by Lynn Lorenz
Breathless, at last they reached a flat clearing. His good eye made out a small stone building, nothing more than a goatherd’s hut, tucked away into the side of the rocks. The man led him to it, dismounted, and tied off his horse. In a few great strides, he was at Will’s side to receive him as he collapsed from the saddle with a groan.
Again, strong arms cradled him, carried him into the hut, and laid him on some crude but sturdy cot. His battered body slumped into the bare ropes of the bed with nothing between to soften them. He didn’t care, as long as he was off the mountain, off his horse, and lying down.
If the shivering would just stop, he’d be more than happy. Closing his eyes, he hoped nothing more would be required of him, because he was going to give in to sweet, pain-free darkness.
Jackson, hands on his hips, looked down at the man. He’d fallen unconscious. Well enough. It would give him time to prepare the fire and wrap him in a blanket. Then, he’d begin the work of cleaning those wounds. The gash over his eye had begun to bleed again and required being sewn.
He left the hut and tended to the horses in the small pen behind the shack, rubbing them down as best he could as they scrounged on old hay left by the last tenant who’d made this place his shelter. Then, he searched out wood for the fire. Returning from the sparse forest that surrounded the hut, he dropped his bundle, kneeled at the hearth, and glanced over to the cot. Pale and shivering, the man slept. He needed heat as soon as could be managed.
Jackson lit the fire and the hearth sprang to life, light and warmth pushing into the small room. He dragged the cot closer to get the benefit of the heat, and then opened his bedroll and wrapped his blanket around the man like a caterpillar’s cocoon.
Next, he went back out into the cold to collect some water from the small rill that spilled down the side of the mountain—runoff from the upper levels where a sprinkling of snow covered the peak. He used the wooden bucket from the pen to collect water, and poured it into a shallow trough for the horses. Filling another bucketful of water, he carried it inside. Jackson’s back ached, but he wouldn’t rest until his chores were done.
Sitting on the floor next to the cot, he dipped a cloth into the water and began to clean the deep gash over the swollen eye. He pulled his saddlebag near and rummaged in it for his needle and thread. He’d sewn many a man’s hide back together on the battlefield and in the camps. Closing one eye to see, he pushed the thread through the eye, knotted it, and took his first stitch.
Good thing the man was out. He’d seen men, fierce in battle, cry and howl like babes when the needle pierced their skins. Three neat stitches later, the wound was pulled closed and the bleeding stopped.
Now, for the rest. He could do nothing for the bruises, but the raw red scrape on the man’s neck, he could help. Digging in his bag, he pulled out a small jar of ointment, sold to him by a healer woman, and dabbed it along the rope’s mark. It might leave a scar or it might not—only time would tell. Then Jackson applied it to the red rope burns ringing his wrists.
He felt the man’s ribs, his hands practiced at finding broken bones. One, two, three cracked, at the least, but his arms and legs appeared sound. The man was shorter than he was—as were most men—well muscled and, despite the damage on his face, fair in looks. His long blond hair was tangled with blood and mud.
He pressed the rag, chilled in the cold water, to the man’s lips to ease the swelling, then dipped it again, wrung it out and placed it over the eye that had swollen shut. Dark purple ringed that eye from brow to cheek—the other eye had purple only underneath it. He cleaned the rest of the scrapes and did his best to rinse the man’s hair clean.
Stretching out beside the cot, Jackson tucked his saddlebag under his head and pulled his cloak around him. He’d been well trained in taking rest when and where he found himself. For now, they were safe.
How long that safety would last, he couldn’t say.
But if they were found by those men, Jackson would be fighting for both their lives.
Chapter Two
Will woke and forced one eye open. Blurry vision told him little, other than he lay in a small dark room. Not his room at Holcombe. Where the hell was he?
The hut. It came back to him in glimpses, like some half-remembered nightmare. He closed his eye against the images. Sneering faces. Boots. Fists. They lingered, like the afterglow of a lightning flash behind closed eyelids, then faded.
He swallowed. His throat didn’t hurt as bad, but the sour taste in his mouth lingered. Turning his head, he saw that the cot he lay on had been drawn closer to the hearth and he welcomed its warmth. He’d thought he’d never be warm again. Now, he lay wrapped in a heavy blanket, warm, drowsy, content to be alive.
The door opened. He flinched and hated himself for his fear. The man who’d saved him entered.
Last night, was it? Two days ago? He’d lost track.
“Water,” Will rasped.
The man nodded, picked up a water skin, and brought it to him. Kneeling, he slipped an arm underneath Will’s shoulders and raised him to near sitting. He gasped as pain seared his side.
“A few cracked ribs, my lord. They’ll heal in time.” He held the skin’s spout to Will’s mouth and gave the bag a squeeze. Cold water flowed, wetting his lips and cooling his parched throat. He drank deeply, then pushed the skin away.
“Your name?” Will couldn’t keep thinking of him as “the man”—he should have a proper name.
“Jackson, my lord.”
He wondered how the man, Jackson, knew his title, but didn’t ask. It wasn’t important. “Are we safe?” He grabbed Jackson’s hand and looked up into fierce brown eyes set in a rugged, tanned face framed by thick, wild, dark red hair.
“Aye, safe for now.” The large hand gave his a brief, comforting squeeze, then released him.
“I am William. Will by my friends.” He lay back against the cot. “Where are we?”
“We are in a goatherd’s hut on the side of the mountain about ten miles from that village.”
“You took a chance rescuing me.” He licked his lips as he searched Jackson’s face with a hard look from his one good eye.
“I don’t hold with their kind of justice.” Those brown eyes grew fiercer.
“You know what crime they accused me of?” Will was too exhausted to think of a lie.
“Aye. I heard them speak of it in the tavern.”
Their gazes met and held.
“The young man with the blond hair accused you, did he?” There was no recrimination in Jackson’s brown eyes.
Will nodded once. Could he blame the young fellow for throwing him, a stranger, to the local wolves to save his own hide? Will would never have sacrificed another for his sins, but the burden of that decision was for the other man’s honor to carry.
“Were you guilty?”
“No. Only of drinking too much, choosing the wrong man, and bad timing.” He grunted a laugh. “We’d been eyeing each other all night. Finally, we stepped outside to the alley. I only had time for a quick kiss before the others had come upon us.”
“But, you are a sodomite?”
“I prefer being in the company of men.” Will shrugged. He was tired of lying, of hiding what he was—tired of searching for others like himself. Tired of being alone.
Jackson nodded. “I understand,” was all he said. Then he stood and fed the fire with more wood.
Will watched him. Tall, broad shouldered, powerfully muscled, Jackson was probably the largest man he’d ever met. Yet, for as fierce and rough as he looked, he’d been gentle. At least Will had known his gentle touch and the strength of those arms. He closed his eye, fought to stay awake, and then blinked the one eye open, the other still swollen shut.
Jackson moved to the door and, looking back, said, “I have to hunt, my lord. You’re ready to eat now, I think. I’ll be gone for a while.” His dark eyes held concern. Will didn’t want to think it was pity.
“I’ll be here when you get back.” Will
tried to grin, then winced. Damn, but it hurt just to smile.
“You’ll be safe enough here.”
“Thank you, Jackson. For everything.”
“You’re welcome, Will.” He opened the door and slipped through, pulling it shut behind him.
Will rolled carefully onto his side, ribs aching, and watched the fire’s flames for a time as he drowsed.
Damn. He needed to piss. Using his arms, he pushed himself upright, then swung his legs over the edge of the cot. His head swam, the room tilted, and his stomach rolled.
That hadn’t been a good idea. Still, he needed to pass water and it grew more urgent with each moment. He waited until the room righted itself, then he braced his feet, pushed off, and stood.
Taking the first step was hard, staying upright even harder. He shuffled across the room, his bare feet stinging with each step on the cold wooden floor, and reached the door. Lifting the bar, he pulled it open. Cold wind hit him, nearly wrenching the door from his hand and knocking him down. Was he that weak?
He shivered as his bare feet stepped onto the crisp, icy grass and his hair whipped around him. Will moved to the side of the hut and leaned against it, out of the wind. He untied his laces and freed his cock. At first, the relief was good, then burning pain shot through his rod and tears welled as he bit back a cry. Looking down at the ground, he saw his piss was tinted with blood. Not a good sign, he knew, but at least he could piss.
He shook off the last drops and reseated himself, pulled the laces tight and turned back to the house, but he’d moved too swiftly and the world spun on its side.
“Damn,” he moaned, as blackness closed over his vision and he fell to his knees. Only his hands, held out to break his fall, kept his head from hitting the ground. Shaking his head only made it worse, so he waited on hands and knees until the darkness cleared. Unable to stand, he crawled to the door and opened it, only to collapse on the floor once inside, pushing the door shut with his foot. The latch fell into place. Now, if he could just get to the cot, he’d be content to lie there the rest of the day.
The bed seemed leagues away. Pushing to all fours, he stopped to catch his breath. Head hung low and long hair sweeping the floor, he crawled like a child. He reached the cot, grabbed the side as a drowning man would a rope, took a deep breath, and levered himself up enough to fall back onto it. Shaky hands pulled the blanket up as shivers racked his body. Harsh rasping filled the room. Will looked around, his mind in a fog of pain, unable to identify the unfamiliar sound.
It was his own weeping. Hot tears from his open eye trickled to his ear, down his neck, and dampened the thin blanket. His fingers twisted in the ropes of the bed as he wept.
Would death have been better than this pain or this damned weakness? He had no more strength than a mewling babe. Before the field, he’d been a strong man, a leader who’d fought many times to defend his family’s keep. He’d held off those five bastards in the alley with his sword until they’d hit him with a staff, bringing him down, then kicked him into unconsciousness.
Ashamed of his weakness, Will brought his ragged sobs under control, wiped his nose, and dried the damp on his face with his sleeve. He hadn’t cried so hard since he was ten and two, when his mother had died.
Rolling over, he faced the warmth of the hearth, closed his eyes, and fought for control. He didn’t want Jackson to see him this way.
»»•««
Will woke again to the small, dark room and the smell of meat roasting. His mouth watered as he inhaled the rich scent. Lying on his side, he realized he could see from both eyes now. One was clear, the other a thin slit of foggy vision. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d crawled to the cot.
“It smells good.” His voice sounded clearer, not so stretched.
Jackson looked up from the hearth where he tended their supper. “Rabbits, my lord.”
“Will. Please.” He pushed himself to sit on the edge of the cot with only a little pain. “There. See? Much better today.”
“Aye.” Jackson nodded.
“How many days has it been?” Will rubbed his chin, feeling the growth of a fresh beard on his face.
“Almost five days. You’ve slept most of the time.”
“Did they follow us?”
“Aye. Tried to, anyway. Three days ago, I watched them pass the stream and go along the road. They’ll think they lost us, that we had too large a start to catch up to us.” He shrugged.
“You hope.”
“I hope.”
“Jackson, where were you bound before you stopped to help this fool?” He watched as Jackson turned the rabbits, their grease dripping into the fire and filling the room with a mouth-watering aroma. Five days could mean much or nothing to a man traveling, depending on his destination and his eagerness to reach it.
“To the castle at Baymore.”
“Baymore? What business have you there?” Will frowned. That place touched a sore spot in his heart. If he’d never heard that name spoken again, he’d rest easy.
“My own.” Jackson stared at him, his mouth a thin line that told Will he’d gone too far in his questions.
“You’ve done more than enough for me, Jackson. Perhaps you should go on your way. I’m better now.” The last thing Will wanted was for Jackson to leave, but if the man stayed because of some notion of payment or ransom, best that he be set straight. “I can’t pay you—I have no money. Those men took all I had.”
Once word of his crime spread his life would be worthless. Not even his father would pay a ransom. Perhaps it would have been better to have died naked and dishonored in that cold field than to face his brother and explain his crime to his father.
Jackson shrugged, threw his head back, and laughed. “Will, you are as weak as a newborn lamb, can barely stand, much less tend to your own needs. What kind of man would I be to rescue you, then leave you here to die?” His dark eyes shone with mirth.
“I’m glad I entertain you so.” His mouth formed a thin line, but at the big man’s humor, one side of Will’s mouth rose.
“You are most droll, my lord.” Jackson pulled the rabbits off the spit, cut them into pieces with his knife, placed them on a cracked crockery plate, and sat next to Will on the cot. It creaked with his added weight, but held. He offered the plate to Will, who took a haunch and bit into it, tearing meat eagerly from the bones with his teeth.
The men sat side by side on the cot, thighs touching, and ate in companionable silence, passing the water skin back and forth. Jackson held out the last piece of meat to Will.
“You’ll need all your strength, my lord.”
“Stop calling me that,” Will growled, as he chewed a bit of meat.
“Aye, my lord.” Jackson grinned. Placing his hand on Will’s thigh, he pushed himself up and went back to the hearth. Will stared at where he’d touched. The warmth of Jackson’s hand and the feel of his thigh pressed against his set off a familiar stirring in Will.
Jackson dumped the bones into a black pot and added water from the skin, then placed it among the coals.
“I must look a terror.” Will ran a shaking hand through his hair. There had been many times when he’d depended on his fair looks to attract. It wouldn’t work for him now.
“You could use a shave and a bath.”
“A shave perhaps. I have no want of a cold bath. I’m only just now feeling warm.” He shook his head and wrapped his arms around his body.
“As you wish.”
“Will you shave me, Jackson? I don’t trust my own hand with a blade.” He held his right hand up. Small tremors made it dance in the air. He lowered it and frowned.
“Tonight or tomorrow morn?”
“In the morn. I’m tired now. I don’t think I can stay upright much longer.”
“Lay back then and rest. A full belly should help heal you.”
“Indeed.” Will lay back on the cot and pulled the blanket over him. His hands picked at it, pulling at a loose thread.
; Jackson settled on the floor with his cloak.
“Is that where you’ve been sleeping?” Will’s voice wavered. The man had slept on the floor like a servant these last five days. Will hated being the cause of Jackson’s discomfort.
“The bed is too small for two.” Jackson shrugged. “The floor is too hard for you, but just right for me.”
“I’m sorry.” Will turned his head away, ashamed of his weakness and the man’s charity.
Jackson kneeled beside the cot and laid his hand on Will’s shoulder. “No need for apologies, my lord. I’ve slept on harder ground, in worse weather, and for a longer time.”
Will reached around and placed his hand over Jackson’s hand. He rubbed the back of big man’s hand with his thumb, feeling its rough texture, the coarse dark hairs that grew there.
Jackson slid his hand from under Will’s and stood.
“Get some rest, my lord.”
“It’s Will,” he murmured, as he drifted off.
»»•««
The wind blew Jackson’s cloak about his body. He pulled it tighter. From his vantage point on the edge of the mountain, his gaze followed the road winding its way through the pass.
Beyond it lay Baymore. It seemed so long ago that he’d received the letter calling him home and set out from Marden. For the first time, his father had written to him and asked for his help, but hadn’t said what that might entail. Jackson held hopes the old man might at last acknowledge him as his son.
As for title and lands, Jackson’s younger half-brother Hugh could keep them. All Jackson wanted was to be more than just a mercenary without a family name or place to call home—but a man with a noble name. With that, he’d have something to offer a nobleman like Will. Without it, Jackson’s worth was only the price of his sword and his life.
Will wanted him, he’d made that clear, but why was beyond his ken. Men like Will—high born, fair of looks—never found him of any interest unless he was being paid to swing his sword and lay down his life for them. He was a great hulk of a man—fierce looking, wild haired, powerful, and well suited to being a mercenary.