by Diana Cosby
Gently she again pressed the cool cloth along her brother’s brow. He grimaced.
The healer dug out several pouches of herbs. “After battling his fever for the past sennight, he will be weak. He has swallowed little more than a bit of broth each day.” She moved to Elizabet’s side. “I will give him a bit of white willow bark to ease the pain, but ’twill be food and rest that put him back on his feet.” She set a small leather sack on the table, away from the others. “ ’Tis chamomile. It will aid his sleep after he has eaten.”
Elizabet nodded, familiar with both. As of late, with her people’s attacks on Ravenmoor, both herbs were a staple in her own castle.
The healer mixed the herbs.
Giric’s eyes flickered opened, slid toward the healer, then focused on Elizabet. He frowned.
“You have been sick,” the healer said in a soft voice as she gave Giric the mixture.
He grimaced, swallowed.
“Here is some water,” Elizabet said using her pseudomale voice before he could speak.
Ice-blue eyes narrowed.
Before he worked up the energy to use her name, she gently put the cup to his lips. “Drink.” She couldna risk him exposing her true identity.
He made a choking sound.
“Do nae be drowning him there, lad.”
Chagrined, she pulled the cup away. “I—I am sorry.”
At the healer’s use of the term lad, Giric’s eyes darkened with suspicion.
A light gust of wind swirled into the hearth, filled with the scent of heather and smoke. She could almost hear the echo of fey laughter.
“A few sips, nae more,” the healer added, ignorant of her dilemma. She turned to her basket and searched through the sacks of herbs and ceramic pots of ground herbs.
Elizabet pressed her finger to her lips and shook her head at Giric in warning. She’d rarely seen her brother this angry. Mary help her once they were alone.
With a groan he turned toward the healer. “Wh-where am I?” His rough whisper tore at Elizabet’s heart.
“You are at Ravenmoor Castle,” Deredere replied. “I am the healer and have tended you since you were brought here.” She gestured toward Elizabet. “The lad is helping me, his name is Thomas.”
After slanting Elizabet a hard glare, he glanced back at the elder. “How long have I been here?”
“Over a fortnight.” The elder woman gave a nod. “You have had a fever. For several days I didna know if you were going to live. Now, I say your chances are excellent.” She extended her palm, which held a small pile of herbs. “Swallow them as well. They will ease your pain.”
After downing the herbs, he accepted the cup from Elizabet than drank. “What now?” he asked as he handed her the empty container.
“Upon his return,” the elder replied, “I reckon the castellan would be wanting a word with you.”
Anger flashed in Giric’s eyes. “Sir Renaud?”
“Nay,” Elizabet answered, thankful the previous castellan lay dead. “Sir Nicholas.”
Giric pinned her with a hard glare.
“Sir Renaud died nae too long after your imprisonment. Sir Nicholas arrived more than a fortnight ago.” She paused, steadying her voice. “The new castellan is a fair man.”
He lifted a brow at that, but before he could question her further, the healer lifted her basket of herbs. “Nay more questions. You need to rest.”
Elizabet darted a quick look toward her brother. “Aye, he is tired and overwrought.” And furious and waiting to get me alone.
“Go the kitchens and bring him some broth.” Deredere pointed toward where she had set the small jar of herbs. “If I am gone before you return, after he has eaten, give him a cup of chamomile tea.”
She nodded, thankful for the chance of a few moments alone with Giric. Outside she paused before the guard. “The healer bid me to fetch broth for the prisoner.”
The knight nodded.
Through a high window, sunlight streamed in golden ribbons upon the floor, a blunt reminder of the passage of time. Nicholas should finish his rounds soon. Desperate for at least a few minutes alone with her brother before his return, once out of sight on the turret steps, she ran.
In the kitchen, Elizabet silently cursed the cook who’d bid her to wait while she’d prepared an extra meal for the guard. She was losing precious time! Only a short while remained before she must go to the stables to await Nicholas’s return, like a well-trained squire would.
As she approached the guard balancing the meals in her hands, his watching her with unfeigned skepticism far from eased her nerves. She handed over the extra fare.
He eyed the chunk of roasted venison swimming in broth with great anticipation. “I will accompany you inside,” he said, setting the bowl on the floor. “Though sick, the man is dangerous.”
“The healer—”
“Has left.” He opened the door and gestured for her to go ahead of him.
This time when she entered, Giric watched her. His gaze flicked warily to the guard then back to her.
“I have brought you some broth,” she said, her voice a bit breathy, nae even beginning to match the turmoil churning inside. “’Twas made fresh this morning.” Sweet Mary but she sounded the lackwit. And she’d best stop rambling.
The guard gave a grunt of irritation.
Elizabet sat on the edge of the bed, giving neither Giric nor the guard a chance to stop her. “He is weak as a babe. I should be fine.” She held the steaming bowl to his mouth. “Just a sip now. ’Tis a wee bit hot.”
The scent of meat, onions, and herbs rose in a steamy mist between them. With trembling hands, he cupped the bowl and tipped it higher.
At the hungry growl from the guard’s stomach, she glanced back, praying she appeared calmer than she felt. “I will see that he eats. After, I will give him the herbs the healer left.” She gestured to where the secured sacks sat, thankful for the excuse.
The guard crossed his arms over his chest. “The man is a murderer.”
Nay more than the English who laid siege to Ravenmoor Castle, she wanted to scream. “Whatever drove him to his actions, for the moment he can barely eat, much less wield a sword.”
Giric coughed, and she retrieved the bowl from his trembling hands. Sweat had broken out across his brow from his effort. She helped him to take another sip. Elizabet glanced back at the guard. “Please eat. If I need your aid, I will call.”
The knight glanced toward the door where his meal had begun to cool. He grimaced as if mulling over the wisdom of such a move. “I am leaving the door open. If I hear anything, I am coming in.”
She nodded, then sighed with relief as he stepped into the corridor.
“Saint’s breath! Your explanation had best be good!”
At Giric’s fierce whisper she jumped. “I—”
He shoved the bowl into her hand. Warm broth sloshed over the side and trickled down her fingers. “And your hair.” His eyes raked over her. “You have cut it off!”
She set the bowl on the table and started to rise, but he caught her wrist. “I want an explanation—now!”
“I—I didna know if you were alive or dead.” Her voice broke. A tremor slid through her body, then another. “One way or the other, I had to know.”
“But a lad?”
“ ’Twas the only way.”
“The only way?” He arched a brow, a familiar gesture he made when he was determined to get to the bottom of things.
She handed him the bowl and again sat by him on the side of the bed. “I will explain while you eat.”
He hesitated then took a sip, then another.
“I took the position as the castellan’s squire.”
Broth spewed out as he choked. “Wh-what!”
Shuffled steps scraped outside the door.
They both froze.
“Is he threatening you?” the guard demanded as he moved into the entry, his sword readied in his hands.
“Nay,” she replied. “
His wounds are bothering him, and I bumped one by mistake.”
The sentry grunted, sheathed his blade, and returned to his meal.
Giric wiped his chin as she knelt by his side. “Be quiet,” she whispered. “I need to explain.”
“Does our father—”
“He is dead.”
Sorrow filled Giric’s eyes, and silence fell between them.
The cadence of men, the daily routine outside the window, filled the somber void.
“When?” he asked.
Grief swept her. “He was dead when I arrived.”
“Caught in a fever,” he said, sadness raw in his voice, “I was nae sure if he had died, or if ‘twas a delusion.”
The image of her father’s body in the guard’s arms came to mind, but she shoved it aside. She couldna dwell on the horrific sight. “ ’Tis too late for him, but nae for you and the others.”
Giric looked around the room as if for the first time realizing where he was. A frown darkened his brow. “Where am I?”
“In Ravenmoor’s keep. On the second floor to be exact.” She paused. “The other men who were captured from Wolfhaven Castle are still locked within the dungeon.”
He cursed. “Why was I brought here?”
“My guess is that because you are a prisoner of importance, and with your being feverish, Sir Nicholas didna want to risk your death.”
“It makes sense.” He eyed her. “And where are you staying?”
She hesitated, dreading this moment. “As the lord’s squire, I . . . I sleep within his chamber.”
“In his chamber?” Red slashed his cheeks. “Are you bloody mad?”
“Shhhhh! Lackwit, as his squire, where else would I sleep?” She shook her head as he started to speak, then glanced toward the door, relieved to find the entry empty. Elizabet rounded on him. “I have a pallet by the hearth. Nor does he know that I am a woman.”
“And he is nae going to find out. You are to leave here now! I will nae have you remain and risk your life.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “And when I get hold of Lachllan, he will nae be hearing the end of it.”
“Do nae blame him,” she rushed out. “He forbade me to go. I allowed him to believe I agreed, then left him a note of my intent and snuck out in the wee hours of dawn.”
Giric caught the front of her tunic and hauled her to within an inch of his face. “I will nae have you here another moment longer. ’Tis lunacy! Your—”
Horns sounded.
Mary, Mother of God! Elizabet jerked from his grasp. “’Tis Nicholas! Nay say a word. Please!”
“Elizabet—”
“Giric. Trust me. I must go.”
He glowered at her, but time had run out. With a quick hug, she hurried from the door and slowed to a walk as she passed the guard. Once out of sight, she raced down the turret. The last thing she needed was to raise Nicholas’s doubts or suspicions.
The rattle of chains spurned her on as she exited the keep. Her heart pounded as she flew across the courtyard toward the stable.
Dust swirled through the gates, preceding the mounted knights.
“Sir Nicholas arrives,” a guard announced.
Hoofbeats pounded on the drawbridge and echoed like a battering ram in her mind.
Nay, she was only halfway across. He couldn’t see her now! Elizabet bolted toward the stable.
CHAPTER 10
Dust swirled around Nicholas as he drew up before Thomas stepping from the stables. A ruddy hue slashed his squire’s cheeks. He dismounted, handed the reins to the lad. “You look a bit flushed. Is something wrong?”
Thomas took the reins. “It has been a busy morning, Sir Nicholas,” he replied, breathless. “I hurried through the last of my chores, wanting to be here for your arrival.”
He smiled. “You did well.”
“Sir Nicholas,” a knight called, striding toward him.
“Aye?” he replied.
“Lord Terrick is awake and his fever has broken.”
“’Tis good news indeed.” Nicholas pulled off a gauntlet. “My thanks.”
With a nod, the knight headed toward the keep.
Now, to begin building trust with Lord Terrick. With the hatred he must have after watching his father die in the cell, ’twould be a monumental task indeed, but one he was determined to achieve. Nicholas glanced toward Thomas. “Stable my mount. After, you will accompany me.”
His squire’s face paled. “I—I have several chores that need tending.”
Nicholas worked the second gauntlet free, curious at Thomas’s reluctance to see the prisoner. Did he know this man? During his interview with the earl, he would watch his squire for any telltale signs. ’Twas most likely the dubious title of the criminal that had shaken the youth. And why not? Lord Terrick’s reputation as a fierce warrior preceded him. “As my squire is it not your duty to serve me?”
“Aye, ’tis, but—”
“Thomas—” He shoved back the mail hood and padded coif, appreciating the cool breeze over his skin, then waved him toward the stable. “Go and be quick about it.”
Dread shrouding his expression, Thomas led his mount away.
A short while later, knights greeted Nicholas as he entered the great hall along with the scents of spices and roasting venison. Hounds nosed the floor eager to find a scrap of remaining food, and a woman swept away stale rushes and replaced them with fresh dried flowers.
With his squire on his heels, Nicholas strode past, pleased by the changes in Ravenmoor Castle since his arrival, and the fact that his daily rounds along his border now delivered naught but brisk, invigorating rides. A peace he hoped would continue.
He started up the curved stone steps and his thoughts turned to his prisoner. Thank God the man had lived. The Wardens of the Western Marches’ reports confirmed Lord Terrick’s staunch following among the Scots. With his father’s death and newly acquired title, he now held a prestigious position. The man would make a powerful friend or a deadly enemy. His goal during this meeting was to ensure the first.
As he approached the prisoner’s chamber, the guard snapped to attention. “Sir Nicholas.”
“Is Lord Terrick awake?” Nicholas asked as he glanced toward the open door.
“And fed,” the guard replied, then glanced toward his squire with a frown. “But then you would be—”
A groan echoed from the chamber.
Nicholas waved off the guard. “I will check on him.” He entered and found Lord Terrick struggling to sit up in the bed, his face white, his body trembling. The gasp behind him reminded him his squire was at his heels. “Thomas, remain here.”
His squire edged closer. “I can—”
God’s teeth! Nicholas whirled, not needing a show of bravery here. “Obey me.”
Thomas’s face blanched. His eyes cut toward the prisoner with a nervous edge, and he took a step back. “Aye.”
Blast it, why did it seem that everything he did with the lad turned into an event? Would naught ever come easy between them? On a muttered curse, Nicholas strode to the bed. Two paces away, he halted, taking in the warrior before him. “Lord Terrick.”
Ice-blue eyes, hard and unforgiving, scrutinized him with a feral intent.
Only a fool would underestimate this man. Even pale and weak, he was a formidable opponent. “I am Sir Nicholas Beringar, castellan of Ravenmoor Castle.”
Lord Terrick cast a damning glance toward his squire, then back to him. Their eyes locked. The room seemed to hum with unbridled energy; the force that surrounded the man would consume the weak.
Dangerous.
The description fit him well. A deep sense of pride also pulsed within him.
Nicholas silently acknowledged and respected both qualities in Lord Terrick, neither would he back down. He, too, was a man who held his own, regardless the cost.
At Thomas’s nervous inhale, protectiveness swept Nicholas. A leader of his people or not, by his own oath, neither this man nor any other would bring harm to those in
his care. “I ordered you brought within Ravenmoor’s keep to recover.”
Lord Terrick studied him a long moment. “And my men?” His soft question rumbled with demand.
“They remain in the dungeon awaiting my judgment.”
The noble’s eyes narrowed in challenge. “Sir Renaud would have slain them.”
“I am not Sir Renaud.”
The earl folded his arms across his chest mirroring Nicholas’s action. Though weak, his hard gaze never wavered. “That you are nae, but you still speak the king’s English, heel to Longshank’s command.”
At Lord Terrick’s slang reference to King Edward’s height, Nicholas understood—the silent gauntlet had been thrown: Prove to me that you are different. And why wouldn’t this man distrust him, question his every move? After Sir Renaud’s tyranny, ’twould be easy for this Scot to despise those who supported England’s king.
“In the next few days,” Nicholas said, “I will speak with each prisoner and judge them fairly.”
The earl’s brow raised, his gaze filled with skepticism. “You would take the word of a Scot?”
His respect for the noble rose a notch. Lord Terrick’s questions were for his people, not of his fate. “I am a man who judges from the facts and upholds the truth.” ’Twas easy to see why people would follow this noble, if necessary, to their deaths. Lord Terrick would inspire more than respect, but their loyalty as well, another reason why he needed to gain his trust. Though the Wardens of the Marches enforced the laws, men like Lord Terrick made the rules. “I have met with the Wardens of the Western Marches. I seek peace between our lands.”
A muscle worked in the noble’s jaw. “Then release me and my men.”
“You laid siege upon Ravenmoor Castle, the king’s possession. ’Twas an act of war upon the crown.”
A ruddy hue slashed up his cheeks as the earl shoved himself up straighter. “Ravenmoor is a Scottish castle.”
Nicholas narrowed his gaze. “Was.”
The Scot opened his mouth to retort, then released a slow, controlled breath. “Aye,” he agreed, his tone anything but acquiescing defeat. Tension sang between them. His hand moved to his side and clenched as if wrapping itself around the hilt of a sword. “And your king would be taking the whole of Scotland if he bloody could.”