The Quest. Lyn Stone
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her on the sand. To the boy, she ordered, “Mind the child for me if you wish me to do this.”
Iana tugged aside the blood-soaked clothing and began to pull loose the wrappings around the man’s midsection.
“God have mercy,” she muttered when she saw the angry wound. She spoke to the lad again. “Gather some wood and build a fire. It looks as if we shall be here for a while.” Though she knew it would be wiser to leave within the hour, Iana could not bring herself to desert this knight or to rush his care.
He opened his eyes, but she could see that he did not focus well. Fever, she guessed.
“Take the boy to Baincroft. Anything you want,” he mumbled in her own language.
“And leave you here like this?” she asked wryly. “I do not think your little man would allow it.”
He blinked hard and his lips lifted in either a pained smile or a grimace. “No, I suppose not,” he mumbled. His accent proved faint, but there was no mistaking he was French. “Then I thank you for…helping.” His eyes drifted shut.
Iana uttered a mirthless laugh. “You might want to delay that gratitude, sir. I am about to deal you more pain than you already bear.”
When the boy returned with the dry deadwood, she found her flint and tow to make the fire. When she’d accomplished that, she fished a small metal bowl from her belongings and handed it to the squire. “Fill this with seawater.” Then she sat back to wait, snuggling the silent Tam against her side.
Henri struggled to hold his gaze on the woman’s face as she worked upon him. Efficient as a moneylender counting coins, he thought, while she removed his tunic and bathed his body in the seawater Ev had fetched for her.
The sting of the cleansing troubled him little more than the constant throbbing pain he had endured for days. When she glanced worriedly at his face, he summoned a smile, knowing she would think him brave and stoic. His small deception pleased him, having a lovely woman believe him so. In truth, he was half-dead already and quite well used to the agony of dying. He would make a good end of it. Not one whimper.
She lifted a small container to pour some liquid over his wound. The excruciating fire of it tore a groan from his throat.
“Felt that, did you?” she asked. “It will get worse.”
He clenched his teeth to trap the blasphemy that almost escaped. As reassurances went, hers was not welcome.
She put the jug of that same liquid to his lips and bade him drink deeply. He did so more than once, immediately realizing that it was the Scots’ famous water of life. It burned his throat as viciously as it had his wound. He’d had this stuff before and knew a blessed numbness would follow, a drunkenness from which he might never wake.
“’Twill take a few moments to work upon your senses,” she told him. Then she set the jug aside and took out a needle the length of his smallest finger. To the eye of it, she guided a full ell of thread.
“By the saints,” he muttered. “You’d sew me with pikestaff and rope?”
“Aye, and glad of it you’ll be,” she said, adding ruefully, “but not right soon.”
The languor offered by the spirits began to envelop him in its warm cocoon. The sun was setting now. He could see the last rays of it dancing across the waves. Idly, he wondered if he would ever see it rise again. No matter. “Have your way then, madam.”
His eyes closed of their own accord, though he’d faintly hoped to expire while gazing upon her striking features. He forced them open again to see whether he had imagined her beauty. She looked the same.
Strange to find such a one here in the hinterlands. Though he had seen a good portion of Scotland in his day, he had never come this far to the west. For some reason he had imagined there would be only tall, ruddy maids with wild, matted locks and thick, sturdy limbs. Unruly Viking stock combined with the fierce warring spirit of the Old Ones.
Not this woman. She appeared almost delicate, her movements graceful as those of a nimble hart. Her skin brought to mind fresh cream reflecting firelight. Sparks glinted in the depths of her sin-dark eyes each time her gaze caught his own. If only he could see her hair. Smooth, silken and long enough to reach her waist, he imagined, though she had it properly covered so that he could not even guess its true color. Dark, he thought, because her brows were. How he would love to see her hair, run his fingers through its smoothness. Oh well, he supposed he would soon be past pleasures of the flesh.
He turned his head slightly, and there was Ev, sitting cross-legged beside the fire. In his lap sat a small, thin, ethereal creature with eyes the size of walnuts, peering at him curiously. A child? Where had it come from?
It looked unreal, its eyes old, its mouth frowning, its body nearly wasted away. The sight of it made him want to curl an arm around it and shelter it. As though he had sent that silent message to his squire, Everand did so in his stead. The boy’s act comforted Henri as nothing else could have done at that moment. A fine knight Ev would make one day, he thought yet again.
Henri looked back to the woman, wondering whether he had conjured up both these strangers. The fever fogged his brain, he decided, giving him visions of both hope and despair. The one of hope seemed more real to him, definitely healthier, and he clung to her winsome visage.
He allowed his lids to drop once more, content to hold her image for as long as his mind worked. Drifting into permanent oblivion, entertained by such a vision, possessed great appeal.
Suddenly he jerked and howled, “God’s nails!”
She quickly flinched away from his upraised arm, the needle held aloft in front of her. “You must hold still!” she said firmly.
He followed the taut line of thread and saw it attached to the raw edge of his skin. If he was not dying already, she would surely kill him on the spot.
“I shall hold him down,” he heard Everand say in a deep voice, as though he were a man full grown and oak sturdy.
Henri almost laughed aloud at the idea of small Ev rendering him immobile. Instead, he upended the jug and downed the remainder of the strong brew that promised surcease from his torture. He was already drunk, but not drunk enough.
“Go to,” he gasped to the healer. “Everand will restrain me. He has more strength than his size allows.”
Henri knew he must lie still and bear it without moving, or else Ev would lose face. At least one of them should retain some dignity before their lovely benefactress, and Henri knew he had already forfeited his own.
At long last, she announced, “There, ’tis done.”
Henri tasted blood in his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. He turned his head and spat as soon as Ev released his arms.
Again, he spied that child of the ether, the one he had imagined before. It sat upon the sand, silently sucking upon one finger, those large, hopelessly sad eyes trained upon him still, weeping inwardly without sound or tears. Was it a shade awaiting the release of his soul?
Never in his life had he wished to faint. Now certainly would be an excellent time for it. Talons of fire gripped him like the sharp, unrelenting claw of a dragon.
The woman pressed a cool, wet cloth to his face and moved it gently as she spoke. “You must sleep now. I shall return anon with a litter and remove you to a place of shelter. Likely ’twill rain before morn.”
“Will I live?” he asked, doubting even she could save anyone so damaged and untended for days. The fever had caught up with him two days ago and raged worse as the hours passed. Now it had him seeing ghost children and thinking death might be welcome, after all.
She did not hesitate in answering him honestly. “Anything is possible. I have done all that I can do. The rest is up to you and God.”
Henri reached for her hand, grasping the long, slender fingers as tightly as he could. “You will not