Midnight Warrior

by Iris Johansen

  She braced herself to ward off a surge of panic. She mustn’t let him know how his words had affected her. He wanted to see fear in her, but she would not give him the satisfaction. “I’m sure there is little difference between Norman barbarians and Saxon savages. You are all the same.”

  He muttered a curse. “You will soon have ample opportunity to compare, wench.”

  The smell of blood and death reached out to her in the darkness even before they reached Hastings. She felt as if she were strangling, suffocating. She couldn’t stand it. She started to struggle in Lord Richard’s arms. “No!”

  “What in Hades is wrong with you?” he growled.

  “Death …”

  “The Saracen will not die,” Richard snarled.

  “No, you don’t understand. So much death …” She panted, trying to draw breath. “And I can do nothing.”

  “You will save the Saracen. Do you hear me?”

  Why did he continue babbling about one man when she was drowning in the loss of thousands? Her body started to shake with sobs.

  “What is wrong with her?” Captain LeFont urged his horse nearer. “I will not have her damaged. I would be as displeased as Lord Gage if she were unable to perform her duty, Saxon.”

  “Nothing is wrong,” Richard said quickly. “A woman’s weak vapors.” He hissed in her ear. “Stop this wailing. The Norman must believe I’ve brought him a gift of worth. Will you—”

  “His tent is just ahead.” LeFont spurred toward a large tent glowing with light. He leapt from his horse and hurried toward the entrance. “It is Captain LeFont, my lord,” he called. “Is he still alive? We hurried—”

  “He’s alive. Barely. Have you brought her?”

  LeFont turned and snapped his fingers. “The woman, Saxon.”

  Richard dismounted and lifted Brynn to the ground. He said in a low voice, “Stop sniveling, or I swear I will give you cause to weep.”

  There was enough pain and sadness in this place to form a lake of tears, yet he thought her own pain would make a difference. Adwen. She must think of Adwen. She forced herself to close herself away from the waves of suffering and drew a deep, unsteady breath. No, Adwen was too far away. The Saracen. If she could concentrate on just one in need, she could sometimes block out the others.

  “Where is she?” The Norman’s voice again, rough, impatient.

  Richard grabbed her bag of herbs, took her elbow, and shoved her forward into the tent. “Brynn of Falkhaar, as I promised. My gift … to please you in any manner you wish.”

  “You know what I wish.” Gage Dumont rose to his feet and turned to face Brynn. Shock rippled through her. He was a giant of a man, towering well over six feet, with broad shoulders and muscle-corded calves and thighs. Richard was also a tall man, but he suddenly looked slight and ineffectual beside the Norman. Hair dark as night fell to Dumont’s shoulders, framing high cheekbones and deep-set light eyes that exuded power and command. “Your former master says you’re a healer.” He pointed at the man on the pallet. “Cure him.”

  “I will try.” She took her bag of herbs from Richard and moved toward the pallet. “What is his affliction?”

  “A sword wound in the chest.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “And you will not try. You will do it. He will not die. If he does, you will follow him to the grave.”

  The force of his will reached out, enveloping her in its power. A chill went through her as she realized Richard had threatened much the same and she had not been afraid. Gage Dumont was a very formidable man.

  But when encountering formidable men she had learned to hide fear and meet threats with boldness. She looked directly into his eyes. “Do you intend to stand there, hurling foolish threats at me, or let me tend your man?”

  A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “Not foolish. You’ll learn I never make a threat lightly.”

  “Forgive her impertinence,” Lord Richard said. “My wife has made a sort of pet of her and indulged her beyond her station.”

  “I see no sign she recognizes she has a station,” Gage said. He turned and knelt by the pallet again. “And I will deal with her impertinence myself. You may go.”

  A ruddy flush colored Richard’s cheeks at the cool dismissal, but he subdued his anger. “As you say, she’s not entirely tamed. You may need my help.”

  “I’ve never needed help with a wench before. You gave her to me. Are you seeking to take back your gift?”

  “No, but I would—”

  “Go. I’m weary of looking at you.”

  “I’m a free man?”

  Gage Dumont nodded, his attention still on Malik’s pale face. “I’ll tell LeFont to give you safe passage from this place back to Redfern. But don’t become too comfortable there. William will be doling out your property with all the others when he has time to pay his debts.”

  Anger darkened Richard’s expression before he forced a smile. “Perhaps by that time I will find a way to reclaim what is mine.” He moved toward the tent entrance. “Don’t worry, the woman will obey. I’ve taken measures to assure that she’s quite eager to cure the Saracen.”

  Brynn felt a gust of cold wind as he lifted the flap and left the tent.

  “You heard him,” Gage said. “Heal him.”

  Brynn moved across the tent and knelt beside the Saracen. The flickering lantern light revealed a face of stunning comeliness. Beneath that dark beard the Saracen’s features came close to perfection. And he was so young, not long past his twentieth year. She felt a terrible sadness. His body was slim and lithe and should have been brimming with strength. “What is his name?”

  “You don’t need his name to cure him.”

  “You will not tell me what I need or don’t need. If you wish him to live, you will give me what I want,” she said coldly. “Now, what is his name?”

  He was silent a moment and then said, “Malik Kalar.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  “He speaks English and French and Norwegian and four languages you Saxons have never even heard. Do you think because he is an infidel that he is an ignorant savage?”

  “I don’t care if he speaks the tongue of the angels.” She carefully drew back the cover. “I only need him to understand me when I speak to him.” She loosened his bandage. “And I am not a Saxon. I am Welsh.”

  “It is all the same.”

  “It is not the same. It will never be—” She broke off as she removed the bandage and the wound was revealed. “Dear God, you expect me to heal this? His chest has been carved like a roast at a banquet.”

  “It happened four hours ago and he’s still alive. Malik has great strength. Help him and he will live.”

  “Sometimes it takes a long time to die.”

  He reached across Malik’s body and his hands fastened on her shoulders. His eyes blazed into hers. “Those aren’t the words I want to hear. Heal him.”

  His fingers were digging into her shoulders and she struggled to keep back a cry of pain. “If you break my bones, I can do nothing,” she flared. “If you don’t wish to know the truth, then leave this tent. He is dying. If I can save him, I will do so. But not because you command it.”

  He smiled unpleasantly. “Because your handsome Lord Richard commands it? You would do wise to obey me. He is no longer your master.”

  “He was never my master. No man is my master.” She glared at him. “You are wasting time with this talk. You don’t need to frighten me to have me wish to make this lad well. I cannot help myself. I am a healer. It is what I do. Now, call for hot water and clean linen for bandages.”

  He stared at her a moment and then his grasp loosened and fell away. “The priest cleaned the wound.”

  She had won. He was going to let her do her work. “Then I will clean it again. If the Saracen were to die, I will not be blamed for someone else’s blunder. I’ve noticed that cleanliness is not necessarily a requirement for the priesthood.” She shrugged off her shawl. “I’ll need a fire just outside the tent a
nd a small cooking pot to prepare my salves and medicines.”

  “He may die while you concoct your brews.”

  “Do you expect me to snap my fingers and make him well? I will cleanse the wound and then apply the salve I have on hand, but I will need much more.” She added wearily, “If he lives through the night.”

  “He must not—” He turned away so that she could see only a shadowy profile. Haltingly, he said, “I’m not ungenerous. You’ll be rewarded well if Malik lives.”

  Agony. For the first time since she had entered the tent she sensed an emotion other than anger and frustration behind that rock-hard exterior. He truly cared for this Saracen. “You would barter with me for a man’s life?”

  “Why not? We all begin bartering in the cradle.” He turned his head and the hard, flintlike mask was back in place. “The older we grow, the more we want and the higher the price we’re willing to pay.” He jerked his head at the opening of the tent. “Go down that hill and look at the dead and maimed. That’s the price Harold and William were willing to pay for this piece of Saxon earth.”

  She wished he had not reminded her of that battlefield. She had been trying to fight off the smothering sense of oppression since she had entered the tent. Now it came rushing back, almost overwhelming her. Blood. Pain. Death.

  He muttered a curse. “What’s wrong? Are you ill? You’ve turned white as snow.”

  “Nothing.” She moistened her lips. “Just fetch me the linens. I must set to work.”

  He opened his mouth to speak and then changed his mind. He turned and left the tent.

  She swayed, trying to fight back the tears and darkness. She must think only of the Saracen. No, he had a name. Malik. He was not his race, he was a person. She could do nothing for those thousands who had given their lives this day, but perhaps she could save this man.

  “Malik,” she whispered. “Do you hear me? I know you know I’m here. I’m Brynn of Falkhaar. I’m going to help you come back. I’ll do everything I can, but you must help me too.”

  Not the slightest sign of response on that young, bearded face.

  She had not really expected any reaction; he was too close to death. However, it was possible he had heard her. She never knew what could be heard or sensed beyond that deep veil of unawareness. She began to gently stroke the torn flesh around the wound. Dear heavens, his skin was so cold.

  “What are you doing?”

  She snatched her hands away and glanced guiltily over her shoulder at Gage Dumont standing in the entrance of the tent. She sat back on her heels and said quickly, “I was probing to see if there was foreign matter still in the wound. It looks clean, but you’d be surprised how small bits of metal and cloth can hide in the—”

  “You weren’t probing.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “You were petting him. I didn’t bring you here to stroke and cosset him. I could have gotten one of the camp whores to do that. God knows, he’s had nearly all of them in his bed at one time or another.”

  She looked at him in astonishment and relief as she realized he thought she had been drawn by the Saracen’s extraordinary good looks. “If I stroked him, it was in pity, not in lust. I would have to be twisted, indeed, to desire a man so close to death.” She changed the subject. “Where is my hot water?”

  “Coming.” He crossed the room and knelt beside Malik. “LeFont is bringing it.” He looked down at Malik and whispered, “Merde, he’s scarcely breathing.”

  “As long as he breathes at all, there is a chance.” She braced herself. He was not going to like what she was going to say. They never liked it and he was more dominant and interfering than most. “I want you to leave me alone with him.”

  He didn’t look at her. “No.”

  “You will get in my way.”

  “He may die. He is my friend and I will not leave him alone in that final moment.”

  “You will leave me alone with him.” She tried to inject hardness into her tone. “Or I will do nothing.”

  He lifted those ice-blue eyes to her face, and again fear went through her. “What did you say?”

  She moistened her dry lips. “You heard me. I will not have your interference or questions. You must leave me alone with him.”

  “Must?” He echoed silkily. “I have no liking for that word.”

  “Must,” she repeated. Sweet Mary, he looked as if he were going to strike her down. Well, she had been struck before and survived. It was unreasonable to fear a blow from this stranger. She met his gaze with a boldness she did not feel. “If you wish him to live. I will call you if I think the end grows near.”

  “I’m going to stay.”

  He was staring at her with anger and frustration, willing her to submission, and she had never encountered a stronger will. She felt her own determination wavering like a tree in the wind, but she must not give in. “Then you will stay and watch him die. For I will do nothing. Is that what you wish?”

  His big hands opened and closed at his sides as his gaze fastened on her throat. She half expected him to reach over Malik’s body and throttle her.

  “Damn you.” He rose to his feet and strode toward the tent entrance. “I’ll give you until dawn alone with him.” He paused and looked back over his shoulder. She barely kept herself from flinching at the menace in his expression. “I have no liking for being ordered about. I’ve spent my life endeavoring to make sure it will never happen. After Malik is well, I’ll remember this.”

  He was gone.

  She expelled a deep breath of relief. His presence in the tent had been like a storm cloud hovering over her. Now she could concentrate on trying to heal rather than defending herself.

  A storm. Yes, that was an apt description of Gage Dumont. She had practically felt the turbulence and lightning flash around her while he had been in the tent. She had been surprised at the rush of power and exhilaration she had experienced when she had been forced to challenge the Norman, but it was foolish to seek out excitement when peace and serenity were clearly the most valuable of prizes. As a child she had been fascinated by storms, but that was long ago. She had suffered too much during these past three years to ever want more than the quiet forests of Gwynthal.

  She reached out and touched Malik’s temple. She could feel the faint pulse beneath her fingertips. “He’s gone now,” she whispered. “What a strange, upsetting friend you have, Malik. I think we’ll be much better off without him. We’ll just sit here and talk and presently I’ll rub some of my special salve on that ugly wound. You don’t really wish to stay where you are. It may seem peaceful and sweet, but there is still so much waiting for you here.” She moved her hand to just above the wound. “Now, what shall we talk about? Not battles. They sicken me almost as much as they have hurt you. Shall I tell you about my Gwynthal? I’m going back there soon and I believe you would like it. It may be like the place you’re at right now. No, it’s much better.” She settled herself more comfortably beside him. “The forests are cool and quiet and yet around every corner you find something wondrous … a night-blooming flower or a bird you’ve never seen before. Then you walk a little farther and you see a waterfall that cascades over rocks that sparkle in the sunlight.…”

  The cold, crisp air that struck him as he left the tent did nothing to cool Gage’s temper.

  He felt like strangling the wench. He had been within a heartbeat of closing his hands on that soft throat and squeezing until she begged for mercy.

  “She cast you out?” Lord Richard asked.

  Gage impatiently glanced toward the campfire where Richard sat with his hands outstretched before the flames.

  “I was afraid she would treat you rudely,” Richard said. “She never permitted anyone in the chamber when she tended my wife. If she hadn’t been a gift from my wife’s father, I would have punished her for such behavior. Lord Kells was once the most powerful baron in the south of England, and I didn’t want to offend him by damaging her. I should have—”

  “What are you still d
oing here?” Gage asked roughly. He was irritated enough without having this handsome Judas hovering around him. “I thought you’d left the camp.”

  “I was only a short distance down the road and turned back. I thought I might be of help.” Richard smiled. “It is not fitting to give a gift without making sure that it gives satisfaction.”

  “If this particular gift doesn’t give satisfaction, you may wish you’d not come back.” He added through set teeth, “I don’t like not being present while she’s treating him, and I will not be pleased if Malik dies at this slave’s hands.”

  Richard’s smile faded only a little. “That’s why I returned. I have every confidence the woman will cure your friend but, if she doesn’t, you—” He raised his hand as Gage’s expression tightened. “On the slight chance that God decides to take the Saracen, I wanted to make sure that you were aware that the woman has other skills.”

  “Skills?”

  “The skill to comfort you in your sorrow in the most desirable of ways. You’ve no doubt noticed how winsome she is.”

  “No.” He had been only vaguely aware of the physical presence of the woman. She was first and foremost the healer, Malik’s possible savior. He had to make an effort to recall a more detailed image than a tall, slim woman in a rough brown wool gown. He remembered the eyes. Huge golden-brown eyes blazing at him, meeting his own with anger and pride. Fresh anger rushed through him at the memory. “I noticed she’s overbold and without respect.”

  “It’s her low Welsh blood. She means no harm.” Richard added quickly, “And boldness is not a bad thing in a woman in the right circumstances. It makes her easier to train in pleasuring.” He smiled sensually, his voice lowering. “She loves to touch and be touched. She’s tight as a glove and I’ve made sure she knows the ways to keep a man from becoming bored in bed.”

  “And what was your ailing wife doing while you gave the woman these lessons?”

  Richard shrugged. “I did not take Brynn in the same bed. A wife is for childbearing, but a woman like Brynn is for play. I envy you. I shall miss her.”