by Anna Elliott
“It tastes worse. But it will help.”
Trystan glanced up at her again, then tossed the cup back, a convulsive shudder running through him as he swallowed. “Jesus. Next time I’ll stand the headache.”
There was another moment’s silence, and then Isolde said, “Trys, what’s wrong?”
She saw him stiffen, then deliberately relax, his head still tilted back against the wall, his eyes sliding closed once more. His jaw was stubbled by a day’s growth of beard, and he had still a smear of blood on his temple from where he’d wiped his brow the night before.
“What do you mean?”
“I know you. You hate drunkenness. Do you think I don’t remember? Because of—”
Isolde stopped, then forced herself to go on. “Because of your father and what he used to do when he was drunk on ale or wine. And I have never, ever known you to put a friend at risk if you could help it. On the worst day of your life, you wouldn’t do that. You’ve changed, maybe, but not that much. So what is it? Why are you doing this to yourself?”
Isolde thought something passed, swift as a shadow across Trystan’s face. “I—” But then he stopped and shook his head.
They sat without speaking a moment more until at last Isolde said evenly, “Something else I just have to trust you on?”
Trystan started to speak, then stopped. Isolde saw him unclench his hands, and then he shook his head again. Then all at once he sat bolt upright and froze, his gaze fixed on something over Isolde’s shoulder. And, turning, Isolde saw it as well. A roiling black column of smoke, rising from the riverbank beyond the sea of reeds.
Isolde’s blood ran suddenly cold, and she said, her voice sounding strange in her own ears, “The boat.”
“It has to be.” Trystan was on his feet, now, his eyes still fixed on the pillar of smoke, and his face was grim. “The smoke’s coming from the exact spot where we left it. And there wasn’t anything else there that could burn—not to make that much smoke.”
Isolde swallowed. “That means—”
“They’ve found it—whoever ‘they’ are.” Trystan was still a moment longer, then abruptly turned to Isolde. “How much damage would we do to Hereric if we move him now?”
“You think they’ll find us, then?”
“I think if they’ve gone to the trouble of burning the boat, they’re bound to look. And we’re not all that far away. If you tell me it’s death to Hereric to leave, I’m willing to take the chance and stay. But I don’t like the odds on our getting by without being discovered.” Trystan glanced up at the lightening sky. “It’s not even as though it will be night soon. They’ll have all day to search.”
Isolde looked back into the hut. The pale sunlight slanting in through the door was enough that she could make out Hereric, motionless on the sleeping shelf, his broad face gray in the hut’s relative dimness, the bandaged stump of his arm lying atop the blankets. She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know. You’re asking me if moving Hereric now could kill him—and I’ll tell you honestly, I think it could. The shock of last night, and then traveling so soon after—” She stopped. “But then if we’re discovered, he’ll die in any case. We all will.”
She could smell the smoke now, sharp and acrid amidst the more familiar scents of mud and must and damp. Isolde shook her head again, then looked up at Trystan and said quietly, “I don’t know that there is a good choice, here—but I’ll agree to whatever you decide. You know Hereric better than I do. What would he want?”
Trystan pushed a hand through his hair. “Christ’s wounds, make it easy for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Trystan let out his breath. “No, sorry. Not your fault.” He was silent a moment, staring once more across the marsh towards the rising column of smoke. Isolde knew the inner debate he must be holding, but his face gave no sign of it. His gaze was steady and absolutely calm, with the same look she’d seen the night before as they worked over Hereric. And it was barely a moment before he turned. It came to Isolde that he must have faced decisions like this one many times before. So would any man who’d known battle and war.
“I think we should go.”
Chapter Nine
ISOLDE STOPPERED THE VIAL OF hemlock decoction and slipped it into the pocket of her gown, then turned to bend over Hereric once more. He lay slack on the makeshift carrying sledge, and his gaze remained unresponsive, the pupil fixed, when Isolde gently lifted the lid of one eye. Isolde sat back, pushing a lock of damp hair off her face.
They were in a small glade of trees where they’d stopped a short while ago. It was raining, a chill, penetrating drizzle that dripped through the branches above, soaking their hair and clothes; Isolde’s cloak was heavy and sodden about her shoulders, and underneath the outer layer of wool, her gown was growing damp as well.
In a way, though, the rain was a blessing. It was by now nearing midday, and hours since they’d left the abandoned fisherman’s hut, and so far they’d seen no sign of pursuit. They’d met with no one at all, either—not even a stray sheep or goat. Though Isolde had seen, off in the distance, the remains of a burned-out settlement, the roofless huts sticking up like a row of black, broken teeth against the leaden sky. If she judged right, she thought they must be nearing the border of Atrebatia, where the fighting and raiding by Cerdic’s war parties would have been worst. The knowledge made chill prickles run down Isolde’s spine, and kept her turning her head, straining for any sight or sound of alarm. For now, though, even the column of smoke from the burned boat was invisible, as was the river itself, blotted out by the billowing sheets of rain and fog.
“How is he?” Trystan’s voice made Isolde look up to find that he’d come to stand beside her. He’d given up his own cloak for an added covering for Hereric, and his shirt was soaked through, plastered to his skin.
Isolde straightened, stepping back to sit down on a fallen log. Cabal trotted over to settle beside her, and she put one hand on the big dog’s head, grateful for his warmth. “Unconscious—for now, at least.”
Hereric had woken just as they reached the shelter of trees, screaming and trying to throw off invisible attackers, his fevered eyes wild. Isolde had tried to coax him to swallow another dose of the poppy-laced wine, but he’d fought her and then collapsed, retching, onto the carrying sledge. He’d not even recognized Trystan. At last Isolde had found the hemlock in her medicine stores, holding a saturated pad under Hereric’s nose as before until finally he lay still.
Now, looking down at Hereric’s rain-streaked form and remembering his frantic screams and blank, terrified eyes, she felt a lump of ice settle in the pit of her stomach. She concentrated, focusing on Hereric’s broad, ashy pale face. She could still feel the steady, wrenching throb of his pain, but nothing else. No way to tell, she thought, whether he’s only fever crazed or whether the horror of last night has damaged his mind.
Either way, though, he couldn’t stay out in the cold rain, and she looked up. “Trys, where are we—” she began. And then she stopped with a bitten-off cry as a sharp stab of pain bit into her ankle. She looked down in shock, and was in time to see a winding, muddy brown form, patched with a stripe of interlocking diamonds down its back slide off into the underbrush to her right.
With a growl, Cabal made to bound after the snake, and Isolde caught him back just in time. “Cabal, no!” She held him tightly by the collar, and the big dog whined in frustration, then subsided, settling back beside her on the ground.
“Was that—” Isolde began.
Trystan had jerked upright at her cry, his hand moving by reflex to the hilt of his sword even as his eyes found the place where the snake had vanished into a clump of grass. “An adder.” He turned back to Isolde. “Must have had a nest under that log—they don’t usually attack like that. Where did it bite you? Let me see.”
He dropped to kneel at Isolde’s side, and drew his knife to cut her stocking away, baring the place where the snake had struck, just above Isolde’s ankle. Alr
eady the flesh was starting to swell, and was throbbing with a fiery pain that made Isolde bite down hard on her lower lip.
“They’re poisonous—although their bite isn’t fatal. Not usually, at least. Hurts like the devil, though.”
“I know,” Isolde said.
That won another brief smile from Trystan, but then he sobered, tilting his head back to look up at her through the rain. “The poison should be bled out—as soon as possible.”
Isolde nodded. “I know,” she said again.
“Do you want me—” Trystan began, but she shook her head. “No, it’s all right—I’ve done this before.” She’d treated adder bites, though never on herself. But Con’s huntsmen had sometimes come home with snakebites. Not enough to kill, as Trystan had said. But the venom could make a whole arm or leg swell.
Isolde’s vision was starting to shiver, making the sullen gray sky above seem to press down on them and the thick screen of dripping green leaves all around seemed suddenly menacing and close. The forest floor of dead leaves and sodden scrub, too, seemed to tilt on a crazy angle. Beside her, Cabal whined anxiously, butting his head against her arm, and Isolde put a hand on his head again. “It’s all right, Cabal. Good dog. Lie down, now. There’s nothing wrong.”
Cabal obeyed, slumping unwillingly onto the muddied ground at her feet, and Isolde shut her eyes against another stab of pain. Then she asked Trystan, “Can you reach my medicine bag? It’s over next to Hereric.” She gestured to where Hereric lay on the carrying sledge under the comparative shelter of a towering pine tree.
When Trystan had handed her the bag of supplies, Isolde found her roll of clean linen bandaging and knotted one just above the snakebite. The pain was making a clammy sweat break out on her skin, but she studied the puncture marks briefly and then said, “Give me your knife?”
Trystan handed her the blade and Isolde took it, set her teeth, and then made two quick, intersecting cuts across the bite. Blood spurted from the wound, and Isolde looked away, dropping the knife and pressing her hands hard against her eyes.
“Isa?” Trystan asked after a moment. “Are you—”
Isolde focused on drawing first one breath, then another, telling herself that she’d never fainted in her life and wouldn’t now. “No, it’s all right.” She shook her head, her eyes still closed. “It’s just the snake’s venom. I remember hearing it makes you dizzy, sometimes.”
“Here.” Trystan found a jar of mead, broke the seal, and handed it to her. “Drink some—you’ll feel better.”
Isolde took a few swallows, then handed the jar back to Trystan. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.” She looked down at the cut above her ankle. The blood was still running freely, and she squeezed it gently, trying to expel as much of the poison as she could, then bound it up with another clean bandage. When she’d done, she looked up at Trystan, trying to ignore the rivers of fire that were running up her calf and the strange shivering still at the corners of her vision. She must not have made the cuts deep enough to draw all the venom. Or else she’d been too slow and the poison had already spread.
“What are we going to do? Hereric can’t stay out in this rain much longer. He needs a fire—and a roof overhead.”
Trystan nodded. “I know.” He turned, scanning the thick screen of surrounding trees, wiping a trickle of rain from his face. “If you can face going on a bit farther, there’s a place over that way”—he gestured off to the right—“that should do.”
Isolde looked up in surprise, then shut her eyes again as the movement brought a wave of dizziness. “How can you know that?”
“I was in these parts once before—years ago.” Trystan was still squinting off into the distance, frowning as though comparing the trees and rocks that marked the landscape to whatever memory he’d called up from that time. “But I think I can find the place again. It’s an old Roman ruin. And we should be safe there for the night. The Saxon war bands won’t go near anything Roman built. Not even the old Roman roads.”
Each separate drop of rain felt like an icy needle pricking her skin. Isolde was shivering under her wet clothes, trying to keep her teeth from chattering, but she asked, “Why not?”
Trystan shrugged, hunching his shoulders against a sudden gust of rain; the wind was rising, blowing from the southwest. “The old ruins are wearge—cursed, or so the stories go. But I don’t know that I’ve ever heard why or how.” Isolde shivered again, and he held out a hand. “Can you stand?”
With Trystan’s help, Isolde got unsteadily to her feet, but then swayed and would have fallen if Trystan hadn’t caught her around the waist and held her up. She blinked, trying to clear the shivering darkness from her sight, fighting back the waves of nausea that were sweeping through her. A tiny corner of her mind told her that sickness, too, was a common effect of an adder’s bite—though the knowledge didn’t stop the lurch of her insides. “I’m all—” she started to say, but Trystan cut her off.
“No you’re not. Here, sit back down.” He lowered her gently back onto the fallen log, keeping one arm about her shoulders to steady her. “I’m going to hitch Cabal to Hereric’s carrying sledge. He can pull Hereric, and I’ll carry you. It’s not that far.”
Isolde couldn’t summon up the energy to argue. She felt her muscles tense at Trystan’s touch, but was warmer once he’d lifted her into his arms. She closed her eyes, trying to lock the throb of the snakebite away in a far-off compartment of her mind, thinking instead of all the men whose wounds she’d treated who had borne far worse agony than this in silence, without so much as a moan. She could feel the steady beat of Trystan’s pulse under her cheek, and she started to count the beats, trying to imagine herself a boat, floating above the sea of pain. Amazingly, she’d almost drifted off to sleep when Trystan’s voice pulled her back and made her open her eyes.
“Here we are.”
Isolde blinked. The building must, she thought, have been a Roman villa once. Home of some retired commander of the legions of Eagles that had abandoned Britain to its enemies more than an old man’s lifetime ago. Now, seen through the misting rain, the place looked almost Otherworldly, the graceful stone columns cracked and twined with climbing vines, the roof hidden by the spreading trees that had grown up all around.
The building must have been vast, when it was newly built, but only a single wing remained standing. The rest had tumbled into ruins that stretched back and away amidst the trees and underbrush, and what once must have been a carefully laid garden was overgrown with weeds, the paving stones half buried or cracked. At the far end of the remaining wing, the original heavy oaken door hung crookedly on its hinges, and Trystan pushed it open with his foot before carrying Isolde inside. She felt his muscles tense as though in anticipation of what they might find, but the place was ringingly empty, smelling faintly of must and damp leaves.
“Will you be all right here for a bit?” Trystan asked. “I want to get Hereric and Cabal inside.”
Isolde found she still couldn’t summon up the energy to speak, but she nodded, and Trystan set her down so that she could lean back against the wall. Isolde closed her eyes, listening to the sound of Trystan’s retreating footsteps and trying hazily to recall everything she knew of adder bites, to gauge how long might it be before the effects of the poison started to wear off. By morning, at least, she thought, and felt a stab of anger at herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thought, not to have seen the snake. Or not to have made the cuts deeper or let them bleed more.
She forced her eyes open, and looked round the room, dimly lit by the gray afternoon light that filtered through the open door. The walls had once been plastered and whitewashed, though some of the plaster had fallen into crumbled heaps on the floor. And the floor itself must have been beautiful once. It was overlaid, now, by a layer of dust and dirt, but she could see that it was made up of hundreds of colored tiles that formed a pattern like that of a woven basket even underneath the grime.
The door swung open again, and Trystan carried H
ereric inside, Cabal following close at his heels. Trystan had spread a pair of blankets on floor across from Isolde, and now he lowered Hereric onto the makeshift bed. The Saxon man’s head lolled back, his muscles utterly limp, and his flaxen hair was plastered to his face by the rain. Isolde’s throat felt swollen and dry, but she swallowed and forced herself to ask, “Is he all right?”
Trystan nodded. “No worse, at any rate, I don’t think.”
Their voices echoed strangely in the empty space, the room’s high ceiling tossing the sound back at them. Isolde struggled to sit up, biting back a gasp at the fiery throb in her ankle. “He should drink something. I can—”
“That’s all right. You stay there. I’ll do it.” Trystan found a waterskin amidst the rest of the supplies he’d carried in. He unfastened the cap, lifted Hereric’s head and shoulders slightly, and held the spout to Hereric’s mouth. Isolde, watching from across the room, saw the water run out of Hereric’s slack mouth and down his chin, soaking into his beard.
Cabal padded across the tiles floor to Isolde, settling next to her with an exhausted sigh. Isolde ran a hand down his back, then swallowed painfully again. “He didn’t take any water, did he?” she asked.
Trystan was still facing Hereric, but she saw him shrug. “Maybe a bit. It’s hard to tell.”
He sorted quickly through their supplies until he found tinder and flint, then turned to the center of the room, where Isolde now saw a kind of makeshift hearth had been fashioned from some of the fallen building stones. Cursed the old Roman ruins might be, but they weren’t the first travelers to make camp here. There was no hole cut in the tiled roof above, but the windows were small and set high in the lime-washed walls, and would allow the smoke to escape without letting in the rain.
The heat of the fire Trystan built took the damp chill from the air, and Isolde finally stopped shivering and started to feel warm in her sodden clothes. Cabal, worn out after pulling Hereric’s carrying sledge, was snoring lightly beside her, and despite the pain of the snakebite Isolde started to feel drowsy also, her eyelids heavy and sore. She shook her head, though, forcing herself not to fall asleep again.