A Walk in the Black Forest

by K. A. M'Lady

  Rising, he collected another log to throw onto the fire in an attempt to keep the warmth in the hall so that it would last ‘til morning. He was stiff from sleeping in the chair. Walking to where he dropped his cup of mead, he bent down and picked up the cup from the floor. Setting it on a table, he decided he would try to sleep in the comfort of his bed for the remainder of the night as he turned towards the stairs. He was up two steps when a scream tore through the silence, snaking down his spine in a tingling rush. Taking the stairs two at a time, he ran down the hall to the lady’s chamber, where the screams were coming from.

  Throwing open the door to Gabriella’s room, he saw the servant, Anne, struggling to hold Gabriella’s thrashing form down on the bed. The servant had a cloth in her hand and was trying to cool the lady’s fevered brow to no avail. Though not much larger than Gabriella, the servant’s small limbs fought for the leverage needed to hold her in place, and she was quickly losing the battle.

  “Oh, milord, thanks be to God you are here,” the young girl exclaimed, though her eyes refused to meet his. “She has lain so still for so long, but now the fever comes and she thrashes and moans in anguish. I cannot hold her and cool her at the same time.” The girl’s voice cracked, struggling in vain to hold Gabriella down. Fear and desperation coalesced across the girl’s face in a myriad of details. Most of the castle’s female servants kept their distance from him and the young ones quaked with fright whenever he crossed their path or spoke directly to them, as young Anne did now.

  He knew the rumors surrounding him, knew it was whispered that he had thrown Therese from the cliffs in a jealous rage. He could not convince the servants and peasants that he was not capable of doing such a thing. Most of these people were Saxon and he, along with William, had taken over their lands and killed their Saxon King, along with many of their lords, fathers, brother and sons. There was still much trust to be earned, much fear to be eased, much work to be done.

  Crossing the room in brisk strides, his brow furrowed with annoyance, he quickly pushed Anne aside and gathered Gabriella in his arms. Looking down at the pale, thrashing form in his hands, he ordered Anne, “Get Rosalynn, and be quick about it.”

  “A…ay….aye, milord,” she stuttered as she fled from the room.

  He held Gabriella back against the pillows, her heat scorching him through the linen of their clothes. Her brow was drenched with fever, and the hair near her face hung in wet ringlets. Taking the cloth from the stand near the bed, he dipped it in the bowl of water and wiped the perspiration from her brow. “Hush, Gabriella,” he said quietly.

  She struggled in his arms, clutching his chest and murmuring, “No, Father, please don’t leave me. Mother, where are you? I can’t find you, Mother.” Her pleas were mixed with suffering and loss. “Where have you and Father gone? Please, Mother, please—I’m so alone.”

  Her anguish called out to that weakened piece of his soul. That tiny bit of humanity and compassion that had suffered equally in his own memories of loss and moved him as nothing else could.

  “Damon,” she called weakly, her brow pinching in fear.

  “I am here, Gabriella,” he replied, worry and anger warring within him. “I am here, Cherie, do not fear.”

  “I’m sorry,” she moaned, “so very sorry.”

  “Hush, Cherie, all will be well.”

  “Not my time,” she whispered in horror, clutching him with a strength she could not possess. “Not my time….I must go home,” she pleaded as she collapsed against the pillows.

  Damon wiped the sweat from her brow, the ripple of fear dissolving from her features as though it had never been. He held her, staring into her face as it became the face of a sleeping angel.

  What did she mean by not her time? Perplexed by her comments, he laid her now-still frame against the pillows, her own demons leaving her once more exhausted.

  The flame from the fire burned low, cooling the room. He rose and crossed to the hearth, building its fires back up to keep out the chilling darkness. As he rose and crossed back to Gabriella’s side, her fevered words clung like a portent of evil, an evil that seemed to follow in his wake, an evil that knew his name.

  Moments passed like an eternity as he sat by her side, watching her dreams pass over her features in the glow of the firelight, waiting for Rosalynn to come and relieve him of his watch. Too soon her mumbles returned, snaking through the darkness once more, her exhausted body fighting her nightmares.

  Damon braced himself above her in an attempt to keep her still and keep her wound from re-opening. As though preparing to fight her battles for her, he briefly wondered where the hell Rosalynn had gone to. Damn that woman.

  She entered a short time later, a trail of kitchen boys in her wake. Two carried an immense bathing tub and the others carried large buckets filled with water. Rosalynn appeared calm and serene in the face of the storm.

  Damon was envious of her ability to remain aloof, his own worry and annoyance a knot of frustration in his belly as he forcibly restrained Gabriella’s thrashing body. “What the hell has kept you?”

  She looked at him blankly and made no reply. At her instructions, the tub was placed in the center of the room and filled with a portion of water. She instructed that the fire be built higher and the window be covered with cloth to block out the drafts. She then instructed the boys to leave the remaining buckets of water and shooed everyone from the room.

  Damon still held Gabriella in his arms while he watched as Rosalynn issued orders as formidable as the fiercest of his commanders. He moved as though to lay Gabriella against the pillows and remove himself from the room as well.

  “No, milord, not you,” she said, a smile touching her lips, but not quite meeting her eyes. “Your lady will need you by her side this night. She will require not only your strength, but your perseverance as well.”

  “She is not my lady, Rosalyn,” he replied gruffly, a touch of annoyance straining his voice.

  She made a “tut-tut” sound and swept across the room to the side of the tub. “Remove your tunic, milord, and bring her. We must reduce her fever as quickly as possible. But not too quickly, or the damage will be irreversible and we will lose her.”

  Damon stared at her from his place at the bedside, his lips parted in disbelief.

  “Now, milord, if you wish to save her, bring her to the tub so that we may fight back the hands of death,” she advised.

  He stood for a moment longer, staring at her. He never did like taking orders.

  Rosalynn stared back at him unflinchingly. Raising her brow to him and crossing her arms, she said, “Well, milord, your lady’s life awaits your decision.”

  Grunting his reply, Damon removed his tunic and easily lifted Gabriella’s slight form from the warmth of the furs and carried her across the room. He slowly lowered her to the water, her small body fitting easily in the tub. As soon as the water cascaded over her legs, she instantly came awake and started to scream and thrash in the water.

  Her previous struggles seemed to pale in comparison to the fight she was now displaying. He held her firmly in the tub while Rosalynn continued to slowly add cooler water, all the while listening to Gabriella curse and scream as water cascaded over the tub’s edge, spilling to the floor.

  Amidst the struggles, he managed to lose his grip on her arms, allowing for her small fist to connect with his right eye as she turned to fight her way from the tub. He had managed to regain control of her limbs, but not before he ended up half in the tub with her, his arms braced under her breasts, her wet shift molding to her soft curves.

  Cursing impetuously, he dragged himself from the tub, one leg and the entire top half of his clothes soaked through. Cursing more profusely, Damon held her down as Rosalynn continued to add cooler water. As time passed, there had been no reason to change into dry clothes, for they spent much of the next two nights intermittently putting her in and out of water in an attempt to keep the fever at bay.

  She had spent much of the t
ime cursing, thrashing, begging for her parents, crying for their loss and insisting that she did not belong here. Most of her rantings Damon understood as being caused from the grief of loss. But he could make no sense of her ramblings about time and not belonging in it.

  If she survived the fever, he told himself that he would question her about it when she was well. This thought made him realize that for the first time since he had carried her into his hall, bleeding and wounded, there was finally some hope for her recovery.

  * * * * * *

  Rosalynn tested the warmth of Gabriella’s face as she pulled the blankets up to her chin. They had dressed her in a clean, dry shift. Her skin finally felt much cooler, and had lost some of the grayish tone it had previously taken on. If they could keep the fever from returning, she knew the girl would survive. Turning to Damon from the other side of the bed, she said, “You should get some rest now, milord. I will stay with her.”

  “That will not be necessary,” he replied, his gaze resting on the girl’s sleeping form. “I will stay. If the lady requires your services, I will send for you.”

  Rosalynn stared into the conviction reflected in his weary eyes. Several days’ growth of beard marred his face and the lines from this most recent battle etched his brow. Tired or no, she knew this warrior would stay and protect her from all harm. “As you wish, milord,” she said. Nodding her concession, she bowed and left the room.

  Damon settled into the chair he had placed next to the bed. They had the kitchen boys remove the tub and the buckets from the room and clean the water from the floor. The room was now empty except for him and the sleeping woman lying beneath several layers of blankets and furs.

  He didn’t know what he had done to deserve Rosalynn’s unswerving loyalty, but just now, looking at the quiet visage of Gabriella’s face, he was very grateful for it. Grateful not only for her loyalty, but her skill as a healer as well.

  Damon heaved a weary sigh and raked his hands through his dark locks, causing the curls to lay in an unruly mess upon his brow as leaned his head against the back of the chair. Her breathing was finally normal, and her breasts rose and fell with ease with each breath she took. He watched her quietly for several moments, consideration and wonder rolling around in his tired head. Finally, he closed his eyes and, for the first time in what felt like weeks, slept the sleep of the dead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The morning of the fourth day streaked across the sky in subtle shades of azure blue as Damon woke. “I’m doomed to wake in a chair every time I am in this wretched castle,” he groaned, rolling his shoulder and twisting his neck. Bleary-eyed, he ran his hands over his face and the dark swatch of beard that had grown from several days with little sleep. He looked over to Gabriella’s sleeping form nestled in a pile of blankets and wondered what fate had done to him.

  Stretching his arms above him, he rose and walked to the door. Poised with his hand on the knob, he turned, and like Lot’s wife, glanced one last time at Gabriella, her fire-dark hair spread across the pillows, and want poured through him like the wrath of God. Doomed. I am completely and utterly doomed. He shut the door quietly behind him.

  Crossing the hall to his chamber, Damon wondered for the hundredth time what it was that drew him to her. Why couldn’t he leave her be? Why had he spent the past four nights at her bedside, watching over her like some great protector? He hadn’t been able to protect his first wife. What made him think he could protect Gabriella, let alone have her for himself?

  He threw the door wide and stalked to the table at the center of the room. A waiting glass of mead appeared to be his morning salvation. Not one to normally partake so early in the day, he knew he needed a bit of fortification if he was to get through another day. The lists. A day in the lists and I’ll put her from my mind. Hard work is what I need this day, he told himself assuredly, convinced that that would settle all his unease.

  A brisk knock announced the arrival of his steward, Smedely. Damon had acquired him several years ago at a tournament. The last knight to win took all of the other knight’s belongings, be it his horse, his saddle, his spurs and even his servants. Smedely was one of those servants.

  The man had knowledge of writing and mathematics, and Damon assigned him the managing of his accounts and other such things that a steward would do for their Lord. He wasn’t a sight for the ladies, but he handled Damon’s household accounts well, making sure the fields were planted, the foodstuff stored and the kitchen well supplied.

  “Ah, good, milord, you’ve returned to the land of the living,” he squawked, his voice rasping like carrion eaters fighting for a meal.

  Damon found his voice so annoying that he could not be in his company for long bouts of time. But, he did his job well, which allowed Damon to deal with the protection of his keep, his people and the land that now belonged to William. Damon was a warrior, not a bookkeeper or housekeeper, farmer or the like. So, due to the efficiency with which he handled all that Damon did not wish to deal, his presence was tolerated. “Aye, Smedely,” Damon grunted, throwing back another glass of mead.

  “I took the liberty of ordering a bath for you, milord,” Smedely stated, his mud-brown eyes squinting. Opening the door, two lads carried in buckets of hot water.

  “Later,” Damon bristled. “I’ve more important things to do than wallow around like a woman, bathing at every opportunity.” He gathered up his sword and headed for the door.

  Smedely shook his head, his balding brow creased with disgust. He was used to the fact that his lordship would rather fight in the mud or rain than discuss the household or its accounts, but there were days it grew tiresome. Smedely grumbled about rotting bloody Normans and ordered the boys back to the kitchens.

  Damon met Rosalynn in the hall just as she was to enter Gabriella’s room. He stopped and looked beyond the door to the girl’s sleeping form. He was staring, unmoving, sword in hand, lost in thoughts.

  “Is there something you wish?” Rosalynn asked, her lips straight, but a glint showed in her eyes.

  “No,” he replied, turning to meet her gaze. “Nothing. I’ll be in the lists if you have need of me,“ he grunted and headed down the hall, his boots barely making any noise as he disappeared down the stairs. Rosalynn snorted, keeping her opinions to herself as she entered the room.

  As Damon reached the hall, several of his men were still mulling around, breaking their fast. Grabbing his own husk of bread, a chunk of cheese and skewering a hunk of meat, he headed towards the bailey, bellowing to his waiting soldiers about sauntering around like women when there were skills to be honed and work to be done.

  He reached the inner bailey where his men trained and he reveled in the thought of the next few hours.

  Tanak was waiting for him as he leaned against the castle wall, sharpening his sword. “And so he lives.”

  “Aye,” Damon replied.

  “And how does your lady fare this morning, my friend?” Tanak asked.

  “The lady,” Damon growled, “rests. And if you wish to keep your head about your shoulders, savage, I would keep a civil tongue in the melon you call a head. You begin to sound like Rosalynn.”

  “It appears the dragon’s grown prickly this morning.” Tanak laughed. “Mayhap the beast awoke on the wrong side of the chair?”

  The men in the lists were amazed at the banter. The others held a healthy dose of fear for the Dragon, but the dark Saracen, they kept their distance from completely.

  Tanak continued. “So mayhap you would not mind if I sought her comforts when she is well?”

  Damon growled, his eyes flashing daggers as his jaw began to tick. “Grab your sword, my savage friend, you’ve much to learn this day.”

  Removing their tunics, they met each other in the center of the lists. Their bronzed bodies glowed in the morning light. Damon drew his sword and nodded to Tanak to let the lesson begin. His men watched in awe at the ruthlessness of the fighting dance that they were a witness to.

  “You fight
like my sister,” Tanak stated, ducking a swing for his head.

  “Since your sister fights better than you do, savage, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Damon replied. Each man a master swordsman, their skills beyond compare as they fought in the morning light, honing their battle skills.

  “So tell me, my friend,” Damon asked. “What have you heard of our rebellion in my absence?”

  “There have been some small pockets of plundering in the smaller outlying villages. Sir Richard has sent word that he may be on to their trail,” Tanak told him.

  The onlookers took up their own partners and joined in, filling up the field as the echo of sword meeting sword rang out through the bailey.

  “And what have you learned from our guest?” Tanak sidestepped Damon’s sword, just catching the right side of his breeches at the hip. Reaching down and grabbing the cloth, Tanak held it out for Damon to see. “A bit touchy where the lady is concerned, are you not?” he asked, pointing his sword in Damon’s direction, a smile forming on his face.

  “You seem to be slowing down. Perhaps if you’d stop thinking so much and simply move faster?”

  Tanak laughed. “All right, my friend, I’ll leave you to finish your questioning of her in your own time. Just do not take too long. The rebels are moving, and we do not know why. Nor do we seem to know who is coordinating their efforts. “We do not need them getting too close.”

  “Do not worry so much, I have a plan to get the information I need, as soon as she is well enough to give it to me,” he told him, raising his sword. “Now, if you’re done yammering like an old woman, I believe I have to beat you again today.”

  “You have never beaten me, my friend,” Tanak advised with eyes narrowing and hands gripping his sword.

  Damon gave a short bark of laughter. “And you have never beaten me, so let us get on with this practice.”

  * * * * * *

  The clash of swords rang from the bailey as Rosalynn entered the lady’s room to find her sleeping peacefully for the first time in days. It had been a long bout for the girl, but Rosalynn knew that her journey was only just beginning. Gathering her herbs, she cleaned Gabriella’s wound and put new bandaging on it to keep it from infection, never once waking her.