“Should you wait until we get to Hawkwood? We can take better care of it there,” Jarren suggested while probing the place of penetration.
Royce held his saddle for stability. “I am not riding into Hawkwood with an arrow protruding from my shoulder. If you do not want to pull it out, I will do it myself.”
Jarren broke the tip from the arrow, tossing it to the ground, and went to his horse where he pulled a piece of cloth from his pack. He returned to Royce and handed the cloth to him. “Hold this.” He grasped the arrow. “’Twill be quick.” As he spoke, he jerked the arrow out.
Royce hissed and pressed the cloth against the wound.
Minutes later, the men on horseback returned.
One of them approached. “Whoever it was is gone.”
“Did you see any tracks?” Jarren looked the men over.
“We found one set but lost them along the river.”
Royce pressed harder against the small round opening to stanch the flow of blood. “’Tis time to head home.”
They mounted and set out for Hawkwood, with Lucas riding behind Jarren this time. The men encircled Royce, making a human shield.
On Royce’s orders, the portcullis remained closed until their return. Jarren sent a man ahead, and it stood open by the time they reached the gate. The horses thundered through the opening and into the busy courtyard.
Within minutes, Royce slumped in his chair with Marjory clucking her tongue while she tended to his injury. “You should not have pulled the arrow out, milord. It does more damage.”
Royce humphed.
The heavy wooden solar door creaked open and light footsteps padded to his chair. He didn’t have to turn to know who approached.
†††
Brithwin gasped when she reached her husband. His shirt lay on the floor covered in blood, and a metallic odor filled her nose. Marjory leaned over him with a bloody rag.
He didn’t turn to acknowledge her. “Looks worse than ’tis, my lady.”
Her heart nearly beat out of her chest. “You would tell me that if you were on your deathbed.”
Marjory’s hand stilled on Royce’s bare chest and she gazed up at her. “He tells the truth.”
Legs still weak, Brithwin dropped to her knees and lifted his hand to her cheek. “What happened?”
“I was hit with an arrow. I will be fine.”
His assurance of his well-being did no good as another tremor coursed through her body. “Who did this?”
His body stiffened. “You know I have enemies. People who would like to see me dead.”
She laid her head on his lap, still clutching his hand to her cheek. How she wished he would touch her, but at least he was not pushing her away. “I am sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be.” His voice was harsh. “’Tis not the first scar I have sustained and will not be my last.”
The door swung open, and Clarice rushed into the solar.
“Oh, Lord Rosen Craig, you poor man.” Her voice warbled as she crossed the room. “Can I do anything to help you? I am good in healing.”
She glanced at Brithwin with a smug look and hastened around to situate herself before Royce. Sniffling, she made a display of wiping the tears from her face. Brithwin rolled her eyes with disgust and sat up.
Royce’s tone softened. “Do not cry, Clarice. Marjory is doing a fine job taking care of me.”
“But you must be in pain. I cannot endure the thought of you suffering.” Her coddling tone sent sharp needles into Brithwin’s nerves.
The woman was a fraud. Why couldn’t Royce see that? Did he not see the bright red pinch marks on her cheeks to bring the false tears? His lack of discernment irritated her even more. “Did you not hear him? He said the ministration Marjory gives him is sufficient. You are not needed here.”
Clarice rose and flounced from the room.
“Lady Rosen Craig,” Royce chastised, “that was uncalled for. The poor woman has been through much with the loss of Bryce and her father. You should be kinder to her.”
Brithwin choked. Kinder to her! She wanted to scream and stomp her feet. It was childish, but she felt certain it would make her feel better. She took a deep breath, released his hand, and rose.
She lifted her chin. “I can see you are in too much pain to think clearly. I will leave and allow Marjory to tend to you.” She marched from the room, wishing she could make her husband see the truth in that woman.
†††
Three days passed since the removal of the arrow, and Royce remained free of fever. Brithwin knelt in the chapel. Thank You, Lord, for keeping him safe and well. She had spent many hours here on her knees, lifting her husband up and praying for guidance. Ready to leave, she tugged open the door and stepped out of the chapel into the warm sunshine. She strolled across the bailey, kicking up dust as she went. Grey, it fit her mood. The bright sun did nothing to lift her spirits.
How Clarice’s deception could take in an intelligent man like her husband baffled her. The woman followed Royce around more than Thor trailed Brithwin. It was obvious she would like to replace her as Royce’s wife. Was she the only one who could see what Clarice wanted? Nay, Marjory and Elspeth both saw it. It was the men who were blinded by Clarice’s beauty.
Nothing had been the same since Royce brought the woman home with him. He had distanced himself from her, and Clarice took advantage of it, vying for his attention.
She could not get through this on her own. God would have to give her the strength to weather this storm, and the wisdom to know how to handle it. Why were things so hard for her? She would climb one hill to see she had a steeper one ahead. Now, more than ever, doubt poked its ugly head up, trying to persuade her God didn’t care. It was a daily battle.
She would do what she must to make Royce happy, and if it meant befriending Clarice, she would do it. But she should use caution. If Clarice truly did mean to push her down the stairs, she was capable of doing anything. The good thing about it was, if Clarice stayed with her, she could not be with Royce.
Brithwin had finished walking the interior of the courtyard when she came upon Royce showing Clarice the mews.
She forced a smile. “I have been looking for you, Clarice.”
“You have?” Clarice glanced at Royce.
“I thought we could spend time together, get to know each other. ’Tis Royce’s wish. Is that not right, dearling?”
Royce lifted one eyebrow. “Aye.”
“I could finish showing her the mews. You have been busy of late. I am sure you have much to do, husband.”
“My lord, I did not mean to take so much of your time.” Clarice’s whine reminded Brithwin of the high-pitched wail of a cat with its tail caught.
The thought made her lips twitch. She bit the inside of her mouth to stifle the smile.
Brithwin stepped around the clawed-up wooden perch and ran her hand down Talon’s smooth feathers. “Dearling, you go attend to your work. Clarice and I shall become best of friends, inseparable. After all, we were practically sisters by marriage, isn’t that what you said?”
Royce gave a slight bow. “Aye. I am pleased to hear. Then I will take my leave of you ladies and your new friendship.”
When Royce disappeared, Clarice pounced on Brithwin like their terrier on rats. “The mews have suddenly lost interest to me,” she snarled at her and stomped away.
Quickening her pace, Brithwin caught her. She would not let her off so easy. “What would you like to do then?”
Clarice stopped and swung around. “Nothing with you.”
Brithwin opened her eyes wide in mock surprise. “You do not wish to be my friend? What else could keep you here?”
“I do not wish to go home and bear my brother’s vindictiveness. If I am not there, he forgets I exist.” Clarice threw the words over her shoulder as she started walking again. “Why do you not go about your own business? You have accomplished what you came to do.”
“I told Royce I would be your compani
on, and that is what I intend to do. I am a woman of my word.” The conviction in her voice belied the twisting of her insides. She would make herself spend time with Clarice. What if she was wrong about her? Brithwin could understand Clarice wanting to get away from a cruel brother.
She had lived her whole life waking up and wondering what kind of brutality her father had in store for her. She’d tried to stay out of her father’s sight so he wouldn’t think about her. Perhaps Clarice and she were more alike than she thought. But didn’t Clarice push her down the stairs? She had denied it from the beginning. Could Clarice have bumped her and not realized it?
Clarice sniffed. “As am I a lady of my word. What could you possibly do that would interest me?”
“I told Marjory I would fix a draught for a young boy in the village.”
Despite the scowl Clarice shot her, Brithwin explained the symptoms of the cough ailing the child and what Marjory had asked her to prepare.
Once they entered the kitchen, Brithwin set to work. Clarice stayed back as Brithwin dug through baskets of herbs, searching for what she needed. It wasn’t long before Clarice inched her way up, making suggestions of a salve to rub on the boy’s chest.
Clarice’s understanding of the different herbs and their uses surprised her. The woman seemed too much about herself to be interested in healing potions for others. As much as she did not want to admit it, Clarice’s knowledge far surpassed her own in the uses of herbs. Only because she cared more for the boy than for her pride did Brithwin ask for her opinion and take her advice.
They had been working together for most of the day before Brithwin allowed herself to relax. She listened intently as Clarice explained some of the less-known attributes of the different herbs. When they had finished what Marjory had asked of her, plus the salve, they went out to the garden, where Clarice continued to explain to her the simple and more complex herbs a healer uses.
The next few days, Brithwin went out with Clarice to the garden, where she taught her a vast amount of information, even so much as drawing pictures of plants that could be found outside the castle walls that would be wise to keep on hand. She learned things she’d always desired to know but never had anyone take the time to show her. She loved to learn and sought to know all of Clarice’s expertise.
As the days passed, she began having doubts as to whether she had misjudged Clarice. She’d been so upset when she’d fallen, it was possible she remembered it wrong. Perhaps Royce was right. He was her husband, and she should trust his opinion. Clarice hadn’t given her any reason of late to believe she was scheming to steal him from her.
In the evenings, if they were not busy sewing, Brithwin taught Clarice to play chess.
“Does my lord play chess much?” Clarice wrapped a long strand of hair around her finger.
“Aye, he likes to relax and play a game in the evenings, when he is able.” Brithwin raised her head but kept her fingers on her knight.
“I never see him play.”
“He has been busy.” Brithwin scanned the board before letting go of her chess piece and completing her move. “He doesn’t usually play with dice.”
Clarice frowned. “Then why did you teach me with dice?”
“’Tis the easiest way to play.”
“But I wish to learn how to play like my lord.” Clarice’s voice came out in her cat-like whine.
Brithwin tensed and drew her brows together. “You play with me, so why should it matter?”
Clarice stared at the pieces on the board. She picked one up and eyed Brithwin, twirling it in her fingers. “I meant nothing by it. I thought, if my lord plays without dice, then most men would play the same way, and I might want to play chess with a man sometime.”
The request seemed reasonable. Brithwin relaxed. “When you have mastered chess with the dice, I will teach you how to play without them.”
Clarice smiled. “Thank you.”
†††
Brithwin sat next to Pater in the chapel the following day. So unlike him, he fidgeted as she waited for him to speak—to tell her why he had summoned her here. His eyes, so kind and gentle, held the familiar pain she’d known her whole life.
His smile faltered. “I have been burdened with this since”—he paused as if unsure of his next words—“your father died.”
Laying her hand on his, she squeezed. “What has troubled you?”
His gaze wandered from their hands to the front of the chapel, where a large metal cross rested on a table. “I fear you will not forgive me.”
Brithwin smiled though he did not see. “I cannot imagine anything that I would ever have to forgive you for. You have always been so good to me—like a father.” She stroked his wrinkled hand. “What is it you wish to tell me?”
Pater turned to gaze into her eyes. “Do you remember when you asked me why your father kept me here? I told you the story was for another day?”
Her insides quivered at the thought of what he would tell her, but she didn’t know why. She nodded. “I remember.”
He let out a breath. “Your mother and I traveled north together. She went to visit her family in Scotland. We met not long before she planned to depart on her trip. I had stopped in her village to share God’s word with the people living there.”
He dropped his head. “I was weak and fell in love with your mother. She had great inner beauty as well as outer. We married quickly so I could take the journey with her as her husband. I thought to travel to Scotland and share the bible there, as the Lollards had not reached so far north.”
Brithwin’s jaw quivered. “Y-you were married to my mother? Then how—”
Pater’s eyes turned glassy. “When we arrived here for shelter and rest, the Lord of Hawkwood took one look at your mother and wanted her. Your mother was ill, so we stayed longer than planned. We hoped she would recover quickly so we could get on our way.
But before we could leave, your father discovered I was a follower of John Wycliffe. A hundred questions raced through her mind, but only one came out. “Why?”
“Why did he really want me dead?” A sad smile lingered on his lips. “So he could marry your mother.”
She tried to grasp all he told her, but things did not make sense. “I know Lollards were killed, so why did my father spare you if he wanted your wife?”
Pater pulled up the collar of his tunic and held his hand on his neck. “He attempted to have me killed.”
Brithwin’s eyes widened. “Attempted how?”
Pater’s hand tightened. “He hung me.”
“Yet you are still here.” Her eyes dropped to where his hand rested on his neck.
“Aye, the rope snapped—a perfectly good rope. When that happened, your father feared God’s hand on me and His wrath should he take my life, so he imprisoned me instead with little food and hoped I would die of sickness as many do.”
Brithwin searched Pater’s eyes. “Why would he think that my mother would marry him?”
“I cannot answer that, child. I do not know the madness that went through that man’s head.”
Brithwin’s mind raced. Things did not make sense. “I don’t understand.”
He looked away. “Have you never wondered why your father hated you so?”
“It was because my mother died giving birth…”
He turned back to her and their gazes met. “Aye. I am your father.”
Brithwin’s heart galloped inside her, stealing her breath and her voice. All these years, nay it could not be. The pounding in her ears matched the galloping of her heart. Strength seeped from her, and she was thankful she was sitting.
“She died giving birth to you. He hated you, and he hated me because we kept him from what he wanted most. Punishing you, he hurt me as well. He always had me informed of your punishments.”
“I—I did not know,” she whispered.
“I longed to tell you, but for your safety I could not. He forbade us to spend time together—my punishment. That is why whenever he f
ound out you’d come to see me, you were punished.
It was too much. She couldn’t sit and listen anymore. The fact that the blood of the man she thought was her father did not run through her veins should make her happy, but instead she wanted to cry and yell. She’d been cheated. Cheated out of a kind and loving father. “I have to go.” She rose on shaky legs.
Pater stood beside her. “I know this is hard, but I have always loved you, Brithwin. When your father forbade me to see you, I told the one man I hoped I could trust—Thomas. I asked him to look after you.”
Brithwin stumbled back. “Thomas knew. Both of you kept this from me? You allowed me to despise the vile blood that flowed through my veins when all the while you knew ’twas not so?” She turned and fled out of the chapel.
†††
Brithwin woke with her head pounding. She had wept late into the night, wishing Royce’s arms were there to comfort her. It was morning and she had slept through the evening meal yestereve, and no one had come to wake her. She rolled to her side and sat up. With the same urgency of the last week, she bolted for the chamber pot. Once again, her stomach rebelled. After pausing to gain her strength, she stood and walked to the bowl sitting on the table to splash water on her face.
Her conversation with Pater came tumbling back. She glanced at her wrinkled clothes, pulled down a gown hanging on a nail, and changed before heading down to the hall. Royce needed to know what she had learned. He would help her sort through it.
Brithwin came down the steps into a mass of confusion. Before her were knights aplenty with Royce pushing his way through them. More accurately, he was seething and throwing them out of the way.
“How can a man find out anything with you packed around like mother hens?” Royce growled.
Brithwin backed up a few steps for a better view over the men’s heads—in the center of them stood a freeman, battered and bleeding. She recognized him as the man who came to the castle daily to see one of the young servant girls.
Royce approached the man and motioned for him to sit.
“Get the man a drink.” He pulled a chair next to him.
Sword of Forgiveness (Winds of Change Book 1) Page 24