“Brother Baldric, this man is injured!”
Baldric slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe, his expression both grave and torn. He stared with shadowed eyes at the man stretched out upon the pallet. Heavily he spoke: “May God forgive me,” and he briefly cast his eyes heavenward. “You should be wary of taking this man beneath your roof, for what if he knows that you are Lady Gillian of Westerbrook? In truth, I know this man not, yet I sense danger.”
Gillian gave a shake of her head, sending a spray of dark tendrils across the delicate curve of her cheek. She brushed at it impatiently—and replied thusly as well.
“’Tis not possible that he knows who I am.”
“My lady, what if it is?”
“Nay, ’tis not.” Clearly she shared none of Baldric’s qualms. “This man was on a ship that was merely passing by, on its way to Wales or Ireland, mayhap. Besides, how could anyone know I am here on this far reaching corner of England? We were careful on our journey here. We spent the nights either out in the open or beneath the roof of the church. My identity is not my own. Those in the village do not know me as Gillian of Westerbrook. To them I am the widow Marian, come to spend my grief over my husband’s death in seclusion.”
Indeed, the story was one that Brother Baldric himself had concocted. Though Gillian abhorred such deceit, at length she had conceded that it was best.
“Nonetheless, I urge caution.”
She remained adamant. “Brother Baldric, this is unlike you. You have dedicated your life to helping others. Why would you not wish to help this one? He may well die without it—indeed, he may die anyway!”
“Then perhaps it is God’s will.”
“God’s will. God’s will! ’Tis just as you said a moment ago. It was God’s will that brought the storm—God’s will that brought him here!”
“Aye. There may be some truth in your words. Still, I think we should not abandon caution. My lady, I would not speak ill of your father, for I admired him greatly. Yet when it came to King John, he was rash. We sought to save you by bringing you here. I fear for both you and Clifton…as I feared for your father. And indeed, I can hide it from you no longer. My lady, I have heard rumors that King John searches for you and Clifton—that he has dispatched an assassin.”
She paled. “I do not know why he troubles himself.”
“The king is a vengeful man. And no doubt he is angry still at your father’s attempt on his life—your father and the other man.”
“But this man cannot even move,” she stated with calm. “He can do me no harm.”
Gillian did not abandon her cause but swept an arm toward the corner. Her whole life she was ever one to lend a hand or a word to those in need. Did Baldric not understand her need, her resolute desire to help this man? For the sight of his shipmates, their bodies mangled and bloated, had been shocking. Baldric had gazed upon the solemn face of death many times, as she herself had not. And their desperate flight—and that of her brother Clifton—along with the tragic death of her father so recently, had wrought a change in her. Though she always greeted Baldric with a ready smile, there was an endless sadness that lurked within her now. Baldric frightened her anew with the statement that the king searched for her, but she tried to hide this.
Brother Baldric fretted aloud. “If only I did not have to accompany Father Aidan just now. But alas, those many years while the people of England lay under the Pope’s interdict, there were those who abandoned the Church and have yet to return. ’Tis for their souls that Father Aidan wishes to minister.”
“And rightly so. It is his duty,” she agreed, “and yours, Brother Baldric.” Her eyes softened as they rested upon him. “As for me, I must tell you, you worry for naught.”
“For naught? You will be alone with this man, this stranger. Oh, I should have had Edgar and Hugh take him to the village instead!”
“It is too far and he is too ill.” She raised her chin, the picture of dignity and grace. “’Tis the right thing to do. The only thing to do,” she stated, the pitch of her voice low and musical. “I must help him, Brother Baldric. I must.”
There was no use in arguing, and he finally agreed that she was right. With a sigh he took both her hands within his. “I must make haste, else Father Aidan will be convinced I have forsaken him. Is there anything you need before I go?”
“Only your assurance that you will keep yourself safe—and Father Aidan as well.”
“And on that score I can only say that I will try. Take care, child. Take the utmost care.”
“I will,” she promised. “May God be with you, Brother Baldric.” Leaning forward, her lips brushed his cheek.
His footsteps carried him to the door. He glanced back over his shoulder one last time. Lady Gillian was already at the stranger’s side, lines of worry clearly writ on the smoothness of her brow. She appeared small and delicate next to the broad span of the man’s shoulders.
Baldric shook his head, his expression grave. He mumbled, too softly for her to hear, “I pray I never rue the day I made this judgment.”
Gillian bent anxiously over the stranger. Her pulse clamored wildly, for he was so still. So silent. Fear surged within her like the roiling of the sea. Dear God, was he dead then after all?
Swiftly she laid her ear on the breadth of his chest. Ah, he still lived! She could feel the beat of his heart; it lumbered slow and steady beneath her ear.
Slowly she drew back to look at him. A trickle of water dripped from his temple to the pillow beneath his head. What remained of his clothing was sopping as well. That would not do, she realized. Why, if he remained in these rags, he would surely sicken further.
Without thought, her hands moved to his body. She worked almost frantically at the laces of his tunic, parting it and shoving it aside to reveal his chest, tugging it from first one shoulder, then the other, and finally over his head.
His boots came next, followed by the tattered strips of his chausses. Fumbling a little, her fingers came to his drawers. At least they weren’t completely ruined.
At last he was naked. Perchance a part of her was aghast at her daring, but this was no time for modesty, neither hers nor his.
And so she found out, as her gaze traversed the length of him. Her mind fleetingly registered a wide chest shadowed with curling black hair, limbs that were long and brawny…the unmistakable evidence that he was profoundly—starkly—a man…
Due to the nature of the task at hand, her inspection of that part of him was mayhap a trifle hasty. She guessed that all was well there and he’d suffered no injury nearby, though, in truth, Gillian could hardly be certain…
Now on to the other side.
She pushed and grunted and sought desperately to heave him to his stomach—and failed. Shoving aside the unruly tendril of hair that persisted in falling over one eye, she rocked back on her heels in frustration. Sweet mercy, but he was heavy! ’Twas not that she was so weak, she told herself. Though her stature was not large, neither was she frail. She’d grown used to hard work while living here. She fetched water from the well and carried wood for the fire, far more than she’d been able to when she’d first arrived. Nay, the man was simply too big! Indeed, his feet dangled over the end of the pallet.
Gillian’s eyes narrowed. Her head tipped to the side in fervid consideration. Finally, she braced herself and pushed beneath his shoulder, peering at the top half of him as best as she was able. Now for the lower half. Biting her lip, she placed a hand on the bony ridge of his hip. Taking a deep breath, she felt her cheeks heat as she deliberately avoided focusing on his nether regions. Gingerly she cupped her fingers under one naked thigh and lifted his leg. In this way she was able to discern those injuries that were visible.
Indeed, it seemed they were countless. She sucked in a harsh breath. There was a massive lump on his temple; the skin was puffy and swollen, split by a jagged cut. Clearly he’d suffered a terrible blow to the head. His face was scratched and bruised. Various cuts and bruises m
arked his body all over. The worst was a ragged strip of flesh that had been ripped the length of his side. It began just under his left arm and ripped nearly to his waist, raw and oozing blood. As the ship had been flung and shattered against the rocks, it would seem that he had been cast as well. Had he been awake? Ah, but the brine of the sea upon his wounds must have been sheer agony!
To Gillian’s eyes, it appeared as if the whole of his body had been beaten with a club. There was scarcely an inch of him that was not bruised and swollen. His right knee was mashed and bloodied. Her heart twisted. If he lived, would he ever walk again?
There was no hiding from the truth…she was not a healer; she knew naught of balms and potions. True, she’d often assisted the women of Westerbrook with various abrasions her father’s men had suffered; she knew wounds must be kept clean and free of dirt. But in truth she’d never seen anything the likes of which this man suffered, and these were but the outward wounds.
Was she a fool to think she could save him? Perhaps. Yet even as the realization tolled through her, something crystallized inside her. She could not give in. He could not give in.
In a heartbeat she’d bounded to her feet. She raced to the well atop the hill for water. In her haste, she nearly tripped and barely caught herself from flying headlong onto the mossy path. Her movements jerky, she lowered the leather bucket into the well. When she raised it and grabbed the leather handle, water sloshed over the edge—her hands were shaking.
“Calm yourself, Gillian.” She scolded herself firmly. “Stay calm, else you cannot help him.” The words screamed through her again and again as she returned to the cottage, then warmed the water and searched for a cloth.
Indeed, she told herself as she stationed herself beside him, she could do no more. She could do no less. Though he might well be beyond her power, it was just as she’d told Brother Baldric. If she did not help—did not try—he would surely die.
Lightly, her fingers skimmed his body, her eyes fixed on his face for any sign of reaction. In truth, she would have welcomed it. Alas, there was none. If she caused him pain, he gave no sign of it. Even when she scrubbed the gritty sand and dirt from the open wound on his side and his knee—ah, but it was stubborn!—he neither flinched nor winced. Nor did he move when she fetched a healing salve Brother Baldric had obtained for a cut she’d received on her leg during the journey, and rubbed it into his wounds.
Something twisted inside her as she finished bathing him, then wound a strip of cloth around his mangled knee. Dear God, how could Baldric believe this man might harm her? He posed no threat to her, nor to anyone!
Laying the strips aside, she turned back to him. An odd feeling tightened her throat. Only then did she realize what she had just done…. To think that she had been so bold as to strip the clothes from his body! A part of her was appalled. She had touched him…
He was starkly…unabashedly…naked. Though Gillian was a woman untutored in the ways of love and men, ’twas not a sight she found displeasing. Indeed, quite the contrary, for there was no denying he was a powerful man. Belatedly she acknowledged what she had not taken the time to note before. Pale though he was, his frame looked impossibly large; he filled the entirety of her narrow bed. His shoulders nearly eclipsed the width of the mattress, lean but padded with muscle—she’d felt the resilient tautness of that muscle beneath her very fingertips! Aye, she thought dimly. Under other circumstances, he was surely a man of considerable might.
Hastily she fumbled with the rough linen sheet at his ankles, pulling it up and following it with a blanket. His hair had begun to dry. The strands were thick and dark, the color of midnight. Biting her lip, she laid the back of her knuckles against the stranger’s cheek before she knew what she was even about, the gesture one of comfort and compassion. A hundred questions tumbled through her.
“What brought you to this lonely stretch of England?” she voiced her thoughts aloud. “Do you come from some foreign shore? What is your trade? Are you a fisherman? Nay, perhaps not. You’ve not the tough, leathered skin of a man who weathers long hours of sea and sky. A tiller of fields then? Nay,” she decided, tilting her head to the side and regarding him through narrowed eyes. “Mayhap you work long and hard at the forge.” Indeed, he possessed the brawny arms of a man who could carry great weight with just as much ease.
That, too, she discarded, for there was a hint of arrogance in the aquiline flare of his nose, the set of his mouth. Nay, he was not a poor man, though he’d worn no jewels. She glanced at his boots; although slogged with water, they were finely made.
Her mind twisted and turned. Could it be that he was one of John’s barons? God knew that John’s greed had fired the minds of his people with anger and resentment. Perhaps like her, he, too, fled for his life from the wrath of King John, only to be caught in a storm, much as she had been.
“Whoever you are,” she murmured, “you must have a name. What is it, I wonder? Michael?” A slight smile curled her lips and she shook her head. “Nay. Oh, ’tis a fine name, to be sure, but not yours, methinks.” She tipped her head first to one side, then the other as she studied him.
“I know. Walter. Or William. Ah, I know. ’Tis Edwyn. Aye, I do believe your name is Edwyn.”
Thus she began to call him Edwyn.
He breathed…yet did not waken. He remained so motionless he might have been dead. As the hours wore on, many a time Gillian laid her ear to the breadth of his chest, assured that he lived only by the steady drone of his heart.
Was this a healing sleep that claimed him? She thought not. She feared not.
Time had been her most bitter foe throughout these long weeks of uncertainty. Yet now was it not her staunchest ally? His staunchest ally? Yes, she told herself firmly. The longer he breathed, the greater his chances of survival.
Throughout the day and night Gillian was there beside him. The hours marched on. She sat beside him until her muscles grew stiff and cramped and her eyes burned with fatigue.
She talked. Of silly things. Of whatever chanced to wander through her mind. ’Twas odd, the ease with which the name sprang from her lips. Ah, she mused once, but what if his name was Edwyn in truth?
“I daresay you are a hunter, like my father. Oh, but my father was a great hunter,” she recalled wistfully. “Many a day found him hunting with his gyrfalcon. When we could not find him we had only to look in the mews. My mother, before she died, used to say she feared Clifton would never spare the time to find a bride when he was old enough, for Clifton was almost always at Papa’s side when he went hawking.”
Her smile faltered. Clifton. Pain lanced through her heart, bled deeper. Would she ever find Clifton? Where was he? Where? Was he safe? Oh, if only she knew! But nay. She’d not succumb to despair. Papa was dead. But Clifton was still alive. She had to believe it. And somehow—someday—she would find a way to find her brother.
Rising, she moved to the window. Opening the shutters, she peered outside. Air whistled through the opening. Outside, the wind had begun to gust. Gillian could not help the thought that tore through her mind—she prayed there would not be another storm. Determined not to dwell on it, she threw another handful of limbs on the fire. Impatiently she brushed aside the curling strands of hair that swung forward, then started across the floor.
“’Tis cold again today, Edwyn.” With a rueful sigh she made the comment even though she knew he did not hear her. “I must confess, in Westerbrook where I am from, we have November days that are chill, but not like this—’tis like the cold passes all through me.”
There was a subtle movement beneath the sheet. Gillian felt her lips part. Why, he had moved! Or was it merely that she had sat too heavily upon the mattress and made his body shift?
There was no time to wonder, no time to think. A long arm swept the blanket to his waist. He began to thrash.
“Edwyn, no!” The name slipped urgently—unthinkingly—from her lips. “Be still else your side will begin to bleed. Do you hear me, Edwyn? Edwyn, y
ou must be still!” She reached for his bare shoulders to push him down. It was then it happened.
His eyes flicked open. In the midst of reaching for his bare shoulders to push him down, she found herself captured and seized. Strong male fingers shackled the fragile span of her wrist with a grip she’d never have guessed possible, given his state of just moments before. Despite his malaise, he was almost frighteningly strong.
“Edwyn,” came a dry, hoarse mutter. “By God, desist from calling me Edwyn!”
Gillian gaped at him. She was stunned. Amazed. Overwhelmed…and all at once!
“Wh-what am I to call you, then?”
He tugged her close, so close she felt the warm mist of his breath mingle with hers, and she could clearly discern the flecks of gold in eyes that were the same lush green as the forest near Westerbrook.
Those eyes seemed to pierce into the very depths of her own. “Gareth,” he said with utter fierceness. “I am Gareth.”
And then he slipped back into unconsciousness.
3
GILLIAN GAVE A STRICKEN CRY. “EDWYN…GARETH.” The name tripped awkwardly from her tongue, for already she’d grown accustomed to calling him Edwyn.
With both hands she shook him, be it roughly, be it gently, she knew not. She cared not.
“Wake up, Gareth! Wake up!”
A lean hand fell limply to his side. Her efforts to rouse him were in vain. Gillian wavered between buoyant exultation and a dragging disappointment, but it was just as before. As if all strength and effort had been bled from him.
But he had awoken. He had opened his eyes…and spoken.
She took up her vigil with renewed hope. With avowed conviction. Though the world beyond still summoned him, Gillian was suddenly determined. She would not allow death to stake its claim on still another man.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not this one.
Samantha James Page 3