"Get out of my chamber!" she shouted.
Her chamber? Bernard wanted to laugh. This chamber had belonged to a harpy, and now to him. He squinted at the girl, wondering. Could she be the harpy? The woman who had attacked him with such ferocity, throwing him down the stairs and leaving him in his current plight? A spirited maidservant indeed. No wonder she had survived, when so many of her people had died.
He swallowed. If she attacked him again, she would kill him for sure. And, crippled or not, Bernard still very much wanted to live. So he marshalled all his powers of persuasion and tried to reason with her.
"I must beg your forgiveness, mistress," he began carefully. "I would dearly love to do as you say, for I have no desire to trespass on the hospitality of such a lovely lady as yourself. But I cannot. For as you see, I am too crippled to move." He twitched the blanket aside, so that she might see his bandaged leg.
It seemed he'd only stoked the fire in her eyes. She brandished the knife even more wildly. "I don't care how crippled you are. I said get out!"
"Alas, I cannot. My leg is broken, from landing badly on your own stairs. I cannot move, or walk, and I have not eaten in days. But even if I had the strength, it will still be many weeks before I can limp down those stairs." Bernard bowed his head. "I fear I must trespass on your hospitality whether I will it or no, my lady. I hope you can find it in the charity of your heart –"
Her eyes widened. "You're the soldier who attacked me! I thought you were dead. You should be dead, after all the people you have killed." She advanced on him, the dagger held out in her shaking hand. If he was not mistaken, there was murder in her eyes.
He held up his hands in surrender. "My lady, I beg you. I have not killed anyone. No man, woman, or child. I mean you no harm." He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat, but it was no use. "Truly, I mean you no harm. The same cannot be said for you, for if I'm not mistaken, you are the one who threw me down the stairs. I do not know by what miracle I survived such a fall, but as all miracles are God's work, surely it would be the devil's work to take a life that God has seen fit to save."
She crept closer, keeping the knife between them as she took in his bandaged leg. "Why didn't they take you with them?" She narrowed her eyes with suspicion.
"The physician said I was too injured to move. I even heard him say he was not sure if I would survive such a wound. My comrades left me some supplies, and my things, as you see." He gestured toward his saddlebags.
She surveyed the room, her eyes missing nothing. Slowly she said, "They did not leave you enough supplies for the winter. They left you here to die."
Unable to meet her eyes any more, Bernard bowed his head and nodded.
"What have you done, soldier, that your comrades would sentence you to such a slow and lonely death? It must have been something terrible." She edged away from him again, more wary than before.
"I have committed no crime, lady, that I promise you. Unless by not killing another man, I have committed what the rest of the army felt was a crime. In times of war, they call it cowardice, but I've never drawn my sword in anger. I am not a soldier, and my father was a fool to think I could be turned into one." He gestured at his leg. "Even if I survive, I may never walk again."
Still she stared at him. "So, if I were to walk out of this room, close the door behind me, and never return, what would you do?"
He lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. He could lie, but what would it matter? They both knew the truth. If she left him, he would die.
"I would probably shout through the door, begging you to come back. When I realised such a thing was futile, I would probably turn my attention to the pot you have kindly brought up here, and hope that whatever it contains might sustain me for another day. Once I have regained a little of my strength, I would attempt to change the bandages on my leg, for that is what the physician said I must do." What Gosse must do, but Gosse was not here, and might never return, Bernard thought but didn't say. "Eventually, out of desperation, I would probably try to crawl down those steps and find the kitchen. If I did not break my neck in the process, I imagine you would find me under the kitchen table, gnawing on a table leg, so mad from hunger I could not tell the difference between a table leg and a leg of lamb."
The hint of a smile twitched at her lips. "I could not allow you to do that. That table is older than the castle itself."
"In my madness, I fear you might not be able to stop me. For it is well known that madness gives a man inhuman strength."
She took a step further away from him. Her wariness returned. "What do you want here, soldier? Do you wish for me to kill you, for you are surely my enemy, and hence save you from the unforgivable sin of suicide?"
Tempting though the offer was, Bernard knew what his answer had to be. He'd had a long week to ponder it, after all. "No, lady. I would not wish my blood to mar your lovely hands. I want what any man wants – to live, and be free. Only allow me to stay until I can walk once more, and I shall leave this place, never to let my shadow darken your door again."
She stared at him, seeming to weigh his very soul, before she finally answered, "I am no lady. I am only Ursula, the last person left alive in Berehaven."
He summoned a warm smile. The same sort that had charmed Dulcinea and won her trust, before it had damned her and him both. "Mistress Ursula, you are no longer alone. I can help you."
She laughed. Genuine, heartfelt laughter, the sort of merriment he hadn't known in so long. "Crippled and confined to bed. You must have valuable talents indeed, if you can still use them in your current state."
Oh, if only she knew. "I am crippled, yes, but I can still warm a bed. When the nights grow too cold to sleep alone, I offer my services." He bent forward, the closest thing he could manage to a bow.
"You have the wrong woman for that, soldier. There were some women who lived in the inn who might have been willing to serve your needs, if you have the coin for it, but your army emptied my valley, so you will find a cold welcome at the inn tonight, even if you could reach it."
He'd angered her. She might use genteel swear words, but she was no court lady. He must remember that. Though court ladies certainly could not cook.
Could she?
He darted a glance at the pot. "Whatever you're cooking in that, it does not smell like food should."
She set her hands on her hips. "It's porridge, and it smells like that because it is not ready yet."
Bernard shuffled closer to the fire until he could reach the spoon, and stirred the pot. Oats floated up, then sank back down into the depths. "It'll never be ready at all, if you cook it like this. There's too much water in the pot." Before she could stop him he wrapped his sleeve around his hand and pulled the pot off the hook. He poured half the water into the water bucket before returning the porridge pot to the fire. "There. Now it should be ready in a few minutes. I could cut my apple into pieces and add it to the pot, to give the meal some flavour, but what would really improve it is some cream and honey."
"You know how to cook?" She looked like she didn't believe a word of it.
Bernard grinned. "Of course. It's a long road to the Holy Land and back, and a boy who could cook only became more valuable in a camp without women."
"You are a Crusader? You have seen the Holy Land?" Her mouth didn't seem to want to close. Admiration appeared in her eyes, chasing away suspicion. "You are a holier man than I thought. Have you truly never taken another's life?"
"I swear by my life, I have never killed anyone. Not even while I was on that most holy crusade." He fought to keep the sarcasm from his tone. She did not need to know what an unholy nightmare the campaign had been.
"A holy man whose life was saved by a miracle. Perhaps…I was wrong. You may stay, holy man, but there must be no talk of warming beds or any such thing. And you must cook."
"We have an accord. Whatever food you bring me, I shall do my best to cook."
Chapter 15
Whatever food she brought him? T
he oats were all she had left, and what was it he'd asked for? Honey? If the army had left the hives, they would be sleeping under the snow – there would be no honey. But there might be some in the store rooms, if the army had missed one.
"Stay here. I'll see what there is," she said, dashing for the door.
It wasn't until she was halfway down the stairs that Ursula realised the man had no choice but to remain. Unless he was lying about his injury…
But she'd seen his body on the stairs. It would have taken a miracle to make a man survive that. A miracle he'd probably earned.
May God forgive her for trying to kill him.
Would he forgive her?
Perhaps if she found some honey, and food enough to see them through the week, it would help.
The fastest way to the store rooms was through the secret passage in her father's chamber. Ursula hesitated on the threshold, but there was nothing to see. Her father's body was gone, and the bed covers had been drawn up, as though ready for their master's return.
Even if he would never return.
She turned her eyes from the bed to the hearth. Geoffrey had told her to save herself, and she would. Only this time, she wasn't running. She was searching.
The first cellars she checked were empty. That was as it should be – the winter stores weren't moved to the cellars adjacent to the castle kitchens until the first snowfall. The first snow had fallen, so now it was time. The stillroom and the buttery should have been full, but the army had been here, too, stealing even that last day's milk, which should have been in the buckets on the bench still, waiting for the cream to rise to the top.
There would be no cream for the soldier upstairs. There was no cow or goat left in the valley to produce milk. Ah, but cheese…Berehaven was famous for its cheeses, some of which took a year or more to mature. In darkness, not the well-lit buttery.
The door to the cheese cave was hidden in plain sight – for it was the floor to ceiling cabinet that held the moulds, buckets, churns, and other tools of a dairymaid's trade. At least, that's what she thought they were. Ursula had never been allowed to spend much time here, but the cellars were a different matter, for they held the prosperity of Berehaven.
Ursula was glad she'd brought a candle with her, for the torches that had lit this tunnel on her previous visits were dark and cold.
Down, down into the stone, she emerged into the low-ceilinged cavern, home to the finest aged cheeses on the continent.
Cheeses that fool Vauquelin hadn't found.
Wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with the ash-dusted wheels of Berehaven soft cheese. Dried mushrooms hung from the ceiling like bunches of mistletoe at Yuletide. Deeper in the cave was where they stored the wax-dipped hard cheeses, ageing them until they crumbled at a knife's touch.
The aged cheeses had a story behind them, like everything in Berehaven. In her great-grandfather's time, the king had sent a wagon over the mountains every year to collect his tithe, and Berehaven paid in hard cheese. So when the wagon did not arrive, the cheeses remained in the cave. Another year passed, and still no wagon came. Her great-grandfather sent men into the mountains, to see whether the pass was blocked. But the mountain passes were perfectly clear until the snowline, where a massive hedge blocked the way. An impenetrable, magical hedge, or so the stories said.
Assuming the wagon would return once the hedge was dealt with, her great-grandfather had taken the wagonloads of aged cheese to a neighbouring king. Not as tithe, but for sale. He'd returned with a bag of gold, and orders for more the following year.
Every year the wagon didn't come, he sold the cheese. And every year, he received more gold. Gold he held in trust for his own king, for it was his tribute and not Berehaven's.
Fifty years had passed since then, and last year's cheeses were not yet ripe for market, though it was a market they might never reach, if this new King Siward wanted the cheeses for himself, as King Almos had. But their dairy herds had increased since her great-grandfather's time, and there would be cheese enough to see her and perhaps even the soldier through the winter without touching the tithe.
Today, she kept going, wanting to see the legendary chests for herself. For if the army had stolen King Siward's gold, there was no telling what would happen, when the king's envoy came in spring.
The narrow chamber flared out, so that her light barely touched the walls. There were barrels here, thick with dust, and chests. She flipped open the catch of the first chest and pushed up the lid. Candlelight flickered on countless silver coins, almost filling the chest. She opened the one beside it, and saw the glitter of gold before she had to drop the heavy lid down again.
What of the casks, then? She set her candle down on the lid of one, which was stamped with what appeared to be a rose. They all bore the same mark, which wasn't one she recognised.
Ursula found a pry bar, which she used to lever the cask open. She leaned over to peer inside, taking a deep breath.
And stepped back, lightheaded, for the fumes wafting off the liquor inside were enough to intoxicate the strongest man. From several feet away, she sniffed again. Without the overpowering scent of spirits overwhelming her, she thought it smelled like berry wine. Wine and cheese – wonderful. If the army had left them nothing else, this would see her through until spring.
She manoeuvred a cask to the kitchen, then returned to the cavern for a cheese and a string of mushrooms. She wasn't sure how she'd get all this up to the tower, but at least it was a start. She closed the door carefully behind her.
With a much lighter heart and feet that wanted to dance, she set off to catalogue what else the stupid soldiers had missed.
Chapter 16
Bernard's insides ached with hunger as he stared at the pot of cooked oats, but he didn't dare eat his share until the girl returned. They were hers, after all. His leg pained him, for the last potion he'd taken had long since worn off, but he didn't dare take any more. It dulled his wits worse than strong wine, and he would need all his faculties to convince the girl he was as harmless as he said he was.
He didn't blame her for being suspicious of him, but it hurt that she thought so little of him, and men in general, that she would doubt his word. He might be Lord Vauquelin's youngest son, but noble blood ran in his veins. However unpleasant that duty had been, he had been the personal page of the King himself. His honour was as precious to him as his own life.
Finally, Ursula opened the door. She carried a basketful of things, and wore a smile so brilliant he couldn't help staring. She set the basket on the floor, rummaged through it, then triumphantly held out a jar. "Honey!"
Bernard took the jar from her, hardly daring to believe it. He pried off the lid, and felt his eyes grow wide as he found it full to the brim with crystallised honey. Wherever this jar had come from, it was cold enough to turn honey solid.
He measured out a spoon and stirred it through the porridge, watching the stuff melt together. His mouth watered in anticipation of the best meal he'd eaten in a week.
Bernard had to force himself to hand the spoon to Ursula. "Ladies first."
She tasted the porridge, then passed the spoon back. "It's just right. I didn't think to bring bowls or extra spoons, but right now, I'm too hungry to care. You must be, too. We'll share."
She watched him take a large spoonful, then served herself again. And so it went, until the pot was empty.
"That was good," she said as she set the empty pot on the hearth.
"You sound surprised. It would be better with cream. I take it you didn't find any of that while you were gone?"
"Of course not," she huffed. "Vauquelin took every beast we had. I did find cheese, mushrooms, some pickled vegetables, a few bags of flour, goose confit, and the Yule hams. Oh, and some wine." She lifted a wineskin out of the basket.
Bernard stared in wonder. Had Gosse lied, or had his father's men missed so much? Perhaps his father had left him enough supplies to last the winter after all. More than ever, that mea
nt Bernard had to survive, if only to show his father he was not the weakling he thought him to be.
But he needed fresh bandages on his leg, and he'd need help to change them.
Would Ursula help him?
There was only one way to find out.
"The physician said I would need fresh bandages after a week. Is there any linen I might use? And some wax, or resin. Something I can melt to make a hard cast outside the healing bone when it sets."
Ursula rose. "There was some beeswax with the honey, and there should be bandages in the stillroom. I shall fetch them, and stay to help."
"You don't have to," he said.
Her head snapped up. "Of course I do. You cannot put a plaster on your own leg. One of the stable boys broke his leg when a horse fell on him while my mother was still alive. The castle carpenter made a little cradle for his leg, to keep it still. Perhaps I can find it in the lumber room…"
"No need." Bernard pointed to the box, half-hidden under the bed. "The physician had one made for me before he left. After the bandages are dry, we must pack it with felt and lay it in the box."
It still looked like a coffin.
Ursula's thoughts must have been in a similar vein, for she said, "Do you know if Vauquelin gave the men of the castle a proper burial? There was hardly time for them to make coffins for everyone, but…" She wiped away a tear.
She'd lost someone she loved in the massacre. Maybe everyone.
"I don't know," he admitted, wishing he could say more. If his father were here, he would ask him, just to be able to lay her mind at rest, like whoever she'd lost.
"I'll…go get the necessary things, so we can do this now," she said, and marched out.
Bernard would have given everything he owned to be able to follow her, but he was stuck on the floor in a tower he couldn't escape. At least there was wine. And perhaps a little of that magic potion to take the edge off the pain. Crying out under the physician's hands was one thing, but screaming when Ursula touched him? No, that simply would not do.
20 Shades of Shifters: A Paranormal Romance Collection Page 6