A War of Hearts
***
Laurie Carroll
He was a soldier, and he refused to believe in ghosts!
Jeremy placed Alicen in her own bed as Ned stood in
the chamber doorway, face blank. The boy clutched his
stomach, looking pale and sick himself.
Sensing his difficulty, Jeremy moved closer and
grasped Ned’s shoulder. “How does she treat head
injuries?” he asked quietly.
“I, I’m uncertain.” The boy’s chin quivered, and his
eyes filled with tears.
Jeremy smiled, though his stomach knotted with
worry that the apprentice would be useless. “Think, lad.
You must have seen her attend such maladies. What
does she do?”
Soak a cloth in cold water and place it on the injury.
The voice filled Jeremy’s head just as Ned blurted
out, “She, uhm, she uses cloths soaked in cold water.”
Jeremy blinked, then asked the boy, “Where does she
place them?”
“On the injury.”
As I said.
Soldiers’ lives depended on awareness of everything
around them, and Jeremy knew the only woman in the
room was insensate. The voice was not Alicen’s, yet it
wasn’t unfamiliar.
You see an enemy where none exists...
Nay! He refused to believe he heard Kaitlyn
O’Rourke’s voice in his mind. The only thing he knew
was that Alicen needed care.
He turned to Ned. “Fetch what we’ll need. I’ll make
her more comfortable.”
To my family:
Thanks for helping me become
the person I am. I love you all.
A War of Hearts
***
Laurie Carroll
One
The north of England, 1425
“Close ranks,” shouted Sir Jeremy Blaine. “Surround
the duke!”
He could hear little else but the clash of steel on steel
as the thunderous din of battle surrounded him. Coupled
with the grunt of horses and the cries of cursing men
locked in desperate combat, the metallic clang of blades
filled his ears like gale force winds. As the battle raged,
the volume rose until the gale was primarily comprised
of the screams of dying men and their doomed mounts.
The Bastard’s men must not escape, Jeremy thought
grimly as he hacked his way through the crush of
mounted combatants to regain his liege lord’s side. No
time to lament the butchery taking place all around. Duty
demanded he spill enemy blood—and perhaps his own—
to defend his lord.
He had reluctantly agreed with Duke William of Tynan
that an escort of fourteen men would be sufficient for
this trip into disputed land. Now that twenty-five mounted
enemy retainers surrounded them and cut off any escape,
Jeremy rued that acquiescence.
In his nostrils, the earthy odor of a woods in late
summer gave way to brassy smells of sweat and gore.
“Ranks closed,” Jeremy roared again, shutting his
mind to the grisly image of those who fell to his blade,
oblivious to their sounds of agony. William’s troops would
triumph or perish. There was no alternative. Resolved
not to die without taking as many enemies along as
possible, he girded his battle-weary heart against despair
and let his lethal sword arm perform his will.
Pivoting his mount, he warded off a wicked thrust,
then cursed as another foe’s blade slashed him just above
the steel couter protecting his left elbow. His chain mail
stopped the blow, but the impact numbed his arm.
“Jesu,” he hissed between tight lips. Pain lent fury to
his strength, and he dispatched both adversaries quickly,
then spurred his horse forward to down another and
another.
Jeremy had been taught at an early age to lead by
example. Thus, he attacked ferociously, relentlessly,
knowing the battle-hardened veterans who fought at his
back needed but a nudge to respond. His tenacity was
quickly rewarded.
“For William!” came their cry.
The bloodlust in his troops’ counterattack swayed the
fight to Duke William’s favor as they broke the enemy’s
ranks and went on the offensive. Several of their foes
rode for the shelter of dusk-darkened woods.
“Stop them! Let none escape.” Jeremy motioned with
his sword after the fleeing enemy.
He readied to follow, but a pained cry from behind
him drew his attention. Turning in his saddle, he saw
William topple to the ground, a crossbow bolt deep in his
chest.
“Christ’s guts!” Jeremy rounded on his second in
command. “Taft, inform the pursuit.”
As Jeremy slid from his charger and knelt beside the
duke, Lieutenant Taft’s piercing whistle called a soldier
over. Jeremy heard Taft’s orders to the man to meet them
at the rendezvous point.
“Yes, Lieutenant!” the soldier answered before
spurring off after his comrades in pursuit of their enemies.
Jeremy carefully removed William’s helmet. “My lord?”
Seeing William wished to speak but could barely draw
breath, Jeremy leaned down close to him.
“The wound is deep,” the duke whispered. “I fear it
may be fatal.”
Though Jeremy’s throat tightened, he kept his voice
calm. “Sherford is nigh, milord. ’Tis certain to have a
healer.”
“He’d best be a man of considerable skills—“ Spasms
of pain throttled the rest of William’s words.
“Speak not,” Jeremy cautioned before glancing back
at Taft. “Finding a cart will take too long. Help me get
him mounted. We’ll lash him on.”
He did not finish his thought that William would
tumble from the saddle otherwise, but his lieutenant’s
bleak look told him his fears were understood. Of course
Taft would understand—only two men knew Jeremy
Blaine better than Michael Taft did.
One of the two was dying before them.
“Assist me here.”
Three soldiers helped Jeremy lift their now
unconscious commander into his saddle, securing him
to the high cantle with sword belts and tying his feet to
the stirrups. Jeremy surveyed their handiwork. William
slumped forward but would not fall off.
“Get the wounded ahorse and form ranks,” he directed
tersely, grabbing William’s reins. He fervently wished it
were he instead of his lord who’d taken the ill-fated
quarrel. “Light torches.”
The moment every man was astride a mount, Jeremy
set spurs to his destrier’s flanks, and they raced toward
the nearby town.
***
Word of the battle must have preceded his co
mpany’s
arrival, Jeremy mused as the troop rode into Sherford a
quarter hour later. The soldiers found only abandoned
streets and barred doors, effectively keeping them out.
Jeremy had started to rein his destrier toward the
houses.
“At Landeyda dwells the best healer in these parts.”
Jeremy heard the voice clearly, but a glance at Taft
assured him his subordinate was looking away from him.
“The Kent holding. Follow the Great Road south a
quarter league. ’Tis twenty rods back. Look for the gate.
Hurry!”
Acting purely on instinct, Jeremy wheeled his mount
back toward the road and, still leading William’s horse,
pounded southward. “Follow me!”
His men hesitated only a moment before obeying him.
***
Alicen Kent looked up from sorting herbs at the long
counter in the main room of her home. She cocked her
head and frowned.
Odd. It sounded as though horses approached from
the north. That many horses could only mean...soldiers.
Her mouth went dry, her hand automatically reaching
for the amulet she never removed from around her neck.
Orrick! Sweet Jesu, have they come for him? What mischief
was now afoot?
At the sound of a door closing off the main chamber,
she spun from the hearth, hand clutching her throat.
Her eleven-year-old apprentice entered from the
infirmary.
By concentrating hard, Alicen kept her fear from her
voice. “Ned, bar the door. Riders abroad.”
The towheaded boy’s forehead wrinkled in
concentration. “I hear no—” Just then the troop clattered
into the yard. Ned blanched. “Who could it be?”
“We’ll know anon,” Alicen replied, hoping she sounded
at ease so as not to upset Ned. Her heart thundered like
a smith’s hammer as she opened the square-cut wicket
in the heavy door and peered out.
Two blazing torches in the courtyard, aided by a rising
full moon, revealed nearly a dozen men. Their steel
helmets glinted dully in the meager light, but they wore
no discernible insignia on their tunics. One large,
powerful-looking rider dismounted and approached her
door. As she watched, a searing memory of premonition
struck Alicen’s mind, stunning her with realization.
“Tis he. The man who will change my life.
She shivered from the force of her certainty and
unwittingly stepped back a pace.
“Ned, where is Orrick?” she whispered harshly. “He’s
not about the grounds, is he?”
The boy blinked. “Nay. I’ve not seen him in days. He’s
not due to visit for a fortnight, I imagine.”
Alicen nearly slumped in relief, but that moment, the
door shuddered from a forceful blow.
“Open in the name of the duke!” a man’s powerful
baritone demanded, then Alicen heard him mutter, “Pray
God this man Kent is home and not away treating some
illness.” When she opened the door, he said tersely, “We
seek the physician by name of Kent. Is he here?”
Alicen found herself looking up to meet the soldier’s
gaze, something she rarely did owing to her own height.
Even in the half-light, she could see his determined
expression. Misgivings again assailed her. Did he intend
to raze the house?
Nay, he’d have attacked, not knocked, answered her
mother’s soothing voice—a voice she knew none other
than she could hear. He seeks a physician. Searching out
deserters is not his concern.
Alicen swallowed hard and forced her voice to belie
her fear. “I’m Alicen Kent, the physician.”
“Christ’s guts,” the soldier exclaimed, the dim hope
in his expression dying to frustration. “You? You’re a
wench!”
Alicen knew that in the dim light none could see her
flush, but she hoped the soldiers also couldn’t see the
uptilting of her chin or the tightening of her jaw.
“Observant,” she returned stiffly. “What act of war
brings you to my home this eventide?” She looked past
him to his men.
Whatever fear his size may have instilled in her had
melted from the heat of affront, and the knight hesitated,
grumbling, “Damn my misbegotten luck. A woman.” He
pinned her with an intense stare, tone accusing. “A villager
claimed you Sherford’s best healer. Yet you’re not more
than eight years and ten.”
Such animosity in a stranger immediately replaced
Alicen’s ire with caution. His presence held danger, of
that she had no doubt. She smelled sweat and dirt on
the knight’s clothing, but the brassy stench of blood that
permeated the air around him nearly blotted out those
smells.
“One and twenty, in truth,” she remarked steadily,
“but why should that—”
“We need your aid, though I’m loath to put lives into
female hands,” he cut in. “I’ve no time to find another
healer.”
She gasped, flushing more deeply. “Do you wish my
help or no?”
“Bring him in,” the knight called over his shoulder.
“We were ambushed on the eastern road. The duke—”
Alicen caught sight of two burly soldiers dragging a
man between them. Even in the dimness, she saw he
bled profusely.
“Jesu be merciful,” she cried, slipping past the broad-
shouldered warrior blocking her way to help support the
victim. “Have a care!”
“Jeremy,” William groaned.
“Here, Your Grace,” he replied, leaning down to speak
into William’s ear. “Save your strength.” He turned to
bark orders. “You four, search this cottage. The rest, the
grounds. Detain for questioning anyone you find.”
Alicen started, gaping momentarily at the menacing
knight before motioning William’s bearers forward. “Ned
will guide you to the infirmary.” She shot the knight
another look before adding, “He’s the only other person
on the estate.”
Praying silently that she hadn’t lied, she strode to
her medicament cupboard. After selecting several jars
and loading them onto a tray, she added four steel
instruments and bandages, then hurried into the small
infirmary just off the main room.
“I’ll put the kettle to boil,” Ned said, passing her as
he moved to the hearth. He cast a fearful glance at the
soldiers now overrunning the cottage.
With an effort, Alicen ignored them. “Good. Bring the
brazier, candles, rush lamps...I’ll need a good deal of light.”
Suspicious in spite of her seeming competence,
Jeremy followed on the woman’s heels. His jaw tightened.
A woman healer! Fleeting memories of long ago advice
crowded in atop his doubts—”Trust no woman, my son.
Lie with her and to her, but never, never trust her.”
His father had proven a sage in the past. Jeremy’s
own experience was proof of that.
A
darker image assailed him. The memory of a healer’s
abode with shelves of medicaments much like this one’s.
And Estelle, his wife, lying in an ever-widening pool of
her own blood. As much blood as shed in battle, seeping
from between her thighs, soaking the linens and the table
she lay upon, the floor beneath. Her brown eyes wide
and sightless, her mouth a rictus of a tortured smile...
On a shudder of remembered horror, he pulled his
mind back to the present. He’d watch this purported
healer’s every action. If she tried anything amiss, she
would regret it.
Apparently unaware of his scrutiny, Alicen Kent set
to work. He watched her economically efficient movements
as she stripped off William’s cloak and cut away his tunic,
then severed the buckles holding his steel cuirass in place.
She looked at William’s face then jerked back, startled.
With a stifled gasp, she looked at Jeremy.
“This isn’t Duke Harold.” The knight became suddenly
very tense and very still as he watched her stiffen.
“William.”
“Aye. The true duke comes to reclaim his land from
the bastard usurper.”
His words froze Alicen’s soul, and her hand flew to
her amulet. Three years before, William’s bastard brother,
Harold of Stanhope, had routed William’s retainers to
capture the shire. Sherford had burned, citizens had
died...Her friends, her mother.
She shrank from images of remembered horror and
tried to concentrate. A patient lay gravely wounded. He
needed her. She’d sworn an oath. Mother, guide me. It
required a deep breath to help her steady her abruptly
shaking hands and resume working.
After breaking off the arrow a handsbreadth from the
steel breastplate, she began to carefully remove the armor.
Her patient moaned.
“Mind what you do,” the knight snapped, stepping
close to loom over her. “You bring him pain.”
“There’s little else he’ll feel for a time, I fear,” she
responded without looking up. She lifted the blood-soaked
mail from William’s chest. “Ned, more bandages.”
The apprentice hurried to bring them while she moved
the shaft slightly to test its depth.
William moaned again.
Suddenly, Alicen found her wrist trapped in a powerful
grip. “Desist,” the knight growled. “’Tis unnecessary
Carroll, Laurie - War Of Hearts.txt Page 1