by Speer, Flora
“You are so good to me,” she said, unable to tease any longer.
“I haven’t been good to you at all.” Every bit of humor and warmth drained from his face, leaving his chiseled features stark and his eyes hard and empty.
“I should never have made love to you,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I used you badly, my dear, and I deeply regret it.”
“You regret what we did?” She was so shocked and hurt that she could barely force the words off her tongue.
“Remorse would be a better word,” Quentin said. “Fionna, I know I can never restore what I so heedlessly stole from you. But, on what little is left of my honor after taking your maidenhood, I do swear I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”
“Will you, my lord?” Righteous anger filled her heart, making it impossible for her to tell him the truth of the matter as she saw it – that the only honorable thing for him to do was to keep her by his side and love her, and only her, for the rest of their lives.
“I swear it,” Quentin said again.
His manner was so intense that Fionna’s heart lurched, then started beating even faster. She could tell there was something more Quentin intended to say. She held her breath and waited, hoping, praying....
“Take your hands off my sister!” Janet flew into the tent like an angry eagle, swatting Quentin’s hands away from Fionna’s knee, tugging hard at the shoulders of his tunic to make him stand up. “How dare you come in here without my permission? Was this another of your clever tricks, to have Cadwallon and Braedon lure me away and leave Fionna alone? I am sure you’ve just done her more harm than good.”
“Lady Janet,” Quentin said coldly, “I am fully aware of the harm I have done to Fionna.
“My dear lady,” he said to Fionna in a gentler voice, “I will keep my promise.” Abruptly, he left the tent.
“What promise?” Janet demanded. “What was he talking about? And why are you dressed?”
“I am dressed because I am taking the midday meal with Royce and his friends,” Fionna said. Setting her jaw, she stood up slowly. She discovered it wasn’t as difficult as she had feared. Perhaps her lingering anger at Quentin was providing her with some extra strength.
“That man,” Janet began.
“Do not speak to me of Lord Quentin,” Fionna warned. “Janet, you must stop talking so much and trying to arrange my life. I made my own decisions while you were at Abercorn, and I will continue to do so now.”
“Huh!” said Janet, undaunted by the criticism. “Was it your decision to allow our brothers to attempt to murder you? Did you decide on your own to ride to England in the company of Normans?”
“When I want your comments, or your opinions,” Fionna said, “I will ask for them.”
Leaving Janet gaping at her, Fionna stalked away from her sister and headed for the dining tent. In her weakened state it seemed to her a very long walk, but she trusted to anger and pride to keep her upright and to prevent her from stumbling or fainting.
“I am delighted to have you here,” Royce said, “though somewhat surprised to see you out of bed so soon.” Taking Fionna’s hand he led her into the dining tent, to a folding stool next to his own chair at the table.
Fionna was very glad to sit down. Her back and sides felt clammy and her head was reeling after the mild exertion of walking across the camp. In hope of averting a fainting spell she took a couple of deep breaths before she addressed Royce’s concern over her health. She tried not to look at Quentin, who had entered with Cadwallon immediately after Royce.
“Janet protects me as if she’s a mother hen,” she told Royce. “I am not as seriously hurt as my sister would have you believe. In fact, I am able to ride whenever you decide that your injured men can travel.”
“That can’t be true,” Quentin objected. “You need several days of rest.”
“For once you are right, Quentin.” Janet had followed the men into the tent. “Fionna is still weak, and anyone who observes her for a short time will notice the pain she is suffering.”
“Not pain,” Fionna insisted to Royce. “It’s merely discomfort, and I am sure it will ease as I move. Lying in bed will only make me stiffer. Royce, I think you are eager to return to Wortham, and I am sure Lord Quentin and Sir Cadwallon want to make their reports to King Henry as quickly as possible.” She pretended not to see Quentin’s frown at her formality in using his title.
“If you can ride as far as Clitheroe Castle,” Royce said, “I will arrange for you to stay there until you are completely recovered.”
“How long a ride is that?” Fionna asked.
“One very long day,” Royce said.
“And how far to Wortham Castle?”
“Three days,” Royce answered.
“In that case, my lord, I accept the invitation you once offered to my sister and me, to stay at Wortham until we find a permanent home. I prefer to go directly there, rather than stopping along the way.”
“You will be welcome at Wortham,” Royce told her. “I suspect you still fear your brothers’ long reach – or, possibly, the reach of their friends who remain free.”
“Can you blame me?” Fionna asked.
“Not a bit.” Royce’s smile was warm. “I can promise that you and Janet will be perfectly safe at Wortham.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Fionna didn’t mention what she was sure Royce’s sharp eyes and quick wits had detected, that she’d be glad to have Quentin ride away from Wortham to Windsor, where King Henry was said to be staying. With Quentin gone from her life, perhaps forever, Fionna would be free to make plans for her future. She told herself the sooner she and Quentin parted, the better. He would quickly forget all about her once he was married to his Lady Eleanor. As for Fionna, she intended to busy herself with Janet’s welfare though, at the moment, she was too weak in body and too sick at heart to think any further than that.
“Fionna, you have taken leave of your senses,” Janet declared.
“Why, because I want to get as far from Scotland as I can, and as quickly as I can?” Fionna asked.
“I cannot blame you for that, but I fear you are not strong enough to undertake so long a ride,” Janet said. “Cadwallon, talk to her. You are her friend; perhaps she’ll listen to you.”
“I want her to listen to only one bit of advice from me,” Cadwallon said. “Fionna, if you feel ill or weak during the journey, you are to tell me at once. Do not allow pride or concern for others to influence you. Will you agree to my stipulation?”
“Yes,” Fionna replied promptly. She met Cadwallon’s gaze, understanding that he knew perfectly well she’d have to be half dead before she’d admit she couldn’t continue the journey. She was sure Cadwallon was trying to make it easier for Janet to agree to the plan.
Clearly, Quentin wasn’t convinced. Fionna sensed he was staring hard at her. She refused to look at him. Her heart lay broken in her bosom and she wasn’t going to give him a chance to hurt her further by voicing a concern for her that she knew was generated purely by guilt. She reminded herself that she had willingly joined in their lovemaking. Therefore, the consequences, and the pain of parting, were hers to bear.
“Very well,” Royce said. “We will leave at dawn. Only two of my men-at-arms are injured seriously enough to need to ride in the baggage carts, and I am sure they will be encouraged to learn they are going home.”
Knowing Janet and the men were watching her, all of them alert for any sign of weakness on her part, Fionna made a point of eating heartily. After the meal she spent an hour walking about the camp arm-in-arm with Janet. Later, at the evening meal, she again forced herself to eat well. She went to bed early, saying she wanted to be rested for the morning.
And all the time, for all of that afternoon and evening, she was aware of Quentin’s gaze following her. To prove to him – and to Janet – that she was recovering rapidly, she made herself stand upright when she really wanted to crouch forward to protect her aching ribs. She repeatedly tried to use he
r left arm, hoping thus to strengthen it. Finally, she insisted Janet must change her bandages that night, to save time in the morning, and she made sure that Janet fastened the bandage around her chest as tightly as possible. Fionna reasoned that the support provided by the bandage would limit the pain she was going to have to endure.
“I wish you would reconsider,” Quentin said to Fionna when she appeared early the next day, pale of face and moving slowly toward the horse Braedon was holding for her. She was wearing her old wool dress, and Quentin wondered what it had cost her to thrust her sore arm through the mended sleeve. He recognized bravado when he saw it. Fionna wasn’t as healthy as she pretended.
“It’s too late to change my mind now,” she said. “Everyone else is ready to leave. I won’t delay you.”
“Ah, Fionna.” Quentin shook his head in pity and regret. “At least allow me to help you mount.”
“Thank you, my lord, but Braedon will assist me. You need not trouble yourself over me any longer.”
“How can I not?” he whispered, knowing Fionna couldn’t hear him. She had turned away from him to Braedon. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting him nearby. Doubtless she thought he didn’t care, and he couldn’t tell her how much he wanted and needed her. Cursing himself for a fool, he kept an eye on her as Braedon lifted her into the saddle. He saw how she swayed as if dizzy, before she righted herself to sit with straight back and squared shoulders.
“Stay close to her,” Quentin ordered Braedon as Fionna rode off with Janet beside her.
“Don’t worry, I will,” the squire said. “Quentin, I know it’s not my place to ask—”
“No,” Quentin said sharply. “It’s not.”
“- but all the same, I do wonder about your intentions,” Braedon finished.
“You may wonder as much as you like.”
“I respect Fionna’s courage,” Braedon continued, unfazed by Quentin’s icy manner. “More than that, I’ve become very fond of her. I do not want to see her end as my mother did.”
A harsh retort hovered on Quentin’s lips, until he looked into Braedon’s eyes and saw the sadness there. He didn’t know much about Braedon’s childhood, only that he was a bastard and his mother was dead.
“I do understand your concerns,” Quentin said. “Speak to me again on this subject after I have seen the king.”
“I will,” Braedon promised. “You may be certain that I will not forget Fionna.”
Quentin said no more. He couldn’t say more, not yet.
He did keep a close watch on Fionna, though he also kept his distance. He could tell she was too weak to contend with Janet, who was making no secret of her desire to have Quentin stay as far as possible from her sister. He wasn’t going to put Fionna in the middle of battle between her lover and her sister.
As they had been doing all along during their hasty journey southward, they avoided towns and castles, camping in their own tents at night so they wouldn’t be delayed by an overly gracious host. Royce sent two riders ahead to announce their arrival at Wortham, and to warn his daughter to expect wounded people.
During those three final days Fionna grew steadily paler and quieter, as if she was conserving every bit of strength she possessed. When they halted at noon of the third day and Quentin noted how flushed her cheeks were, he gave up trying to stay away from her. He was too worried to care whether she was still angry with him, or not.
“Are you ill?” he asked. “Do you feel feverish?”
“Of course not,” she said, snapping at him so irritably that she sounded more like Janet than Fionna. “I am merely excited to be ending this interminable journey.”
She turned her back on him, but not before Quentin had seen how unnaturally bright her eyes were.
“I’ve noticed, too,” Royce said softly. “She is at the end of her endurance. Take heart, Quentin; we’ll reach Wortham before nightfall. You can be sure Catherine will take good care of Fionna.”
To Fionna, who was indeed feverish and whose left arm was aching badly, Wortham Castle first appeared as an illusion, its whitewashed stone walls rising out of well-kept farmlands. A river meandered across the fields, providing water for irrigation and for Wortham Village a short distance from the castle, with enough water left over to fill the wide moat surrounding the castle. The evening mist rising off both river and moat added to the fantasy, making the simple houses in the village look like fairy cottages, while the white castle walls, draped in swirling curtains of mist, seemed to Fionna impossibly high and strong.
Though darkness was fast approaching the drawbridge was still down and the gate stood wide open to welcome home the lord of the castle.
Through the burning fever that was beginning to envelop her mind as well as her body, Fionna heard cheering and shouts of greeting as Royce and his company clattered across the drawbridge and into the bailey. But even then they hadn’t reached their final destination. They rode through a second gatehouse and into an inner bailey.
“Surely,” Fionna said to Janet, “no one can reach us here to hurt us. Surely, now you are safe at last.”
“It’s so big,” Janet murmured in awe. “We could get lost inside these walls.”
“If you do get lost,” Cadwallon told her, “I will find you.”
Fionna saw light streaming through the open door of the tower keep, and saw a slim, girlish figure emerge.
“Father, I’m so glad to see you!” the girl cried, holding out her arms to embrace Royce as he ran up the steps to her.
“Catherine, my own dear heart!” Royce swung his daughter around, holding her tight and kissing her cheek.
Observing the tender reunion of father and daughter, Fionna’s eyes blurred with tears. Then she was overcome with fatigue, falling, sliding off her horse and too weak to stop herself.
Quentin caught her. Unable to cease crying, Fionna buried her face against his chainmail-clad shoulder, not caring that the metal rings scratched against the still-tender bruise on her cheek. She was aware that Quentin was carrying her up the steps and into the keep. She heard Royce’s words of introduction to his daughter, while in the background Janet uttered worried exclamations and commanded Quentin to put her sister down at once.
“She can’t stand,” Quentin said in sharp response to Janet’s orders. “I don’t know how she was able to ride all afternoon. Catherine, where do you want me to take her?”
“Just follow me,” Catherine responded. “Lady Janet, will you come, too? We are well prepared for your sister, as you will see. I thought you’d want to be near her, so I’ve given you the room next to Fionna’s. You shall have a bath and clean clothes, too.”
Fionna knew when Quentin laid her down on a soft bed. She felt the sudden absence of his arms supporting her, and opened her eyes for one last glimpse of him.
Quentin was already leaving, ushered out of the guest chamber by a squire who was offering to show him to the castle bathhouse. What Fionna saw instead of Quentin was Janet, looking worried, and a beautiful young woman whose red-gold hair, worn in twin braids, was the same color as Royce’s bright locks.
“Lady Catherine,” Fionna murmured weakly, lifting one hand in greeting.
“Have no fear. I intend to take good care of you,” Catherine said. She took Fionna’s hand in her firm clasp for a moment, apparently testing its warmth and the strength of Fionna’s grip.
Though Catherine of Wortham was somewhere between Janet and Fionna in age she acted with such practiced competence that even Janet could not object to the orders she was giving. The room where Fionna lay was quickly lit with candles, to make it bright enough for Catherine to examine her guest’s wounds.
Fionna was aware of her tattered woolen dress being cut from her. Next the bandages around her chest and on her arm met the same fate. Though her mind didn’t seem to be working properly, she knew she was being bathed with warm, lavender-scented water, and she tried to protest that she was strong enough to stand up and walk to a tub for her bath.
> “Lie still and let us help you,” Catherine said kindly, but firmly.
Fionna was surprised that Janet wasn’t fretting and insisting on being the one to care for her sister. Instead, Janet was standing at some distance from the bed, meekly answering Catherine’s questions as to how Fionna had sustained her wounds, and how the wounds had been treated.
“Janet, you have done remarkably well under difficult circumstances,” Catherine said, sounding as if she meant every word she spoke. “I am sure I couldn’t have sewn up this gash as neatly as you did. The trouble is, I fear the sword that slashed Fionna’s arm was dirty. The wound is infected. I’ll have to re-clean it and pack it with healing herbs.
“Drink this, Fionna.” Catherine’s arm was around Fionna’s shoulders, lifting her. A cup of herb-infused wine was pressed against Fionna’s lips. Catherine’s voice reached Fionna from a great distance. “Drink all of it. There’s poppy syrup in the wine, along with a few other herbs to stop the fever and help you to sleep.”
Fionna obediently swallowed until the cup was empty. Before long her thoughts began to drift into strange imaginings. Someone was doing something to her injured arm, something that she knew should have been terribly painful but, thanks to the poppy syrup, it scarcely hurt at all. She was too sleepy to open her eyes to discover exactly what was happening.
Janet was weeping. Fionna tried to rouse herself to comfort her sister, but she lacked the strength to drag herself from her lethargy to speak. Then she heard Catherine telling a servant to take Janet away to another room and help her to bathe and then put her to bed.
No sooner was Janet gone than Quentin was there, holding Fionna’s hand, smoothing back her hair and kissing her brow, promising to return as soon as he could.