MacFarland's Lass

by Campbell, Glynnis

  'Twas startling. He was unused to being loathed. Particularly by lasses.

  Favored, aye.

  Adored, aye.

  Revered, sometimes.

  Never loathed.

  But then, he'd never shot one of them before. Nor had he threatened to let a lass bleed to death.

  Suddenly he was filled with self-disgust. This wasn't the Rane the burghers spoke highly of—the huntsman who put meat on their table, the friend who always had a spare coin, the lover who never left a lass unsated. Lust and frustration and wrath had turned him into a brute.

  Whether or not he willed it, whether or not 'twas wise, 'twas clear he couldn't simply walk away from the lass. He'd become involved the instant he shot her, committed the moment he carried her to sanctuary. Felon she might be, but he couldn't send her away into the woods to get herself killed.

  Later, he told himself, in a few weeks, when she'd healed, when his moral obligations were fulfilled, he'd deal with her crime. In the meantime, his heart demanded he show her the charity for which he was renowned.

  Her body was stiff with ire, and she glared at him with smoldering eyes that would melt iron. If she continued to despise him, she'd never assent to letting him treat her wound. If he didn't treat her wound, 'twould likely fester. Somehow, he had to regain the trust he'd just destroyed.

  He crouched beside her, raking his fingers through the locks of hair at the scruff of his neck. "Forgive me," he mumbled contritely. "With the English attacks o' late, I'm not myself. I assure ye, mercy is never a burden. I'm glad o' the chance to make amends." He blew out a harsh breath and placed a gentle hand upon her forearm. "I'll see to your wound now, if ye'll allow me."

  She snatched her arm free. "Nae, I will not," she said coldly, staring stonily ahead, her brows slashed downward.

  He blinked in surprise.

  "Begone!" she said. "I don't need ye. I shall have Father Conan fetch me a doctor to attend my wound," she decided, crossing her arms stubbornly over her small heaving bosom.

  He narrowed his eyes. 'Twas clear the young thief didn't fully comprehend her situation. She was in a strange place. She was friendless, as far as he could tell, apparently without coin, and as good as imprisoned here unless her fellow robber Wat returned, if indeed he hadn't abandoned her. From the moment she'd stolen that girdle, she'd put herself in the hands of fate and at God's mercy. He almost pitied her.

  "Lass, do ye not understand? 'Twill be difficult, if not impossible, to find a doctor willin' to…a doctor charitable toward a thief."

  She speared him with an indignant glare. "I'm not a th…" The reply died on her tongue as she read the knowledge in his eyes, assimilating his words and the larger meaning behind them. "Who told ye I was…?"

  "Lord Gilbert has been lookin' for ye."

  She paled. "The sheriff? Here?"

  "Ye're safe for now. He's gone. And he's a God-fearin' man. He won't violate sanctuary."

  But Florie didn't look convinced of that. Maybe now she understood. She was a fugitive of the law with no rights, no sustenance, no wherewithal, nothing but the sheer veil of sanctuary to shield her from her accusers.

  Fresh moisture began to well in her eyes, not tears of rage this time, but desperation.

  Ah, nae, he thought, don't cry. Nothing reduced him to awkward despair faster than a lass's tears.

  "Listen!" he bade her. "I'll protect ye. I've sworn I would. Remember?"

  A drop quivered on the rim of her lower lashes, beneath eyes that looked wide and lost. 'Twas hard to believe that so innocent a face harbored so guilty a felon.

  He rested a placating hand on her sleeve, but she stiffened, so he quickly removed it again. He ran his hand over his mouth, racking his brain for something, anything he could say to change the course of their conversation, to distract her, to keep her from weeping.

  "Maybe…" He studied the half-concealed parchments tucked beneath her knee. She'd been scrawling something with bits of charred wood. "Maybe ye'll show me what ye've been drawin'."

  Her chin trembled, but she wiped away the tear with the back of her hand. "'Tis nothin'."

  "I'd like to see."

  She raised her chin a notch. "Maybe I don't wish to show ye."

  He'd learned enough about Florie from their short time together to know that though she was stubborn, she put a price on everything. He draped her laundered garment over his knee. He decided, perusing her form, that the fawn-colored gown wasn't an enchanted garment, after all. Florie looked just as delectable sitting there in the oversized sack of woad wool.

  "Your gown," he bargained, "for a look at the parchments."

  "'Tis my gown already."

  He lifted a brow. "And those are the Father's parchments." She must have pilfered the pages from the storage room.

  She bit at her lip, considering his offer. "Is the bloodstain gone?"

  "As much as 'twill ever be."

  After a long while, she reluctantly withdrew the pages. "Very well."

  He offered her the garment as she handed him half a dozen pieces of parchment.

  She examined the gown.

  He examined the pages.

  The drawings were expertly done, as fine as the illuminations he'd glimpsed in Father Conan's Bible. But one stood out among the rest. 'Twas a rendering of a pendant, a noble piece, simpler than those she wore, heavy links woven like miniature chain mail. At the bottom hung a dark oval stone, and crowning the top of the oval were branches shaped like the antlers of a stag. 'Twas the piece she'd spoken about, the one designed for him. And 'twas the most extraordinary thing he'd ever seen.

  Guilt shot him straight through the heart. If Florie ever suspected that he now guarded against her escape, she'd likely offer to craft him a noose of gold. He scowled.

  "Ye don't like it," she said flatly, not bothering to look up.

  "Nae," he said, overwhelmed. "Nae. 'Tis brilliant. Magnificent. How did ye…? Ye drew this?" How could a common thief design such a thing? Maybe there was some truth to her claim she was a goldsmith. "Ye could…craft this?"

  She shrugged. "Aye, at my master's workshop."

  He narrowed his gaze. Who was this inscrutable lass? Thief or merchant? Trickster or innocent?

  She must be a craftswoman. No mere outlaw could design such a work of art. Yet she'd obviously stolen Lady Mavis's girdle. It made no sense. Unless she'd pilfered the piece to copy the design. He imagined that the competition between goldsmiths was as fierce as the battle between rival hunters. One had to be an exceptional talent to stand out from the crowd. And the girdle was certainly an exceptional piece. Still, if she'd stolen it…

  Maybe now was the time to convince her to remedy her crime.

  "Listen. Ye're obviously a lass o' great talent. Ye could make a dozen such girdles. Why don't ye simply confess your misdeed and return the piece? I'm sure Lord Gilbert will—"

  "'Tis mine," she said fiercely, closing a possessive hand over the links as if he might wrench it from her. "It belongs to me."

  He frowned. Surely she wouldn't risk her life for the thing.

  "Indeed," he lied, shrugging, "'tis not such a remarkable design. I've seen the like before in—"

  "Upon my faith! Ye've seen nothin' like it in your life," she countered, bristling. "There is nothin' like it."

  "It hardly seems worth the trouble. You're a lass o' some means. Give the lady back her bauble and buy yourself another."

  "I told ye. The piece belongs to me. 'Twas my mother's."

  "Then how did Lady Mavis happen to come into possession of it?"

  "She… bought it."

  He arched a brow at her.

  Florie's gaze dipped. "But she wasn't supposed to buy it. 'Twas a mistake. And I gave her back her coin."

  Clearly the mistake was Florie's, he thought. Regardless of the girdle's origins, even she had to admit Lady Mavis had paid her for it. Florie's only hope for mercy then was to let Mavis have the thing. But that looked to be a long, tough battle…one for wh
ich he must fortify himself.

  He pulled the costrel of ale from his belt, uncorking it and first offering it to her. "Ale?"

  As she reached for it, she intentionally let her fingers close over his. For once, rather than withdrawing her hand, she held it there, meeting his eyes. "I know ye don't believe me, but there are others who were there, who will surely bear witness for me. Ye'll see. I'm no thief."

  Her blind faith left him sick at heart. Witness or no witness, Florie was clearly in the wrong. And she sadly underestimated her enemy. Lord Gilbert's justice would be swift and uncompromising, and his cruel wife would demand punishment to the fullest extent of the law.

  He couldn't bear to tell Florie how hopeless her situation was. He couldn't bear to explain that no one would dare gainsay Lady Mavis, that the word of a goldsmith's apprentice was worthless, that she'd likely march to her death in forty days.

  Most of all, he couldn't bear to reveal that he, Rane, the one man in whom she'd placed her faith, was cursed with the duty of guarding against her escape, a duty he was growing to despise more and more with each passing moment.

  Against all reason and against all wisdom, his heart went out to the young outlaw. Rane began to wonder with a fearsome dread if he hadn't the will to hold Florie hostage, even for his lord.

  Chapter 9

  Florie woke the next morn, shivering violently despite the sun filling the sanctuary. But how could she be cold? Plaids swathed her body, and sweat beaded her forehead. Still, she couldn't stop trembling.

  She lifted her lead-heavy head, far enough to see that Rane no longer slept by the church door. But then, the hour was late. She could tell by the angle of the light that she'd slept far past dawn.

  What was wrong with her? Whatever 'twas, her troubles were multiplied by the urge to relieve herself. She needed to get to the door and outside, with or without Rane's aid, quaking or not.

  She managed to prop herself onto her elbows but noticed at once a thick pressure around her leg, as if the bandage were tied too tightly. She frowned. It hadn't felt that way last night.

  She struggled slowly onto her good knee, fighting a weighty dizziness that enveloped her like a shroud. Then she tried to stand, and everything went black.

  The next thing she saw as she pried open her heavy eyelids was a head of long blond hair draped across her body. Rane appeared to be listening to her chest. 'Twas strange. How she'd come to be lying flat on the floor, she didn't know, and what ministrations Rane practiced were a mystery. She tried to demand an explanation of him, but all that came out was a groan.

  He swung his head toward her. "Florie!" Lunging forward, he took her face between his hands. "Are ye all right? What's wrong? What happened, lass?"

  "C-cold," was all she could manage. "S-so cold." She scowled. But that wasn't the truth. She was hot, sweltering, drenched with sweat.

  "The wound," he muttered. Without asking her leave, he rooted under her skirts to examine her injury.

  "Too t-tight," she scolded him weakly. Lord, where was her strength? Her limbs felt as malleable as molten metal.

  Whatever he saw when he loosened her bandages made him curse most foully. And when he pressed lightly upon the edge of her wound, fiery pain streaked up her leg, making her arch up from the ground with a thin cry.

  "Bloody hell," he mumbled. "Wait here, Florie. Wait. Don't move. I'll be back."

  She caught at his sleeve. She didn't want him to go. She didn't know what was wrong, but if he left her, she'd be alone with the pain and the cold and the fear.

  His fingers clasped hers momentarily. "I'll be gone but a moment. Stay here. Promise me."

  She wondered where he thought she might run off to. She couldn't stand, let alone walk. She reluctantly let her fingers fall from him, and she closed her eyes for what she believed was a brief moment.

  But 'twas full dark when Florie emerged again from her dreamless slumber. A single wan candle burned at her feet, casting the demonic shadow of Methuselah across the stones as the cat skulked past on his midnight rounds.

  Florie's throat was as dry as chalk. And yet she thought she would burst if she didn't empty her bladder soon.

  She remembered now. She'd fainted the last time she'd tried to get up. But how could she have slept the day away? Faith, what was wrong with her?

  She flung out an arm, banging it on the fridstool.

  "Florie?" Rane's whisper sounded, less than a yard away.

  There was no time to be delicate. "I need the privy," she croaked.

  It seemed as if he vanished then, or she must have drifted off, for she awoke to a sudden bang and the splintering of wood. When Rane returned, he bore a great bowl enameled with vines and various beasts.

  She frowned. "Is that…"

  Rane eyed her sternly. "'Tis a jordan."

  She hadn't the strength to argue with him. She barely had the strength to use it.

  For hours afterward, Florie floated between waking and sleeping, recalling only disjointed fragments of the day: the Father bringing fruit tarts, which she had neither the appetite nor the strength to eat, Methuselah sniffing at her wound, Rane chasing him away, a cool cloth bathing her forehead and throat, Rane poking and prodding and pressing upon her wound as if to torment her further, weak ale dribbling down her throat, Rane drizzling her leg with some burning potion… Rane brushing the hair back from her brow… Rane tucking the plaids around her… Rane, Rane, Rane…

  She was growing to despise him more with each passing hour. Every time she was about to surrender to the bliss of unconsciousness, he did something to rouse her again. Usually something unpleasant.

  He lifted her head, forcing her to drink. Or he loosened the neck of her kirtle, leaving her shoulders bare. Or worst of all, he pinched brutally at the tender flesh of her wound. King Henry's gaoler could not have tortured her more skillfully.

  Somehow she managed to drowse, alternately shivering under the plaids and kicking them off when she became too fevered. And by afternoon, despite the agony Rane had put her through, 'twas he who looked worn and weary. Stubble darkened his jaw, and shadows ringed his eyes. He looked gaunt in the yellow candlelight, and the corners of his mouth turned down with grim fatigue.

  The last image she had of him before she slipped into darkness again was in profile. He sat beside the fridstool, one long leg drawn up, his arms draped over it, his head bowed. His long hair fell forward over his shoulders, and his brow was furrowed anxiously. Now and then, a muscle in his cheek would tense. Florie wondered, just before she succumbed to her own ragged slumber, what troubling thoughts disturbed the archer's repose. Perhaps someone tortured him in his sleep.

  Like a nagging mistress, a final brilliant shaft of fading sunlight goaded Rane from his afternoon nap after too few hours of rest. Nonetheless, he sat up wearily, his eyes as gritty and raw as shucked oysters, and shook the clinging cobwebs of dreams from his head. He ran his fingers over his bristled jaw, then back through his snarled hair, not because he cared 'twas tangled, but out of worry. Then he sought out the one who caused him that worry.

  She dozed fitfully, twitching beneath plaids that bunched beneath her chin but bared her legs. Her brow was pale and glazed with moisture, and her eyes seemed sunken into her wan face. Her hair hung in damp strands over her shoulders like black seaweed on a sandy shore, and the breath she drew harshly between her lips sounded strained.

  For two days he'd tended her, mopping her forehead, drenching her thigh in carmine thistle, trying to draw the poison from her festering wound. He'd dozed only briefly, awakening to every hitch in her breathing, every moan she made in her sleep. He'd never forgive himself if she worsened, and so he willingly cared for her, using the herbs he carried and healing skills honed from many a hunting mishap.

  Yet for all his pains, she likely abhorred him. After all, 'twas he who kept her from the peaceful sleep she desired, he who bullied her with stinging elixirs and prodding to leach out the infection. And soon he was sure he'd have to embarra
ss her again with the indignity of helping her with the jordan. He wouldn't blame her if she longed to roast him alive when this was over.

  But he didn't dare soften in his treatment of her. If he hoped to heal her, 'twould be only through battle, brutal and ruthless, her hatred be damned.

  Gray spots danced before his eyes as he arose, and he realized he'd not eaten in nearly a day. The Father had kindly left a pair of Kate Campbell's apple tarts this morn, but when Florie refused hers, Rane had forgotten about his as well. And last evening's supper, Dame Malkin's cabbage skink in a stale trencher, still sat atop the fridstool. He didn't have the stomach for food, even now. Yet he knew he must care for himself to be of any use to her.

  So he devoured the cold skink, washing it down with the watered ale the Father had brought. The apple tarts he saved for Florie. He might not get her to eat cold cabbage, but no lass he knew could resist apple tarts, especially Kate's. Like them or not, she would eat today, if he had to stuff the things down her throat.

  Steeling himself for another night of unrelenting warfare, he pushed up her skirts to examine the loosely wrapped wound. She murmured a weak protest but didn't waken as he sliced through the bandage.

  Her thigh was still warm to the touch, her body fevered, and the flesh around the puncture was yet swollen with infection. The carmine thistle had done as much as it could. 'Twas time for stronger measures.

  His fingers strayed in painful memory to the scar that marked his own flesh in the hollow between his shoulder and his chest. He remembered what needed to be done. He must revive the stoked fire he'd built beside the pond so he could begin boiling water.

  He carefully replaced the bandage and spread the plaids over Florie's limbs. Then he ventured outside.

  The steel jordan Father Conan had finally thought to bring served Florie better as a vessel for boiling water, and for once Rane was glad of the priest's blindness, for if the Father had seen either of his vessels so misappropriated, 'twould have turned his white hair even whiter.