A Royal Marriage. Rachelle McCalla
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felt, she couldn’t be sure what was happening, but it seemed the mount they rode had bolted in fright.
Should she be frightened? No. She trusted the arms that held her, wrapping around her more protectively as the horse galloped frantically. With trembling fingers she grasped the strong arms, holding on. Whatever was happening, she felt instinctively that she could trust these strong arms. She could trust the man who held her.
The sound of splashing water teased her thirst. She’d give anything for a taste of cool water to soothe her parched tongue and throat.
Suddenly cold water enveloped her, dousing the flames of fever and rushing into her open mouth. She drank deeply, grateful for the relief, more grateful still for the strong arms that held her securely and refused to let her go.
* * *
John lunged for the banks. The waters tugged at Gisela’s robes, threatening to tear her from his arms. He tried to hoist her higher, fighting against the current and the slippery rocks, nearly falling twice before movement on the bank caught his eye.
Illyrians stood above him on the shore. They fit their arrows to their bow strings and took aim.
There was nowhere to go. Moses swam far beyond him, his nose pointed to the narrow path that led down to the water from the miller’s house.
John gulped a breath, covered the princess as best he could, and bent his knees, plunging them both beneath the surface of the chilly stream. He let his feet leave the rocks, and the greedy current took them both, sweeping them swiftly toward the turning paddles of the miller’s wheel.
At least, in the darkness, the Illyrians would have trouble finding the swirl of water that marked where they swam. And the swift current would deflect the arrows.
John kept his head down until smooth rocks knocked against his knees. He realized that, as the stream widened to meet the miller’s wheel, it also became shallower, and its water flowed less swiftly.
Raising his head and gulping a breath, John stood and found the water reached only to his hips. He could walk, and made for the path by which Moses had already clambered free of the cold waters. Glancing back, he saw the Illyrians in retreat and caught enough of a glimpse of the activity in the moonlight to guess that Renwick and the guards of the riding party had heard the commotion and rushed to his aid.
“Your Majesty?” a voice called from the bank just beyond him.
“Yes. Here! Lend me your hand!”
In a moment two pairs of feet splashed through the shallower waters, and Gisela’s sodden frame was lifted from John’s arms. His hands and fingers trembled after the aching ordeal, yet he still felt a strange sense of loss now that he was no longer holding her. Renwick’s shoulder propped him under one arm and he stumbled toward the bank.
“The Illyrians?”
“We ran them off,” Renwick assured him. “We’d been watching for you anxiously. We heard the commotion and saw them shooting. We knew they had no right to be here.”
“Good man.” John stood straighter as he stepped up the dry path. “You did well.”
“Oh, my lady!” Hilda squealed as she ran from the inn toward them.
“Let’s get her inside,” John instructed the men, who carried in the princess.
They hastily brought her in and laid her on a bed while the innkeeper’s wife fussed about the soaking mess she was making on the freshly ticked mattress.
“I thought you were going to pack her eye!” Hilda cried as sputtering oil lamps were brought near enough to see.
With disgust, John saw that Gisela’s eye pack had come off completely and was likely torn apart by the miller’s wheel or swept far downstream. He pulled his pouch from over his shoulder, disheartened to see that the plants inside had been soaked through.
“I’ll make another eye pack.” John tried to be calm, but Gisela’s potential to recover wasn’t good—especially not after the dunking she’d suffered in the chilly waters of the stream. At least she was breathing evenly after her impromptu immersion.
“I need to get her out of her wet clothes. All the men should leave the room.” Hilda began to shoo them out.
“They can leave now.” John got to work quickly crushing the leaves of the best-looking plant. “But I’ve got to get this on her eye. Then I’ll leave and you can undress her.” He hurried to apply the crushed leaves, wishing the light would allow him to inspect her injury more closely.
Instead he ran one hand down her silken cheek, but his hands bore the chill of the river, and he couldn’t gauge how hot her fever burned. Quickly, while Hilda’s back was turned, John pressed his lips to Princess Gisela’s forehead, trying to discern how fiercely her fever raged.
Heat speared through his lips, imparting a far stronger message than the one he’d sought. He recoiled, but not before the memory seared itself into his mind like a firebrand. It was more than mere fever. His lips hadn’t touched a woman since the day his wife had died.
Shoving aside the temptation to press his lips to her again, John focused on her medical condition. Though her fever was down slightly following her unintentional dousing, she would likely suffer chills. How much water had she breathed in? It could kill her even if the hare’s tongue worked.
With a heavy heart he finished and closed the door to her room behind him and prayed silently that his efforts would not have been in vain.
Renwick met him at the door with an anxious expression.
John was soaking wet, cold, hungry—and bone tired.
“The men looked after Moses, Your Lordship,” Renwick offered, using a loftier title than usual.
It made John suspicious. “Moses was nicked by an arrow.”
“We saw, Your Highness. The bleeding has stopped on its own.”
“Good.” John wondered what vexed the man.
Renwick didn’t leave him curious for long. “The men gave chase to the band of Illyrians. They wanted to make sure they were out of the area. They sent a volley of arrows after them.” He gulped a breath. “One of the Illyrians was struck, sire.”
“So was my horse.” John headed for the single flight of stairs that led from the inn rooms above to the common dining hall where a warm fire and roasted meat awaited. He hoped the innkeeper would let him pay for a set of dry clothes.
“He fell and didn’t rise.”
John froze and squinted at Renwick in the darkness of the hallway. “Did he die?”
If they’d killed a man, the Illyrians could use it as an excuse to attack. Death begat death. If his men had killed a man, the Illyrians would kill one of his men—or likely more than one.
“The rest of his band plucked him up and carried him off, but...” Renwick sucked in a breath. Though technically a messenger, Renwick had seen his fair share of battle. He’d ridden with John the day his father died. “It didn’t look good.”
John clapped his hands over Renwick’s forearms and addressed him with greater severity than he’d intended. “Pray that man doesn’t die.”
Renwick winced. “What should I tell the men, sire?”
“Give them my thanks. They did as they were told. They saved my life.”
“And the Frankish princess?”
John shook his head morosely, guilt from his confused feelings swirling with his prayers for her recovery. “Pray for her, as well. If we lose her, we won’t just have the Illyrians to worry about, but the Holy Roman Empire.” He continued to the stairs, the war he’d tried so hard to avoid dogging his every step.
His men looked up at the sound of his boots, their faces drawn with concern.