by Kim Bowman
“How long has he been like this?” She turned her attention to the thick mass of brawn and muscle hovering nearby, her words infused with a tinge of anger and frustration. How anyone could let a wound get that grotesque without seeking proper care was beyond belief. The man was lucky he hadn’t yet lost his arm.
“We have been riding for five days, perhaps six.”
Brynn shook her head. Any fear she held of these men vanished. Every word seeped with disapproval. “He is severely damaged. He will need close attention for days. This infection is in his blood, and he may yet lose his arm. I do not know if I can mend this. He is a mess.”
“You must.” The man rose to his full height, towering above her. With one step he was nearly on top of her, and he leaned in so close Brynn could see his face. His voice, husky and raw, penetrated the thickness of the air.
Blue.
His eyes were blue — a deep, sapphire blue, like the sea on a summer’s day. Brynn had never before seen such a splendid color. Humbled, she hung her head and whispered, “Yes, sir.”
Her attitude was quite out of line. She’d overstepped her bounds, letting her mouth run away with her again. The sheer size of the Archaean standing before her unsettled her stomach, but something soft reflected in his eyes. “I shall do what I can. I need more light,” she called, transfixed by the unwavering beauty hidden beneath the layers of concern and sadness on the Archaean’s face.
Clearing her throat, Brynn turned to the injured man. She washed the wound’s outer edges, wiping away as much pus and blood as she could. “Magda, I need olive leaves and tea brewed from them. Also, some blackweed and…” She paused, trying to recollect what she had read in her herbalist books. The immense pressure from the Archaean’s gaze flustered her. “And… and some elderflower as well. Yes. And the bark from a pula tree. The brown bark, not the white.”
Magda disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.
With little left to do now but wait, Brynn concentrated her efforts on removing arrow fragments she could find. “This will hurt,” she told the warrior. She dug her fingers deep into the man’s flesh to fish out the largest, deepest piece. The man shrieked and lashed at her before losing consciousness.
She stumbled backward, colliding into the body behind her. The Archaean grabbed her by the arms, steadying her steps. His hands burned her like fire. “I’m so sorry,” Brynn mumbled, pulling away. “Forgive me.”
“No need to apologize.” He released her.
Regaining composure, Brynn checked the man for consciousness. Finding him unaware, she continued her work until he stirred. She dropped each shard she found into a bowl of water. Brynn wiped a bloody hand over her brow then paused to accept the assortment of herbs and tea from Magda when she returned.
“What is this treatment?” The Archaean hovering over her probed her assortment of healing items.
“It will ward off any decay that may be left in the wound. It will help maintain his vitality, as the infection has spread. I will flush out the wound with the brewed tea,” she told him, pouring a bit of the liquid on the wound. “Then I will pack it with the olive leaves and herbs. They must be removed no later than tomorrow’s eve, or it will fester.” After picking out leaves from the tea, Brynn placed them inside the gash with an array of herbs before covering the wound with fresh bandages. “Do not let him use the arm when he wakes, and give him the rest of the tea. He requires rest, but you must remove him from this room. This place will hinder his recovery.”
Turning to her father, she said, “I’m finished. May I go?”
Bertram nodded. Brynn gathered the remnants of her work and bolted for the door.
The sun had risen high during her time in the belly of the manor. Birds chirped cheerful tunes while her horses grazed in the pasture. It was too late in the day to return to the comfort of her bedchamber. Thus, Brynn decided it would be best to continue with her daily activities. After taking a quick bath and changing her soiled clothing, she meandered to the stables to visit with her horses. She trudged up the path to the barn. “Good morning,” she called to a passing servant.
The servant bowed his head and mumbled a hasty reply of, “Morning, milady,” before scurrying off in the opposite direction.
“Hello, beautiful,” she cooed upon reaching the stall of a large brown mare. The horse nickered a cheerful greeting and poked her muzzle over the door, sniffing for a treat. “Silly girl, Nakida.” Brynn pulled open the stall door and slung a lead over the mare’s neck. The horse willingly followed through the barn. After tying the mare to a hitching post, Brynn brushed Nakida’s coat, forgetting the world around her.
Lighthearted, Brynn hummed, switching from one tune to another — whatever her heart desired. She sang of love and romance, and of the rain and dancing. She twirled around Nakida as she worked.
She sang until a crouched figure in the shadows caught her attention. Brynn stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide.
The two stared at each other in silence.
Brynn told her body to run, to seek the safety of the manor, but her legs would not budge. Her heart pounded. A scream stuck in her throat. In one fluid motion, he rose to his full height. His arms hung at his sides, his fingers splayed away from his body.
~~~~
She matched each step he took toward her with one step back.
“Stay where you are,” she warned. Her shoulders touched the mare’s flank — no more room.
“’Tis all right,” he said in his language.
Panic stricken, the golden-haired girl ducked under the mare’s belly to place the horse between them. “Stay away from me!” she cried, throwing the brush at him.
He dodged it with ease and repeated the words, slowly this time. He shook his head in frustration when he realized she could not understand him. The young girl didn’t understand her own language. In recalling her cleansing of his brother’s wound, he realized she hadn’t attempted speaking to him as the Archaeans did. The girl had been raised in this place.
Did she not know what she was?
He paused. “Thank you for helping my brother,” he blurted in the Engel words she understood. The girl clung to the mare’s front legs, trying to get as much of the horse between them as possible. Tears streaked her dusty face — fair skin shone through the dirty smears.
“You’re welcome,” she muttered. He found her eyes and gave her a quick smile.
~~~~
Brynn wiped away a tear, trying to clear her vision. He stared at her with those deep blue eyes and bestowed a lopsided grin. Clean and shaven, he didn’t look as old and mean as Brynn first thought him to be. He was still large as his shadow reflected, but his face hadn’t yet begun to wrinkle. His eyes still twinkled; he couldn’t have been much older than her ten and seven years. Twenty and one, perhaps? Certainly old enough to know better than to sneak up on a lone young maid.
The man peered under the horse’s belly. He paused before speaking, clearly translating the words in his mind. “I’ll not hurt you.” With his fingers, he beckoned her forward. “What are you called?”
“Brynn of Galhaven.”
“I am Marek Coinnich of Cinn Tàile. Now that we know each other, you can come out. I mean you no harm. I just wish to thank you properly.” He tapped the leather pouch tied to his belt, the coins inside clinking against one another.
Brynn edged her way to Nakida’s lead rope. “You have stated your thanks, now leave.”
The sound of footsteps coaxed her attention from the warrior. Someone must be looking for her; she had missed the afternoon meal. Within moments, her father rounded the corner. His face turned a deep shade of scarlet upon seeing her.
“Where have you been, girl? There was the business of your dowry to attend to, regarding the details of your marriage. I looked the fool in front of Julian!” Grabbing her by the arm, Bertram pulled Brynn from behind the horse. His fingernails dug deep into her skin and she let out a cry.
“You ugly wench!”
“Wizen up, girl, and start obeying Julian!” Bertram grabbed her throat with a clenched hand then forced her against the wall so high she could barely touch the floor. “Julian is the richest offer yet, and for some reason he will still have you. He almost changed his mind when he learned of your disappearance, but I managed to calm him. He required your presence, and where were you? Not in this manor!”
Desperate to loosen his grip, she clawed at his hand, gasping for a small trickle of air.
“I should have disposed of you when I had the chance, just like your whore of a mother!” Bertram’s face twisted in disgust before he dropped her, and she slumped on the floor.
Brynn righted herself, sucking in a precious gulp of air and coughing up the burning in her chest. Lacking the strength to run, she staggered away from her father.
“And what do you think you are doing in here?” the earl bellowed at the Archaean.
The man stood rigid, the blue in his eyes piercing through her. “This is a stable, is it not? Might I tend my own mount, Engel?” Fists clenched at his sides.
Bertram pointed a knobby finger at Brynn. “Get your hide back to the manor. See to your duties.”
“Yes, my lord,” she replied.
“And never insult me like that again!”
As Brynn passed her father, Bertram raised his booted foot and kicked her thigh. Brynn stumbled and, losing her footing, careened onto the floor. With her palms scraped and her pride wounded, she picked herself up and scurried from the barn before allowing her tears to fall.
~~~~
Brynn secluded herself to the balcony, wallowing in self-pity while waiting until it was time to tend to her patient. Her thoughts drifted to the warrior in the barn. Marek. He hadn’t seemed as menacing as Archaeans were said to be. To her surprise, he’d treated her as an equal. Perhaps all men were not like her father. Sighing, she wondered if Julian had an ill temper likened to her father’s.
Julian. How could she have been so absentminded to forget the courtship? Her brother, Michael, had arranged for Julian’s transport, along with several other courtiers to stay as guests, a fortnight ago. She had mistakenly lost track of the hour in the barn. Had she deserved such treatment? No. Her betrothed was a gentleman. He was educated and raised properly in Engel society. He would make a fine husband, and she would try her hardest to be a proper wife.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Brynn turned her head toward the thumping but made no attempt to answer the door.
“Milady, are you in?” Magda called before opening the chamber door.
“I’m here,” replied Brynn, watching the people go about their day in the courtyard below. Several carriages loaded with wardrobe trunks waited near the gate. Their guests would be leaving soon; for that, Brynn was thankful. She often wondered about the company her brother Michael kept. The group was a sordid bunch, particularly the young ladies. Just last eve, Brynn had heard them gossiping about her when she passed their chamber.
“Who does she think she is, taking our men like that?” the one named Meredith had said.
“Well, she is very pretty,” another commented. “And she does have a higher ranking title than you.”
“Do not say such things,” Meredith hissed. “Have you looked at her? She is not like us. That hair can only mean one thing. And for Julian to even contemplate a match with her… she must have put some sort of spell on him. Her kind are all like that. Everyone who has been introduced into society knows Julian is mine.”
“I heard he only wants the property from her dowry, and he’ll most likely use her as his whore,” whispered another.
“I will be his respectable wife.” Meredith cackled. “I have a feeling Julian will not be finding her delightful for much longer.”
Magda spoke, bringing Brynn back to the present. “Julian is waiting in the hall. The Archaean is ready for you.”
“Thank you, Magda. I shall be down shortly.” Brynn rose from her balcony seat and took one last look at the courtyard, wishing she were in a carriage leaving on the wind.
The hall buzzed with a fretful chatter when Brynn entered. Whispers of war and the safety of the guests with Archaeans roaming Bertram’s halls floated from ear to ear. Julian conversed with his companions on a nearby settee, sipping wine and looking regal in a short coat and trousers. Flames from the fireplace reflected on polished boots. His feet were crossed at the ankles. Meredith, doting on him as if she were his servant, cast Brynn an evil glare.
Julian turned, his mouth curling up in a constrained smile. “There she is now. My betrothed.”
A man snickered beside Julian. “Awaiting your wedding night, Julian?”
Brynn curtsied to the others before addressing Julian. “If it pleases you, I am ready for your escort.”
“Another glass of this fabulous wine would please me, but I suppose I will make do with your company, my sweetness.” Julian handed Meredith his cup. “Have this filled for my return.” He rose, teetering to one side before finding balance. “Damn good wine!” He laughed, took Brynn by the arm, and led her from the hall.
Magda met them at Michael’s lodge, carrying the tools Brynn needed. The evening sun seared the sky with tawny reds and pinks. Brynn bid Julian farewell and ducked through the entrance. The wounded Archaean was sitting on a stool when she entered, his shoulder propped against the wall.
“You’re looking better,” Brynn commented, setting down the basket. “Come closer.” The man looked to his brother, who translated the words; the warrior shuffled the stool away from the wall.
Brynn sat in an empty chair near her patient. A closer look showed much of the yellow ooze had retreated from the wound. Her treatment had worked well enough and had most likely saved his arm. Brynn peeled away the soiled bandages and tossed them to the floor. Using the tips of her fingers she opened the wound just enough to remove the packing. “It looks grand,” she told him, smiling.
Marek translated and the brother grinned back.
Brynn prepared a poultice in a small earthenware mortar, grinding her precious healing herbs with the pestle as the men watched with rapt curiosity. Once finished, she massaged the thick paste into the wound, gentle as a mother’s touch. “Tell him this will help it to heal on the inside,” she instructed Marek.
Never having sewn a man before, she took a long breath to steady her nerves before digging through her goods for her horsehair and bone needle. Her hands shook as she tried to thread the needle and missed once, twice… three times. The injured man watched her uneasily, furthering her nervousness. She gave the needle and hair one last attempt before Magda huffed, took it from Brynn’s twitching fingers, and threaded it for her.
Finally, she was ready to begin. The warrior sat quite a bit higher and at an odd angle. She stood to pinch the skin together, but it wouldn’t close properly. She rotated him to one side and started again but stopped when she realized her torso blocked what little light she had. Frustrated, she pushed a loose curl from her brow. How could she explain in what position she needed him in if she couldn’t decide herself? Unable to communicate, she acted on impulse and tugged the Archaean to her lap so his shoulder was directly in view.
Michael lunged toward Brynn. She briefly turned her attentions toward him and the argument that ensued behind her but continued her ministrations despite the two warriors stepping from the shadows toward her brother.
With every poke of the needle, the Archaean squeezed his eyes tighter and grit his teeth. Just as she did to comfort her horses, Brynn sang a soft, soothing tune to drown the sound of needle piercing flesh. The room was quiet when she finished. Magda helped wrap fresh bandages over the wound. “He must immobilize the arm for a few days, but he should heal quickly. Pull the stitching out when the skin has fused together. Some clean bandages if it seeps.” Brynn handed the cloth to Marek while the patient inspected her work. Testing his mobility, the man laughed a
nd spoke to her.
“He says you would be most useful to have after battle.”
Brynn looked at the imposing figure in the shadows. “Tell him… thank you.” She wiped her brow with her sleeve before gathering her supplies to leave.
The brothers spoke to each other in the thick brogue of their country, the tone harsh and troublesome. The injured brother pointed at her insistently. Brynn stepped away from her place between the two brothers and sought the door.
With a definite scowl present, Marek turned to Michael. “He wants to know how much for the slave girl?”
Taking hold of her middle, Michael swung Brynn around. “She is not for sale,” he growled. “Get to the manor.” He shoved Brynn through the door, Magda at her heels. The door slammed, leaving them in darkness.
The women held hands, following the stony path toward the manor.
Slave girl? Did they make a habit of selling off their nobility? Uncivilized, just as Julian had warned.
What beasts.
Chapter Two
Uninvited Guests
Brynn’s stomach rumbled, depriving her of much-needed rest. She tried forcing hunger from her mind and concentrating on pleasant thoughts, but still sleep wouldn’t come. She changed positions, rolling away from the fire now dying in the hearth, and tried fluffing her pillow. The most she accomplished was an uncomfortable tangle of limbs and feigned sleep. Images of juicy roasts dripping over the embers refused to depart her thoughts. She should have eaten more at the evening meal instead of smiling at the guests like a fool.
Was it too late to sneak into the kitchen for a snack? The punishment for being caught out of bed — especially with the sudden disruptions — would be strict, but her hunger outweighed a level head. Brynn kicked back her blankets and rose from bed. She snatched her night robe from the nearby chaise before sneaking out of her chamber.
Deciding to brave the darkness rather than risk exposure with a lamp, Brynn felt her way along the wall to the staircase. She took the first few steps with caution until she found her footing, and counted… all thirty-six stairs to the bottom. Crossing to the left, she felt her way to the door leading to the next stairwell. A dim glow from below illuminated her path.