He began to rummage about in his bag, blinking back tears as he looked for one of the mysterious powders he used from his days as a Hospitaller. It was a powder derived from a flower that was grown far to the east, expensive and rare, but with astounding medicinal qualities. He kept it in a bladder envelope, tightly sealed. He found it carefully wedged at the bottom of his bag and he drew it forth, asking for a cup of wine. Someone handed him a wooden cup, half-full, and he poured some of it out on the floor before dispensing a careful measure of the white powder. He stirred it with his finger and tasted it.
“Tate,” he looked over his shoulder. “Pull her up so that she can drink this. Gently, please.”
Tate’s capable hands reached down and, at Stephen’s direction, grasped her carefully by the torso. Joselyn wept in pain as he lifted her with extreme care, struggling to drink the liquid that Stephen was tenderly attempting to administer to her. She was in so much pain that she could hardly think, but Stephen’s gentle coaxing helped her drink the contents of the cup. Once the bitter brew was down, Tate lowered her carefully back to the mattress.
“There,” Stephen set the cup down and stroked her dark head. “Soon the pain will fade and you will sleep.”
Eyes closed, she licked her lips, tasting the last of the brew. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Stephen?”
“Aye, love?”
“Please tell me that you do not hate me for not telling you the truth.”
He couldn’t stop the tears then. He put his lips on her cheek, eyes closed as his tears gently fell on her dark hair. His head against hers, he spoke.
“I love you more than my own life,” he admitted against her flesh. “I know you were not being deliberately malicious. I know you thought you were trying to help.”
She began to cry again, pitiful sobs as he gently shushed her. His big hand stroked her dark hair as he kissed her temple, whispering words of comfort that only she could hear. Eventually, the tears faded and she drifted into a heavy sleep. Stephen continued to stroke her hair until he heard her heavy, steady breathing.
Silently, he began to assemble what he would need to remove the arrow. Tate pulled up a stool next to the bed and sat, watching Stephen as the man focused on what he must do. He could only imagine the turmoil he must be feeling.
“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 confidently 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 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 ha
d 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.
“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 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.
The situation was not so clear after all.
*
The first thing she was cognizant of was that her eyelids felt as if they weighed one hundred pounds apiece. They were so heavy that she couldn’t open them. And her head pounded painfully. Joselyn tried to lick her lips but there was no moisture in her mouth, not a drop. She must have sighed or made a noise, because Stephen was suddenly beside her.
“Jo-Jo?” he whispered. “Are you awake, sweetheart?”
She tried to speak but all she could manage to utter was a pathetic groan. A cool cloth touched her cheek and brow.
“Sleep, love,” Stephen whispered, kissing her on the cheek. “Just sleep.”
She did. Fading off, she spent an indeterminable amount of time in blissful darkness. But then the dreams came, crazy things, in which she could see her parents again. Her father, her mother, her grandmother. All making themselves busy in her dreams. They rushed past her, around her, and she could not
keep track of them. Then she was back at Allanton, her family’s home, and she could even smell the violets that grew in great bunches against the manor wall. She was in the kitchens, watching her grandmother cook barley loaves and her mother was boiling down apples to make the wonderful apple butter she used to put up every fall.
She wanted some of that apple butter.
But she couldn’t seem to make it over to the hearth where her mother was cooking. She was rooted to the chair, sitting, watching everyone else go by her. Her grandmother picked up the barley loaves and they suddenly burst into flame, ashes falling to the floor. The kitchen seemed to be heating up and the apple butter boiled over, spilling into a fire that was now shooting flames into the room. She tried to get away from the flames but she couldn’t move. Everything was hot and frightening around her. She began to think that she might be in hell. It felt like it. And it was growing hotter.
Stephen had been awake all night, watching Joselyn sleep heavily. She awoke once, he thought, but she promptly fell back asleep. Just after dawn, sleep claimed Stephen as well as he sat next to the bed, his great head on the mattress near Joselyn’s still form. He had been asleep for a few hours when the mattress began to twitch, rousing him from his exhaustion.
His head came up, alert, as he fixed on Joselyn. She was quivering and he immediately put his hand on her head, feeling a fairly significant fever. Though he had expected it, still, he had hoped the heat of the wound would pass her by. It was disheartening but he was not overly panicked about it. It could be controlled. He removed his hand from her head and sent Tilda, sitting quietly in the corner, for plenty of cool water. As he moved for his medicament bag, Joselyn spoke.
“Apple butter,” she mumbled.
Stephen froze at the sound of her voice, his brow furrowing as he attempted to figure out if she was lucid or not.
“Apple butter?” he repeated, amusement in his voice. “Do you want apple butter?”
Surprisingly, her eyes lolled open and she tried to push herself up using her left arm. The right arm, bandaged against her body by Stephen to keep it immobile, was useless.