice.”

Mary paled at the thought of the pain he must have endured. “Next time, wake me. I can work through a fever.”

He turned to look at her, raising his eyebrows. “Next time?”

She smiled despite herself, and when he smiled in return a flush of heat washed through her.

He turned away suddenly, his eyes moving to the shelves neatly stacked with loaves of bread and rosy apples. When he spoke his voice seemed rough. “Do you live here alone?”

Mary’s cheeks burnished with warmth. She dropped her eyes to her gloved hands, pulling a cuff to settle one more firmly around her fingers. “I ask only one thing of you, while we heal up in this tower.”

He stilled at that, and his gaze moved to the blade before him. “Anything.”

A tendril of desire traced through her, that this consummate swordsman, a man of honor who had defied his family for the love of a woman, would put himself so fully in her hands. A wealth of longings cascaded through her thoughts, but she pushed them away with well-practiced discipline. She owed it to the Lady who had taken her in to follow her orders to the last.

Still, her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “I have my reasons for valuing my privacy. Please do not press me for more information. I will give it when I am able.”

He glanced toward the arrow slit, and at last he nodded. “You ask very little, for what you have done. I doubt anyone at the keep even gave thought to sending out a full rescue party.”

Mary flushed at that, looking down, letting her hair fall to shield her face. There had been heated discussion in the keep’s central hall when Lynessa’s plan had become known. It was only with the greatest of effort that her counter-scheme had been allowed to move forward.

She had presented her argument so many times that to summarize it to Erik took little thought. “The Caradocs have nearly fifty men, and no matter how they got their hands on you, they would have hunkered down in that tower,” she pointed out. “If the keep’s troops had tried to get to you with a full show of force, you would undoubtedly have been slain before they reached that final room.”

Erik did not answer, but his draws of the stone against his sword became angular and hard.

* * *

Something drew Mary into wakefulness, and she blinked her eyes against the soft light, gaining her bearings. It was barely dawn, judging by the soft shadows. Erik was peering through the shutters, his body at full alert, his sword in his hand.

Mary eased silently from the covers, drawing up the cloak by the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders. She carefully hobbled around to stand beside Erik, tilting her head to get a better view without touching the shutters.

Four men on horseback stood before the outer wall’s gates, staring up at the tower.

She resisted the urge to draw back, to lunge for her sword. Instead she held stock still. To them the shutters were a dark, impenetrable wall, with only shadows behind. As long as nothing moved suddenly or caught their attention, the tower would seem long abandoned.

One of the horsemen nudged his steed forward, pushing back his cloak’s hood. The shock of orange-red hair caught Mary off guard. Surely Geoff could not have recovered from the dagger to the throat? She remembered him lying there, dead –