LADY EVER AFTER: A Medieval Time Travel Romance (Beyond Time Book 2) Page 7

  Collier shifted his gaze from Aryn to the older woman. Even with that hair of hers, it had been difficult to recall where he had seen her, for only once and briefly had he come face-to-face with her.

  When he had placed her as Matilda, the woman filling in for his vacationing housekeeper, he had been reminded this wasn’t real. But how strange Aryn called the maid Tilly, a nickname he would have said he was unaware of.

  Looking back at Aryn as she ascended the keep’s steps, he thought how beautifully she carried herself despite dishevelment and defeat—and how difficult it had been to control his anger over the degradation to which Montagu subjected her. Had reason not prevailed amidst the perception he was truly living this life, he would have dragged Aryn’s persecutor off his horse. And been slain by Montagu’s men.

  “We must needs talk, Gilchrist. But first my reward.”

  Collier turned.

  Edmund grimaced over Collier’s bloodied arm. “’Twas not meant for you,” he said, then started across the bailey. “Come, let us find a fine needle to stitch us both.”

  As Collier followed, he recalled what he knew of medieval medicine and grimaced at the thought of an untrained person pushing a primitive, unsterilized needle through his skin—and how easily one died of infection during this age.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I ought not be alive, Catherine thought for the dozenth time.

  She had not expected the final dream would come to pass, the one in which it was Gilchrist she cut and he who wrested the sword from her. But all had been as foreseen, excepting her death—unless she had misinterpreted the dream. In the one with Gilchrist, she had felt no pain as she had when the leering one put the sword through her. Too, this morn before Tilly awakened her, she had only just noticed the blood she wore. Had it been Gilchrist’s in the dream as well?

  She looked past the throng of soldiers to the high table over which Montagu presided. Opposite the king’s man sat one of lowly birth among the noble, and yet Gilchrist looked as if he belonged. But regardless of his station, something told her he was very much out of place.

  A peculiar feeling swept her—that the man who had stepped between Walther and her would change her life. But then, had he not already?

  Collier felt watched. The pain of his injury having grown more insistent, he tightened his grip on his tankard and looked around.

  As intoxicated by victory as they were by drink, Montagu’s men straddled benches, sang raucous songs, swilled ale, and sent servants scurrying to do their bidding. Aryn moved among them.

  Obvious in her attempt to avoid Montagu, she directed the castle folk from across the hall and ventured near only when the Yorkists paid the serving women undue attention. Surprisingly, her sharp words and scolding stares were heeded. Conquered she might be, but she commanded respect.

  Collier pressed his injured arm hard against his side. As knights were tended before common soldiers, he had yet to be seen by Montagu’s physicians.

  Bloody fifteenth century, he silently cursed. In the twenty-first century, it was fairly easy to obtain something to alleviate suffering. Namely, painkillers…

  “I like you, Gilchrist,” Montagu spoke above the din.

  Collier looked across the table at the man who reclined in an ornately carved chair. “I’m honored,” he lied.

  “Your manner of speech puzzles me, though. Wessex, you said?”

  Collier inclined his head.

  Before the nobleman could comment further, a servant appeared and refreshed his drink.

  “For you, sire?” the girl said, assuming Collier was also of the privileged class. Of course, he was the only soldier among knights invited to sit at Montagu’s table.

  He held out his tankard. Though his first taste of the wickedly bitter brew had tempted him to spit it out, his need to wet his parched throat had made him swallow the entire contents of his tankard. And since it was alcohol, still he thirsted.

  “Tell me, Morrow,” Montagu addressed Edmund, “what be your reward for opening Strivling?”

  Collier wasn’t sure if it was relief over Montagu dropping the subject of his speech that swept him or alcohol consumed on an empty stomach. Both, he decided at the realization his pain had lightened. Though not as effective as painkillers, the strong brew had him once more carrying the tankard to his lips.

  “As you surely know, my lord,” Edmund said, “I am of noblest blood, but the third of four sons. Thus, I became a knight errant. Though I have amassed a goodly sum fighting others’ battles these five years, I wish more than coins to see me to the end of my days.”

  Montagu’s eyes reflected understanding. After all, he also had a reward coming to him. Having crushed the Lancastrians in the decisive battle at Hexham a week earlier, the king would soon name him Earl of Northumberland. And Montagu surely knew such a reward was possible.

  “To the man who lowered the defenses, you promised Strivling, my lord,” Edmund continued.

  Montagu looked around the shabby hall. “You wish charge of this castle?”

  “Charge? Nay.”

  “Then?”

  Walther’s restlessness drew Collier’s gaze to where the mercenary knight sat farther down the table. The enmity in his eyes said he knew what Edmund wanted—likely the same he would have asked for had he been the one to open Strivling.

  “If it pleases you, Lord Montagu, I would be awarded the entirety of this Northumbrian barony.”

  Montagu raised his eyebrows. “Baron of Highchester?”

  “I would serve the king and this demesne well, my lord.”

  Montagu leaned back. “’Tis a grand price you place on opening Strivling—from knight errant to baron.”

  “I believe the blood I spilled at the battle of Hexham and during this siege is worthy of such.”

  “And you say you have the coin to set it right?”

  “I do, my lord.”

  “As you know, ’tis King Edward who must bestow the title. I can but recommend you.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  Montagu pondered this so long, Collier sensed it was more a show of power than reflection. Finally, he said, “’Tis done.”

  Though Edmund was surely elated, he said simply, “I thank you, my lord.”

  Am I the only one who feels Walther’s anger? Collier wondered.

  “However,” Montagu said, “ere I can return to London and discuss the matter with the king, I must secure the lands farther north. You will join me?”

  After a hesitation, Edmund said, “If it pleases you, my lord, but what of Strivling? Someone must begin setting it to order.”

  “Either of these men will serve you well.” Montagu flapped a hand at Walther, then Collier.

  Edmund’s consideration of Walther was brief. “Would you be agreeable, Gilchrist?”

  Walther’s bench scraped loudly, then the mercenary stalked across the hall. That he had been passed over for a mere soldier was an offense he would not soon forget.

  “Methinks Sir Rudd does not approve of your choice,” Montagu said.

  In the absence of Collier, had it been Walther who remained at Strivling? Was that how the mercenary knight earned charge of the lesser castle of Irondale held by Catherine’s family? And if Collier accepted Edmund, what impact would it have on the past?

  He looked across the hall at Aryn—rather, the memory of Aryn. How his mind wished this to be real!

  “Are you agreeable, Gilchrist?” Montagu asked with sharp impatience.

  Collier met his gaze. “I am but a soldier, my lord.”

  “Then therein lies your reward for your part in opening Strivling. Many are the men I have knighted in battle. Do you accept?”

  Collier stared. He could hardly swing a sword beyond deflecting another’s, and though his size and passion for extreme sports gave him physical advantage over most of the men in the hall, he lacked the ability and desire to fight as a means of earning a living. More, he found the taking of life reprehensible. And yet the besto
wal of knighthood would make him worthy of being given charge of Strivling and grant him access to Aryn.

  “Tell me, Gilchrist, are you a dreamer?”

  There was that, too. Despite Montagu’s scorn, Collier nearly laughed. “My lord, I would be honored to be knighted.”

  Montagu looked to Edmund. “Gilchrist shall stay in your stead,” he said, then turned to discussion of their northward journey.

  Collier glanced over his shoulder at the blazing fire which had yet to warm the chill from the hall. Though he took central heating for granted, it was truly a luxury. But at least the hall wasn’t drafty as he had read they were, likely due to the numerous tapestries hung on the walls.

  A short while later, a physician appeared beside him. “I will stitch you now,” he said and gestured to a bench against the wall.

  Collier lowered his tankard and, feeling the ale, slowly crossed the hall.

  “It went deep,” the physician pronounced after probing the injury dealt by Aryn’s blade.

  Collier frowned. Was her sword still in the winch room?

  “Thus, I must needs sear it to prevent infection.”

  The thought of a glowing iron being pressed to his flesh tossed the ale in Collier’s belly.

  The physician straightened. “Once that is done, it can be stitched.”

  “Will it heal?”

  The man shrugged. “Possibly.”

  And if it didn’t? Amputation? Silently, Collier cursed the backwardness of the middle ages. A year ago, his body had been broken, and yet he had been made whole—or nearly so.

  “Girl!” the physician called. “Come hither.”

  The servant, who looked of an age approaching puberty, faltered. “B-but sire, I know naught of tendin’ wounds.”

  “Do you argue with me?”

  “Nay, sire. ’Tis just that—”

  “I will assist, Sara.” Aryn appeared alongside the girl. “Return to the kitchens.”

  The girl hastened away.

  Clasping her hands at her waist, Aryn turned her cool regard on the physician. “What do you require?”

  Untouchable, Collier thought. Aryn would allow no one past her defenses. Of course, it was the same thing she had accused him of the day she discovered he was once more dependent on painkillers. Ironic that he was now on the other side of the fence, hoping to get in when the sign clearly read keep out.

  “To dress the wound,” the physician said, “I will need a basin of boiled water, clean linen strips, and the whites of four eggs.”

  Aryn inclined her head, and as she crossed the hall, the physician began picking through bottles and implements on a nearby table. It was a fascinating array, but what held Collier’s attention was the needle the man unwrapped from a piece of linen. It was long and fine, and it shone silver when it caught the light—hopefully, proof he knew something about sterilization.

  Shortly, Aryn returned with the items and set them on the table.

  The physician thrust a piece of wet linen at her. “Cleanse the wound.”

  Would she refuse? In coming to the girl’s aid, she had accepted responsibility for performing this service, but she was surely tempted to walk away.

  With obvious grudging, she accepted the linen, and when she stepped alongside Collier, he propped his arm on his thigh.

  It would have been easier for her to kneel, but she bent over him.

  Near enough to touch, he thought as he stared at the top of her veiled head and drew a breath of her. She smelled like Aryn—that soft, womanly scent that filled him each time he had held the woman he hadn’t loved as he should have.

  She lifted her head, and he saw questioning in violet eyes that ought to be blue before she drew back and pronounced, “’Tis clean.”

  The physician uncorked a bottle and wet a cloth with the pungent liquid. “Stay near, Lady Catherine,” he said, then to Collier, “Lie back.”

  Collier eyed the bottle. “What is that?”

  “A medicament that will allow you to sleep through the cauterizing and stitching.”

  A form of anesthesia, then. “What kind of medicament?”

  Annoyance flickered in the man’s eyes. “Mandragora bark, henbane root, opium…”

  That was all Collier needed to hear. The painkillers to which he had become addicted were a derivative of opium. What would happen were he administered a dose? Would his longing for painkillers return greater than before?

  When he had previously resumed using the drug without Aryn’s knowledge, it had been with the intention of taking only one, but within hours he had needed another. And another. What of withdrawal? Would he have to go through that hell again?

  He looked at where Aryn stood with arms folded over her chest and gaze trained across the hall. “I don’t need it,” he said and saw her startle.

  The physician grunted. “Your bravery is noted. Naught more is required of you, soldier.”

  “All that is required of you is that you cauterize and stitch my wound,” Collier said, “and the sooner done, the sooner you can see to others.”

  The man grumbled something, then instructed Aryn, “Fetch a piece of kindling and a heated fire iron.”

  When she returned, the physician thrust the kindling into Collier’s hand. “Bite on that.”

  Knowing he would regret not accepting anesthesia, Collier clamped the wood between his teeth and dropped back onto the bench.

  The physician took the iron from Aryn. “Hold his shoulders down.”

  She stepped near, placed her hands on Collier’s shoulders, and leaned her weight onto him.

  As the physician raised the glowing iron, Collier sought her gaze—violet, not blue, edged by lashes longer than those lengthened with mascara. And past bare lips rosier than they ought to be, she whispered, “You are a fool.”

  He knew that.

  What followed words could not describe, and all in the hall sober enough to see past their noses could not doubt the pain was excruciating. But though Collier splintered his mouth on the piece of wood, nearly biting it in two, he remained conscious.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You are not of Wessex.”

  Collier looked over his shoulder. Though tempted to further the lie, he inclined his head. “I am not.”

  Edmund raised an eyebrow. “I would ask where you are from, but I do not think you would tell me.”

  Collier turned from the fire that provided all the warmth to be had in the hall, and with the exception of a few torches, all the light now Montagu’s men had bedded down. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.” His voice was hoarse from the shouts he had been unable to suppress during the cauterization.

  “Neither are you a mercenary.”

  Beneath the blanket draped over his shoulders, Collier shifted his bandaged arm in its sling. “Am I not?”

  “A man who prefers fists when the fight is more easily won with weapons? Who takes the blade intended for another to deliver our king’s enemy to safety? Who calls Catherine Algernon a name not her own as if he knows her by it?” He shook his head. “You do not fit, Gilchrist, and yet I have this feeling I know you. And though I am usually cautious in naming my friends, I am inclined to believe you are worthy of my trust.”

  Because I’m also a Morrow? Collier wondered. Because I will live only because you lived?

  “So who are you?”

  Feeling weary beyond his years, Collier said, “Your ally.”

  “Forsooth, you saved my life—for which I am indebted— but that does not answer my question.”

  “I have no other answer.”

  Edmund sighed. “We will talk again.” As he strode across the hall to where the knights made their beds, Collier was unsettled by the feeling of being watched. And it was very possible considering the number of occupants. Was it Walther?

  He swept his gaze around the dim room that was hardly still and quiet, alive as it was with those whose breaths, snores, and other bodily sounds would plague a light sleeper. Several tap
estries rippled gently as if drafts played at their edges or rodents at their hems, but that was all he detected.

  Seeking his rest in a chair angled before the fire, he sank into it. The day had been as long as those suffered during withdrawal, but he was reluctant to surrender to sleep. Would dawn bring an end to this dream? Or would he escape the reality of his loss awhile longer?

  He dropped his head back and prayed that when he awakened he would be in the fifteenth century. Even though Aryn would still hate him.

  Catherine flattened herself against the wall. Though she’d had to strain to hear Morrow’s exchange with Gilchrist, she had caught much of it. It disturbed her. But then, she was already much troubled by the one who had placed himself between Walther and her.

  Recalling Gilchrist’s refusal to accept the physician’s offer of relief, she saw again the pain contorting his face and felt his determination not to shout aloud his suffering. But though he had roared as he strained beneath her hands and the physician had paused to smugly offer the relief earlier rejected, Gilchrist had refused again, enduring every sear and stitch. And when it was done, he had risen from the bench and walked away.

  As Morrow said, he did not fit. However, eavesdropping on her enemies was not the reason she had stolen from her chamber.

  She waited a quarter hour, then peered around the tapestry at Gilchrist who sat in profile before the hearth. Gauging by the rise and fall of his shoulders, he slept.

  Next, she considered the corridor that accessed the storeroom she must reach. The guard leaning against the wall with his chin on his chest posed little threat. Too much ale, the same as the others.

  Remembering how harsh Hildegard’s punishment had been on the rare occasion she found a man-at-arms in such a state, Catherine slipped from behind the tapestry and carefully moved amongst those sprawled on the floor. Once clear of them, she quickened her step.

  She was halfway to her destination when a hand clapped over her mouth and pulled her back against a solid chest.

  “Which passageway?” Gilchrist rasped.