Protected by the Warrior. Barbara Phinney
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the hut sits close to the woods.”
Ha! The wind was no harder now than last night or when he was repairing the door, and he had not heard that noise before.
It sounded again. Immediately, Kenneth bolted outside. He heard Clara gasp and rush out behind him, but he still charged around the back of the hut, past the coop to where the forest encroached on the small building. Indeed, the trees grew very close here, and some did brush the old, mildewed wall, but these branches were soft growth and what he’d heard was a harsh scrape.
He stopped, tense and listening, realizing as he did that he’d left his sword inside. A rustling answered his stillness, followed by a silence so loud, it rang in his ears. He held his breath, until, aye, he heard another rustle, and the sound of something, or someone, hastily plunging back into the thick forest beyond his sight.
From deep within in the woods, an indescribable cry came. Kenneth wasn’t sure what had caused it.
“Brindi, get me my sword,” Kenneth called out.
“Nay!” Clara stepped up beside him, holding up her sister’s arm. “My sister is not your squire.”
“There’s someone in the woods.”
“Likely an animal, probably a rabbit. You’ve scared it away,” Clara announced over the disturbed clucking of the bothered hens. “Good for you. You’ll be able to report back to Lord Adrien that you saved me from a vicious hare.”
With that biting comment, she spun on her heel, dragging Brindi back toward the hut. Kenneth followed, angry that he hadn’t been able to catch whoever had trespassed, for it surely was not an animal.
As he passed the coop, the rooster crowed and Kenneth jumped. A soft snicker slipped from Clara’s mouth as she reached the door, and he berated himself at his nerves.
And for his earlier guilt. Nay, someone was out there. Be it Rowena or one of Lord Taurin’s men sent to spy, he had no time for contrition about Clara’s upbringing. Guilt and softness on his part would lead him do something foolish, like galloping out of the hut unarmed, as he’d just done.
As he reached the door, he slowed. That noise was caused by someone, for the scraping was methodical, and that cry he’d heard did not come from a hare. Aye, they cried when wounded, in fact they cried like a sick babe—
He stopped. A babe? Had Rowena come with her child? Was that scratching noise some prearranged signal? Inside the hut, Brindi gobbled her meal, her furtive glance up at him almost too quick to catch. Did she know something, or was she afraid that her meal might be forfeit, to give to someone else?
Clara’s back was to him and she seemed completely undisturbed by the noise.
He hesitated. Could he have been mistaken?
Nay. He’d honed his battlefield skills, and fighting alongside Lord Adrien had sharpened his intuition. He’d traveled in dangerous woods, where hearing and instinct were vital to fighting off robbers. He knew that something was amiss here.
But calling Clara on a lie would be fruitless. If she’d even lied at all. Thinking over her words, he realized that she’d tried to distract him from attributing the sound to a person, but she’d never actually denied it. Nor, he thought, would she easily admit it.
Slowly, he sat down beside Clara and continued his meal, but no longer did the savory pottage or sharp cheese taste well on his tongue.
* * *
“Should I go now, Clara?” Brindi whispered the next day as they pulled weeds from the garden to feed the hens.
“Not yet.” Beside her, Clara whispered back, wincing as she used her injured left hand. “Be patient.”
They continued their work, with Clara shooting a quick look at Kenneth as he worked on his chain mail nearby. He caught her glance, and Clara darted hers away. She grabbed a handful of weeds with her left hand, then yanked it back when the cut opened again.
“Give those weeds to the chickens, Brindi.” She stood and walked into her home to wipe away the blood and dab on some salve to seal the wound again.
“How is your cut?”
Not hearing Kenneth enter, Clara jumped. “It has opened again, from me working in the garden. I should have favored this hand a little longer, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid. You aren’t that way with anything else.”
She stole a fast look at him. A slight smile hovered on his face. Despite the stinging cut on her hand, she chuckled.
He walked closer. “Let me help you. I’m your healer, remember?” He took her hand in his, and with the clean cloth she’d found, he dabbed the wound. “’Tis not as bad as it looks. A day or so and ’twill be closed over completely.” With that, he reached over her shoulder for the two pots of salve.
He was right, of course, Clara noted, feeling his proximity as he deftly applied the mixture. Though the wound had begun to heal and no longer felt hot, the mint in the salve still soothed. As did Kenneth’s gentle touch. He was born to be a healer.
A pang of remorse for her plans to deceive him struck her belly but she ignored it. Kenneth had been ordered here to ensure her personal safety and no doubt discover Rowena’s hiding place. He was not here to woo her, nor would she permit him to win her confidence. She would do what she must because she’d promised a young mother, and her promises were just as important as Kenneth’s.
He wrapped a strip of cloth around her hand. “Let’s keep it covered for one more day, shall we?”
Peeking around his elbow, for she was not tall enough to peer over his shoulder, Clara spied Brindi standing at the threshold of the hut. The little girl bit her lower lip, and Clara glared the order for her sister to say nothing. Thankfully, the girl returned to her chore.
“Aye,” she said, looking up at Kenneth. Her heart started to pound in her chest, but not from his warm hands on hers or from how close he was to her, she told herself. ’Twas from the ruse she must begin.
Like her sister, Clara bit her lip. Would Kenneth be punished when she slipped away from him?
She stepped back. “Thank you. I will favor it for the rest of the day.” She set the pots of salve back on the old shelf above the fire. “Did you finish repairing your mail?”
“Aye.”
“After we’re done in the garden, I shall start a good stew for our midday meal. I’ve found a few stray vegetables. Whoever harvested the garden last year missed them and they must be eaten before they sprout again.”
“Won’t they give you new vegetables?”
Despite the tension gripping her, Clara smiled and shook her head. “Nay. These are root vegetables and will soon turn woody. Besides, they are misshapen and we only allow the best roots to go to seed.” She tipped her head. “You’ve never gardened?”
“Nay. My sisters did that with my mother, but as soon as I was old enough, I went to Lord Adrien’s family to page, then to squire for him. I’ve only trained for soldiering, not for keeping a home, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid,” she mocked softly. “Keeping a home never killed anyone.”
“Unlike soldiering?”
Her smile dropped. She hated everything that caused death—fevers, fighting, even hard childbirth and damp conditions for a newborn.
She swallowed. The conversation was souring, so she lifted the skirt of her dark cyrtel with her good hand. This was her darkest outfit, for she needed to blend into the forest. “I should finish in the garden before I start that stew.”
Back outside, Clara plunked down beside Brindi.
“We need to go,” the girl whispered. “Rowena needs you!”
With the barest nod,