My Rebellious Heart

by Samantha James

  It found its mark with a sickening thud, piercing Thorne's left thigh with enough force to surely shatter bone. The impact flung Thorne heavily to the ground. He tried but he could not retain his grip on his sword.

  Shana saw it all through a blur. The man threw back his shaggy black head with an ugly laugh and marched forward. A jolt tore through her as he ripped the spear from Thorne's leg. His face contorted with the effort, Thorne had stretched out an arm, searching frantically for his sword.

  Shana had no conscious recollection of bending to snatch up the dead man's longbow, of plucking an arrow from the quiver and setting the nock into the bowstring. Three steps to the right revealed her target. A tremendous roaring filled her ears, for even now a leering grin twisted dark, bewhiskered features as the last attacker raised the spear high and prepared to finish the job.

  The shaft spun through the air. Her aim was straight and true. Without a sound the Welshman crumpled to the ground.

  She ran to Thorne, shoving the dead man's body aside and falling onto her knees beside him. Her heart beat high in her throat. Thorne's eyes were squeezed shut, his face bleached of all color.

  Mother of Christ, he was dead!

  Chapter 17

  Throrne! Thorne!" She collapsed onto his chest with a dry sob, her hair streaming wildly about them both. "You can't die—" she pleaded in fury and in fear, "you can't!"

  Tears spurted from her eyes. She railed and prayed to the Lord above that Thorne yet lived, but beneath her his body lay utterly still. Mayhap this was His way of punishing her for her many sins; greatest of all had been her avowed hatred for this man. But she had never hated Thorne ... nay, not really ... and if only he lived she would tell him so gladly ...

  The merest breath stirred the strands on her temple. Her head jerked up. Thorne's eyes were dark and glazed with pain, but they were open.

  "Princess,"—the sound was no more than a ragged wisp of air—"if I die, 'tis because you smother me."

  A smile broke through her tears. She threw her arms around him and buried her face against the warm flesh of his neck, her only thought that God had not deserted her after all. The smile vanished when she drew back that she might gauge his injury.

  The whole of his hand was covered with blood where he clamped his thigh. Shana's stomach lurched. Her gaze leaped helplessly back to his. "Thorne— "

  "I know, Shana, you must help me ..." She could scarcely make out the words, but she listened carefully as he bid her fetch the pair of clean hose in his saddlebag. She ran to obey, dropping down to her knees again seconds later. Her hands shook as she wadded the cloth into a thick pad. He took his fingers away and she hurriedly pressed the cloth over the wound.

  "That's the way. Now take another strip and bind it tightly" He spoke between broken, rasping gasps. "As tightly as you can."

  Her fingers were shaking, but she did as he commanded. His eyes squeezed shut as he battled to stay conscious. The pain was crucifying. His thigh felt as if it were burning from the inside out.

  At last it was done. With her help, he sat up, "The horses," he said through lips that barely moved. "Shana, we need the horses."

  Her eyes flew wide. "Thorne, you cannot mean to ride—"

  He shook his head. "Not far. There is a woodcutter's cottage not far ahead. Mayhap he will give us shelter that I might rest for the night. If not, I saw a farm not much further ..."

  Shana had already darted off. Thorne's mount was lazily grazing beneath the shade of a tree. Hers had apparently run off in the melee with their attackers. She quickly abandoned the search and ran back to Thorne.

  "My mount has run off. We'll have to make do with yours."

  He made no acknowledgement as she bent to help him. He flung an arm around her shoulders. His body swayed alarmingly once he was on his feet, but he remained upright.

  Two sluggish steps took him to his horse. Shana's voice seemed to come from very far away.

  The world dipped and swirled sickeningly as he heaved himself onto the saddle. The edges of his vision were fuzzy and gray. It was as if some monstrous unseen beast sought to drag him down— down into a netherworld of silence and blackness. He was only half aware as Shana stepped on a boulder and slid up behind him.

  "That ... way." He lobbed his head to the left. He could manage no more.

  Shana wrapped her arms around his waist and held tight as he slumped forward in the saddle. If he hurtled to the ground she would go along with him, for she could not support his full weight.

  As Thorne predicted, the woodcutter's cottage was not far. Once again she fervently thanked her Maker. Set amidst a deep green tangle of yew trees, the wattle-and daub cottage was stocky and small, roofed with thatch. She dropped to the ground and tugged on his arm. "We're here, Thorne. We're here!"

  By some miracle he levered himself from the horse. Together they staggered to the narrow doorway. Shana thrust it open with her foot and found the cottage deserted. A wash of waning sunlight lit the gloom, revealing a small table, a three-legged stool before the hearth, and a pallet set in a narrow frame against the far wall. It was there that she directed her steps, Thorne leaning heavily on her aching shoulder. He was panting and weak, his breath scraping raggedly in her ear.

  Thorne collapsed on the pallet. Dread clutched her heart, for as short as their journey had been, the effort had taxed him sorely. She scrambled to find a candle and light it before darkness fell full and dark upon the land, dragged Thorne's saddlebag inside, and fetched a small basin of water from the well outside. With a dagger from Thorne's bag, she slit one of her gowns into long strips then hurried back to Thorne.

  Every last vestige of strength had vanished. His complexion was pallid and wan, his lashes feathered dark as soot along his cheekbones. He did not stir when she laid his arm atop his stomach that she might kneel beside him. Using his dagger, she slit his hose and carefully peeled away the sticky layers of cloth from his thigh.

  Fresh blood oozed bright and crimson from a jagged, gaping hole the length of her palm. Staring at the torn, mangled flesh, her stomach gave a mighty heave. She had sometimes helped to tend an ailing villager at Merwen, but a wound such as this was far beyond her experience. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, faintly nauseous and light-headed. A whirling darkness caught at her, threatened to snatch her in its smothering folds.

  Foolish woman, jeered a voice in her head. If you do not help him, who will?

  The voice retreated, like a mouse scurrying into its hole. A rush of guilt poured through her, and then the courage she so desperately needed. She quickly set her hands to the task of carefully wiping away the blood, trying not to notice how streaks of blood soon pinkened the water.

  Easing his knee up, she winced when he let out a groan, but he appeared to have lost consciousness. Probing with painstaking carp, she noted with relief that the spear had not pierced through to the underside of his thigh. With his injury now cleaned to her satisfaction, she bound his leg with strips of cloth. Finished at last, she leaned back against the wall and hugged her knees to her chest, fearing she had done far too little for him but not knowing what else she might do.

  Murky shadows of night stole into the cottage. Shaken, exhausted, and numb, she dropped her head onto her knees. Huddled there on the floor, she slept.

  She woke the next morning with an abrupt start, her senses screaming a warning that all was not right. Pushing aside the wild tangle of hair from her eyes, she crawled to the pallet.

  A sharp cry lodged in her throat. Thorne's hair was plastered to his brow. Beneath her fingers he was hot as a coal. His color was an ashen gray that sent terror winging through her. He might have been dead, were it not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Her hands were trembling so that she could hardly unwrap the bandage.

  The whole of his thigh was one monstrous bruise. The jagged gash in his flesh was fiery and swollen. She hurriedly built a fire in the hearth and heated water to bathe the wound anew. She did the same later
that afternoon, but by then a green-yellow fluid seeped from the torn, blackened edges of the wound.

  A full-blown panic assailed her, for she knew the yellow fluid was a bad sign. She burst outside, her hair streaming behind her like a banner. Thorne's horse flung up his mighty head from where he'd been leisurely munching thick rich grass. Grabbing his reins she threw herself into the saddle and kicked him into a gallop. Thorne had said there was a farm ... pray God there was someone there who might help her.

  Praise the saints, there it was! A slow curl of smoke hovered over the chimney of a rough, thatched cottage. Hogs routed at the dirt in a crude pen made of long branches. Shana offered a hearty thanksgiving as she spied a man standing between two rows of corn.

  Shana halted in a swirl of dust. "Sir!" he cried. Oh, please, sir, my husband is badly hurt ..." She was babbling, pleading as she flung herself from the horse's back and ran toward him. "I beg of you, help me, please, for he is badly wounded ..."

  Beneath the brim of his dusty hat, the man's face was lined and weathered like beaten leather. Shaggy gray brows drew together over faded blue eyes. He caught her as she tripped and pitched headlong into his strong, burly arms.

  "There, now, girl. Tell me what's wrong." A stout, woman with wide, heavy hips and reddish-gray hair had stepped up as well.

  Hoping she made sense, she told them how she and Thorne had been attacked by three men, how they had taken shelter tor the night in the deserted cottage.

  The man patted her hand. " 'Tis my son's," he told her. "He's gone to join Llywelyn's army. He'll not mind that you stay there till your husband is well again."

  Llywelyn's army. Shana floundered. Oh, she dared not tell them Thorne was one of the king's men. "But I don't know what to do for him ... his wound is awful ... his skin burns hot as fire ..."

  Warm arms brought her dose against a generous bosom. "There, now, child, do not fret so," the woman soothed. "I am Maeve and I've ministered to the sick a hundred times during my lifetime." She turned to her husband. "Avery, methinks we'd best hurry!"

  Shana's expression conveyed her thanks. "Bless you, Maeve. Bless you."

  A short time later she knew from Maeve's grave expression that Thorne's condition was as bad as she feared. He drifted in and out of consciousness as he had throughout the day. Though his eyes were sometimes open, he seemed unaware of his surroundings. He stared at Shana as if she were not even there.

  The woman pulled Shana aside. "Poisons have entered into the wound, milady. Your husband will only sicken further if they are not cleansed from the site."

  There was a stabbing pain in the region of her heart. "Dear God," she said faintly. "Will he die?"

  A frown passed over Maeve's ruddy features. "He is young," she said slowly, "and he is strong. But we must act quickly, before the poisons spread through his body. Now, here is what must be done. I will heat his dagger in the fire until it glows. Then you must lay it quick and firm against the wound—"

  "Me!" Her stomach plummeted. The blood drained from her face. "Nay!" she cried. "I—I cannot!"

  "You must." Maeve leveled a stern gaze upon her. "It will hurt like the very devil and both Avery and I are larger than you. 'Twill take the strength of both of us to hold him still."

  Shana swallowed the sick dread twisting its way to the pit of her stomach. She knew Maeve was right yet she was loath to do it! She was trembling inside and out when Maeve pressed the heated dagger into her hand, but prayed for the courage that was so elusive of late. Maeve moved her weight to bear on Thorne's shoulders, while Avery was left to restrain his legs. At a nod from Maeve, Shana shuffled forward. Feeling as though she had stepped outside of herself, she laid the red-hot blade against his flesh.

  Thorne's reaction was instantaneous. His entire body arched and twisted. Maeve and Avery scrambled to hold him taut. Shana bit her lower lip so hard she drew blood. Then, like a giant rush of wind from the mountaintops, he went utterly still and limp.

  She realized he'd again lost consciousness. It was over in an instant, yet to Shana it was an eternity. With a small strangled sound in her throat, she rocked back on her heels and dropped the knife as if it were a serpent from hell. Raising her hands to her face she found her cheeks wet with tears. She hurriedly brushed them away when Maeve beckoned her forward once more.

  The older woman cleaned away the dead, blackened flesh with gentle hands. "It must be cleansed with hot water twice a day," she instructed. She gestured to a small wooden bowl at her knees and strips of clean linen she had brought. "The binding should be changed each time as well—'tis important that you use clean linen. But do not forget to sprinkle this healing powder on before you bind it with the linen. 'Twill draw the poisons from his body and speed the healing." She demonstrated as she worked. "I will also leave a sleeping powder that you may give him so that he will rest more easily."

  The task done, Shana helped the woman to her feet. Thorne twitched restlessly, but he had yet to awaken. There was a faint frown still etched on Maeve's brow.

  "When was the last time you ate?" she inquired.

  Shana's laugh was unsteady. "Do you know, I cannot even remember."

  "Then it has been far too long," the other woman decided briskly. "I will send Avery back with stew and bread, and food enough to last throughout the week. Your husband will not be ready to travel before then." She spied the protest about to spill forth. "Nay, child, I insist. We will not do without, for the Lord has granted us a bountiful harvest this year."

  "Then I convey my deepest thanks that you choose to share it with us." Despite her smile, Shana could not hide her anxiety. She bit her lip and nodded toward Thorne. "You say he will be unable to travel for a time," she said, her voice very low. "The wound is not so bad as you first thought then?"

  "With the proper care, I think his recovery will be a speedy one—and methinks your care of him will be most devoted." The old woman smiled, her gaze lingering on Shana's tear-streaked cheeks. She spoke softly. "You love him very much, don't you?"

  Love? Shana was stunned. Her lips parted. Speech was beyond her.

  Maeve gave a hearty chuckle. "Do not ask how I know, child. There are many times love speaks for itself—it shows in the way you touch him, the way you look at him." She touched the dampness on Shana's cheek. "Why else these tears?"

  Why, indeed ... All at once an aching tightness she did not understand filled her breast. Mayhap she had come to care for Thorne some little bit. But this strange emotion that swirled in her chest was not love. Nay, surely not ...

  She walked outside with Maeve and Avery. There she kissed first one, and then the other.

  "You truly are a saint," she whispered to the woman, drawing back with a tremulous smile. "My husband and I will see you are amply paid for your kindness."

  Maeve shook her head adamantly. "Nay, child. God's work needs no reward."

  Avery returned a short while later with a kettle of hot lamb stew and bread, as well as a sack full of dried beans, fresh vegetables, and salted meat. With the tantalizing aroma of the stew, Shana's appetite returned full blown. She ate quickly then returned to Thorne's side, hoping he would waken so he could eat as well.

  His eyes were closed. He thrashed restlessly on the pallet. His hands plucked impatiently at the laces of his tunic. "Hot," he muttered. "So hot."

  Her knuckles skimmed the beard-roughened hollow of his cheek. She inhaled sharply. Why, he was burning up! She snatched up the dagger and made quick work of slicing the seam of his tunic and pulling it from beneath him. Once again she ran for water, cool water this time to draw the raging fever from his skin.

  Darkness laid its murky veil over the earth once more. Thorne continued to thrash restlessly. Shana pulled up the three-legged stool and thrust back the rough linen sheet, giving nary a thought or care for modesty as she began to pull the wet cloth over his face and naked body. His limbs quested so fiercely she feared he would reopen his wound. She splayed her hands against his chest and soothed him with mea
ningless phrases. If he heard, he gave no sign of it. Indeed, he seemed oblivious to her presence.

  His eyes flew open once. An eerie tingle slithered up her spine. She had the sensation he saw not her, but someone else. "Help me." He beseeched her silently. "You're kind, not like the others ... Please! Can't you spare a crust of bread? I'll work it off, I promise ... Nay, please!" His hands came up to shield his head and chest from some unseen assailant. "I'll do anything you say, anything! Just don't ... don't leave me!' A tremendous shudder racked his body. "Please, I'm cold ... so hungry ..."

  He pleaded, he screamed, he wept, the tortured memories of his childhood unwittingly revealed to her. His voice was so pitifully raw she felt her heart pierced as fiercely as his leg had been pierced. Oh, the violence, the cruelty he must have known! She raged inwardly that fate had treated him so unfairly, cringing as she recalled all the horrible taunts she had hurled at him. She shuddered to think how easily he might have grown to be a thief or a beggar, or a treacherous, evil who possessed not a shred of goodness.

  For the first time she began to understand all that made him the man he was—strong and determined—aye, even ruthless! Yet beneath the shield of armor he wore about his heart lurked a man who bled as easily as she—she was certain of it! And with that subtle softening within her, the fury and resentment she had nurtured so long and so well began to melt.

  All through the night she stayed at his side, hovering over him like a bird guarding its nest, Near dawn he seemed to fall into a more normal sleep, but he was still so very hot. Seeing him so weak and defenseless, this man who was so tail, so commanding, and always in control, wrenched at her heart.

  Her shoulders sagged with a weariness borne less of body than of spirit. All at once she couldn't erase the choking fear inside. What if Maeve was wrong? What if Thorne died? As much in frustration as exhaustion, near dawn she laid her head on his chest and cried herself to sleep.

  It seemed a long time later that she felt the faintest of tugs on her hair, the merest touch of fingertips combing slowly through the tangled strands. She lifted her head to discover Thorne regarding her with such intense confusion furrowing his brow that she did not know if he recognized her. The deep lines scored beside his mouth emphasized the harshness of his features, as did the dark shadow of several days' growth of beard on his cheeks and jaw. He was still pale, but color had seeped back into his skin.