Kim Iverson Headlee Page 12

  His agonized moans wrenched her heart. To say nothing of the wretched sight and even more wretched stench of his charred flesh. Fortunately, he remained unconscious. She laid the poker on the hearth, moistened a clean cloth with water from the basin, and swabbed his sweat-beaded face, unsure of what to do next.

  To heal the pain, you must endure the thorn.

  She gave her head an impatient shake, rocking back on her heels. That, again. Why now, of all times? This was Glastonbury, true, but the Tor could still be crawling with outlaws, and she stood a better chance of flying to the moon than obtaining the legendary plant.

  Endure the thorn!

  The thought’s insistence gave her pause. As she studied the squire’s form, her eyes lit on a small leather pouch strapped to his belt. Odd; it didn’t bulge as a coin purse might. Her hand reached toward it as if controlled by someone else.

  A flash of warmth heated her cheeks as she realized she would have to unbuckle his belt to free the pouch. Resolutely, she concentrated on the task at hand. She slipped the pouch off the belt and opened it to discover several tiny, muslin-wrapped packages.

  As her fingers came into contact with one of them, the fabric’s edges began to blacken.

  Petals from the Glastonbury thorn!

  She dropped the packet as if it were a live ember.

  You must endure it.

  He had begun to thrash about, uttering half-formed sentences punctuated with groans. She laid a hand on his forehead, and it felt far too cool.

  The image of a dew-spattered red rose leapt to mind, given with no expectations and an implicit promise of forgiveness. Guilt stabbed her heart.

  Endure the thorn.

  She had no idea how the Glastonbury thorn could help, but goaded by memories of her mother’s and brother’s deaths, she yearned to ease Squire Alain’s torment.

  She grasped the packet. It began to smoke. She dropped it, her fingertips red and sore. Sucking them didn’t relieve the pain.

  Endure it!

  As she reached for the packet again, fear froze her hand.

  The thorn’s Cristes-mæsse flowers were reputed to work miracles for the pure of heart. Yet how could she be “pure of heart” when she harbored venomous hatred for the man who had murdered her brother? How could she look her Norman bridegroom in the eye and proclaim her fidelity to him while she felt herself succumbing to this squire’s forbidden allure? How could she reconcile the months of despising England’s new king for what he had done to her people, her family, and her very existence?

  “I can’t!” Sobbing, she buried her face in her hands. “I just can’t. The thorn won’t work for me. I am not worthy.”

  Power does not come without sacrifice. But for Alain’s sake, and yours, you must endure the thorn.

  For Alain’s sake.

  Raising her head and drying her face on the sleeve of her gown, she gazed at the man—the Norman—who’d already sacrificed God alone knew how much for her sake. His chilled, waxy face convinced her that whether she was betrothed to another man or not, and whether Alain was kin to Del’s murderer or not, she didn’t want him to pay the ultimate price.

  She had no right to permit him to make such a sacrifice.

  The very least she could do for him was sacrifice a small piece of herself.

  She drew a deep, shuddering breath, released her hatred as best she could, and pressed the packet between her palms.

  Blinding agony seared her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw but refused to let go. Pain shot up her arms to her brain, torching every nerve in her body as if she had fallen into a vat of molten wax. In her mind’s eye, she watched herself be consumed by leaping flames.

  The stench of her burning flesh was no illusion. Her stomach roiled. Bile burned her throat.

  Still she clung to the packet, not fully comprehending what bound her to this choice.

  White flames engulfed her imagined self, and the pain remained intense, yet the flames did not char her. Even her hands, in her mind, appeared whole and hale, limned in the strange light.

  The pain subsided to a bearable level. When it had become naught but a faint prickle, she opened her eyes and unclenched her hands.

  She gasped, wide-eyed.

  Snowy ash coated her palms. The skin—not red and blistered like the last time, and not black, as she’d feared—glowed a delicate shade of newborn pink. And the old scars were gone.

  She checked her initial impulse to dust off her hands and instead worked up a mouthful of saliva and spat into them. Rubbing her hands together, she formed the spittle and ash into a paste and dabbed it onto the worst of Alain’s wounds: the cauterized gash and the first burn she’d inflicted upon him.

  Her second shock of the evening came when both wounds healed and the scars faded. Aghast yet curious, she probed the wounds’ sites, feeling naught but firm, healthy flesh.

  She sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.

  “What—what did you do?”

  She glanced down to see Alain touching his abdomen, his expression a mixture of confusion and horror. There would be no end of trouble if he thought she’d used devilry on him. So she opted for the simplest answer: “I applied a poultice and it healed you.”

  “I was bleeding, and…” He closed his eyes for a moment, as if struggling for comprehension. “And you burned me.”

  “For that I am sorry, good squire, but I had to cauterize the wound.”

  “But there is no wound any longer!”

  “It was a very strong poultice.” Offering a tentative smile, she laid a hand on his forearm. “And even stronger prayers.”

  Affection warmed his smile. “Whatever you did, Lady Kendra, I thank you.”

  “’Tis I who must thank you for rescuing me.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” Blinking, he uttered a short laugh. “Not until we are away from here.”

  He made as if to push himself up, convulsed with a moan, and fell back against the cushions.

  “What’s wrong?” she cried.

  “Don’t know. My side—” Eyes closed, he massaged the spot, his actions punctuated by gasps and grunts. “The flesh seems whole, but…still hurts. A lot.”

  “Here?” She pressed her palm to the spot. A tingling rush flowed down her arm and into her hand.

  His face relaxed. “Ah, yes. Much better.” He opened his eyes, the affection glowing brighter than before. “Your hand is very warm.”

  She jerked it up. “Too hot?”

  “No, no.” He caught her hand and guided it back to where it had lain. “It feels…good…” His eyelids drooped and his hand slipped as he surrendered to sleep.

  She kept her hand in place for a few more moments before moving it to his brow. Its temperature felt much more natural, and she released a relieved sigh, willing him to enjoy a long, healing rest.

  As she reached for the cloth to clean her hands, an idea hit. Quickly and gently, lest her ministrations wake him, she touched his other wounds. They too disappeared. Only his clothing bore evidence of the fight.

  She bowed her head in profound gratitude, tempered by the profound regret that she hadn’t discovered the Glastonbury thorn’s secret in time to save her mother or brother.

  After attending to her evening needs, she lay down close enough to Alain to be able to check on him during the night without overstepping propriety’s bounds.

  Sleep eluded her.

  At last, she had obeyed her mother’s final directive. Whether she would endure that hellish heat every time she attempted to use the herb, she couldn’t begin to guess, but she was grateful beyond measure for this chance to heal her rescuer.

  But at what cost?

  She shifted onto her side to gaze at her charge, reveling in a forbidden surge of love. She kissed her fingertips and brushed his unshaven cheek. He uttered a pleased-sounding hum.

  As she withdrew her hand, sadness enshrouded her heart at the thought of having to wed another man.

  At what cost,
indeed.

  Chapter 9

  ALAIN WOKE WITH a start and sat up, reeling with disorientation.

  A tower’s walls surrounded him, though the profusion of cushions and tapestries refuted the notion that he’d been imprisoned. Darkness and the room’s chill told him night blanketed the land. The figure sleeping an arm’s length from him was no guard.

  He couldn’t recall reaching the tower, or whether Ruaud had accompanied him. Had Ruaud caught up with him later?

  The figure shifted, uttering a soft groan. A feminine one.

  His pulse quickened as he crept closer to her, scarcely daring to hope…

  Kendra! And, as near as he could make out in the gloom, she appeared to be unharmed.

  He released his gratitude with a heartfelt sigh.

  Then he recalled the odd scene he’d dreamt.

  He had been lying on a grassy field, mortally wounded, as storm clouds billowed and darkened overhead. Lightning flashed. Despite his struggles, his blood loss had left him too weak to seek cover. But when the storm broke, he saw not raindrops hurtling toward him but tiny white petals, numerous beyond counting. As they touched his skin, they burst into flame but did not burn him, leaving instead a tingling sensation and an ashen residue.

  The memory of the fights slammed into his mind. He probed the place where one brigand’s sword had bitten deep. Although some pain remained, the flesh felt as whole as if the thrust had missed him.

  He withdrew his fingers and stared at them in wonderment. The tips were coated with a white powder unlike any simple or poultice he’d ever seen.

  His heart shivered with the realization that he had lain near death, as the dream had implied. And Kendra—he now recalled from his few lucid moments of the night before—had saved him.

  It had to have been a miracle; no good ever came of employing the devil’s arts.

  He inched closer to her and skimmed his fingertips over her cheek. It felt warm and soft. Bending down, he brushed her lips with his. An almost-smile tugged at her mouth, but she didn’t wake.

  Temptation goaded him to do more; honor commanded restraint.

  He rolled away and stood, unsure how long honor would reign.

  Duty chimed in with its own urgent request. What if the outlaws he’d tricked into leaving the island had discovered their companions’ remains?

  Stealthily, to avoid disturbing her, he peered out each of the chamber’s windows but could see nothing beyond a vast shroud of mist, just beginning to pinken with dawn’s glow, a few valiant trees thrusting through to dispel the illusion that the tower stood rooted in heaven.

  But not seeing any outlaws didn’t guarantee that he and Kendra were free from danger.

  He girt on the war-knife and sword. The chest barricading the door scraped along the floor as he moved it, and he glanced at her. She remained asleep. He opened the door wide enough for his body and eased it closed behind him.

  A SHAFT of sunlight hit Kendra’s eyelids, piercing her dream.

  She didn’t want to wake up.

  Alain was kissing her, a deep and long and soul-satisfying kiss. She arched into his embrace, running her fingers through his thick golden hair and willing him to lift their passion to the next level. In this dream, Sir Robert de Bellencombre didn’t exist. The outlaws didn’t exist. Ulfric didn’t exist. Nothing existed beyond her and Alain and their spiraling desires, and she clung to the dream in spite of her body’s more mundane needs.

  Her eyes still closed, she reached for him, though for what purpose she wasn’t sure. The Alain of the waking world may have captured her heart, but he could never possess her virtue.

  The abiding sense of happiness the dream had instilled within her shattered under the weight of her sigh.

  He must have shifted in his sleep. She stretched farther but still couldn’t reach him. At last, she opened her eyes.

  Gone!

  Sitting up, she fought to contain the welling panic. She hoped he had left to relieve himself, which sounded like a fine idea. This chamber boasted many sumptuous furnishings, but a privy pot didn’t number among them.

  She rose and removed the bandages swathing her legs, which, thankfully, no longer felt chafed, and pulled on her overdress. Combing her fingers through her unbound hair, she yearned for Rowena’s help. Then the memory of that dreadful day returned, and she prayed that Rowena, Oswy, and Cæwlin had escaped.

  The tears wetting her cheeks heralded her doubts.

  She blotted her face with the back of a hand, donned her veil and shoes, and strode from the room.

  Halfway down the stairs, spooked by the tower’s oppressive silence, complete save for her own tread and breathing, she paused.

  Was he trying to escape her as she, regrettably, had done to him? Did he also fear what would happen if they succumbed to temptation and Sir Robert learned of their trespass?

  Another thought gripped her. A trickle of sweat crawled down her spine.

  What if Alain had fallen afoul of more outlaws? He couldn’t have killed them all last night; he was just a squire, after all, and the lair had been swarming with more brigands than ants on spilt honey.

  He might have had help in the form of his master, Sir Ruaud, but likely no more than that. If her father’s fyrd had accompanied them, one of them would have found her. Even if Alain had been the first to reach her lofty prison, he never would have been permitted to sleep in the same chamber, despite the fact that he had been too badly wounded to act improperly.

  She resumed her descent, all senses bristling with the possibility of danger.

  When she reached the lower chamber, she heard a faint but hopeful-sounding whine through the floorboards and regretted not having brought any food. She murmured a promise to the hound, which seemed to satisfy it, for the whining stopped.

  The room’s dearth of windows left only the door through which to peer, and that didn’t tell her much. A sea of pink-tinted mist swirled before her, smothering all clues as to what might lie beneath.

  Prudence insisted she stay within the tower.

  Concern for Alain propelled her outside.

  An unmoving heap of stinking, leather-and-wool-wrapped flesh lying near the door made her gasp. It had already attracted a cloud of flies, in spite of the wind.

  Please, not Alain!

  Not Alain but the guard who had let her and Snake into the tower the previous day—had it been only a day? It seemed like an eternity.

  So he had killed this man, but not without a price. The outlaw’s sword, clutched in the stiff fist, bore a wide streak of dried blood. If Alain hadn’t found her when he did…

  Relief weakened her knees, and she sank down, heedless of the dewy grass and the corpse’s stench that even the wind couldn’t purge. She bowed her head, overcome with a rush of fatigue. A faint thought nagged her that she ought to finish the task she’d come outside to perform and return to the tower, but weariness prevented her from heeding it.

  “Lady Kendra?”

  What a pleasant dream, she mused, to hear her name spoken by that courtly voice.

  “My lady, are you not well?”

  Her eyes flew open, and she snapped her head up. Alain had dropped to one knee before her, concern etched across his face. He was breathing hard and fighting to control it, mayhap because he’d just climbed back to the summit.

  Surreptitiously, she pinched the back of her hand. It hurt. She flashed a smile and offered him the hand she’d pinched. When he kissed it, and the sting gave way to a delicious tingling, she thought her heart would surely melt.

  “I shall be fine, good squire,” she managed to murmur, “if you will please give me a moment alone.” She had no intention of admitting the rest of the truth to him.

  “Of course, my lady.”

  He stood and helped her rise. Upon releasing her hand, he swept her a deep bow, straightened, and strode out of sight behind the tower.

  She watched him go, cradling to her bosom the hand he had kissed, until the pressure in her
vitals demanded her attention.

  A short while later, she found him sitting on the ground with his back braced against the west side of the tower, arms wrapped around his knees, staring out across the thinning mist. More of the valley’s trees were beginning to emerge, but they seemed insubstantial, dreamlike.

  “’Tis like we’re watching the creation of the world.”

  At the sound of her voice he began scrambling to his feet, but she bade him stay seated and joined him. The stone chilled her back, and she arched away from it. His nearness was having an intoxicating effect, and thought after inane thought tumbled through her mind, begging to be voiced. She selected the least inane and most important:

  “How fare your wounds?”

  He met her gaze, his own tinged with wonderment bordering on awe. “Except for some lingering aches, it’s as if the fighting had never happened. How did you do that?”

  “I—” As she pondered what to say, she could appreciate why her mother had kept her healing gift a secret. “Please forgive me, Squire Alain, but I used your Glastonbury thorn petals to make a poultice. Beyond that, I’m not sure I understand all of what happened either.”

  “Glastonbury thorn petals?”

  “I found them in the pouch hanging from your belt.” She knit her brow as an unwelcome thought occurred. “That was your pouch, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. If her insinuation had offended him, he didn’t show it. “I do have more than a passing knowledge of medicinal lore. But I have never known any herb to do this.”

  He unwrapped his arms and straightened his legs to pat his midsection where the wounds had been. Through the slashes in the jerkin she could see healthy flesh beneath. Only faint scarring remained.

  So last night’s event hadn’t been a dream. Or a nightmare, she reminded herself with a mental shudder.

  As if of its own accord, her hand reached toward him, but she paused before embarrassing either of them. “May I?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  He untied the jerkin’s laces and peeled it off. The undertunic came next, revealing his broad, tanned, muscular chest, marred by several old scars.