She looked up to find him staring at her. Slowly, he brought one finger up to trace the outline of her jaw. “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said hoarsely.
A primal shudder went through her as her senses heightened. She could smell him—sandalwood mixed with the scents of smoke and sweat.
His gaze had moved to her lips when suddenly a shadow darkened his face. He made an incoherent sound, flicked his gaze away and kicked the horse into a faster gait.
As they flew over the land, uneasiness surged through Siobhan. Was it fear she experienced or something more? She knew so little about him. Yet she instinctively felt at ease in his presence. But did her intuition tell her all she needed to know?
He slowed the horse, then came to a stop as they reached a line of rowan trees. Siobhan drew breath to ask him why, when he held up his hand, silencing her.
He tilted his head as though straining to hear something from the trees before them. A moment later he dismounted and drew his sword. He looked up at her. “Keep riding to the south. Not more than a league away you will come upon Crosswick Priory. At the iron gates, ring the bell and ask for Brother Kenneth, the abbot there. Tell him William Keith has sent you into his protection. He will understand.”
She didn’t move. “Why? What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“We’re being followed.” His gaze moved back to the trees. “De la Roche and his men.”
A flash of unnatural brown appeared among the trees. “What about you?”
He lifted his sword, poised for battle. “I stand a better chance of defeating them without you near to worry about.”
“There are too many.”
“The worst that can happen is that I die.”
“I cannot leave you—”
“Go!” The knight slapped the rump of his horse, sending Siobhan speeding away.
She tried to pull back on the reins, tried to stop the animal’s charge away from his master. The horse continued, regardless of her efforts. A cry of despair wrenched from her lips. She didn’t want to leave him. She feared what de la Roche would do to William—a Templar—if he was captured.
William. Yesterday he was but a stranger. Today her life seemed intimately entwined with his.
She twisted in the saddle, looking back over her shoulder. Agony tore at her heart as a line of men in brown tunics advanced on William. She murmured a quick prayer for his safety as she abandoned the man who would risk his life for her, again.
The horse sped across the open territory as though it knew where it headed. Siobhan held tight to the saddle horn, giving up all hope of steering the beast. It seemed like forever before a stone building appeared in the distance, then grew ever closer.
At the iron gates of the monastery, the horse lurched to a stop. “Good boy, Phantom,” Siobhan breathed, grateful the ride had come to an end. She moved to dismount, then paused as she realized how far away the ground suddenly seemed.
She used one arm to steady herself and she clutched her father’s scroll with the other, then twisted onto her stomach and slid down the horse’s side.
When her feet hit the ground, she raced to the gate and reached for the bell. A peal of sound cut through the air. She was about to pull the rope once more when a robed man appeared. His face was cast in shadow by a dark hood. He paused behind the closed gates. “What may I do for you?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice, as though he were not used to talking.
Had she interrupted this man’s vow of silence? “I’m sorry to intrude, but I was sent here by William Keith.”
“Brother William?” The man slid his hood back, exposing his face. His skin was tan, as though he spent much of his days in the sun. It wasn’t his skin but his eyes that made her stiffen. Black eyes—the color of obsidian—probed hers with an intensity that frightened her.
Her heart raced. “He needs help.”
The man stepped forward and opened the gate. “Where is he?” the monk asked when he spotted William’s horse.
“I don’t know,” Siobhan answered. “We were attacked. He forced me to flee.” She searched inside the gates. “Is there anyone here who we can send to help him?”
“Aye.” His voice held a grim note. “But we would never reach him in time.”
“Should we not try?” She felt as if someone had kicked her in the stomach and knocked the breath out of her. His brow arched. “You care about William?”
“Of course, I care.” She balled her fists at her sides. “He’s in trouble.” She paused before adding, “Because of me. I will not let him die.”
The man’s gaze narrowed. “Brother William is the best fighter I’ve ever known. I’d be more worried about the others, if I were you.” The man stepped back and waved her inside the gates. When she entered the small courtyard, he closed and locked the gates behind her. “I’ll send Brother Amos for William’s horse.”
“You’ll send no one to aid him?” Siobhan pleaded.
He turned his dark gaze on her once more. “Brother William has the grace of God on his side.”
Siobhan flinched. “He’s a monk?”
The abbot nodded. “A warrior monk.”
She frowned, not understanding. “Is he a man of war or a man of peace?”
“Sometimes it takes war to ensure peace.” Brother Kenneth waved her inside the monastery, then led Siobhan to a chamber down the corridor. At the door, he paused for her to precede him. “I shall send one of the brothers up with a meal shortly.” He handed her the lantern. “This should make you more comfortable.”
Siobhan offered her thanks and accepted the light. As she entered the small chamber, she wondered if anything would make her comfortable ever again. Too anxious to sit on the small chair in the corner, she paced the windowless room. The air in the chamber was cool, but the lantern cast ample illumination around the small monk’s cell, making the wood flooring and stark stone walls appear warm.
This was a room meant for silent contemplation. A place to listen to one’s inner voice. It was that inner voice that troubled Siobhan now. William needed her. He would die without help. And yet what could she do? She could not fight. She didn’t know anyone she could call upon for assistance.
Because she’d let her father’s life become more important than her own. She had always wanted a life filled with excitement, exploring new places and experiencing exotic things. But she’d set her own desires aside to support her father while he finished yet one more bit of research, wrote his ciphers in one more document.
She paused in her pacing and dropped her gaze to the scroll in her hands. Supporting him was her duty as a daughter. Wasn’t it?
In the hush of the room, a slow prickle of understanding came over her. Was there a reason she could not be a good daughter and still get something out of this life for herself? Be something more than what she’d allowed herself to be over the course of her nineteen years?
Siobhan moved to the simple cot in the corner and sat down. She set the leather casing containing the scroll on the woolen blanket beside her. Something had to change, because she hated the feeling of absolute powerlessness that swelled inside her now.
Last night she’d lain awake worrying about de la Roche finding them. And as if that hadn’t terrified her enough, a growing anxiety had taken root inside her that she might never understand the importance of what her father had entrusted her with. Siobhan looked at the scroll but didn’t touch it.
She’d always believed that things in her life had happened for a reason. It was how she’d explained her mother’s untimely death. It was how she’d justified the time she spent in isolation with her father. It was that thought that comforted her now. Her father’s abduction and William’s appearance in her life were not just random acts, but parts of a bigger whole.
The hush of the room pressed in upon her. But that larger purpose did not include sitting back and watching others. Siobhan stood. It was time for her to take charge of her life. She scooped up the scroll’s leather case and sli
d it beneath the ropes and the thin heather ticking that made up her bed before heading for the door.
She clenched her fists, remembering yesterday when she had defended herself against William with a hefty branch. Perhaps that skill would help her save him now. With a purposeful stride, she moved down the corridor, back toward the door.
She was no great warrior. She was inadequate to the task ahead. But she would never abandon those who needed her help. William would not suffer alone.
Chapter Six
With Siobhan en route to the monastery, William concentrated on the battle ahead. He gripped his sword firmly in his hands and prepared for the onslaught. Four men attacked without so much as a shout of challenge.
William stayed upright as his sword sank home in the bowels of one warrior, then in the chest of another. Both dropped to the ground, replaced by two more. A horse and rider bore down on him, the morning light at the rider’s back. The horse might not kill him instantly, but it most certainly could cripple him long enough for the other warriors nearby to do the deed.
Dodging the beast, William threw himself aside, rolled and came up with his sword at the ready. De la Roche roared at his foiled attempt. “I’ll have your head, Templar. One way or another,” he goaded.
He brought his horse around for another charge as William continued to defend himself against the half-dozen foot soldiers who advanced upon him. An arrow shot at close range pierced his mail, but William did not register pain. He twisted to the left and drove his weapon into the back of one man, then took the arm off another.
William jerked the arrow from his shoulder and tossed it aside. He grasped one of the men’s fallen swords in his left hand, now fully armed against the enemy.
More men. More swords. More arrows. More horses. How many of them could there be? Too many, his brain registered, as his body started to falter. Judging by the red seeping through his chain mail, they’d wounded him several times. He still didn’t feel the pain, but he knew his body wouldn’t hold up long.
His arms grew heavy. He braced for more, found depths of strength deep inside and continued to fight.
De la Roche came at him again, his horse’s eyes bulging, nostrils flaring. William advanced on the horse as he had during other battles, mounted on his own steed. He stumbled, but he kept pushing himself forward.
Frightened by the flash of steel a hairsbreadth from its eyes, the horse reared, sending de la Roche to the ground.
William mustered all his strength and charged, forcing the men back, forcing de la Roche back. But that one burst of energy cost him. He stumbled again and hit the ground with one knee. His borrowed sword fell to the ground. His arm went numb. His chest heaved. His own sword wobbled in his grip. He held tight. Losing his sword meant losing his life.
De la Roche grinned. “You’ve fought well, but now it’s time to die.”
Suddenly a volley of arrows pierced the doublet of the Frenchman, and cries of anguish filled the air.
William staggered to his feet and stumbled away from the next volley. Hoofbeats sounded behind him. Friend or foe? He braced himself for more. Holding his weapon high, he turned to see a horse and rider bearing down upon him.
William’s chest tightened at the sight of Simon heading toward him. And then he saw the others and went weak with hope and excitement. The air’s cold dampness suddenly seeped into his bones, and pain sizzled along his nerves, but he barely let the sensations register. All he could think about was maybe, sweet Mary, maybe there was hope to survive.
Simon rode straight for him. “Take my arm, you fool.”
William reached out and felt himself being hoisted into the saddle behind his Templar brother.
Arrows continued to rain down on de la Roche’s men as Simon guided the horse away. “Where’s your horse?” Simon asked with a hint of irritation.
“I sent Phantom away with the girl. She’s at the monastery.” William gasped as pain rushed over him, no longer willing to stay buried inside. Battle was like that. It had a way of disguising the pain until the danger was gone. Then, when one’s body relaxed and felt safe once more, pain flowed over one’s being with bitter intensity.
“Hold tight,” Simon said as he kicked the horse into a gallop.
“How did…you know…I needed help?” William forced out the words between waves of agony.
“We still have friends in this land. Friends who would lay down their lives to preserve our cause.” They crested a hill. At the top stood several men on horseback, each bearing a longbow and quiver. Crofters, and men he knew as former Templars. His brethren.
William could only nod at the men as he and Simon rode by. We have friends who will help us. The thought comforted him as he clung to the saddle, trying to keep the pain at bay.
They remained silent during the rest of the journey. At the monastery, Simon dismounted. William slid from the horse’s back. He hit the ground, then stumbled as pain seared him.
Simon frowned. “Just how bad are your injuries?”
“I’ve been through worse.”
Simon’s gaze lingered on the red that covered his tunic. “I know you have.” Simon gripped William’s arm and placed it over his own shoulders, disregarding the look William sent his way. “I’m amazed you can even stand.”
William didn’t comment. He allowed Simon to support him as they approached the gates. Simon pulled the rope attached to the bell.
Before the peal of the bell had fully formed, the gates flew aside and two robed men rushed forward, grasping William by the arms, bearing his weight.
“Tempting death again, are you, Guardian?” the Reaper asked as he hauled William inside the gates of the monastery, addressing him by his Brotherhood name.
Resolved to help William in whatever way she could, Siobhan left the tiny monk’s cell and stepped into the corridor, only to come face-to-face with three men. Two faded from her view as she concentrated on the man between them.
William.
“You survived,” she breathed.
“I can walk on my own.” William stiffened and pulled away from the others. He staggered a half step forward before the men beside him once again draped his arms over their shoulders. William reluctantly relaxed against them.
“This way,” said one of the men holding William upright. Siobhan flattened against the stone wall as they walked past her and to a small room down a long hallway from her own.
Siobhan followed, pausing at the door to see Brother Kenneth pull back the covers of a serviceable cot against the wall. The others laid William’s large body down upon the ticking.
“He’s badly hurt,” one of the new men stated. “Is there anyone here who can attend him?”
“The apothecary is a day’s ride away, and Brother John is visiting his dying father in Aberdeen. There’s no one,” Brother Kenneth said with a frown. “Looks like it’s up to us.”
Siobhan stepped into the chamber. She took a deep breath before she spoke with a calm that belied the maelstrom of fear and doubt that raced through her. “I can help.”
Four pairs of eyes turned to her.
“Spare yourself, Siobhan. These men have seen the wounds of battle before.” Pain reflected in the depths of William’s sherry-colored eyes.
“Brother William, don’t argue with the woman. If she can heal you, let her,” said Brother Bernard from next to William’s side. He removed William’s sword and sheath and his tunic, then unlaced the pieces of mail covering his torso and set them on the floor.
William scowled.
Siobhan ignored him and strode to the cot. “Yes, you are fearsome,” she said with a wry smile. “But you can’t intimidate me.” She knelt beside William. From the amount of blood she could see through the links of his mail, she marveled he survived.
Simon removed William’s hauberk. Gathering her nerve to continue, Siobhan turned to Brother Kenneth. Thank goodness her father had allowed her to read anything in his library and had possessed a multitude of books on the
healing arts. “I’ll need some ale to help dull the pain, as well as hot water, salve, a needle and thread, and strips of clean linen, if you have them.”
“We do.” He turned and left the room.
Siobhan turned back to William just as Simon removed the quilted aketon from William’s chest. She gasped. A multitude of scars and wounds crisscrossed his skin, some fresh, with ragged red edges, some whitened with age.
“A warrior’s life is harsh,” he said, watching her closely. For what? Revulsion? Fear?
She straightened her shoulders. He would see no weakness in her. “You need not apologize. We all have scars, William. Some of us wear them on the outside, others on the inside.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And your scars? Are they inside or out?”
“We aren’t discussing my scars. Yours are the only ones of interest at this moment.”
William’s eyes pinned her in place. She had a sudden terrifying feeling that he could see inside her, see the very scars she talked about.
He reached for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, held fast. “Siobhan,” he said softly. “It’s not weakness to be afraid. Someone else can treat my wounds.”
She ran her tongue along her lower lip and swallowed hard, then slowly lifted her chin. “Nay, I can do this. Please, let me help you.”
He nodded and released her hand.
Mustering all her inner resources, she searched his torso for the deepest cuts.
Brother Kenneth returned a moment later with a mug of ale. He and Simon assisted William to sit up and helped him drink. The tangy scent of the strong spirit lingered in the chamber.
While they helped William lie back down, Siobhan tore the cloth Brother Kenneth had brought into tourniquets. Some of the strips she folded, and when the men moved back from William’s body, she set the folded linen atop the worst of his wounds before she tied strips of fabric around his arm, his upper chest, his shoulder. With a sigh, she sat back. That would help forestall the worst of the bleeding while she sewed each wound.
To Tempt a Knight Page 5