by Traci E Hall
He didn’t seem to notice the rain that fell in solid sheets from the sky, the thunder that roared with evil portent, nor the wickedness that shadowed them in the forest. She wondered what it would take to bring him back into the world of the living. He’d hardly uttered more than a single word for the past three days, and she’d noticed even Petyr had grown weary of his lord’s surly monosyllabic grunts and groans.
If it weren’t so unbearably wet and mucky, she would walk alongside her mare. Her thighs had never been so sore. Her bottom was chafed and her back ached and it hadn’t stopped raining long enough to be able to build a fire for either warmth or hot food.
Dry clothes? She made a loud noise through her nose, and Ceffyl gave a sympathetic neigh. The canopy of tightly woven oak and pine branches over the trail was the only thing that had kept them all from drowning. They’d been plagued by tortuous weather, broken wheels, and bad luck. She trained her eyes on Nicholas; at least her anger at her aloof husband served to keep her warm.
She probably had no right to be angry, she admitted once again. But Nicholas refused to let her explain what had happened. It would soothe her injured pride if she could slander his character, but she knew in her heart that he was a good man. She’d inadvertently done him a deep wrong.
Goose bumps raced up her arms, and a foul chill settled at her nape. Celestia looked over her shoulder and searched the trees, uneasy. Huffing, she told herself firmly that it was much too wet and miserable for spirits to be roaming the woods. Still, she slowed Ceffyl’s pace, angling closer to the wagon and her shivering maids.
When Bess, who had been riding one of the packhorses in order to lighten the wagon’s load, claimed that her horse had picked up a stone, it was Nicholas who had helped her down, as if he were a Knight in Shining Armor and Maid Bess the most delicate of women. She sniffed. If Ceffyl had been the one to pick up a stone, Celestia just knew they would still be hobbling down the trail, more the pity.
Even though Nicholas left Petyr in charge of the retinue, he partook of his share and more of the nightly chores. She knew, for certes, that he never failed to check on the group’s welfare before he rolled himself up in his woolen blanket; not that he slept. She was reluctantly awed by his stubbornness.
How long could he continue to deprive his body of rest? He would close his eyes for no more than a quarter hour; it was as if he had trained his body to jerk awake the moment he fell too close to a true sleep.
What had Petyr called him? Tenacious? She smiled from the deep recesses of her sodden cloak. Nicholas had been charged with seeing them all safely to Falcon Keep, and that was exactly what he was going to do. Stubborn and single-minded, that was her husband.
Ceffyl started as a branch whacked her on the nose, causing Celestia to slide to the right of her saddle. She grabbed the pommel and adjusted her seat, lifting her eyes just as Nicholas looked back at the noise. He stopped, his grayish-black eyes shadowed beneath his hood, yet she could feel the probe of them as he ascertained her welfare. She raised a gloved palm to let him see she was fine, and felt strangely bereft when he turned and continued on behind Henry.
All of the horses were sliding on the muddy trail, and Celestia was surprised that the wagon had been stuck but once, not counting the time they’d stopped because the left wheel was broken. Bertram had caught up with them, but hadn’t brought the sun.
According to Petyr, they were only a day’s ride from Falcon Keep. She ignored a stab of homesickness and thought of a hot fire, warm clothing, and a decent meal. There would be a great hall with a large fire pit, and friendly servants. The castellan would be kind, and offer to stay on until Celestia could learn her duties at the keep. She’d been reluctant to arrive, but that was before she started to mold.
Celestia’s teeth chattered, and it was not as simple as the wet, cold weather. Dread surrounded her like a fog, and she tried to pinpoint from whence came her fear.
She was old enough to know that most ghosts were a product of an overactive imagination or too much wine, but she was smart enough to accept that sometimes they were spirits bent on communicating, whether the person was willing or not.
Just then she heard a rustling to the left of the trees, and then she saw an arrow, a very real arrow, fly through the line of men. She heard Nicholas give a shrill whistle, saw Petyr slow his horse and turn, just as the arrow landed with a loud thunk in his saddlebag.
Thinking only of Nicholas, and her vision of his injury, Celestia kicked her heels into Ceffyl’s flanks, shouting to Viola, “Get my bow and arrow! Bess, take cover, we are under attack!”
She accepted the challenge without thought of failure, catching the bow and quiver from her terrified maid, and notching the arrow as her father had taught her. A calm pervaded her body; she was quick, but not rushed.
Scanning the bushes and trees, she waited, but all was silent. Even the birds were hushed, which told her that the intruders, human, were present.
Celestia glanced toward Nicholas, saw him with his sword drawn, his face intent and hard. She abruptly turned her gaze away; she couldn’t afford to be distracted by her husband, not if she was to save his life.
He sat atop Brenin like the warrior he was, his back straight, his eyes trained forward. It eased her fear for him, although her heart beat madly at the sight.
Sir Geoffrey was also armed with a bow and arrow, but hidden within the confines of the wagon covering.
Bertram, Willy, and Forrester had their swords drawn and pointed to the trees, protecting the wagon and the maids.
Celestia didn’t trust the unnatural stillness of the forest. She could see that Nicholas felt the same. Petyr and Henry had slowly brought their horses closer, until they were almost all within the safety of the group.
Nicholas whispered harshly, “Where’s Stephan? He should have been bringing up the rear.”
Petyr made a move to see, but Nicholas held him back. “Wait. Give it a bit more …”
Celestia swallowed and her stomach tightened. The mock battles with her brothers hadn’t prepared her for a real attack. She forced herself to think rationally and to listen deep. There!
Her arrow flew fast and true through the thick of the trees. They heard a scream, then a rustle of branches as they all stayed as if made of marble and waited. Would they be under full attack? Who would dare?
An arrow with white feathers, the same as was stuck in Petyr’s saddlebag, flew with a whistling noise and landed at Ceffyl’s feet. She heard Nicholas shout, “Celestia!” just as she let another arrow loose.
Petyr rushed his horse through the tangle of bushes and trees after the arrow, using his sword to forge a trail. They all tensed, looking around for the next point of attack. Where was the enemy? How many were there?
Three more arrows flew in quick succession from the forest around them. Sir Forrester, the one knight who’d shown her any kindness, dove into the trees after Petyr. “Beware, I’m coming for your head! Ya hoo!”
Celestia stood firm as an arrow nicked her cloak and buried itself inside the tough leather hide of the wagon. Sir Geoffrey’s warning faded as the blood gurgled around the arrow in his throat. Viola was at his side before he hit the ground. Nicholas yelled, “To the wagon!”
They huddled there, in the rain, for what seemed like hours. Celestia’s arms ached with tension from holding the bow in place for so long. They heard a rustling, and all prepared to fight, but it was only Petyr. And he was alone.
Celestia cried out, “You are bleeding.”
Petyr wiped his face with his hand and grimaced in pain. “Aye, my lady, but ‘tis only from the branches and thorns. I couldn’t find any of them, the rogues.”
Nicholas lifted a black brow. “Not even a bloodstain?”
Petyr wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “In this rain, it would have been washed away before I’d gotten to it. Bloody forest!”
Nicholas, his voice scratchy, faced the group. “I say we ride hard for the keep. We should be safe t
here.” He turned toward Viola. “How is he?” he asked, pointing to the Montehue knight.
Viola stood and wiped her blood-reddened hands on her apron. “He’s unconscious, but alive, Lord Nicholas.” She started to cry, and Bess jumped down next to her. “I can drive the wagon. He can ride in the back, with Vi.”
Celestia, her knees shaking with stress but still astride Ceffyl, instructed Bess to get her herbal bag from the back of the wagon.
“Aye, Celestia, you can ride in the back with your man,” Nicholas said.
“But I—”
Nicholas held up one of the white arrows. “It seems you have kept many secrets from me, my lady. I don’t wish to hear them now.”
By the time Viola had reduced her tears to hiccups, the remaining knights had made a pallet for Sir Geoffrey and Celestia had started the healing process. She cleaned the wound, but felt that there was a piece of feather, or shaft, mayhap, that she wasn’t getting.
“I can do better once we reach the keep,” she told Nicholas. He’d dismounted, in order to help lift Sir Geoffrey to the back of the wagon, and then he’d stayed close to her as she’d worked.
“What, you can’t just snap your fingers and heal him?”
Celestia lifted her chin, mostly so that she wouldn’t cry in the face of Nicholas’s sarcasm. “Nay, which is unfortunate. Perhaps then you’d have proof enough to call me a witch yourself, eh?”
His eyes narrowed, and she swallowed hard but didn’t drop her chin.
He pointed to her bag of herbal medicines. “You have opium?”
Hearing the underlying fear in his voice shook her to the core. She looked down and began fidgeting with the ties on the pockets of her bag. “Yes. ‘Tis especially good for injuries of the eye, but it also numbs pain at the site of the wound.” She looked up and longed to take away the haunted shadows in Nicholas’s gaze. “I’ve recently learned something,” she said cryptically, in case any but they two could hear, “about opium, and all of its derivatives, even poppy tea. If one,” she made sure to speak calmly, as calmly as if she were talking about plum pudding, “has been taking it for a long period of time, then the effects change. What once ended pain, now magnifies it.”
His right eye twitched, but he was listening, so Celestia repeated, “It is very common to give poppy tea to someone who is having difficulty sleeping. Many healers would offer this to a patient.”
Would he understand that she hadn’t been trying to poison him?
It looked as if he would say something, but then she heard Forrester and Bertram shouting in the distance. Celestia scooted to the edge of the wagon and jumped down, running after Nicholas and toward the sound of the voices.
They slowed to a stop, and she edged closer to Nicholas, grateful that he wasn’t glaring at her, and grateful that the men had finally returned. All of them except … “Where’s Stephan? He isn’t here.”
He flattened his lips, and then he leaned in close, close enough that she could see his ebony eyelashes. Her stomach knotted so hard she wondered if she’d be sick. “But he is, my lady. His horse returned him, while you were working on Sir Geoffrey.”
Confused, she followed the direction he’d nudged his head. Stephan’s horse was at the back of the line, calmly chewing grass. Something lay draped over the back of the horse, a shape covered by a blanket. The dead knight’s hand could be seen dangling close to the ground.
“Oh,” she brought her hand to her throat, hoping to stop the sudden surge of bile. “Are you certain? I could …”
Nicholas expelled a deep sigh. “You don’t need to see, unless you can bring spirits back from the dead?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer, as if he were afraid of what the answer might be.
“I thought it best if I didn’t call much attention to it. We can give him an honorable burial once we reach the keep.”
Celestia was oddly touched that he said “we.” It was more than likely a slip of the tongue, but she would take it. She sidled closer. “Poor Stephan. He was at our rear? I haven’t seen another person in days, and even then it was only a party of priests.”
“This is empty, wet, miserable country,” Nicholas said with the first bit of life in his voice that Celestia had heard in ages. “A small caravan seemed an easy target. Bastards. Once we reach the keep we can send out some fresh men to scour the woods and find the petty thieves who are responsible.”
“Aye,” Celestia found she had a taste for vengeance, too.
“It sounded like you hit one of them. They didn’t realize they were attacking a wagon protected by the goddess Diana, eh?”
He actually chuckled, and Celestia’s pulse raced.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Nicholas continued.
She wanted to drown in the sound of his laughter, or at the very least, give him good cause to laugh often. Her vision blurred and she looked away. “I stole my brother’s bows when they first left to be fostered. I tried to make my own arrows, but ended up shooting one into the toe of my slipper. My father caught me, and insisted that my grandmother teach me properly. In Wales, it wasn’t considered unladylike to know how to shoot.”
“You are much like your grandmother, then.”
Celestia snickered. “I am hardly a bit like my family, no matter how much I wish to be so.”
Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest. “You ride like you are part of your horse, you shoot a bow and arrow better than most archers, you have the gift of healing … and I’m not quite sure how you all ended up with that stubborn chin.”
Celestia paused and bit her lip, surprised that he had noticed so much about her when she thought he’d been preoccupied with other things. “Aye, well, I am hardly a goddess, at any rate.”
“None of us should aspire so high, me thinks,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Celestia put her hand on his arm, careful to keep her fingers on his sleeve. “I was wondering what it would take for you to speak again. I feel awful that it took an attack, and the loss of one of your men.”
Nicholas jerked away from her touch. “Not one of mine, really, one of the baron’s. Why should I speak when I don’t have anything to say?”
Celestia was almost sorry that she had ruined the fragile peace between them. But not sorry enough to stay quiet. “Conversation between people is a way to get to know one another, to build up friendships and loyalties.”
Nicholas slid her a look of rebuttal. “And if I had gotten to know Stephan, then when he died, I could have hurt over the loss?”
Celestia blinked back tears, but blamed the blurriness on the rain. How could he be so unyielding? “Aye. And you would have the warm memories, mayhap, of a friend.”
“His death is another black mark against my soul, and naught more. I should have been attentive, and not lost in my thoughts.”
Seeing a chance, she took it. “It is no great surprise that your mind wanders as it does. When was the last time you slept?”
Nicholas inhaled loudly and then set his jaw. “That is not your concern.”
Celestia bristled. “You do love telling me what is mine to be concerned over. We are married, you and I, and that makes you my concern.”
She tapped her foot, glancing around to see that their conversation couldn’t be overheard. “I will never tell a soul of your nightmares, and that is my promise to you. You need not fear me. I am a healer, as well as your wife. I can make you an infusion of valerian, lavender, and vervain that will help you sleep dreamlessly, no opiates, now that I understand. I have been praying to Saint Raphael the Archangel on behalf of your nightmares. You should pray to him, as well.”
She bravely reached out to place her hand upon his forehead, bare skin to bare skin—knowing before he did it that he would pull away. “Trust me, Nicholas. You can.”
Nicholas’s expression slammed shut like a door in her face. “Nay, and I will not have this conversation again. We ride for the keep, Celestia. I told you before not to waste your wiles on me.”
<
br /> He was scared. She understood that. It didn’t matter to her breaking heart. Celestia didn’t bother trying to hold back her temper. Taking a deep breath, she shouted to his retreating back, “You are as stubborn as a goat, Nicholas!”
She stuck her nose in the air at the men’s good-natured chuckles over what they assumed was a lovers’ squabble and stuck her fist on her hip. Nicholas mounted Brenin and took off at a fast clip, spewing chunks of dirt. Her first instinct was to get on Ceffyl, and gallop behind Nicholas until she caught him good. She’d sit on him, and force him to listen.
Since she knew that wouldn’t work, she’d have to settle for hoping that Nicholas fell off his abused horse. Maybe a dousing in the mud would change his attitude.
She didn’t worry that he would hurt himself. His head was too hard.
Chapter
Eight
Nicholas’s adrenaline was racing through his blood like poison. He lived off of that energy, needed it so he could stay awake and alert even as he denied his body sleep.
Reaching Falcon Keep with all of his group alive had become a goal that seemed more insurmountable each day. The rain, and the misery of traveling slowly in foul weather, was enough to drive a person mad. While not completely crazy, he wasn’t entirely sane, either, and the blasted rain didn’t help.
He kept his body bent low over Brenin, pushing the stallion through the unknown trail. The horse was massive, yet fast—bred in peace, but born for war. On Brenin’s back, it would take him but half the time to get to Spain, and deliver the baron’s head to the tomb of Saint James.
Nay.
He’d not take Celestia’s gift and use it for such a purpose.
He heard Petyr following on his heels and spurred Brenin on.
The blond knight was proving to be a valuable asset to their party, not that Nicholas would tell him so. Damn it all, why had he sent Stephan to ride the rear of their caravan? Stephan had seemed seasoned enough to guard them, while keeping a sharp eye out.
But those woods were strange. Nicholas felt a shiver trail across his shoulders. He felt it, in his gut, and wondered if the others did, too. Too bad for him that the one person who would understand what he was talking about, was the one person he had to avoid at all costs.