The Dark Lady

by Dawn Chandler

  Peter closed his eyes and his breathing became shallow. Numbness was beginning to overtake his mind. His thoughts were getting slower. He could feel it. He tried to concentrate on the boy’s voice above him, but his mind felt heavy and sluggish.

  The voice that had been gravelly and deep at first had changed—softened, like a gentle breeze across his heart. He was confused at his thoughts. His mind was hazy. Delirium was obviously setting in. A groan slipped from beneath his numb lips.

  The sweet, concerned voice caressed him, washing over him like a warm caress. “Are you with me? Can you focus on my face? Come on, talk to me. Open your eyes. I need to know you are going to be all right.” The gentle voice was like a melody to his war-ravaged ears, a loving voice that brought forth images of that life his father had spoken of. Of children to hold and to love, not just some faceless heir to be his future, but a child to be his life.

  He opened his eyes to the young boy’s blurry face. The light from the fire pierced into him, cutting through him like a dagger. He shut his eyes again with a moan.

  “Come on, focus. You are going to be all right.” There was fear in that soft voice that told him he was cared for. That he was needed. “Look me in the eye.” The worry that he heard enveloped him in warmth in a way no fire ever could. He could almost picture the mother of those children who would hold him at night when he was cold, as he was now. She would be beautiful, dark, and exotic.

  When he opened his eyes once again the boy was gone and in his place was the beautiful, yet blurry, face of a girl. “Are you all right?” she asked sweetly as she leaned close to him.

  “I am here with you.” Concern filled him as he spotted the large gash on her cheek, oddly in the same spot as the lad’s injury. He shook his head to clear it. Confusion swirled through his weary mind. Peter lifted his hand and ran his fingers along the uninjured cheekbone as blood dripped onto his injured shoulder. “Your face. You are hurt. You must have it looked at.”

  The face swirled in and out of focus and the boy was there once again. Peter closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. “I will. You first, I can wait,” the soft voice told him.

  When Peter opened his eyes once again, she was smiling down at him. Her face was still blurred, but he knew it was her from her melodious voice.

  “You have such dark eyes, almost black. One could get lost in them.” Peter continued to stroke the smooth cheek above him, sliding trembling fingers down the warm and inviting skin gently cupping the soft and shapely chin before starting again. He squinted in an effort to keep the world focused as he looked deeply into those black eyes and thought of his future. “You are so beautiful.”

  Full lips parted in a sweet tinkling laugh, like water rippling over stones. “I will forgive you that since you have lost so much blood. Your thoughts must be scrambled and your vision faulty.” A wide, beautiful smile took the sting from the words.

  A deep trembling breath caused the world to shimmer and the image of the boy was once again before him.

  Peter pulled his hand away in confusion. “Quite. I have lost a great amount.” His arm dropped as darkness swallowed him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sounds of anger invaded the peaceful cocoon of darkness that shrouded Peter. He blinked several times to adjust to the brilliant sunlight that poured through the flaps of the tent. The irate voice that had penetrated his sleep was coming from the boy. He stood stiffly, with his back to Peter.

  The rough growl was back in his voice, if it had ever been gone. “Aye, that is right, I am still here and I will be the next time you come.”

  The boy stood at least six foot tall, hands on narrow hips, covered by a large wrinkled tunic that fell past the tops of his thigh high black leather boots. The armor and mail were gone from Peter’s young rescuer and were now stacked in the corner of the tent. Peter glanced back at the bright sunlit opening and concern filled his chest as he considered how long he had slept. It was dangerous for his army to remain in one place for long.

  “I am not leaving his side ‘til he wakens,” The boy growled. Peter shifted his head to see who the boy was challenging. Pain shot through his shoulder so he contented himself with glancing around the crowded tent.

  Three men stood with the boy between Peter and whoever the kid was arguing with: Telpher Constaire, his brown hair standing on end and in disarray; Grant Hestlay, Peter’s right hand man, his lanky frame stiff and unmoving; and Richard Devenroe, one of his higher ranked knights, as well as his good friend.

  Richard stood motionless, his arms folded before him, his short sword still in the scabbard at his thick waist. Peter looked from Richard’s stern profile to the side of the boy’s face. Now stitched, it still looked brutal, damaged more than necessary by waiting to have it looked at.

  As his gaze roamed across the jagged line of stitching a quick memory of the woman he had spoken with that night flashed across his vision.

  God, had he really stroked the boy’s cheek? Had he really said those things? He prayed it had all been a dream.

  “You will move aside.” The familiar voice of the doctor came from beyond Richard and the boy. Peter tilted his head until he could see the massive man. He was red faced in anger. His dark brown hair brushed the top of the tent. Dr. Jonas Cobb towered over everyone Peter knew, which was one of the reasons he had never seen anyone stand up to him before now.

  “He will die if you do not let me help him,” Cobb growled. “He will not awaken until I have bled him. You will be responsible.” The doctor raised one thick fist in the air. The boy didn’t move, but Richard edged a little closer to him.

  Peter smiled at his friend’s protective nature.

  “Nay, you are wrong. I allowed you, without opposition, to help him. You stopped his bleeding.” The boy gestured to Peter, but not one of the men looked at him. “You stitched him up and gave him medicine to help him heal. You now propose...” he shook his head in frustration and took a stiff step forward. “After all the good you have done, after all the blood he has already lost—” The boy’s gruff voice trembled slightly, but whether it was anger or worry Peter could not tell. “Now you think to bleed him and you have the stupidity to call it helping him.”

  The boy tried to take another step forward, but Richard grasped one arm and Grant the other. They pulled him back, but his tirade never ceased. “Do you know how many men I have seen die because doctors bled them? I will not allow it to happen again, not with this man.” His gravelly voice cracked in passionate anger.

  Peter shared his anger. He had seen many men die from that same injustice and had stood toe to toe with surgeons himself to protect them.

  “Are you accusing me of killing men?” The doctor lunged at him.

  Peter was about to call out when the lad shoved hard against the doctor’s barrel chest, retreating a step as the doctor stumbled back. By the time the massive man recovered his balance the tall squire had pulled the short sword from Richard’s scabbard. A quick step forward found the doctor facing the steady blade.

  Standing tall, legs spread wide for balance, the young man held the sword steadily in one hand. “I will stay by his side until he can speak for himself and if you want to change this then you can move me. But if you are thinking you will find help in this with any of the men, you are sorely wrong.” To prove this point all three men with him took a step forward, situating themselves in between Peter and Jonas Cobb.

  Peter didn’t think he had ever felt so important and respected. His chest swelled with pride to see them beside the arrogant squire, all four heads held high.

  The doctor’s face was almost purple with anger as he shifted from foot to foot. “The king will have your head for this. Do you not know who this man is that you are jeopardizing?”

  “Nay. As a matter of course, I did not stop to inquire about his identity when I decided he was in danger. So nay, I knew not who he was. At the moment it was not all that important.”

  Peter leaned to the side to get a bett
er view, but it was useless.

  “As to my head—” The boy tapped himself on the top of the head for emphasis. “Well, I gave my loyalty to the king, and if he wants my head he can have it. I have risked my neck for this man once already and once more should not be too much to ask.” The sword never faltered, never trembled, just pointed accusingly at the doctor’s wide chest. “I did not risk my life and that of my good friend to have you bleed him to death.”

  Jonas stopped shifting and stood straight and tall, looking down at the arrogant boy. Peter watched his face tightened in resolve. “You cannot stop me. You will be responsible for his death, then I will see to it the king has your head for it.” He leaned forward slightly, preparing to attack.

  “We shall see.” Every head turned at the sound of Peter’s weak, trembling voice. Clearing his throat he attempted to sound more in charge and less like the invalid he felt like. “As I see it, he is responsible not for my death, but for my life.” His throat was dry and raw and speaking was difficult. He coughed gently, but water would have to wait. “I will not be bled. Not now, not ever.”

  The sword arm dropped as the boy turned. He handed the weapon back to Richard without even a glance. His gaze remained locked on Peter’s face.

  The three men and the boy surrounded the mat where Peter lay. The fearless lad stood at Peter’s feet, his face motionless. Peter shook his head in wonder. “Have you really been here with me all night? You have not left me?”

  “I have been with you all night, all day, and the night again. It is now working on the mid meal of the day, my lord.” The anger was gone from his voice, but the deep gravel was still present. “You must be famished.” Without waiting for an answer the young man motioned to Telpher, who immediately rushed from the tent. To Peter’s amazement, he did so without even looking to Peter for approval.

  “You will stay for a while longer yet?” Peter asked the boy.

  “If you wish it, my lord.” There was a softness hidden beneath the boy’s gruff mannerisms. A softness that brought fleeting images of the phantom woman from the night before.

  Peter took a shaky breath and turned his attention to the doctor. Cobb stood stiffly, still red faced in anger, but no longer looking like he was ready to pounce. “I feel weak, due to loss of blood and hunger,” Peter said. He swallowed what felt like sawdust for air and continued. “I feel a terrible thirst, but other than that I feel...alive. My shoulder hurts like the Devil. If you need to examine me, you may.”

  Cobb raised his dark brows and pursed his lips, making him look somewhat like a fish. He grunted and folded his arms across his chest but made no attempt to approach. “I need not see you now that you are awake. I will send something for the pain.” With a small jerky bow, he stomped loudly out of the tent.

  Peter looked at the ring of worried faces that gazed down upon him. A feeling of contentment flowed through his heart. He took a deep breath and flinched at the pain that splintered through his wound and down his side. He laid his head back and closed his eyes.

  Opening them to see the billowing tent above him made it apparent that the rain had stopped. “I was moved?” The sun looked to have found its way out once again and he could feel the warmth radiating through the tent and lifting his spirits.

  “Nay, the boy here refused to allow you to be moved, so the tent was built around you.”

  Peter turned to Hestlay. The tall red headed man, who had been by Peter’s side for twelve years, spoke with respect.

  “You looked surprised when Telpher took orders from the boy.”

  Peter nodded, looking toward the lad. The boy stood at attention but held a bemused grin on his face. He looked from Peter to Hestlay without saying a word.

  Hestlay gave an amused snort, drawing Peter’s attention back to him. “The upstart has been giving orders since you were hurt. Only one man argued, and he got a broken nose for it.”

  Peter turned to scowl at the lad. The grin only widened on the boy’s face. He looked proud of what he had done. Peter took a deep breath and cocked his head, looking closely at the boy.

  Was he familiar? Peter had to know him since he was a squire in his army, but he had seen so many young faces come and go over the years. He tried to spend time with each and every one of them, but they came and went so quickly that some of the faces blurred and faded. It saddened Peter, but there were too many young recruits and not enough time.

  “You really don’t know who I am? I could just be a lowly warrior?”

  Indignation swam through the boy’s dark eyes. He puffed out his chest and jerked his shoulders back. His spine was so stiff Peter thought he could hear it creaking. He clenched his fists. “I, sir, am a lowly warrior. All of the men I have fought beside for the last three years, and all the ones I have served under for the four years before that were the same.” His voice, thick with anger, resounded throughout the tent. Peter watched his face and movements trying to remember where he had seen him before. “These were men that I greatly respected,” the boy continued. “Men I would have risked all for, just as I did for you.” He took a jerky step toward Peter.

  Peter held up his good arm. “Easy. I meant no offense.”

  The boy had honor in his heart. Respect for this rash and arrogant boy nudged at him.

  The young boy shifted on his feet, fists held tight at his sides, but he held his ground. Peter could sense the anger still alive within him. “Tell me this then, boy.” Peter looked at the lad. Arrogance and pride dripped from him as he stood unafraid.

  Overconfidence would get him, Peter knew. He had been the same way when he was fifteen. “You put yourself in danger. You risked your life and it didn’t matter if I was king or foot soldier. Why would you do it? Do you not believe your life as important as theirs, or as mine?”

  The boy’s face relaxed into an easy grin. He shook his head and gave a short bark of laughter that sounded nothing like the soft, comforting laugh from the angel of Peter’s pain induced delusion. Nonetheless he had to push away the insistent images that plagued him.

  With a lop-sided, devil-may-care half-grin the boy said, “Nay, ‘tis not like that. When I saw you, or see any situation where someone is in trouble, something I feel needs to be changed, I act. It is my body that takes action.” The boy’s dark eyes glimmered with amusement. “I don’t think of myself, not until after I have acted. Until I have already done something stupid. Devenroe here—” The boy jerked his head toward Richard. His face wrinkled and he winced in apparent pain, opening his mouth slightly and working his jaw back and forth. Then with a grin, he opened his eyes and continued as if nothing had happened. “The fact that Devenroe will not allow me to forget that I did something stupid, for days afterwards does not help any either.”

  Peter looked to Richard. Devenroe stood by Peter’s side, arms crossed and a grin on his face as he watched the boy speak. “My brain usually doesn’t make an appearance until I have modified the problem,” the boy continued. “I have always been mocked that I believe myself the master of every situation. I received several good beatings, while still a page, for giving orders to those above me.”

  Peter jerked his gaze back to the boy. Beatings? He remembered him now, and realized he did indeed know him. Peter had had several run-ins with him while the boy was still a page at his father’s castle. As he remembered the boy was always arrogant.

  Van? He thought the name was right. He had been Richard’s squire for the last three years. Squires and pages were kept separate from the men, so it wasn’t surprising that Peter hadn’t seen him.

  As to the boy’s beatings, he himself had administered one of them. He had saved Van from some bullies, turned to leave and Van had attacked him. Peter had tried to just hold him off at first, but the boy would not stop. Van had taken the beating well and if Peter remembered correctly had been happier, almost satisfied, after it had happened. Peter could only assume it had been Van’s wounded pride that had caused him to act. Perhaps it had been embarrassment that some
one had stepped in to save him. He knew there was a lot of competition among the pages at the castle.

  Van should know him. He may not have recognized him in the dark and the rain, but he should remember him now. Peter thought he was hiding that knowledge on purpose. To make a point and to show that it didn’t matter what station or ranking you had, everyone was important. Peter fought a grin, knowing he would have done the same thing in Van’s place.

  Peter tried to pull himself up on the makeshift pallet, keeping his good arm under him and his injured one close to his side. Instantly Grant Hestlay and Van were assisting him. Once sitting he continued. “I think it is about time for introductions—”

  A blare of a horn cut Peter off. The king glided through the flap of the tent. Peter struggled to rise as the others took their knee. “Nay, there will be none of that in here. Rise, except for you, Sir Lawston. You stay where you are. Rest, you will need your strength.” The king looked down at Peter, causing him to shift uncomfortably under his gaze. Injured or not, Peter felt he should be on his feet.

  “I do not want to interrupt. Did I hear something of introductions? Pray let us continue.” The king gestured to the kneeling squire.

  The boy rose shakily to his feet and the others followed suit. With a slight tremble in his voice he turned and gestured to Richard. “Your Majesty, it is my honor to present to you Sir Richard Devenroe, a great knight, a man of honor and duty.” Peter heard the loyalty and respect in the boy’s speech as he spoke of Richard.

  King Henry smiled at Devenroe. “My pleasure.” The king cocked his head slightly and raised his brow at the boy. “And you?”

  He took several deep breaths that trembled through his frame. His hands were shaking slightly. “I am Van Burgess, your majesty.”