Uncovering The Merchant's Secret. Elisabeth Hobbes
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Her heart drummed a march in her breast.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, stroking the matted hair back from his brow.
His eyes focused again and locked on hers and he bestowed on her a smile of such overwhelming tenderness that she wanted to weep. Tenderness. So long since anyone had looked at her in such a way. Blanche closed her eyes wistfully. She bent her head and kissed his forehead with the lightest of touches. His head came up and his mouth found hers with a swiftness she would not have anticipated in one so close to death.
His lips tasted of salt and moved over hers with a fierceness she had never encountered before. He was fighting to the end; a dying man’s final attempt at comfort or a sweet memory to take beyond the grave. There was desperation beneath the desire, drawing her to him and leaving her powerless to resist its pull. She kissed him back, letting her lips form the shape of his in a moment of mutual sorrow.
She felt the moment his strength gave out. Her eyes filled as she drew away and laid his head gently down.
He smiled once more.
‘My angel. I am ready to come to you,’ he whispered in French, then closed his eyes.
An angel?
Blanche smiled at the thought, though tears smarted in her eyes. He thought he was speaking to someone else. If only the man knew what kind of woman was peering down at him, he would not use such terms. She was Jael. Jezebel. She was the Magdalene at her worst.
His hand went limp and she placed it across his chest. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the wound on his head, probing as gently as she could so as not to cause him more discomfort, though she suspected he was rapidly slipping beyond such experiences. The wound was deep and she felt the hardness of bone. His chest heaved and he groaned, twisting on the sand. There was still strength in him. If his body was as strong as his kiss, there might be hope...
‘Andrey, come help me,’ she shouted. ‘This one is a survivor.’
Andrey stomped over and looked down.
‘Huh, better to finish him off quickly,’ he said, reaching for the curved dagger at his belt.
Blanche threw herself in front of the man, arms out, and stared up at Andrey defiantly.
‘No. We’ll take him to the castle and give him a place to rest.’
Most likely he would not survive the night, but she could not leave him here for such a sad and lonely end.
Andrey looked appalled. ‘We have no idea who these men are. He could be a spy for Charles de Blois. Do you really want to give shelter to such a man?’
Blanche stood, curling her fists. She placed them on her hips and lifted her shoulders back. Though she was only a woman, she had learned that to mimic a man’s posture somehow garnered more respect and granted her authority that using her femininity did not.
‘It is my home. I will not be argued with.’
Andrey still looked unhappy. Blanche softened her stance and smiled.
‘I know what you say is wise, but look at him. He can be no danger to us, even if he is a spy, in this condition. Fetch a cart and help me carry him, but be discreet. I want as few people to know as possible. That will ensure word does not travel.’
Especially to Ronec’s ears. Andrey met her eyes and Blanche knew he had the same thought. He nodded his head, seemingly satisfied by this precaution.
She bent down once more as Andrey stomped off, and took the man’s hand. It would be sensible to at least try to find out what allegiance he might have.
‘What is your name?’ she asked. ‘Can you speak?’
He opened his eyes and muttered a word that was no word.
‘Your name,’ she repeated, leaning close so that her ear was close to his lips. ‘Who are you?’
He muttered something that may have been Jacques, then his eyes closed and his mouth went slack.
Andrey brought the cart and began to rearrange the contents to make space. Blanche pushed the man’s cloak back and saw he was wearing a satchel. Blanche eased it free. It contained a small, shallow casket made of dark wood.
‘At least we’ll have some spoils,’ Andrey said with a grin.
Blanche held it to the light. It was plain and looked well used. Probably a document case, but maybe a jewel casket.
‘It may contain the key to learning who he is,’ Blanche mused.
‘Key! Not one I’ve found.’ Andrey laughed. ‘Best break it open.’
Blanche put the bag and casket on to the cart.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Keep it safe for now.’
If the man lived, she would ask him herself. If he didn’t, then she would permit Andrey to open it and put an end to their curiosity. She helped Andrey lift the man, slipping her arms in the crook behind his knees, and made sure he was laid carefully on to the cart. His long legs were crooked, reminding her of a discarded marionette, and she straightened them before putting the box beside him. She followed the cart up the beach and along the rutted track that led to the sea gate of the castle. In the courtyard she paused, as the first seeds of doubt began to grow.
‘We won’t put him in a bedroom,’ she decided. ‘There’s a small storeroom in the cellars of the outbuilding. Take him there.’
She saw that the man was taken where she instructed and a pallet with a mattress was provided. She dismissed Andrey and his suggestions that she call a servant to tend the injured man.
‘The fewer people who know, the safer it will be for all of us.’
In truth, she felt responsible and wanted to tend the man herself. The moonlight shone through the small, barred window, falling across his face, which even in the dim light she could see had a deathly pallor. She loosened his wet shirt and eased it off his body, thinking how long it had been since she had undressed a man and how welcome it was knowing this one was in no position to paw at her or expect a candle’s worth of rutting. She pressed her palm over his heart. The beat was barely perceptible beneath the mound of his chest. He began to shiver, tremors passing through what Blanche recognised was a powerful frame. She drew a sheet high up to his chin and covered him with a pair of wolf pelts. She spooned weak ale laced with something to ease his pain between his lips.
If he survived the night that would be miraculous, but she left him and went to her own bed satisfied that she had done what she could.
Long fingers of light fluttered across the wall. They played over his legs and moved slowly, languidly up his body until they reached his face and began to climb stealthily upwards. Because of this, he knew time was passing, but his limbs felt heavy and he had no desire to move. He was lying on a mattress, though the lumpy sack filled with stale-smelling straw hardly dignified the description. Everything was unfamiliar. This was not his home.
His head ached as if he had been beaten around it repeatedly and his muscles felt torn, but he didn’t know why. He reached a hand up to touch the main source of the dull throbbing on his temple and discovered his arm was weak and the effort brought a sweat to his brow. He succeeded in feeling his head. It was bandaged, which meant he had suffered an injury of some sort, but he had no idea what or how he had come about it. Nor did he have any idea how he came to be in this place.
The last thing he remembered was—
And there he was forced to stop, because although he had the vague sense of scents and tastes, and the sound of screaming and splitting wood in his ears, he had no recollection of what had happened. He knew for certain he did not know this place, but how he knew that, he was unable to explain. The