Warrior's Lady (11 page)

The sound of cautious footsteps drew his attention. Turning, he saw a small, bent figure moving slowly toward him.

“Tannya?”

“Lord Jarrett!” She hurried toward him, her face wreathed in smiles. “Praise the All Father, is it really you?”

“It’s me, Tannya,” Jarrett said gently. He gazed down into the wrinkled face of the woman who had been his nurse. She seemed to have aged twenty years in the past eight months.

“We feared you were dead,” the old woman remarked. Lifting a corner of her apron, she dabbed the tears from her eyes.

“There were times I wished I was,” Jarrett muttered under his breath. “Where’s my mother?”

“In her room, Jeri. She’s…she’s not well.”

Jeri. It had been his nursery name, one he’d thought never to hear again. “What’s wrong with her?”

Tannya shook her head. “I fear she has lost the will to live.” Fresh tears glistened in the old woman’s pale-blue eyes. “Everyone has left Greyebridge. We’ve nothing to eat, no wood to warm us now that the furniture is gone. The axe is so heavy…”

Jarrett put his arm around her frail shoulders. “It will be all right,” he said reassuringly. “There’s food in one of the packs downstairs. Will you prepare something while I see my mother?”

Tannya nodded. She took a few steps, then stopped as she saw Leyla standing in the shadows. “Who is this?”

“Her name is Leyla. She’s my…my friend. Go along now, Tannya. There will be time for explanations later.”

He watched his old nurse out of sight, then, taking Leyla by the hand, he walked down the hall to his mother’s chambers.

The room was cold and dark. No furniture remained save the huge bed in which he’d been born. The hangings, once a bright cerulean-blue, were in need of cleaning.

Fearing what he would see, he made his way to the bedside. His mother lay like a skeleton upon the bed. Her skin, once clear and fair, was now tinged with gray. Her hands, once plump and dimpled, looked like claws as they moved restlessly over the bedclothes. Her hair, once as glossy as a raven’s wing, lay in limp strands upon the pillow.

“Mother…”

Her eyelids flickered open. “Tannya, is that you?”

“It’s Jarrett.”

“Jarrett?” She stared up at him, her gray eyes vague and unfocused. “No. That cannot be. My son is dead.” A shadow of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I will join him soon.”

Jarrett turned toward Leyla, his eyes filled with silent entreaty. “Am I too late?”

“I will do what I can,” Leyla murmured. Moving closer to the bed, she placed her left hand on the woman’s brow, her right hand over the woman’s heart. Eyes closed, she summoned the Power, felt it swell within her veins, felt its heat pulse in her hands.

Leyla groaned softly as she absorbed the woman’s unhappiness, the pain of a broken heart, the weakness of a body that had been denied sufficient food almost to the point of death.

Jarrett stood at the foot of the bed, awed by the miracle taking place before him. He saw the lines of pain disappear from his mother’s face, saw the color bloom in her cheeks.

But at what a price! Leyla’s face was etched with deep lines of pain. A soft moan escaped her lips and then, as if devoid of all strength, she slid to the floor.

With a low cry, Jarrett rushed to her side. Lifting Leyla in his arms, he hugged her close, knew a moment of heart-wrenching relief when he realized she was still breathing. He glanced over his shoulder at his mother and when he saw that she was sleeping peacefully, he hurried from the room.

He carried Leyla down the hall to the room that had been his and placed her reverently on his bed. After covering her with a heavy quilt, he sat beside her and took her hands in his, willing his strength into her body. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he began to pray, quietly beseeching the All Father to spare the life of the woman he loved.

He lost track of time as he sat there. He was vaguely aware of Tannya coming and going in the room, drawing the draperies across the window to shut out the night, bringing him a plate of food which he never touched.

Hours passed, or it might have been days. He continued to hold Leyla’s hands in his, frightened by her stillness. On the verge of despair, he knelt by the bedside, lifting his voice toward heaven in a desperate plea, begging the All Father to take his life instead of hers.

It was near dawn when Jarrett felt her hand move in his, heard the welcome sound of her voice calling his name.

“I am here, beloved,” he said, hardly able to speak for the joy that pounded in his heart. He rose from his knees and sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought…I was afraid…”

She smiled up at him. “I should have warned thee,” she said contritely.

“Warned me?”

“When the healing is very severe, it drains my strength. Your mother was very near death.” Leyla sat up, her expression worried. “Is thy mother well?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s very well,” came a voice from the doorway.

Jarrett glanced over his shoulder as his mother entered the room. Gone was the gray, waxy look. Her skin was clear and unblemished, her eyes were bright, her hair as lustrous as polished ebony.

Jarrett squeezed Leyla’s hand. “Bless you, Leyla,” he whispered fervently.

Rising, he took his mother into his arms and held her close, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his mother hugged him in return.

“Welcome home, Jeri,” Sherriza said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I never thought to see you again.”

“Nor I you.”

“So,” she said, giving him one last hug, “who is this child I find in your bed?”

“This is Leyla. It was her touch that healed you.”

“Ah, a Maje. I have never met one before. Welcome to our home, Leyla. I regret that I have little to offer you, but what I have is yours.”

“I require nothing in return, my Lady,” Leyla replied, struggling to hide her embarrassment at being found in Jarrett’s bed. “It is my duty to heal whenever I can.”

“Nevertheless, I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

Sherriza took Jarrett’s hand, her gaze searching his face. “Tell me, Jeri,” she said, “tell me all.”

With a sigh, Jarrett covered his mother’s hand with his own and told her, in as few words as possible, about being captured on his way to see the King, of being taken to the Pavilion.

He made light of the tortures he had endured, dwelling instead on the comfort he had found in Leyla.

“It seems I owe you an even greater debt,” Sherriza said, giving Leyla a look of deep gratitude.

“No, Milady. I am only glad that I was there, that I was able to ease his pain.”

Sherriza nodded. There were not words enough, nor enough lucre in all the known world, to repay Leyla for Jarrett’s life.

“I cannot believe that Rorke would dare abduct you in such a fashion. And to reinstate the Games without Tyrell’s permission…” She spread her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “What did he hope to gain by stripping you of your title and locking you away in that dreadful place?”

Jarrett shook his head. “I don’t know, but I mean to find out. Let us speak of it no more, for now.”

“Ah, Jeri,” Sherriza murmured, “It is good to have you back. Well,” she said, her voice steadier now, “when you are ready, Tannya has prepared First Meal. I shall see if I can’t find a change of clothes for our guest. Perhaps, after we have broken our fast, she would like to bathe.”

Sherriza smiled at her son affectionately, then wrinkled her nose as if she had caught scent of something unpleasant. “Of you, I demand it.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Jarrett replied.

With a parting smile at Leyla, Sherriza left the room.

“Thy mother is lovely,” Leyla said. Swinging her legs over the side of the big square bed, she stood up, refusing to meet Jarrett’s eyes. “What must she think of me?”

“What do you mean?”

“She found me in thy bed like some common strumpet.”

“Leyla, my mother knows I would not bring such a woman into her house or my bed. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Come now, let us go down to First Meal.”

Two hours later, Leyla accompanied Jarrett on a tour of the castle. She had enjoyed a leisurely bath, then dressed in a gown of emerald-green that had been left on her bed. Matching slippers adorned her feet.

She slid a glance at Jarrett as they walked down a long hall. He wore a pair of snug black breeches, costly black boots, and a wine-red shirt. He looked at home here, she thought. Jarrett of Gweneth, Lord of the Manor.

Greyebridge Castle was square in shape, with massive towers at each corner. They started on the first floor, which was below ground level. It held a guard room, storerooms and the granary.

The second floor housed the Great Hall, the kitchens and the servants’ quarters.

The chapel was located on the third floor, as were the sewing and weaving rooms. There were also several small apartments to accommodate guests.

The fourth floor was where the family resided. Sherriza occupied the east tower, Jarrett, the west. Leyla had been given the south tower. There were several large apartments located along the hallways between the towers.

Jarrett said little as they toured his home. Once, it had been a place filled with people, a city unto itself. Now it was virtually deserted. The servants had left soon after his disappearance. His men had been pressed into the service of the King. Only Tannya and his mother had been allowed to remain in the castle.

In the months that he’d been gone, the keep had fallen into disrepair. The grounds were barren, unkempt. The cottages on the hillsides had been abandoned; the moat had filled with debris. The mews and the stables were empty of the fine falcons and destriers that had once been the pride of Greyebridge.

And he was an outlaw.

The words rang in the back of his mind as they toured the dungeon located in the bowels of the castle. The air was heavy and damp and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His heart began to pound as, all too clearly, he recalled his cell in the Pavilion, the constant darkness within the hood. He stared at the torch in his hand, his nostrils filling with the remembered stink of his own scorched flesh.

“Come,” he said, and grabbing Leyla by the land, he practically dragged her up the narrow stone staircase that led into the courtyard.

He dropped the torch into a bucket of water and drew several deep breaths, filling his lungs with the fresh, sweet scent of freedom.

“Jarrett?” She placed her hand on his arm, her eyes dark with concern. His face was suddenly pale, his breathing harsh and erratic.

“I’m all right.”

“Thee must not think of that place,” she said. “Thee is home now.”

“I know, but I can’t forget…” He wiped a hand across his eyes, haunted by the nightmare images that were never completely out of his mind.

In the beginning, before Leyla had been assigned to take care of him, there had been no one to heal him. The worst of his wounds had been treated by one of the Giants. Sometimes they had left him alone until his wounds healed, sometimes not. But then Leyla had come. With her there to heal him, it was no longer necessary to excuse him from the Games for several days at a time. In that respect, her coming had been both blessing and curse; a blessing because he didn’t have to endure the pain of his wounds for days at a time, a curse because her healing power made it possible for him to participate in the Games more often, much to the delight of his tormentors.

“Jarrett, think of something else.”

He nodded, knowing she was right. He had to put the past behind him. Perhaps then the nightmares would stop. Perhaps then he could think of the future.

“Leyla.” Murmuring her name, he drew her into his arms and held her close. She was his strength, he thought as his lips brushed hers. She was his future.

Taking her by the hand, he led her toward the portal at the rear of the castle. The gate opened onto a large meadow. A narrow path led to a small lake surrounded by yellow willow trees and giant ferns. A wooden bridge spanned the lake; there was a covered porch where one could sit in the shade and enjoy the solitude.

Hand in hand they circled the lake, then Jarrett knelt on the grass and drew Leyla down beside him. For a long moment, he gazed into the depths of her eyes—eyes as deep and blue as the lake, as calm as a midsummer day.

“Leyla…”

“My Lord?”

“Tender words and pretty phrases do not come easily to a man who has spent most of his life in battle.” He took her hand in his. It was small and warm and soft, everything his was not. Just as she was everything he was not, he mused. And yet he loved her wholly, deeply.

He took a deep breath, wishing he were as skilled with words as he was with a sword.

“Leyla, I had thought to ask thee to be my wife, but…” He shrugged helplessly. “I have nothing now to offer thee.”

“Nothing, my Lord Jarrett?”

“Nothing,” he repeated, his voice harsh with regret.

“Thee holds thy love cheaply then.”

“My love? Thee has that already.”

“It is all I will ever ask of thee.”