weariness and inexcusable brutality toward a woman and
a boy—Jeremy mastered his self-rebuke through
industry. He’d set up a work schedule for the men and
penned missives the rest of the morning.
“Taft, send Tom Fairfax to Tynan with these,” he said
as he left William’s side for the first time that day. “This
to Warrick, this to the duchess,” he indicated, handing
over each dispatch.
“What if Guendolen wishes to join William?” Taft asked
about the Duchess of Tynan.
“Impossible! Sherford is disputed land. Until we
determine the shire’s loyalty, we dare not reveal ourselves.
William is too vulnerable.” Taft’s solemn look confirmed
Jeremy’s own fears that the duke would die. He’d not
admit such to anyone, however. “I’ve ordered Warrick to
keep Guendolen at Tynan. Her presence here would
worsen circumstances, either by revealing our present
location or giving Harold an opening to attack the court.”
He paused to survey the surroundings. Felt a dull
ache behind his eyes. Ignored it. “We need more men,
Michael, but fetching them could alert the enemy. I fear
we’ve little time before Harold learns of the skirmish.”
“He may suspect William was with us, but he’ll not
presume he’s still near Sherford.”
“That’s my hope. No enemy escaped, but ’tis certain
Harold’s loyalists hereabout could discover us.” His gaze
turned to the cottage. “Mayhap the physician herself is
an enemy.”
Taft shook his head. “’Twould be odd for a traitor to
labor as she has since last eventide. Not to treat a foe.”
With a shrug, Jeremy countered, “Pretense perhaps?
From birth, women are skilled deceivers.”
Taft winced at that statement but said only, “Your
palfrey’s swiftest. Fairfax could cover the ten leagues by
dusk and return with Warrick’s reply by morn.”
“Tell him to mount up. Then set the watch. I wish to
see how our wounded fare.”
***
Jeremy soon had Landeyda in military order. Two
soldiers patrolled the edge of the woods, and three
lookouts were posted. The three remaining able-bodied
men repaired equipment and saw to the horses. Such
arrangements gave Jeremy a modicum of security, a
feeling that stayed with him until he reentered William’s
room. Then, sight of the tall, slender physician tending
the duke brought him a rush of discomfort. The memory
of how she had felt in his arms the previous night
tormented him.
He noted Alicen’s tension when he approached the
bed. His shameful behavior toward her made him flush,
yet he refused further contrition. He’d acted on his duty,
though he felt certain she thought his actions
unnecessarily harsh...
Jeremy immediately saw no need for false contrition.
Alicen neither looked at nor spoke to him, and he thought
fleetingly she’d most likely walk right over his body if he
obstructed her, so strong was her force of will. Instead of
testing that idea, he sat on a stool well out of her path
and studied her.
It irritated him to admit she knew what she was about.
His men’s wounds had been tended skillfully, and the
fact William still lived attested to her talent. She had
enough medicaments in the jars on her shelves to do the
best-stocked apothecary proud. A dark thought assailed
him: How many of those jars contained lethal potions?
He closed his mind to that path by continuing his
perusal of the room. A single large volume sat on a small
table nearby. Having been schooled in Latin, he knew it
to be a medical text. So, the wench appeared learned.
Odd that she relied so on herbal remedies, then. As far
as he knew, the medical school at Salerno did not teach
herb healing. Nor did any school on the Continent, for
that matter. Only the ancient monastic orders.
And the even more ancient Druids.
Jeremy shivered at the thought, but shrugged it off
as mere fancy. Superstition held no sway with him.
Fatigue, worry and guilt had combined to distract his
mind from duty and send it astray. He returned to
observing his nemesis’ home.
’Twas plain she was no peasant. Her cottage rested
on the foundation of an old Roman villa and was quite
large, with three chambers off the main room and a
massive central hearth to provide adequate heat.
Wainscotted walls of oak clapboards adorned by rich
tapestries surrounded him, and each two-light window
was of glass. Rugs softened the chamber floors. A coat of
arms, flanked by a lyre and a mandore, graced one wall.
Apparently, her family held some minor title, and she
enjoyed music.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to trust her, no matter
her extensive talent. No woman should be a physician.
This one was. Her defiant independence horrified his
military sensibility. An aura of power radiated from her
in an almost tangible force, and Jeremy regarded it as a
threat. Ire rose afresh when he recalled her behavior
yestereve. Arrogant wench! She acted as though no man
could rule her.
Taft’s entrance abruptly dispersed Jeremy’s irate
musings, and his attention shifted to his subordinate
before quickly returning to the woman. Finished with her
duties, Alicen slipped quietly past the junior officer and
out the infirmary door. Turning his attention back to Taft,
he noticed his lieutenant’s grin.
“She’s a brilliant healer.”
Jeremy snorted in disgust. “Last eve she did exactly
as she pleased, refusing to take orders from a superior.”
Taft’s brows rose. “Women should obey your every
order?”
“William’s life is at risk,” Jeremy snapped. “I am
responsible for protecting him in any manner necessary.”
“This Kent woman must feel she’s not under your
command, not being a soldier and all,” the lieutenant
retorted wryly.
Jeremy ignored his subordinate’s comment. “Her
presumption could endanger all our lives.”
“And she’d have to work harder to tend the wounded.”
“Michael, state your business, then get out.”
“All is secure. But I fear the duke is far more at ease
than you.” A glare brought Taft’s hands up in entreaty. “I
know you distrust females, but should that taint all
Mistress Kent has done for us? She’s proven steadfast.”
“Nay, she has not,” Jeremy stated as he clenched his
fists. “Healers have means to kill, and until William is
able to ride, I’ll trust none but the men I command. Of a
certain, I’ll not trust some ungoverned virago.”
Taft sat down beside the unconscious duke as Blaine
departed. “The blind could see that man’s misease,” he
said aloud. “He’s more like to ignore a woman, not rail
about her. Milord, methinks Sir Jeremy cha
fes at the debt
we all owe Alicen Kent.” He leaned over and whispered in
William’s ear, “Best recover right quick and disabuse him
of thinking a debt to a female is worse than death.”
***
Though Alicen deeply feared Orrick’s unannounced
appearance, the next two days passed without incident.
William had yet to awaken, but he suffered no fever, and
his lungs functioned properly. Rest would build his
strength. The soldiers were mending nicely and, while
she hated the danger their presence created, they had
made Landeyda a well-organized encampment.
Four of the ancient villa’s stone outbuildings had
fallen into disrepair over the centuries. The men removed
the rubble and rethatched the roofs, quickly transforming
them into useable structures. As of old, the separate
kitchen again smelled of cooking fat and wood smoke.
The large stable—which housed just two horses, a dozen
chickens, and a cow—became the soldiers’ quarters and
infirmary. On their captain’s orders, men busily repaired
the stone wall surrounding the grounds.
Regardless of the restoration of her home, however,
Alicen wished them all gone. They posed too dire a threat.
How could she explain Landeyda’s improvements? And
if Orrick discovered their presence, would it push him
from the precipice he clung to? She saw no way to prevent
his coming there if she did not find him elsewhere. And
presently she could not walk ten paces without
encountering men-at-arms, their wounds demanding her
skill.
Their leader suspecting her loyalty.
One vow, one responsibility she would renounce only
at her death—she was honor bound to serve these men
regardless of the danger they represented for her. To do
any less would be to break the promise sworn to her
mother three years prior.
Yet the troop’s surly leader made her wish to forsake
her vow immediately. In all her life, she’d never been
persecuted as she had in the days since Sir Jeremy Blaine
arrived. Her skill brought her respect, at times even fear.
Blaine seemed obliged to mistrust her for that same talent,
and the cause of his hostility escaped her.
Have a care not to provoke his temper, daughter.
Alicen sighed. “I know that well, Mother,” she
whispered. “Yet I can scarce constrain my temper when
he is near...He frightens me nearly witless.”
He feels responsible for the duke’s injury.
Alicen had no idea how he could believe that, as she’d
gathered from the soldiers that the captain had almost
single-handedly turned certain defeat into a rout for
William’s men. Why punish Ned and me for his guilt? We
did nothing to cause the battle.
There is more to his ill feelings than mere responsibility
for William.
“I gather he resents women healers for some reason,”
Alicen muttered. “There’s little I can do to change that
opinion, however. And that’s what frightens me.”
Are you more frightened of the reaction he causes in
you than of the man himself?
Alicen had no answer for that question.
***
The man responsible for Alicen’s distress was aware
only of the growing list of his men’s needs. Having finished
inspecting the company’s supplies, he and Michael Taft
planned strategy.
“Send out hunting and foraging parties today, and
purchase provision we can’t obtain ourselves. The men
will pose as wayfarers. Five horses must be shod. A ‘horse
peddler’ will take them to Sherford’s smithy. Now, what
about chickens?”
Deep in conversation with his subordinate, Jeremy
quickly rounded the corner of the stable.
And met Alicen shoulder to shoulder. The collision
sent her sprawling onto her back in the dirt, a basket of
freshly gathered herbs flying from her hand.
“Mistress Kent,” Taft exclaimed, rushing to her aid.
Completely nonplused by another mishandled
encounter with the healer, he stood gaping while Michael
helped her up and brushed off her clothes. Then Jeremy
broke from his perplexed trance and bent to scoop up
the scattered herbs.
“Are you harmed?” he asked gruffly, shoving the
basket, now stuffed with broken stems and dirt-covered
blossoms, at her.
She contemplated her ruined harvest before giving
him a wry smile. “’Twould take more than such a paltry
blow to injure me. But your solicitude is touching.”
Stung by her scorn, he retorted, “’Twas merely concern
you’d be unable to tend the duke.”
“Of course.” Her eyes glittered. “Naught must interfere
with our duties to William.”
“Aye.” Her boldly defiant gaze irritated him.
“You’ve been much about his business these past
days.” Alicen straightened several of the tangled herbs in
the basket.
“There is much to do.”
Her smile tightened. “Such as burning all my
firewood?”
Jeremy’s hard look held hers as he said, “Michael,
send men to gather wood. ’Twould not do to have a cold
hostess.”
He saw the flare of anger in her glinting stare and
took satisfaction in knowing he’d put it there.
“Did searching the grounds prove fruitless,” she
countered, “or do William’s enemies lurk hereabouts?
Perhaps they lie hidden ‘neath straw in the stable?”
“I’ve checked there,” Jeremy retorted, jaw tight.
“Then, as I see no one hanged from a tree, I may
assume your effort was wasted.” Alicen stared him down,
hiding profound relief that Orrick hadn’t been found
lurking nearby. What had possessed her to mention the
stable? Again her temper had overruled her head. Tread
carefully, she warned herself. Give him no reason to
suspect anything amiss.
“All in the line of duty.”
She watched as his face showed sudden discomfort,
but he squared his shoulders as if to shake off the feeling.
Doing so made him wince slightly.
This movement drew her gaze to the sleeve of his
arming doublet. Noticing a stain, her expression turned
to concern. This would distract him from seeking out spies
and reaffirm her integrity. She raised both eyebrows.
“Tell me, does duty include suffering, sir?” she asked
softly. “Will bearing pain prove your strength and worth?”
He scowled. “What do you mean?”
She nodded toward his arm. “That wound needs
tending.”
He glanced at his sleeve, then shrugged. “’Tis
unimportant. There were and are many more serious
wounds to attend.” He made to move past her, but she
reached out and touched his sleeve.
“’Tis high time your injury was seen to.”
“’Tis naught but a bruise, and most likely half healed
by now,” he growled. “I need none of your infernal
&n
bsp; concoctions.”
She briefly looked heavenward, then touched his
sleeve just below the stain, examining it closely. “Your
wound is far more serious than you know. It requires
immediate care.”
“You’ve not yet seen it,” he scoffed, pulling away. “Are
you able to discern an injury’s severity before viewing
it?”
“That stain, and your skin’s pallor, indicate infection.”
She paused before continuing in an indifferent tone. “If
’tis not attended, I fear you’ll lack employment, as the
duke will likely have little use for a one-armed soldier.”
Taft, who had silently observed this exchange, nodded.
“The lass is right, Captain. See to yourself.”
Jeremy scowled at Taft then glared at Alicen, who
continued as if he’d asked her to, “A bruise would have
since healed, but it appears this brings you pain. Do I hit
the mark?”
His mouth tightened as he gave a slight nod. “Your
apprentice may see to this for me.”
“’Tis beyond his skills,” she replied cooly. “I must tend
it myself.”
His gaze locked on hers. “Then be quick. I’ve little
desire to be in a woman’s company except to taste her
charms.”
Alicen ignored his deliberate crudeness and motioned
toward a nearby oak. “Sit at the table yonder, and we’ll
begin.”
Jeremy stalked to the stone bench beside the
indicated table, Alicen at his heels.
“You must remove your doublet and shirt. Even I can’t
heal a completely covered wound.”
Jeremy scowled. A quick jerk of his powerful hands
drew off the garments.
Corded muscles Alicen couldn’t help noticing rippled
across his chest. She briefly thought his the most sleekly
powerful physique she’d ever seen. And handsome at that.
He wore his curly black hair even with his ears on the
sides, to his nape in back. High cheekbones, a straight
nose, and a strong jaw framed those piercing blue eyes.
Black brows and dark lashes emphasized his intense gaze.
How could a killer look so perfect?
She contemplated this as Jeremy found his linen shirt
stuck to the wound. He reached to pull the sleeve away,
but Alicen placed her hand on his to stop him.
“Don’t,” she said, quietly emphatic. “You’ll tear the
flesh by carelessly uncovering the wound.”
Carroll, Laurie - War Of Hearts.txt Page 3