A Templar's Apprentice (13 page)

“Master Tormod, did I wake you?”

“No, Horace. I'm sorry I was added to yer duties,” I said quietly.

He laughed his great barrel laugh. “An' ye're so much worse than shifting ballast.”

I wanted to laugh, but I didn't have the energy. “How do I do it? Clean the wound, I mean?” Talking seemed to push away the threat of tears that came on every time I thought of what I'd lost, or what I would have to face.

“Seawater boiled with garlic bulbs and leaves o' witch hazel. Ye clean it like this.” He was gentle, another surprise. “Do this for as long as ye need, but when ye feel able, soak the whole o' it.”

As he spoke, he carefully showed me how to clean the wound that someone had stitched with rough black thread. The pain was so heady that I could barely hear him. My ears hummed and black crept up behind my eyes. I had no notion that my tears were running freely until I heard my own hiccupping breath and felt the dampness on the blankets. It was embarrassing.

“It will be all right, Tormod. Cry if ye need to.” Fiery jags raced through the whole of my leg. I focused on the back of his neck and saw the thin white scars I'd never seen before. It was a shock. I ran one finger over the closest and he flinched.

The lash came down with savage brutality. Pain
rippled, close and hot, not within me, but an echo of a memory that still contained it.

Focus. Ground. Shield.
I was back in seconds, my body trembling. Horace thought it was from the pain. Maybe it was, but I knew this pain was nothing compared to the one he had endured.

The chamber was dark and it was late, but I was restless. The air shifted, and I closed my eyes to just a slit. Someone came to change the water. His bulk was not Horace. Fury washed through me. Seamus.

Silent, he stood by me. I wanted to move, to yell, to smash his face, but I couldn't. The coverlet had fallen to the floor, and I held my breath as he lifted it and laid it back on top of me. The weight was painful, but I could not afford to wince. It seemed forever before he left.

I sat up shakily, pushed aside the bedding, and carefully began to remove the dressing. It was stiff with dried blood and the sight of it was as nauseating as the last time I'd looked, but the Templar's warning made me press on.

Wasting no time on a dry wash, I inched the whole of it slowly into the bucket. The pain was heady; my body shook with it. Several moments passed before I was able to draw a breath without feeling the need to retch.

Cassiopeia came in through the open door and
began nosing around the bucket. Absently I reached down and rubbed her neck. The light of my candle sent out flickering bits of gold that illuminated a small area of my berth. I could see into the bucket. The blood had mixed with the solution and the water had turned a dark and murky red.

I could not bear to touch it yet, so I let the water do what it would. The scarlet depths of the bucket called out to me and I slipped inside.

Old and blistered feet cried out for relief. A clumsy bag pressed into back and sides. A familiar heat wafted through the thin material. The crash of a waterfall played in my ears. A myriad of sparkling lights danced before my eyes.

Focus. Ground. Shield.
As I lurched back to the present, my foot burned like the devil. I lifted it from the bucket, swaying in my seat, recovering from the vision. My breath was shallow, and the room faded in and out for many moments. Cassiopeia sat on my coverlet eyeing me as though I were an oddity.

This vision was unusual. Somehow important, I knew. I blotted the wound with the edge of my plaid, barely noting the clean pink skin and dark stitches. I had to tell the Templar what I'd seen.

Replacing the old bandage with a new one, I chanced putting weight on the foot. The pain was heady and so instead I hobbled to the wall and on one foot crossed the
room. The deck was empty save for the Templar, and when he saw me, he propped the wheel and hurried to my side.

“Are ye mad? Ye'll tear the stitches and have to start the healing all over again.” He helped me down onto a pile of sailcloth. The short journey had robbed me of all strength and much breath. “I've had another vision.

“It was an old man. Someone from the past.” The Templar's silence urged me on. “I think he may have carried the carving. I felt the heat and saw the light. 'Twas in flashes, like always, but an echo o' his thoughts was tied to the images as well. He had a responsibility, and was determined to see it through.”

“Can ye recall the setting?” the Templar asked. “What was 'round him?”

I closed my eyes. I was beyond tired, and my foot was throbbing. The lap of the sea was comforting. It came to me then. “A waterfall.” Sleep was calling out to me. The Templar draped a length of canvas over me and left me to return to the wheel.

T
he days that followed passed slowly. The pain of my wound continued. At times the burning came from deep
inside, like my bones were spewing flames. At other times it was like a distant ache, and it was then that I felt as if the toes were still there — like they had gone to sleep and were now waking with a rush of pinpricks.

I was on deck, sitting next to Geordie, chipping away at the board nearest. My foot began to ache and I stopped working, biting my lip. “Why does it do that?”

The Templar was at the wheel. “What?”

“Hurt like the toes are still there.”

“The blood is circulating in a healthy manner, rushing to the area to provide healing. I would worry if it were not doing that.”

As always, the things he knew were surprising. He was not at all old, but his experience and learning were endlessly vast.

“Ye don't have to push yerself this way, Tormod,” he said.

“Aye, but I canno' sit idly by; the seasickness comes on.”

My stomach rumbled but I ignored it. The prospect of food had little appeal. We had long since eaten anything fresh. All we had now was a store of dried and salted beef, with an odd turnip or old onion thrown in as a treat. And with the weather so often wet or misty, we could not even use the ceramic fire pit on deck to cook the fresh fish we caught. Some of the crew ate it raw, but the thought of it made me sick. I ate what
I could but not much more. I had no appetite for anything, really. Being with people, being alone, it was all the same.

We had been at sea for a very long while. The notches in the hold had grown and grown. The horizon line where the light of the sky met the dark of the water was the only visual break, and I spent much of my time staring in its direction.

And then there was the oddness of my nights. The dreams that I had on waking from the fever seemed to have unlocked something deep inside. Every night, from that first night on, I experienced a vision while I slept, a different place, a bit of life that was not my own. They came from all over, but they had something in common — the sparkling light and heat of the carving was there.

But now, many times, there also came an aspect I began to dread. The heat I associated with the tingling warmth became at times unbearable. It was as if my body was aflame, my skin scorched.

As I worked, chips of tar scattered before my blade.
Danger.
I sat up, confused. A thickness floated on the wind, like a sour scent. I inhaled it and cringed. The sky was no longer clear and blue, but dark and overcast. My foot ached, deep inside, as if the bones were swollen. My body was tight and my mouth was uncommonly dry.

We were nearing the harbor. Several ships were anchored there ahead of us. I leaned over the rail to see. Dread rose up inside me the closer we came.

I moved toward the Templar. “Something is wrong,” I said. “I feel it.”

“Seamus, take us wide. Horace, drop the sail.” As the Templar called directions to the men below, I walked the deck keeping the ships ahead in sight. The wind whipped past me, billowing my plaid. I watched as it crossed the water, building peaks of white. My sight lifted just as the closest vessel's pennant unfurled. The image of golden lillies floated on a field of blue.

“Tormod, get back.”

I ducked and scuttled to his side.

“The markings are Philippe's. We move no closer.” The Templar's voice was urgent. Beneath my feet the ship pulled as Seamus corrected course.

“Follow the coast an' put in to the cove two miles on,” said the Templar.

A shiver raced through me. Perhaps they had not seen us.

“We go ashore within a candle mark,” he said to me. “Be ready.” As he spoke, a sharp bristle of irritation crossed Seamus's face.

“I need ye here,” the Templar said. “I want a careful
watch on the ship. No one leaves, and none enter until we arrive back. I do not intend to be long. If anyone asks why we are here, it is to take on wine from the Santa Marissima Vineyards.” He didn't take his eyes off the French ship until we rounded the coast. “Seamus,” he said, approaching the wheel, “if anything goes wrong an' we don't return, get a message to the Archbishop.”

“Have ye seen something?” Seamus asked.

His body grew still, his eyes fading, distant, reaching for something. “It is like water, a' times as clear as day, and a' others like a murky stream.”

I knew not what he meant, but thoughts of the men hunting us were more troubling to me.

The cove was small and shallow. We anchored with no fanfare or issue. The sail was lashed and the lines coiled the moment we tied off. I scrambled to my berth and dressed my foot. Much of the trip had been spent without any covering but a bandage. To go ashore, I needed something sturdier. The thought of jamming my boot over the linen bandage made me cringe, but I got on with it nonetheless. The soft hide stretched as I forced in my foot. It was tight and uncomfortable at first, but I waited it out and the ache seemed to lessen.

Cassiopeia twined around my legs. “I canno' take ye with me, Cass. I don't know what is going to happen.” Deep in my body I felt hollow. “Be good, an' I'll bring ye something from shore.” The words did
not ring true. I could very well never see her again. I reached down to stroke her head and saw that my hand trembled.

When I emerged, the Templar turned and dropped his eyes toward my feet. “Can ye walk in those?”

“Aye. I'll not hold ye back,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster.

He smiled faintly. “Ye've said as much before, an' ye didn't. We will take it, as we must.”

“Perhaps he should stay behind, Alex.” Seamus was at the wheel. I knew by his voice that he was not saying it because he was angry, but still his suggestion got under my skin.

The Templar forestalled my retort. “He is needed. We will get on.”

Seamus said nothing and went below. Horace stood at the rail with Geordie, watching as we maneuvered the rope ladder to the lowered coracle. It was a difficult climb for me. I could barely feel the rope beneath the padding in my boot, and I slipped and got tangled up in my rush to get down. Then as my feet touched the boat, I overcorrected my balance and the coracle tilted dangerously. The Templar merely shifted his weight and righted us before we took on any water. “Go slowly, lad. We need to make haste, but not a' the peril o' a dunking.”

The trip to shore was quick and yet I seemed to have
no end of difficulty. I had not reckoned actually getting onto the shore. There were far too many rocks to take the boat in close, so we needed to get out in water that was knee-high. To keep my injured foot and boot dry the Templar insisted on carrying me ashore. I thought of Seamus, Geordie, and Horace, and my cheeks burned. Though the distance was short, I felt as if every eye on the ship was trained on me.

“That was hard for ye, lad, eh?”

I blew out a breath and shook my head. “Aye. I didn't like it a bit.”

T
he air was cold and damp, swirling around me in gusts I could not avoid. I wrapped my plaid tighter, willing warmth into my body. I thought of the ship we had seen, and there seemed nothing in the world that could warm me again. The Templar took the lead, saying little as we walked. I felt unsettled in a way that I was fast becoming accustomed to.