The Knight's Runaway Maiden

by Nicole Locke

  ‘Balthus?’ If he was going to overpower them, now would be the time, but he was curled on his side at her feet.

  ‘Climb up now while I check on him.’

  ‘I dropped my prize,’ Pepin said. ‘And I can’t see anything down here.’

  ‘Pepin!’ She had no time for this. Glancing up, she saw no people, only the firelight flickering across the ceiling. She’d forgotten how deep this hole was.

  If Pepin had fallen in and not been caught... Anything or nothing could have happened, but Balthus had purposefully broken his fall. What was taking Clovis so long?

  Kneeling gave her a better view of her prisoner, but curled as he was, with his back to her, he did look asleep...or dead. She placed her hand on his chest, could feel the rise and fall of his breath. It was laboured, agitated. He was hurt, but where?

  His temple felt warm but not feverish, and she winced when she felt the large lump on the back of his head, probably from her striking him before she shoved him here. Had he hit it again upon the fall? She could not tell, but the agitation of his breath didn’t increase as she felt his head, and there was no blood. Carefully, just as she’d learned from the old healer, she felt along his neck, then down one arm, then the other. His breath hitched.

  So did hers.

  ‘What is it, Mama?’

  Something was very, very wrong. ‘Pepin, you need to go up the ladder.’

  ‘I haven’t found my treasure yet. I can’t leave without my treasure.’

  ‘We’ll look for it later,’ she said, but knew her son would continue to ignore her. What child would ignore the excitement around him?

  Keeping one hand on Balthus’s shoulder, something wavered inside her chest, similar to shock, more like horror. With a shaking hand she slid it to the end of his left arm, felt the soft skin become hard, tightly wrapped, then nothing.

  Balthus was missing his left hand.

  No longer able to kneel, she sat down hard, scattering dust, dirt, some pebbles across the floor.

  It startled Balthus into consciousness.

  Grey eyes locked to hers, but they weren’t alert, they didn’t see...

  Her hand flew to her mouth and a choked sob escaped. Everything was wrong, but what could she say? She needed to say something.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he slurred. ‘Is the boy harmed?’

  He looked over his shoulder at Pepin, whose eyes must have been as wide as hers.

  ‘Séverine!’ he snapped, his eyes clear. ‘Are you hurt?’

  What could she say? ‘I’m well,’ she said, brushing her cheeks with the back of her hand, rubbing her palms down her gown and doing it again. So many tears for a Warstone. What was wrong with her?

  He sat up suddenly, blinked rapidly, swayed. He was going to harm himself! ‘No, you’re not, something is not right. Tell me!’

  ‘No, no, Balthus, don’t!’ She splayed out her hands towards him as if to keep him down. ‘The boys are well.’

  A bang at the door! Balthus pushed himself to stand, his legs unsteady. Imbert came into view.

  ‘You! You’re Ian’s man! Stay away from her!’ Balthus put his hand and foot on the ladder.

  ‘No, Balthus!’

  Imbert’s eyes snapped from Séverine to Balthus and he kicked the ladder to the other side.

  Dislodged, Balthus spun on his one leg, patted his right thigh where a blade was held and grunted as if something stabbed him.

  ‘No!’ she cried.

  His grey gaze shifted to hers before they went distant, and he crumpled to the floor once again.

  Séverine’s heart hammered in her chest. She was this close to losing her porridge. What had happened? None of it necessary, none of it...

  ‘Séverine, get out of there now!’ Imbert said.

  ‘Mama, I think that man was trying to rescue you,’ Pepin whispered.

  Séverine spun towards her child, his eyes only on Balthus. Balthus, who had no left hand. Who had come round, seen her distress and tried to defend her.

  ‘You’re all right?’ she said.

  Pepin leaned in close to her. ‘He doesn’t like Imbert.’

  No, he didn’t. Half-mad with pain, Balthus had tried to protect them from Imbert. Something wasn’t right. She needed to inspect him in full light.

  ‘Imbert, throw something down here so we can get him up top.’

  ‘You leave him down there.’

  ‘He saved Pepin’s fall!’

  Imbert cursed.

  ‘You’ve got to go up now,’ Séverine said as gently as she could to her youngest. Not because she was worried for his safety anymore, but because what needed to happen, what she needed to say to Imbert, shouldn’t be said in front of him.

  Balthus’s breathing was harsh, and under each exhalation was almost a deep moan. He was in torment, and a man in that much pain was unpredictable, but it was also telling, and something snagged at her thoughts because of it. Something she could do. If she was right, and brave enough.

  ‘I can’t go up until I find my treasure,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll get it later.’ She gathered the boy and gave him a boost.

  He looked down over his shoulder at her and whispered, his voice part puzzlement, mostly awe. ‘He’s fierce, isn’t he?’

  Séverine watched Imbert hoist Pepin up, another little arm reaching out, showing Clovis was there, as well.

  ‘I can feel you thinking down there,’ Imbert said. ‘I’m not helping you.’

  Séverine climbed up. ‘Pepin, Clovis, you, too, outside!’

  Séverine crossed her arms, prepared to defend herself to this loyal man who would fight her over what she was about to say. ‘We need to get him out of this hole. He’s injured.’

  Imbert exhaled. ‘Injured or not, until we know we won’t be under attack, he stays. Can’t negotiate with his family if that man is free and can’t have him running out and notifying any of them what we’ve done.’

  Everything he said was true, and yet Balthus’s actions had not been hostile. He hadn’t attacked that day in the woodshed, he’d caught Pepin when he’d fallen, and he’d tried to protect her against Imbert.

  Could Balthus be different from the other Warstones? Was it possible?

  ‘There are new injuries, but there’s another older one. He’s bandaged up.’

  ‘Will he bleed out?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But there’s pain involved. If I’m correct, he’s in nothing but pain.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Imbert said.

  It was only a suspicion, but now that she felt his arm, some of Balthus’s actions were beginning to make sense. ‘I came across this before when I travelled with the healer. Something under the skin. I can’t be certain until he comes round again.’

  ‘Then he’s in pain, which I don’t care about. My opinion stays the same.’

  She should simply listen to him, but couldn’t.

  ‘Are you thinking of ordering me about like a servant?’ he grumbled.

  ‘When were you ever one to me?’ she said. ‘But I wish you weren’t so stubborn.’

  ‘Or right,’ he said.

  He was right. It was only the fact that Balthus had no hand that somehow changed him in her mind. Which was foolish again because whether he had one hand or two, he was still dangerous. Except...even injured like that, he’d saved her son from further harm.

  Then there was the other matter of his missing hand. If she was right; he was in constant pain. What if...? It’d been many years before, but she’d seen a man suffer who’d lost a foot. The healer she’d travelled with had cut him again. The wound had healed differently, and the continual pain had stopped.

  What if Balthus suffered from the same thing? What if she could heal him, and if he was different enough, she could sway him to her side? A risk, but a calculate
d one worth taking if it meant a better future for her sons.

  ‘I need Sarah to bring me willow bark and a valerian tincture,’ she whispered. ‘Someone should have them. Buckets of water, more logs for the fire, food and ale, too.’

  ‘I’ll let her know.’

  ‘And Imbert, when you come back, I need your blade, the big one, sharpened.’

  ‘That I’ll gladly do,’ he said.

  Chapter Eight

  How much time had passed? Balthus was stuck in some bog pulled by the never-ceasing agony that circled through his body.

  Every once in a heartbeat something else scraped against his dark sleep. Voices—a woman’s, a man’s. Children, which registered most of all. Children. Unharmed. Something about that was important.

  His stomach turned, ached, and he rolled to the side.

  ‘We’ve brought what you asked for.’ A woman’s unfamiliar voice. ‘I also thought this would help.’

  ‘He’s still not stirring. I have to wait this out.’

  ‘No, you leave him down there and you flee.’ A man’s voice, older. The voice belonged to Imbert, a servant of Ian’s. A stablemaster.

  ‘How can you think of leaving him? Something’s not right, I think I know what it... Can’t be certain until I... He needs to wake up.’

  A pause.

  ‘Mama, he’s ill.’

  ‘If I’m found out, what do you think would happen?’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to be him!’ A shushing sound. Quiet.

  ‘Ian said he was the favourite of his mother,’ Imbert said. ‘She’ll be looking for him. Even if I flee, if you set him free, none of you are safe. We knew the consequences and agreed to keep... Our plans depend that you flee to the next and the next and keep at it until they lose interest.’

  ‘When have the Warstones ever lost interest?’

  ‘Quiet! He could hear.’ A woman’s voice. Séverine’s. She was there, just above him.

  She was arguing with Imbert, as if they knew each other well. How and why was he here?

  ‘Mama, he’s definitely sick.’

  That voice was Pepin’s, which was clear. Everyone else was trying to whisper.

  Séverine’s voice was stronger now. ‘He caught Pepin... Been injured. I think he hurts. There’s a chance I can help him, and us. We may be able to sway him to...’

  ‘Never! Don’t! He’s in pain, you leave him in pain,’ Imbert said. ‘I won’t help. I can’t watch.’

  ‘Come, Imbert, what if she’s right?’ That was Sarah. Imbert’s wife.

  ‘I’m going to do it,’ Séverine said. ‘Go now, but Imbert, when I’ve done it, I’ll come and get...’

  ‘We’re leaving, then,’ Sarah said. ‘Come, boys.’

  Heavy footsteps, a swish of a gown, a door closing.

  Another blast of cold air, and he started shivering. He wasn’t well, but this was better than the dark sleep. Better because she was saying his name.

  ‘Balthus,’ she repeated.

  Her voice...he loved to listen to it. It was becoming clearer by the moment. He wished he could hear it forever, especially when it sounded concerned when she talked about him. Kind words for him. He’d have believed he was dead if not for the fact she would be as well. No, he wanted them alive, and well...he had found them alive and well. Thriving. Happy. He was here to ruin that.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  He could. He could. He recognised all the voices now. Séverine, his brother’s servants, his nephews. The one woman he wanted to love was right there. He could hear her gasp.

  * * *

  With soothing words to the half-delirious man down below, Séverine, with two buckets of supplies hooked to her arm, took the ladder down. She was relieved no one had heard Balthus’s mutterings. A few broken words, sounds of discomfort and then nothing else.

  Nothing but absolute torment would force a Warstone to reveal any vulnerability. Nothing but sheer determination would sustain a man to suffer a hand amputation and hide such a weakness from his enemy. All the more remarkable given the possibility it was a recent injury since he held it to his chest under the cloak as if it was still bound.

  His left hand, which was significant, was gone. To test their loyalty to their mother, each son had had to hold their left hand above a flame. Over the years, a knot of scars would build. Ian had scars like these on both hands, and he’d told her the cause.

  When she’d felt Balthus’s callused right hand for potential injury, she’d felt no such scar in the centre as her husband had. Surprisingly, because his right hand was unharmed, relief had flooded her with warmth as she’d inspected his left shoulder and arm. Until she’d come to the wrappings and she’d tried to grasp the horrific truth of what she’d felt, and hadn’t felt, beneath her fingertips.

  Carefully, she set the weighty buckets down. He wasn’t as tightly furled as when she’d rushed Pepin up the ladder, but he remained on his side. His breathing was a bit fast, but aside from that he looked like he was sleeping.

  She couldn’t see or smell a mess, but she wiped the wooden sides with the vinegar that Sarah provided on the chance it might mask valerian’s rough clay smell.

  As to the buckets’ contents, there was some meat, bread ale, tea. She had to hope the amounts Sarah had provided were correct for the tea. Willow bark for the pain, valerian to make him sleep. Both would take some time. Nothing would last once she lowered the dagger and cut a bit more of his arm. There was nothing that would mask that pain.

  Had it been an accident to his hand or had he done it to himself? Was her heart telling her something about him was different? Why else would she think he’d want to rid himself of his mother’s diabolical love? Or maybe Sarah was correct, and she’d gone soft when it came to the Warstones. She didn’t think it possible to forget what they were capable of, but how else to think, for one moment, there was a softness in him?

  Still...what to do with him? What should happen? Whatever it was, she felt that Balthus’s fate, and perhaps her own, depended entirely on what she did next.

  Was she healing him because of that moment by the tapestry, or because he’d offered to help her with the kindling? Or was it strategic to woo him to her side? She thought about what the healer had done with the axe. The strength of spirit it had taken since there were no certainties.

  She would have to make her own certainties and take her own risks, as she had done for years. This time Balthus was unknowingly along with her, but he got in the way of her protecting her boys. She’d do anything to protect her children, and that truth sealed their fates.

  As for Imbert and Sarah, she’d made her position known to them. Sarah had the boys, Imbert would be ready with his dagger to come in and help. She’d do the deed, but he’d have to hold Balthus down when he woke from the tincture.

  Sweat had formed on his brow and he was almost panting through whatever coursed through his body.

  Vinegar soaked most of wood along the sides of the pit, and she futilely brushed aside stones and pebbles. It wasn’t anything, but she could delay no longer, and knelt beside the man.

  He slept despite the smell or her scurrying about, and part of her was loath to wake him because much healing happened when the injured slept. He didn’t look injured or vulnerable. He looked like the finely honed warrior he was. Her eyes dipped along his sculpted torso, down his navel to legs encased in breeches that clung round his narrow waist.

  His arms were free from his dark cloak. One hand had unfurled tapered fingers, elegant but for the ragged edges of his fingernails and calluses along his palm. His other arm, mostly wrapped in dark linens, displayed all the strength of the man, even with the harsh blunt end.

  She didn’t find it a weakness or something to shy away from. The strength was there, the man was there, and she imagined trailing her fingers along those tendons and veins, encasing her
hands around him like linens. To feel the texture of him like that brutal tapestry she’d yearned to touch so long ago.

  A clearing of his throat, and her eyes flew upwards. Grey eyes on her, questioning. Could he guess her thoughts?

  Pale skin, eyes wide, her face a mixture of questions. Though he expected it, he didn’t see pity there. Balthus didn’t need to know how he felt to know he’d fainted from the pain again. To know she’d probably checked for injuries and knew his hand was gone.

  But false concern hadn’t been there as her eyes lowered and her gaze swept downward, settled along his waist and over his legs. He’d stayed still, but there was a part of him he had no control over when under her scrutiny. Before he embarrassed himself, he let her know he was awake.

  ‘Don’t move,’ she said.

  Easier said than done when her eyes were on his. Even so, it took him a while to settle the heat weaving through his blood at the sight of the blush across her cheeks and the vulnerability in her darting glance because he’d caught her inspecting him.

  ‘The boy?’ he asked.

  ‘Pepin’s unharmed.’ She blinked. ‘You didn’t—’

  ‘You have Imbert and Sarah,’ he interrupted. He didn’t want to hear what he shouldn’t do. He hadn’t performed with any great courage. It was likely the boy would have fallen on him anyway, and that reminder was enough to cool his wayward thoughts. Séverine couldn’t have been admiring him.

  ‘Don’t talk of them unless you want another bucket aimed at your head. At this distance, I wouldn’t miss.’

  ‘It is interesting they are here was all I attempted to say.’

  Balthus wanted to laugh at her response. Instead, he took stock of his state, and that of Séverine, with the front of her gown wet, her plaits loose. The smell of vinegar. Perhaps he’d been ill. That wasn’t unusual.

  What was, was that instead of shame or anger at his weakness, she had made him want to laugh. He needed a distraction from that errant emotion.

  Carefully, he sat up and stopped when a sharp pain blinded him. ‘Why not talk about them?’