Sharon Schulze

by To Tame a Warrior's Heart

  What had the healer done?

  The Saracen had washed his hands, the knife and the injury, then passed the knife and needle through a flame before he used them. Nicholas had never seen any barber or chirurgeon do that before or since. The bandages had been clean, as well, he recalled, the white fabric a startling contrast to the victim’s sun-browned skin. And after cutting the arrow loose, the healer allowed the wound to bleed freely before he sewed it closed, applied an unguent and bandaged it.

  Though Nicholas had no salve to soothe Catrin’s wounds, the rest he could manage. His spirits lighter, he hacked a wide strip from the hem of Catrin’s chemise and tore it into strips. He set the bowl of water beside the fire to warm, then took the knives outside and scrubbed them—and his hands—as best he could in the icy stream.

  When he returned to the cave he plunged both knives blade-deep into the glowing coals, pausing a moment with hands outstretched to the fire’s warmth while he reviewed his memories yet again. But he remembered nothing more.

  A sheen of sweat dampened Catrin’s brow, and the flush upon her face owed little to the fire’s heat. She hadn’t moved since he’d loosened her clothing. He’d get no better chance than this.

  But she stirred when he folded back the cloak and began to wash the area around the arrows, her low-voiced moan sending a chill up his spine. What if she struggled once he cut her? He had worries enough without having to wrestle a pain-maddened woman into submission. Hesitating but a moment, he bound her wrists together with a lace from her gown.

  If that didn’t work, he could always kneel on her.

  Nicholas drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, readying himself in the same way he would prepare for battle. Eyes closed, he concentrated until a sense of calm flowed through him. Breathing deeply again, he snatched Catrin’s eating knife from the fire and set to work.

  The shallowly embedded arrow popped free with but a nudge of the blade, leaving a faint trail of blood in its wake. Should he make the wound bleed more? Could he halt the flow once it began?

  If only he knew what in God’s name he was doing!

  If cleanliness had been the key to the Saracen’s success, he’d follow its dictates completely. Muttering a plea to the Virgin, he pressed on the cut until a bright trickle oozed forth to wash out the wound.

  Lower lip gripped tight between his teeth, Nicholas bent closer to Catrin’s back and slipped the slim blade into her flesh next to the shaft. “Don’t move,” he muttered, pushing the knife deeper despite the way her back tensed.

  Blood spurted free and ran in a rivulet over her ribs. When he pressed a wad of fabric against her to stanch the flow, she arched her back and screamed.

  “Stop, Catrin,” he said. “You must not move.” She continued to squirm, so he pinned her down and swiftly extended the cut. He tried to work the arrow loose, but ’twas difficult to grasp the short, slick shaft—he’d cut off too much, leaving scarcely enough to grab hold of.

  Catrin continued to writhe beneath him, mumbling and moaning as he fought to remove the arrow. Her struggles he could deal with, but to hear her distress…He snatched up one of his leather gauntlets and stuffed it between her teeth.

  The arrowhead ground against bone, feeling much the same as ramming a blade into someone’s gullet. Cursing, Nicholas took up the knife once more and, still tugging at the shaft, widened the cut until the arrowhead broke free.

  He blotted away the worst of the blood and pressed on the cut as he heated the needle in the flames, nearly scorching his fingers in the process. When he turned back to Catrin he found her staring at him, her eyes awash with tears. But he saw no recognition there, only anger and pain.

  ’Twas just as well she didn’t recognize him—her opinion of him had been low enough before the day’s events. Christ only knew what she’d think of him after this.

  It mattered not, so long as she survived.

  Squinting, he focused his still-blurry gaze upon the oozing wound. “Pretend ’tis a shirt,” he ordered himself as he stabbed the needle into Catrin’s flesh. She gave a muffled shriek. “Not bloody likely.”

  He set the stitches with mechanical precision, doing his best to ignore the way she flinched with each jab of the needle. By the time he finished he was nearly sitting on her legs to hold her down, and still she squirmed beneath him.

  She must have the strength of a warrior to put up such a struggle. And he could well imagine the litany of abuse she called down upon him. At least he couldn’t understand any of it.

  Still sprawled over her, he made short work of removing the third arrow. Hands shaking, he wet a rag in the bowl of water and swabbed away the last of the blood. The warm cloth seemed to soothe her, and she ceased her struggles.

  He ventured a glance at her face; eyes closed, mouth silent, she seemed to have finally reached the end of her endurance. He made swift work of bandaging the cuts, then tugged her shift and tunic up over her back with a sigh of relief.

  Legs shaking, Nicholas went to check on Idris. The dog slept, apparently resting comfortably despite his injuries. He decided to leave him thus till morning.

  His own wound could be left till then, as well, but he had to get out of his hauberk. Having slept in it before, he knew he’d regret doing so again. He bent at the waist and tugged the neckline over his head to allow the weight of the mail to pull it off.

  A wave of dizziness washed over him. Arm aflame, head reeling, Nicholas pitched forward onto his hauberk and knew no more.

  Chapter Six

  Bryn Du, Northern Wales

  Lord Steffan ap Rhys jerked the bedcovers up over his shoulders and burrowed his head beneath the pile of bolsters, but the pounding at his door did not cease. He poked at the woman sprawled beside him. “Answer that, you lazy bitch.”

  The slut moaned, rolled over and slid her leg over his hips as she edged closer to him. “Get up,” he snarled, grabbing her by the leg and thrusting her aside. Lips curled in a frown, he shoved the blankets away and climbed from the bed.

  A slap on her fleshy buttocks worked well enough to move her off the mattress. “Why are you still here?” He snatched up her gown and threw it at her. Judging from the leisurely way she dressed, his displeasure didn’t disturb her one whit. He’d teach her better next time, he vowed, blood heating at the thought. “Answer the door on your way out.”

  She tossed her tangled hair over her shoulder and sent him a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, milord.” Hips swaying, she ambled across the room, then spun about to face him. Her avid gaze caressed his body, lingering on his engorged manhood. “Certain ye want me to leave just yet?”

  Did she count herself responsible for this, his usual morning state? Witless bitch! He stepped into his chausses and pulled them up. “Do as I said and go about your duties,” he snarled.

  Jerking the door open, she flounced past Huw, the captain of the guard.

  “There’s a fine piece,” Huw said as he entered the chamber and shut the door behind him.

  “You’re welcome to her.” Steffan slipped into his shirt. “She hasn’t a brain in her head, but she’s skilled enough between the sheets.”

  Huw smirked. “She don’t need a brain for what I have in mind. So long’s she’s got the right parts, she’ll suit me fine.”

  “I assume you’ve a reason for dragging me from my bed. And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself, you fool—I’ll not tolerate your arrogance for long.” Despite his displeasure, Steffan kept his tone bland, but something in his voice must have alerted the other man. Huw’s expression grew serious and he straightened, assuming the mien of subservience.

  Steffan permitted himself a faint smile.

  “That fellow Ralph is here, milord, with two of his men.” Huw spoke in a flat tone quite unlike his previous jocularity. “Says he’s got something for you.”

  “Indeed.” Being forced from his bed at dawn just might have merit after all. “Bring them to me.” He paused, waiting until Huw was ready to go out the door. �
��Bring me bread and wine, as well.”

  That order did not sit well upon him, Steffan noted as Huw fled the room.

  ’Twas clearly time to show him who was master here.

  Steffan scratched at his chest and savored the successful completion of his latest strategy. He’d tried three times to bring Catrin within his grasp, and three times he’d failed.

  This time he would succeed.

  Since subtlety hadn’t worked in the past, brute force might—nay, would—grant him a full measure of success. Rumor had it that the scum he’d hired were the best.

  Catrin would be within his grasp soon.

  He did hope they hadn’t killed her. There were so many experiences he wished to share with his dear cousin before she died.

  The mere thought cheered him immensely.

  He’d had little time to put his plan into motion, but the idea had been stewing in his mind for months—ever since his faithless cousin Gillian had escaped him. He rubbed the back of his head. It had taken nearly that long for the lump Gillian had dealt him to disappear. But time had not eased his anger at her perfidy, nor Catrin’s part in it.

  Gillian stood beyond his reach for the moment.

  But Catrin…

  He settled into the commodious seat of a thronelike chair, fingers gripping the carved armrests. By Christ’s bones, he could scarcely wait to get his hands upon the traitorous bitch.

  A racket at the door brought his pleasant dreams to a halt. Huw shouldered his way into the chamber, tray in hand, clearly unhappy with the menial chore. Three men followed him into the room.

  “Leave that here and get out,” Steffan told him.

  Once Huw left, Steffan lounged back into the cushions and gazed at the men. They appeared nervous—not a good sign. However, Ralph stepped forward easily enough at Steffan’s signal.

  “You’ve something for me, Ralph?” He could scarcely contain his anticipation.

  Ralph took a rough cloth bag from one of the men, opened it and pulled out a woman’s bliaut.

  “What is this?”

  “’Tis one of your lady’s gowns, milord.” Ralph removed another from the sack and held it out. “There’s two of them.”

  “And what does this mean?” Despite his mounting frustration, Steffan ignored Ralph’s offering and sipped at his wine as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “I told you to bring me the woman, not her clothes.”

  Ralph flung the gowns to the floor. “Would you rather we’d carried her lifeless body through your bailey for all to see?”

  Outraged by the man’s gall, Steffan leapt to his feet. “I wanted her alive, you fool!” He snatched a bliaut off the floor and tore it in two. Perhaps there was still a chance…He thrust the garment toward Ralph. “This proves nothing. It could belong to anyone.” Flinging the fabric aside, he snarled, “Bring Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd to me.”

  Though Ralph stood his ground, it appeared his courage had fled, for he wouldn’t meet Steffan’s eyes. “It couldn’t be helped, milord. In the thick of battle she took an arrow—a couple of arrows—in the back.” The others nodded agreement. “It’d be more’n our lives’re worth to carry her in here like that.” His face grew pale. “What if that hell-spawned brother of hers found out? All the gold in the world couldn’t save us from the Dragon!”

  Ready to howl his frustration, Steffan dragged his hands through his hair. “What must I do to get anything done properly? I’d wager you never even saw the bitch.” He swept his arm across the table, sending food and wine flying against the wall with a satisfying crash. “I didn’t pay you to spend the night in some tavern—warm and lazy in your doxy’s arms.”

  Ralph’s cohorts sidled toward the door. “Get back here,” Steffan demanded. “I didn’t tell you you could leave.” They stopped in their tracks, legs aquiver. “Sniveling cowards,” he muttered, turning to Ralph. “Well?”

  “Truth to tell, milord, you haven’t paid us yet.” Ralph smiled—smirked, more like. Steffan’s hands itched at the provocation, but he restrained himself. He wasn’t done with the man quite yet. “But you should,” Ralph continued. “Indeed, milord, though we couldn’t capture the lady like you wanted, we got the job done. She’ll ne’er cause you trouble again.”

  One of the others stepped forward, much to Steffan’s surprise. “Aye, milord. Deader than a haddock, she is. Seen it wi’ me own eyes. Weren’t no help fer it, sir—she attacked us.” He hitched up his breeches and nodded. “Right fearsome bitch, weren’t she, Ralph?”

  Blood afire, Steffan lunged forward and struck him across the face, knocking him to the floor. “How dare you speak so of a noble lady?” ’Twas his right to speak of her however he wished—she was his kin and his equal. But these scum…

  “See here, milord—” Ralph said.

  “Get out, all of you!”

  Ralph drew himself up and stood his ground. “You owe us, milord. ’Tain’t our fault things didn’t go the way you planned. Lady Catrin is dead—go see for yourself if you don’t believe us. ‘Course, by now the wolves’ve likely been at her, but what can ye do? ’Tis too risky for us to be trottin’ through the woods wi’ a dead noble-woman. By the rood, we’d be dead men ourselves fer that.”

  Steffan stared at Ralph’s misshapen hands. “Been caught at mischief before, I see.”

  Ralph held up his hand and wiggled his three remaining fingers. “I have. And that’s why I don’t plan on getting caught again. Be my neck, the next time.” He motioned his man up off the floor. “We killed her, ’tis true, but we lost eight men ourselves. You can’t expect us to take a loss like that for nothin’. We came for our money, and we aim to get it.”

  He’d had enough of these fools. “You’ll get nothing from me until you can prove to me that she’s dead—or bring her to me alive. I’ll not accept that she’s gone until I see her corpse for myself. I’ll pay you then, and not a moment sooner.”

  Cursing, Ralph snatched the gowns off the floor and stuffed them in the sack. “Come along, lads. ’Tis plain his lordship’s in a right foul mood. Be wasting our time trying to make him see sense.” He slung the sack over his shoulder. “You know how to find me, milord, should you change your mind.” Turning on his heel, he led his men out the door.

  Steffan stomped out after them and paused on the landing. “Huw,” he yelled once they’d started down the steps. The soldier crossed the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Get up here.”

  Looking much put-upon, Huw climbed up to join him at a leisurely pace. “Now what, milord?”

  Though tempted to knock Huw back down the stairs for his insolence, instead Steffan motioned him closer. “Find a man you can trust and send him to follow those jackals,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know where they go and who they speak to—as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, milord.” Huw sent him a mocking salute as he left.

  Steffan lingered at the railing and watched his impertinent servant’s slow descent, vowing to light a fire under him at the next opportunity. For the moment he needed Huw, but another chance would present itself soon, no doubt, since Huw irritated him with annoying regularity. “Escort those vermin from the keep,” he called after him. “Don’t let them in again until they bring me what I need.”

  Waving his acknowledgment, Huw fell into step behind the three men as they left the hall.

  More inept bandits he’d never seen! Steffan stormed into his chamber and slammed the door.

  It seemed that no one he hired ever did an adequate job. Something was always lacking, some vital spark necessary to ensure the success of his ventures.

  Perhaps he should take care of his concerns himself. He couldn’t depend upon anyone—his schemes always ended up in ruins.

  Look at this situation! He snatched the wineskin off the floor and drank deeply as he considered how it had gone wrong. Such a simple plan, to abduct Catrin from her meager guard.

  He’d nearly shouted with joy when his spy at Gwal Draig sent word that Catrin
had set out for l’Eau Clair with so little protection. No one there knew she was coming, and Ian wasn’t expected home for another week, at least. Plenty of time to make her pay for the loss of Gillian and l’Eau Clair.

  If only Catrin had minded her own business he would be lord and master of l’Eau Clair now, a powerful Marcher lord. His noble cousin Llywelyn—even King John of England himself—would have danced to his tune. The beautiful Lady Gillian would be his bride, although that didn’t seem such a prize now that he’d come to know her better.

  Still, to hold l’Eau Clair within his grasp would be more than sufficient to compensate for her willfulness.

  And he’d have shown her who was master soon enough.

  Catrin had ruined it all with her concern for Gillian. “I’ve heard that my dear cousin has come to stay with you,” she’d said after Huw had stolen Gillian from her own keep and brought her to Bryn Du. “You must let me visit her.”

  He’d had no choice but to allow Catrin to see Gillian, not without rousing her suspicions. He’d known Catrin was a bold, daring wench, but he’d never have suspected her to be in league with Rannulf FitzClifford. She hated Normans!

  “She is ill, Steffan—let me bring a physician to examine her,” she’d offered.

  Ill! The perfidious bitch wasn’t ill.

  She was pregnant with another man’s child.

  He’d have taken Gillian to wife as soon as she’d been rid of her bastard.

  Indeed, he’d planned to free her of the Norman whelp sullying her womb as soon as possible.

  But Catrin’s “physician” had been Gillian’s lover, FitzClifford. They’d wrested her from him and spirited her away from Bryn Du. His dear kinswoman Catrin, allied with the Normans to spoil his plans.