by Lynsay Sands
“Lift me up, please.”
Rory glanced down at that muffled request from Lady Elysande, realizing only then that when she’d dropped back down, her face had landed in the curve of his neck. He could feel her warm breath through the veil there, and the way her lips had moved the cloth against his skin as she spoke had been quite nice. Rolling his eyes at his own thoughts, he shifted his attention to Tom and Simon as they moved up on either side of him and bent to clasp her upper arms.
“Brace yourself, m’lady,” Tom said gently, and then glanced to Simon and said, “On three.”
The man then counted out the numbers aloud and they both lifted her by the arms at three.
Elysande did not cry out, moan or make any sound at all as they lifted her. But once on her feet Rory saw that her headdress was askew, leaving a bit of the undamaged side of her face on view. One look at the gray tone to her skin told him that she was definitely in agony and probably biting her lip to keep any pained sounds in.
Mouth tightening, he got quickly to his feet and then bent to retrieve the fur they’d lain on. He took his time rolling it up, and only after he finished the chore did he risk looking at her again. Much to his relief her skin tone was a little better already. Some color was leeching back into the visible bit of cheek.
“I need to . . .” Lady Elysande didn’t finish that sentence, but headed into the trees, carefully raising her hands to straighten her coif and veil as she went.
They all watched her go with concern, knowing she no doubt needed to relieve herself, but every one of them, he suspected, worried over whether she could manage the task on her own. She was walking like an old woman, her movements stiff, one hand at her lower back, and her spine slightly bent backward as if her muscles or skin could not bear to be stretched to get her fully upright. But she would not welcome aid with this task, and they all knew it.
When she disappeared from view, Rory finally turned away and handed the fur to Tom as he said, “Today is market day in Carlisle, I think, and we should reach there by late afternoon. If I can find some wolfsbane at market I will make a liniment from it that should ease her aches and pains.”
“That would be good. Thank you,” Tom said, and Rory noted the other men were nodding in agreement. None of them enjoyed seeing her suffer the way she was. It left a man feeling helpless and useless. Rory would rather suffer the pain for her, but since that wasn’t possible, he would do what he could to ease it for her.
Chapter 4
Elysande supposed she should be mortified at waking up plastered to Rory Buchanan’s chest, but she wasn’t. Well, she was a little embarrassed, Elysande acknowledged, but it wasn’t as if she’d done it on purpose. She must have rolled toward him in her sleep or something. And the man had made a very comfortable and warm bed, much nicer than the cold hard ground, even with the fur beneath her. She had slept better last night than she had since this whole horrible chapter of her life had begun. She hadn’t suffered pain, or nightmares, or wept in her sleep with grief as she had in the dungeon and then in the cart on the way to Monmouth. Also, for one moment when she’d first woken up, she hadn’t felt quite so alone as she had since de Buci had torn everyone she loved away from her. It had been nice.
Of course, then she’d woken up fully, recalled where she was, inhaled Rory’s woodsy scent and realized whom she was sleeping on. That was when she’d tensed and tried to get up. Her body had immediately reminded her of her injuries.
It was something she would try not to forget in the future, Elysande decided as she finally removed her gloves and turned her attention to her reason for being out in the woods. Much to her relief, the distance she’d walked while thinking had helped to work out some of the stiffness that had set into her back and legs while she’d slept. She even managed to take care of her personal needs without crying out in agony.
Hoping it was a sign that her injuries were improving, Elysande headed back to camp, arriving to find most of the men already mounted. Only Tom, Simon and Rory Buchanan were still on the ground.
“Are ye all right to ride, lass?” Rory asked with concern as she approached the three men standing by her horse.
A bit startled by the familiar address, Elysande flushed slightly, but didn’t comment on it. She merely nodded in response to his question as she paused before them.
Simon and Tom worked together to place her in the saddle. It was done quickly and efficiently, the men now quite adept at the chore. Still, she was embarrassed by the need for it and gave a start when a round, flat bread-type thing that she’d never seen the likes of before suddenly appeared by her mare’s mane.
Elysande blinked at it and then glanced to Rory in question as he held it up to her.
“’Tis an oatcake,” he explained gently. “To break yer fast.”
“Oh.” Managing a smile, she finally took it from him, noting that it was as hard as a biscuit. “Thank you.”
Rory nodded. “If ye tire or yer back pains ye and ye wish to ride with me again, give a shout.”
He waited for her to nod before moving away to mount his own horse.
The moment Rory’s back was turned, Elysande raised the oatcake to her nose to give it a sniff through her veil. It didn’t really have much of a scent. Curious, she slipped it under the veil and took a small cautious bite. It was a very hard, rather tasteless bread. But she supposed it would fill her stomach.
Glancing up to see that the men were all waiting on her, amusement on their faces, Elysande stuck the oatcake in her mouth to hold between her teeth, and quickly gathered her reins. She thought Conn grinned at her before turning his horse to head out of the clearing, but couldn’t be sure with the veil obstructing her vision as it was. She did know it was Inan who followed him with Alick behind them. Elysande then urged her own horse to follow when Rory waved her forward. Once she had passed him and was following the other horses, Elysande shifted the reins to her right hand and reached her left under the veil to pluck the oatcake from her mouth.
“Do ye no’ like oatcakes, Lady Elysande?” Alick teased, dropping back to ride beside her.
“I— ’Tis fine,” she said weakly, not wishing to insult anyone.
Apparently taking pity on her, Alick merely said, “They may be tasteless, but will give ye strength and fill yer belly so ye’re no’ hungry.”
He didn’t wait for a response, but urged his horse up in front of hers again so they all rode single file once more. Sighing, Elysande peered down at the oatcake in her hand and then took another bite. The flavor of it wasn’t offensive, just rather bland. But as Alick had pointed out, it would give her strength and fill her belly, so she’d eat it. But she had to wonder if they were always this hard, or the oatcake had traveled all the way from Scotland with them and was now stale after being weeks in some sack.
“Carlisle ahead!”
Elysande lifted her head from where it rested against Rory’s back, and glanced around at that shout. Sitting behind him as she was, she couldn’t see anything. Not until she lifted her veil to toss it over her headdress and leaned to the side to look around his arm. Then she saw what Rory was shouting about. Despite the driving snow that had been pelting them for hours, she could make out what looked like a church spire and a bunch of buildings that appeared almost to grow out of the wall that surrounded them. They were merely a dark silhouette against a gray and black sky, but it was a welcome sight nonetheless, Elysande decided as she tugged her veil back into place.
The snow had started falling while they were still only halfway up out of the valley where they’d camped. Elysande hadn’t been worried then; she’d even thought it was pretty. But the moment they’d crested the hill, the wind had slapped at them, and those pretty, soft little flakes fluttering to the ground in the valley had quickly become icy needles stabbing at her neck and the side of her face where the wind blew her veil aside.
It had made for a cold and bitter ride through the morning, and she’d been relieved when they’d stopped to res
t, huddled together in the shelter of a group of close-growing trees to eat another oatcake each. The shelter had spared them from the wind at least, but it had still been bitterly cold, the kind that settled in your bones and left your teeth chattering.
Elysande had chewed methodically on her tasteless oatcake and listened dully when Rory mentioned his intention to stop at Carlisle because he wished to visit the weekly market. But when he added that they would hopefully find someplace to warm up and purchase a hot meal as well before continuing on their journey, her interest had been engaged, and she had been as eager as the others to cut short their rest and set out again. But an hour later, the light snowfall had become a blinding deluge. Where the earlier snow had been more wind than snow, barely peppering the ground, this was equal parts of both. The trail had quickly become buried under a blanket of white that had grown deeper by the minute and their party had been forced to slow down both to avoid wandering off the trail, and because the snow had become so deep the horses were having trouble galloping through it.
Still, they’d pushed on. They’d had no choice. Stopping could be deadly in this kind of weather. But late afternoon had passed without their reaching Carlisle as they’d expected when they’d set out that morning. Now the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon and they were traveling through a grim, gray world as the last fingers of light drifted away. Elysande knew they would not make it across the border into Scotland this night, and was quite sure the weekly market Rory had hoped to visit would now be done and the vendors gone in search of a warm bed too. But they were alive, and soon to be somewhere warm. She hoped.
Elysande grimaced at her own thoughts. She was actually much warmer now than she had been before Rory had stopped and had Tom and Simon help her from her horse onto his. She’d done well, lasting much longer on her own horse than she had the day before, but about an hour ago she’d been exhausted to the point that she’d feared tumbling from her mare. Riding behind her, Rory had obviously noted that she was having difficulties. She’d heard his whistle that had called the party to a stop, and had felt only relief when he’d announced she would ride with him from there.
Elysande had felt even more relieved to share his heat as she’d settled on his mount behind him. It had made her wonder how the men were faring. Tom and Simon should be fine. They were wearing layers of clothing along with their capes and gloves, but the Buchanans and their warriors only had their tunics and plaids. Although she’d noticed they’d lowered the skirt of their plaids to cover them to the tops of their boots, and each man had wrapped the top part of the heavy woolen cloth around them like a cape. They also all had gloves on now. And this time as she’d ridden with Rory she’d noticed that the cloth of his plaid was oiled and wondered if it helped keep the cold out, because the man’s back was like a furnace against her chest, warming her through.
A shout caught her ear then, and Elysande leaned to the side to look ahead again. She could have wept when she saw that Conn, still at the head of their group, had reached the city gate and was shouting to the men on the wall. Even as she watched, the portcullis was being raised for them to enter. Soon she would be enjoying that hot meal and warm fire Rory had promised.
The gale force winds that had pummeled them for most of the day died considerably once they rode through the gate, the wall and buildings acting as a buffer. But the snow was still falling rapidly.
Elysande glanced around with curiosity as their party slowed to a walk. There wasn’t much to see in the gloom but wooden buildings all stacked together. The streets of the small northern English city were eerily silent and empty with no sign of its inhabitants, or that it had held a market that day. The only sign of life was the soft glow of candles or firelight that was escaping around the furs used to cover the windows they passed, an effort to keep out the cold. Elysande frowned when she noted that many of the windows were dark and uncovered. But then she recalled her mother and father talking about how the cities had been affected by the Black Death years ago. Some cities had lost half their inhabitants or more to the disease, and still struggled to regrow their population. She was guessing Carlisle was one of them.
Her attention was drawn from their surroundings when Conn, who had remained in the lead, suddenly turned back to approach them. Inan and Alick stopped at once and urged their horses to the side so he could pass.
“Alehouse or inn?” he asked Rory, and she felt him tense with indecision under the arms she had around his waist.
“I’ve no’ stopped here before,” Rory admitted finally. “Do ye ken an inn that will take us all?”
“Nay. They do no’ much like Scots here,” Conn said with a grimace. “But there’s an alehouse at the end o’ the next street that’ll feed us and give us a place to lay our heads for a small king’s ransom.”
She could feel the sigh that slid through Rory at this news and then he said, “The alehouse, ’tis, then.”
Nodding, Conn took the lead again.
“Why do they not like Scots here?” Elysande asked with curiosity when Rory urged his mount to start moving.
“Because Scots are no’ English,” Rory said with disgust, and then shook his head and admitted, “And because of the reivers.”
“Reivers?” Elysande asked with interest.
“Groups o’ Scots who raid them and steal their animals and such. It’s happened along the border for years. ’Tis just desperate and hungry men looking to survive, but it makes it hard for the people trying to make an honest living, and makes them hate harder. O’ course, the English forget that there are Anglos raiding the Scots on the other side as well and just blame it on we heathen Scots with our stealing ways.”
Elysande considered that silently. Her mother hadn’t mentioned that when she’d spoken of her kin, but then the Sinclairs were Highlanders who lived far to the north—too far away to be involved in reiving from the English.
“But while that makes the English refuse to rent a room to a Scot, ye’re English,” Rory pointed out now. “We could probably find an inn that would take ye and yer men, and then we could hopefully find someplace nearby to—”
“Nay,” Elysande interrupted him. “We will stay with you.”
“Are ye sure?” he asked, and she could hear the frown in his voice. “Ye’d no doubt find more comfortable lodging in an inn, and with yer back paining ye—”
“Ye ferget I’m half-Scottish meself, laddie,” she said with a very bad attempt to mimic his accent. “I’ll no’ stay where me kind are no’ welcome.”
“Lass?” Rory said, a smile now in his voice.
“Aye?”
“Stick to yer English. Ye’re a muckle mess as a Scot.”
“Oh!” Elysande gasped on a laugh, and smacked his stomach where her hands rested. “I thought it was a very good attempt at mimicking you.”
“Ye thought wrong,” he assured her.
Elysande merely squeezed her arms around him briefly and remained silent, listening to him chuckle. It was a nice sound, and the first time she’d heard it from him. Besides, she’d got what she wanted. He’d forgotten about her pitiful state, and wasn’t going to leave her at some inn while he and his men went somewhere else where he might decide she was too much trouble and should be left behind here in Carlisle while he made his way home.
Not that she really thought he might do that, Elysande assured herself. After all, he could have simply refused the chore back in the clearing outside Monmouth and hadn’t.
But then he hadn’t known that she was injured and might slow them down, her mind argued, and Elysande grimaced as she admitted to herself that it was a concern to her. She’d lost so much the last few days, and feared losing his escort on top of it all. And that couldn’t happen. She felt safe with Rory Buchanan. And his brother and the other men too, of course. She added that last as an afterthought, but it was true. Tom and Simon were fine soldiers, but these Scots . . . There was something strong and wild about them that made her feel that they would stand firm
in the face of any challenge and see her safely through it.
The alehouse looked like every other building on the street except for the sign over the door—a rooster sitting on a bull and holding a foamy stein of ale. There was no writing on the sign, but then most people couldn’t read, so businesses had to depend on images to advertise themselves.
“The Cock and Bull Alehouse?” Elysande asked.
“That’d be my guess,” Rory said, his words reminding her that this establishment had been Conn’s choice.
“You told Conn you had never stopped here before. So this is the first time you have been to Carlisle?” Elysande asked with curiosity as they followed Conn, Inan and Alick up a tiny alleyway between the alehouse and the building next to it.
“Nay,” he said. “But ’tis the first time I’ve stopped here fer the night.”
“But Conn has stayed the night here before?” Elysande asked. It was the only explanation she could come up with for why the man had known of a place to stay while Rory hadn’t.
“Aye.” Rory nodded. “Conn has traveled this way half a dozen times or more with one o’ me brothers or another. But I don’t travel much to England.”
“Really?” she asked, a bit startled at the admission, although she wasn’t sure why. She’d never even left Kynardersley, so why should she expect Rory to leave not only his home but his country on a regular basis?
“Aye,” he assured her. “When younger I traveled a lot to speak to healers who were said to know much, but few of them were in England.”
“Where did you travel to speak to these healers?” Elysande asked with interest as they reached a small courtyard behind the alehouse where a stable waited.
“France, Gascony, Aragon, Castille . . .” He brought the horse to a halt, and then tugged off his gloves and placed them in her hands while he set to work on the rope at her wrists that had kept her arms around his waist without her needing to hold on.