Immortal Warrior

by Lisa Hendrix

  “What is?” That wasn’t right.

  “Watered wine with herbs to give you ease, my lord.”

  He nodded that he understood, or at least he thought he nodded. His head didn’t seem to move much. “Name.”

  “Merewyn, my lord. And you?”

  “Brandr. Brand.”

  “You are sore hurt, Lord Brand. You must lie still.”

  He lay there a little, listening to her move around until her herbs began to work. Slowly, he located one hand, far, far away at the end of an arm that went on forever, and touched the places where the pain came from. He found bandages, first on his thigh, then his hip, then, after he worked out how to bring his other hand into play, on his forearm.

  He tried his eyes once more and found them slightly less weighty. The room spun before it settled into thatch and beams, thickly hung with bundles of herbs and strings of dried apples and a small bacon, thick with salt. Pig. Ah, yes, the boar. That’s what had left him in this state.

  It must be getting on toward dawn. He needed to get away before the sun found him and the bear found her—wherever she was. He gathered his strength, rolled onto his good side, and pushed himself up. Her herbs weren’t that good. “Nnn, balls that hurts.”

  “What are you doing?” She flew across the room to block him from rising, holding her blue skirts wide before him, as though she were herding ducks. “Stop that. You’ll tear yourself open.”

  “Probably.” He sat there on the edge of the little bed, so wobbly he couldn’t even look up at her. Ducks would likely give her more trouble than he could just now. Ducklings. “Come down here where I can see you.”

  When she knelt, she wore an expression nearly as sour as Lady Alaida at her worst. As jennet-stubborn as the lady, too, he sensed, but there the similarity ended: where the lady’s coloring ran to copper and gold, this woman had walnut hair and eyes that set off skin as pale and creamy as new ivory. He’d have to be more hurt than this not to notice how fair she was.

  “Merewyn, is it? Where am I and how long is it until dawn?”

  “You’re in my cottage in the Aln woods, my lord. Dawn is a little while yet. The sky has not yet begun to lighten.”

  “Good. Help me up.”

  “No, my lord. You must rest here a few days.”

  “You would not like me as a guest. Help me up, I say.”

  “No, my lord.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and used her to lever himself into a better position, in preparation for rising. “It is not for discussion, Merewyn. I must leave.”

  She looked him like he was a madman and waved a hand over him. “Will you go off naked, then?”

  Brand looked down at the blanket, which had puddled across his lap precariously. “This will do.”

  “No, my lord, it will not.”

  He tried to rise, but she put a finger in the center of his chest and pushed him back down as easily as he would have stopped his old grandmother.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he protested. “Help me up.” Instead, she darted across the room, flipped open an iron-bound chest, and began sifting through its contents.

  “I’ll never fit into one of your kirtles,” he grumbled.

  “But you will fit my husband’s old things.”

  So, she was married. Where was her husband, that he would leave her to tend a naked stranger alone?

  She turned, holding out a short tunic of thick wool, a baggy pair of linen breeks, and a worn pair of stockings. “They will be tight, but better than naught. And you can take the blanket as a cloak.”

  It shamed him, taking the clothes of a poor man, but there was no way to refuse them without insulting her. Besides, if he didn’t find Ivar, he might need them at sunset. He let her dress him. “My thanks. I will return them as soon as I’m able.”

  “Keep them,” she said. “I would not have you die with no clothes on.”

  Brand snorted. “I’m not going to die.”

  “I would not wager on that, my lord.”

  “I would,” he said. He held his hand out. “Help me up.”

  “No, my lord. If you cannot rise alone, you have no business out in the woods alone.”

  Brand glowered, but in truth, he couldn’t fault her. She was only trying to help an injured man and didn’t realize what danger she was in. With a grunt he pushed to his feet, swayed and swore a bit, then found his balance.

  “There. That’s not so bad,” he said as he tugged his borrowed breeks up the rest of the way and knotted the ties.

  “You are a terrible liar, my lord. I think I will follow you a little, until you fall over and—”

  “No!”

  She jumped back, startled by his vehemence. “I only mean to be there to help you, my lord.”

  “No,” he repeated. “You are not to follow me. In fact, you will block your door and stay inside until I am well away, and if you hear any strange noises at all, you will remain inside all day. Do you understand me?”

  “No, my lord, I do not.”

  “Then obey me without understanding.” He cast about for some way to make her do what he said. “I command this in the name of the lord of Alnwick. You will stay inside. You will not follow me. Swear it.” He took two steps toward her and roared the order as if he were on the deck of his ship. “Swear it!”

  She flinched as though he’d slapped her, and her dark brows knit in bewilderment, but she nodded. “I swear, my lord. I will do as you say.”

  “Good.” He escaped out the door while he still had legs. “Which way to Alnwick?”

  “Follow the path, my lord. There by the birch.”

  He spotted where the track led off to the east. “You have my thanks for all you have done, Merewyn of Alnwood. Now bar the door.” She hesitated, and he growled at her over his shoulder. “Keep to your word, woman.”

  “Yes, my lord.” With a last, confounded look, she pushed the door shut. The iron bar rang as it dropped into place.

  “Your word,” he repeated one last time, loudly enough for her to hear though the door. Then he turned west, away from Alnwick and into the woods, driven by thoughts of good Merewyn and what would happen if the injured bear wandered back to her.

  The sky had begun to take on the charcoal tinge of night verging on dawn. A single bird chirruped tentatively on a high branch; he had very little time.

  He pushed as fast as his legs would carry him, but it wasn’t fast enough. The sky gradually lightened, more birds sang, and still he was within bear’s-reach of the cottage. Suddenly, a chattering black shape dove at him from between trees.

  “About time,” he muttered, hobbling after the raven. Moments later, he heard horses, and relief flooded through him. “Ivar! Here.”

  “You look like you’ve been eaten by something and shat out the other end,” said Ivo as he rode up. He leaned down to hand over Kraken’s reins and sniffed the air. “Smell like it, too.”

  “Good to see you, too.” Brand started to mount up but realized he would never get his foot into the stirrup. He led Kraken over to a fallen log, hoisted himself up clumsily as Ivo watched with a bemused expression, and slid into the saddle with an oof and a groan. “Come. We haven’t much time.”

  Riding proved barely less painful than walking, but definitely quicker. Brand gritted his teeth and clung to Kraken’s mane like an infant as the horses picked their way through the forest.

  “I found a dead boar a little while ago,” said Ivo after Brand had a chance to catch his breath. “Was that your doing?”

  “Aye.” Brand gave him a brief version of the night’s events as they rode. “She tried to clean me up, but even I can still smell the beast’s filth on me. I think it’s in my beard.”

  “Perhaps it is time for the beard to go.”

  “And look like a Norman?” sneered Brand.

  Ivo rolled his eyes, but let the subject drop. “You know, it’s cold enough that the carcass should be good still. If the wolves haven’t found it yet, Ari can dress
it out and we’ll drag it in tonight.”

  “I will eat its heart,” vowed Brand. He glanced at the threads of gold beginning to paint the clouds. “Let me off here and get the horses well away. The bear will be cross with pain today.”

  Ivo nodded as he looked around for landmarks. “I’ll meet you back here tonight. Don’t wander off.”

  Dismounting brought tears to Brand’s eyes and made the breath catch in his lungs. He shook it off before he looked up at Ivo. “I’ll try, but the bear does what he does.”

  As Ivo disappeared into the forest with the horses, Brand stripped off the loaned clothes and stuffed them into a hollow tree so he could return them to Merewyn’s husband later. He found a good den under a nearby log and crawled in, in the hope the bear would simply stay there, sleeping. He lay there aching and shivering in the cold, happy to be far enough from Merewyn’s cottage, until the sun broke the horizon and the other pain caught him and he roared his agony into the rose-pearl sky.

  CHAPTER 12

  ALAIDA SAT WITH her women after dinner, stewing as she sewed. Her husband hadn’t come home at all last night, not even to ignore her and rest in the hall. She had been trying hard not to think of what that might mean, but such discipline was difficult when her hands were busy and her mind was not, and unfortunately, none of the women seemed very talkative today.

  Left free to wander, her mind followed its most disturbing paths. The longer she stitched, the more disgusted she grew and the more mistakes she made, which made her more disgusted still. She was picking out a seam for the third time when a voice at the door begged her pardon.

  Alaida looked up from her seam and smiled. Here, at last, was something to think of other than him. “Yes, Oswald. What is it?“

  “Did Lord Ivo say anything about going off on a journey?”

  Smile fading, she wove the needle into the cloth and laid the garment aside. “He did not. I assumed he had spoken to you.”

  The marshal shook his head. “I fear not, my lady.”

  “Ah. Well, likely they found themselves nearer to one of the vills than to Alnwick and decided to pass the night.” Pass the night whoring, her mind added, unbidden.

  “That was my first thought, but Sir Ari did not return this morning either.”

  “Really?” The revelation served only to deepen her suspicions. She tried to maintain a dispassionate tone. “I didn’t see him at dinner, but I thought he must have duties elsewhere.”

  “None that he told us, and that is what unsettles me. I would like to send out a rider or two, with your leave.”

  Alaida studied the worried wrinkles between Oswald’s brows, and in them, found her something else to think of. “You are concerned about the Scots.”

  “They are always a concern, my lady.”

  “Aye, but there’s been no word of raids. Truly, I doubt our friends to the north have anything to do with this.” However, Oswald’s caution had served them more than once. “Very well. Send whomever you think best. But I wager they will find my lord and his men sitting comfortably in some hall, with a jar of ale each and nary a Scot in sight.” A jar of ale and a woman each. Or would they simply share one woman among them? The thought made her ill.

  “That is my hope, my lady.” Oswald dipped his head once more and left.

  “I’m sure they are well, my lady,” said Hadwisa.

  “I’m sure,” echoed Alaida, barely managing to avoid a note of scorn. She picked up her sewing again. “Hunting, most likely. I wonder what sort of game they will bring.”

  BRAND HAD ON the clothes the healer had given him when Ivo rode up that evening, and his face showed some color.

  “You look better,” said Ivo as he dismounted. He took a sniff. “You smell just as bad, though.”

  “You’re not so sweet yourself.” Brand pointed at the front of Ivo’s tunic. “What happened to you?”

  Ivo looked down at the blood that stained his clothes. “Ari. Apparently he decided we looked too clean for men who had killed a boar.” He untied the bundle of clothes from behind Kraken’s saddle and handed them to Brand. “Let’s see what he did to yours.”

  “Balls,” said Brand a moment later as he held up his tunic and breeks. Not only had Ari soaked them with the boar’s blood, he’d also hacked ragged holes in places that roughly matched Brand’s wounds and given those places an extra coating of gore. “This was a good, warm tunic! Best I’ve had in years. Give me that bird. I’m going to pluck every feather on his scrawny arse.”

  Ivo chuckled as the raven fluttered off out of Brand’s reach. “Don’t be too angry. He’s right about the clothes. They wouldn’t have looked right, with you that torn up and a dead boar behind us.”

  “Well, I’m not going to put the stinking things on,” vowed Brand. “I’ll keep to what the woman gave me.”

  “We’ll find you something that fits better when we get back. At least put on your boots. Ari didn’t foul them too badly.”

  “Bad enough. Look at this.” Brand pointed to a nasty smear of muck down the side of one boot. “I’ll never get it all off.”

  “If it’s any comfort, he ruined some of his things, too.”

  “Bet he didn’t get blood on his boots.”

  “No, but then, he doesn’t get to boast of killing a boar with his bare hands and a branch.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Brand cheered visibly. He eased himself down on a nearby stump and began pulling his stained boots on, grunting in pain with each tug.

  Ivo watched a moment, glad he wasn’t the one the boar had found, then scooped up Brand’s ruined clothes, bundled them up, and tied them back on Kraken.

  “Lead him over here,” said Brand as he clambered stiffly onto his stump. It took him nearly as long to maneuver himself into the saddle as it had the previous night, and his grunts and groans made it sound nearly as painful.

  “Are you sure you’re good to ride that far?” asked Ivo.

  “Of course.” Brand thumped himself on the chest with a heartiness that belied the pain Ivo had just seen in his face. “I killed a boar with my bare hands and a stick, didn’t I?”

  “That you did, my friend,” said Ivo, and turned Fax toward thicket where the dead boar awaited them.

  ALAIDA HELD SUPPER again that evening, waiting to see if Ivo and Brand would turn up. Their usual time for returning came and went once more, however, with no sign of them, and she reluctantly gave the signal to bring in the food. People were just filling their trenchers when the door burst open on young Tom.

  “They come, my lady. Edric just spied them crossing the orchard, and he says they have large game and that one of them looks to be hurt.”

  He flew back out without waiting. Oswald was up and after him, calling for men and a litter before Alaida could even get to her feet.

  “Bôte,” she began, but the nurse was already snapping instructions. The household scrambled to obey, the meal forgotten, and Alaida was left with nothing to do but hurry outside.

  The gate swung wide as two horses walked out of the dark. Ivo’s mount labored hard, but as it neared, she could see that was only because it dragged a rough sled with some large animal on it. Relief washed over her as Ivo swung easily off his horse. Sir Brand, however, wobbled dangerously in the saddle, and Oswald moved quickly to his aide, calling for the litter-bearers to hurry.

  “I’m not that hurt,” growled Brand. “I just need a hand down and a jar of good ale.”

  “Be careful of his right side,” directed Ivo as Oswald reached up to help him down.

  Brand swayed a bit as his feet touched the ground, but he straightened and shrugged off Oswald’s steadying hand. “I’m fine, I tell you.”

  “Oh, yes, you look quite fine. Since you’re so well, in fact, you may help me inside.” Alaida slipped her arm into Brand’s, and they started slowly off toward the hall. “What happened?”

  Brand jerked his head toward the carcass. “That boar caught me on foot.”

  “A boar!”


  “A huge brute of a boar, my lady,” called Tom from the group clustering around the carcass. “’Twill feed us for days.”

  “Aye, and he killed it with his bare hands and a twig,” said Ivo. His words drew a snort of pained laughter from Brand and a stir of admiration among the men. He fell in beside Alaida, calling back to the men. “Summon the butcher, and tell the cook Sir Brand wants the heart for supper tomorrow.”

  Brand took one look at Bôte’s makeshift sickroom and shook his head. “No bed. A sturdy chair will do me better.”

  Ivo picked up the lord’s chair and plunked it down before the fire. “Here. Sit.”

  Brand gingerly lowered himself down. “Aaah. At last, something with steady legs. I never before realized how often that horse of mine stumbles.”

  “Perhaps you were never before so unsteady to carry, messire,” Alaida pointed out. “Where are you hurt?”

  “Thigh and arm, but the worst is here.” He touched his right side.

  Bôte lifted his shirt and tugged down his braies enough to show the horrific gash that marred his hip, as long as Alaida’s palm was wide and fully two fingers deep, even with the powdered herbs and cobwebs packed into the gap where flesh was missing.

  “Who stitched you?” asked Alaida.

  “Some woman in the woods. Merewyn, she said her name was.”

  “Good. You were far better off with her than you would have been here. In fact, I likely would have sent for her myself.”

  “That’s good to know.” Brand jerked as Bôte probed the edges of the wound with one pudgy finger. “Be gentle there, old woman.”

  Bôte poked another time or two, then laid her palm over the area. “There’s no fever in it. Fortune favored you, Knight, putting you in Merewyn’s hands.”

  “Aye. She did well by me.”

  Alaida studied the wound from over Bôte’s shoulder. She pointed. “I wonder why she put stitches clear out here, where the flesh is barely torn?”

  “There was much blood and it was night,” said Brand, tugging his shirt down. “Likely she couldn’t make out the edges.”