Beloved Stranger

by Patricia Potter

  God forgive her for what she was about to do, but she had no choice.

  No longer was she allowed to join the reivers. No longer did she share in the plunder. She raised herbs—a skill her mother had known and used as a servant—and vegetables in her garden. She’d planted a field of oats, but half of the yield went to the Charltons, and she did not have enough to buy seed next year. If there was an early frost she would lose her herbs.

  Since Will’s death, she’d fought to keep their small cottage and Magnus, the horse she had stolen. Will’s horse had died the year before his death, and he had taken Magnus as his mount. Now Audra and Magnus were all she had left of Will, and she would fight to protect both of them.

  Yet she dreaded tonight. Reiving was one thing. It was a way of life on the border. Stealing from the dead was something else. A shudder ran through her body.

  I can do it for Audra.

  I can rob the dead and go to hell for it. For Audra.

  Flodden Field. She’d heard the cannon throughout the evening. She had smelled the smoke that melded into the light mist, turning it dirty and sticky and heavy. She wore her mourning gown, both because it would blend into the night and because she was mourning the loss of part of herself.

  The cart continued to bounce along the trail, then over a field. It took hours traveling this way, where a horse would reach it in a quarter of the time. She longed to be riding Magnus, but the animal—as well as her cottage—was the subject of great conflict between her and Will’s family, and she could not, would not, wave it in the faces of the Charltons.

  She was but a woman, she was reminded readily enough, and not worthy of owning such a mount, even though it was she who had stolen him. In English law it belonged to Will. Nor, according to Will’s family, did she deserve to remain alone with her daughter in a much coveted cottage. She was not a Charlton by birth. It should go to a true Charlton who could farm the land.

  Her one option was marriage. The Charltons had urged her to choose among the bachelors, but they all repulsed her, particularly Cedric, Will’s cousin, who had always consumed her with greedy eyes. Yet she feared Cedric was Thomas Charlton’s choice. And Thomas Charlton’s wishes ruled among the Charltons.

  She would take Audra and flee first.

  But where would she go?

  She had no family of her own. Her mother, now dead ten years, had been the daughter of a physician when she was raped by a noble. When she found herself with child, she threatened to tell the magistrate, the noble laughed at her and said no one would believe her. The next day her home burned with her father inside. She’d been in the woods picking mushrooms with her maid, or she would have been inside as well. They had seen the flames and hurried back, only to see the noble on his horse, watching the cottage burn.

  They’d fled to the border, to her maid’s family, and her mother had taken up service under a different name. She had a knowledge of herbs, but she’d feared using it. She always feared the earl’s son would find her and kill both her and her child.

  Yes, Kimbra knew the power and ruthlessness of nobles.

  She still remembered the pinched look of fear on her mother’s face when a stranger came to the Murray peel tower. Kimbra was thirteen when her mother died, and after her mother’s death, the Murrays employed Kimbra as a maid for their daughter.

  Without a dowry and with a parentage of questionable character, she had little hope of marriage until Will had seen her at a gathering of border families for traditional games. She had been serving tankards of ale when she saw someone beating a horse. She threw the contents of a tankard at the offender, and Will rushed to assist her when the man turned on her. Minutes later, he had smiled at her and declared she would be his wife.

  She smiled at the thought. He’d defied his family to make it happen. He’d even fought her own reservations. While not a noble, he was cousin to the head of the Charlton family, far too fine for a maid.

  The sound of moans and cries erased her smile, as the cart came to a halt. The stench grew stronger. She knew the smell of blood, but that of so many men and horses numbed the senses. Figures, made wraithlike by the mist, moved from one fallen body to the next. The land was smothered with them.

  Cedric rode over to them, handing each woman a large sack and a torch. “Take jewelry and weapons,” he ordered. “Ye might take boots as well or any fine clothing. The English commander has ordered all Scots be killed. If someone is still alive, call for one of the men.” He looked toward her. “Unless ye want to finish him yourself.”

  She ignored the jibe. He had always resented her presence on the raids.

  Her hand dug into the rough cloak she wore and felt the dagger she carried, along with the water flagon.

  She took one of the bags. Cedric started after her.

  She turned. “I wish to do this myself.”

  “I should protect ye. There might be some alive.”

  “You can protect the others. I need no help. I can use a dagger as well as any man.”

  “Ye should not need to. Ye need a man.”

  “I had a man. I wish no other.”

  She turned her back on him and veered away from the others. ’Twas a miserable deed she was doing, and ’twas easier to do it alone. In truth, Cedric made her flinch inside. She had managed to evade his intentions thus far, but he was becoming more and more insistent.

  Neither did she join the other women. There was no glory in what they were doing, and she didn’t want to hear nervous chatter—or worse, excitement over unexpected finds. She knew she would be allowed to keep one or two items for herself, and she intended to make the most of them. She could sell them if she had to leave.

  Torches spread a glow among the field of dead. Bodies sprawled out in any number of positions, and the ground was muddy with blood. She moved quickly between the fallen, looking for rings, a jeweled belt, a coat of mail. Anything of value.

  She’d heard that the Scottish king had been killed. She was sure his body had already been stripped of anything of value, but perhaps those around him would have items of value as well.

  She heard a moan and turned. An Englishman. She leaned over him, and from his wounds knew she could do nothing except offer some water from the flagon she had brought with her. He thanked her with his eyes, and then he died.

  She sat next to him for a moment, feeling hot tears in the back of her eyes. She fought them back. She could not indulge herself.

  Kimbra stood again and renewed her search. There seemed to be little left. Others had already been here and stripped most of the bodies. She had to look under piles of bodies for an item overlooked. She found two rings, several daggers. Each time she took something from a body, she uttered a prayer on their behalf. Perhaps that would mitigate her guilt, find her some forgiveness for what she had to do.

  Kimbra moved on, trying to ignore the stench of the dead, the sensation of spirits moving around her. She stopped, leaned against a tree, trying to breathe normally again.

  A dark figure darted toward her, grabbed her bag. She ran after the fleeing thief who had her night’s work. Kimbra was faster and jerked the thief’s jacket, spinning him around, and grabbing her sack back.

  She’d expected a man. Instead, she looked into the thin face of a woman. She didn’t know her, yet there was something she recognized. Desperation. And stark fear.

  The woman turned to flee.

  “Wait!” Kimbra commanded.

  The woman stopped, turned.

  Kimbra reached in her sack, took out a ring. “Take this,” she said. “Bargain wisely.”

  The woman stared at her. “Why?” she said.

  “You look as if you need it more than me,” Kimbra said simply.

  The woman stared at her, then gave her a brief curtsy. “My name is Mary Armstrong,” she said. “I meant you no harm, but my mon died here, and my bairns ha’ nothing.”

  An Armstrong. A member of the family that killed her husband. Yet this woman was like her. Doing what
she must for her child.

  “Go, Mary,” Kimbra said. “Leave before someone takes that from you.”

  “Thank ye, lady.” The woman turned and ran.

  Kimbra watched her go, then turned back to her work. The stench, the bodies, the sadness overwhelmed her. She bent over and retched. She kneeled there in the mist, amongst the dead. She thought of Will and all the women waiting for the lords to return.

  A keening wail broke over the field. A wife had found a husband.

  God help them.

  She forced herself to stand and renew her search. If she didn’t take what was there, someone else would. She hurried her steps. The first rays of dawn lightened the sky. This was something best done in the shadows of night.

  She started to turn when her gaze detected the slightest movement behind a clump of trees not far away. She wasn’t certain what she’d seen and was about to move on when a barely audible groan came from that direction. Taking the dagger from her belt, she moved toward the sound.

  A man lay still, his body mostly covered by a thicket of dense brush. He had clearly escaped the notice of earlier reivers, since he was still dressed in a finely woven plaid, his upper body covered by chain mail. His legs were bare except for leather boots, and she saw the jagged, open wound on his leg. She set down her bag and stooped next to him. His breath was ragged, but he was alive.

  And a lord. She knew that by his clothing.

  He had multiple wounds. The side of his head bore a wide purple bruise. His arm was sliced, and his leg had been ripped open by some weapon.

  Yet he apparently had dragged himself over here, away from the soldiers and scavengers going from man to man to deliver final blows.

  His eyes opened, and she noticed they were blue. Bloodshot. Clouded with pain and suffering. “Water,” he whispered. “Please.”

  She gave him the flagon. He greedily swallowed several gulps.

  She heard her name called from a distance. She looked at the eyes staring up at her with gratitude. A Scot.

  A Scot was an enemy of her country.

  She knew her duty. She knew she should call Cedric or one of the others. Her duty was to end this man’s life.

  She could not do it. Nor could she call for someone else to kill him.

  He would probably die in any event, she told herself.

  “Thank . . . you,” he mumbled. Then closed his eyes.

  What to do?

  She looked at the man’s leg, which had been torn by a sword. It had stopped bleeding but would probably start again if he was moved.

  Suddenly making up her mind, she struggled to remove his helmet from his head, then the mail. Both would have attracted attention. Under the mail she found a jeweled crest, and she slipped it into the bodice of her dress. Then she set her flagon next to him. He should find it when he regained his senses.

  She covered him with leaves and underbrush. Perhaps he would survive the next day. Then she could return on Magnus and take him back to her cottage. Perhaps he was a great lord and would be grateful. Perhaps he would be her way out of the Charlton hold.

  If he lived.

  “Kimbra!”

  She started at the sound of her name.

  Cedric. And not far away.

  Her heart pounded. He couldn’t find the Scot.

  She finished covering him, knowing that only God could save him over the next day. She couldn’t return until night, and then not until late.

  She leaned down. “Stay still. I will return,” she whispered. “Tonight. Sometime tonight.”

  Then she covered the last of his face with leaves and stood.

  “Kimbra!”

  The voice was nearer. She grabbed her sack and the mail and helmet, then moved swiftly to her right, past several trees, before answering him. Cedric would be pleased with the mail. Even she could see that it was of the finest metal.

  “I’m here.”

  “Where have ye been?”

  She held up her chain mail. “See what I found.”

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes, then reached out for the chain mail.

  She drew it close to her body. “It is mine.”

  “Nay, me lady,” he said mockingly. “’Tis Charlton property.”

  “You should remember that as well. It will not be yourn.”

  His lips turned into a smirk and turned. “Be careful, Kimbra. I have asked to the Charlton for yer hand, and he looks kindly on my suit.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “He wants ye wed.” His eyes bore into her. “The cart is leaving. Unless ye wish to ride wi’ me.”

  Kimbra didn’t. She clung to the chain mail even as she twisted the top of the sack around her hand and lifted it to her shoulder, then made her way between the bodies. She knew she would never forget the stench.

  She also knew she would be back this eve.

  She wondered if the Scot would still be alive then.

  She also wondered why she cared enough to risk her life.

  She only knew she must. This man had tried desperately to live. And if she could save one life in this sea of death, mayhap God would forgive her the other sins.

  Chapter 2

  WHEN the cart arrived back at the Charlton tower, Kimbra added her sack—and the chain mail—to the jewelry and armor and clothing in the center of the courtyard. Well aware that every day she had to prove worthy, she made sure the Charlton noted that she brought more than many of the others. But she kept the jeweled crest hidden in the bosom of her gown, even though it seemed to burn a hole in her chest.

  She was given leave to take one item for her own, and she chose a gold ring. If she was going to participate in thievery, she was going to make sure that at least some small part of it protected her daughter.

  Once all had been collected, she walked to her cottage. Bear ran gleefully toward her. The huge dog, named because he’d looked like nothing so much as a bear cub when he was a pup, stopped at her gown, sniffed the dried blood, and looked up anxiously.

  Engulfed with the enormity of what she’d just done this night, she hesitated for a moment, then leaned down to pet him. “It is all right, Bear.” But he took several steps back and looked around.

  “She will be home soon,” Kimbra assured him. Audra was Bear’s charge as well as playmate.

  She fed the dog some leftover stew, then changed her gown, quickly washing the bloody mourning gown she had worn to the battlefield. She wanted to throw it away—to never look at it again—but every possession was valuable now. She did not have the luxury of destroying a garment. Instead she hung it outside over the branch of a tree.

  Then she fed the chickens and milked the cow. Bess bellowed with disapproval at the lateness of what was usually a morning ritual. Kimbra pacified her with soft words and fresh hay. She then saddled Magnus, leading him from the small stable that housed the two animals.

  It was far into the day now. There was no way she could reach the wounded man until dark. She would need Magnus to bring him back, and a hobbler as fine as Magnus would attract notice.

  Would the Scot even live that long?

  She didn’t know. She did know that the longer he went without attention, the more risk there was of infection. His face haunted her as she walked swiftly down the path. It had been wracked with pain, but his eyes had been as pure a blue as she’d ever seen.

  The image did not leave her as she rode over to Jane Carey’s small hut.

  Jane, a widow who often looked after children, was adored by them all. She was a Charlton by blood and had been permitted to keep her small abode.

  Audra came out the door, and Kimbra slid off the horse and leaned over to hug her. Her daughter had but seven years, and she wriggled with delight.

  “Mater,” she said, holding up her arms for a hug.

  Kimbra gave her one. “My pretty love,” she said. “Did you have a good day? Did Jane make you a sweet?”

  Audra made a face. “Porridge.”

  “Oh dear,” K
imbra said. “I will tell her to make you one tomorrow.”

  “Are you going away again?”

  “Just for a while tonight.”

  Audra looked at her with disappointment in huge blue eyes.

  “When we get back, you can help feed Magnus and Bess.”

  Audra’s face brightened. She loved animals and always wanted to feel useful. Magnus had always been gentle with both Kimbra and Audra. Kimbra had seen Cedric with horses and knew he had a cruel hand—another reason to despise such a match.

  Kimbra would never let him have control of the horse, nor of their elderly cow, which was giving less and less milk. Bess was more like a pet now. Cedric would not hold such sentimentality.

  After telling Jane she would be bringing Audra back this night, she lifted her daughter onto the horse, then mounted herself. Her daughter’s warm body cuddling against hers comforted her.

  She would give her life for Audra. This past night’s work was little enough if it would help keep her daughter safe and fed.

  They reached the stone and wood cottage Will had built for them. Unlike most, it had two rooms as well as a loft. She loved the cottage—the large room with a huge fireplace and the furniture he had built with his hands. It had a second room, which she and Will once shared. Now she shared it with Audra. The loft was for visitors.

  It was not a large dwelling, but it was well built. She’d sewn curtains for the window, and during the spring and summer, she always kept flowers from her garden in several bowls.

  It was hers.

  Audra helped her unsaddle Magnus, or at least Kimbra let her daughter think she helped, handing her the bridle and bit to put away. Together they fed and watered both Magnus and Bess. Then, holding hands, they went into the cottage.

  The day went quickly, though her thoughts continued to wander back to the battlefield, to the Scot so badly wounded. She didn’t know why he preyed so heavily on her mind, except he had been a breath of life on a field of death. Perhaps help would be a modest redemption for what she had done.