Carolyne Cathey (24 page)

Eleanor's pulse
drummed in her ears as she waited for Sir Jerrod to add more details, but his
gray lips remained in a tight clamp.  The Jerrod who could stretch
"aye" into a soliloquy, seemed at a loss for words.  Somehow that
bothered Eleanor even more.  She needed his rambling jests for reassurance.

"'Twas a
lance?"

"A bolt from
a cross-bow.  When Lord Kyle heard the crack of a twig, he twisted to grab his
sword, and so the bolt carved a path across his chest instead of piercing him. 
Kyle hit his head upon a stone when he fell."

Eleanor waited
for Sir Jerrod to make a comment about the rock suffering from the hardness of
Kyle's head, but he remained silent, other than his labored breaths from bearing
Kyle's weight and the sounds of feet scuffling across rush-covered stones.

A terrible
tremble started from her toes and crept up her body to push tears from her
eyes.  "Don't die, Kyle!  Please, don't die! I won't let you!"

They struggled up
the spiral steps and through the doorway with his corpse-like body.

Eleanor ran past
them and grasped the stack of cloths offered by a distraught Peter, then threw
back the fur cover.  "Hurry.  Put him on the bed."

Nurse took the
extra cloths from her hand as John rushed in with the old woman's basket of
herbs and balms.  "Here, Nurse."

Sir Jerrod and
the other knights stretched him on the bed.  He lifted Kyle to remove the
bloody mantle, tossing the fabric to the rushes.

Eleanor's gaze
focused on the now-bloody cross.  A hole pierced the center.  Part of the
vision had come to pass.  But what about the rest of her prophecy--the dragon
rising from the flames of hell, the screams, the smoke, the smell of burnt
flesh?  And death?  Nay!  She would not let death claim Kyle. 
Dear God,
show her what to do.

As Nurse cut away
Lord Kyle's clothes, Eleanor dipped a cloth into the basin and washed Kyle's
stone-bruised face.  A large lump swelled above his right brow. 

Nurse gasped and
Eleanor looked down to see what held the woman's concentration. 

Blood oozed from
a ragged gash across Lord Kyle's shoulder.

The woman's
gnarled fingers probed at the wound.  "'Tis not deep, thank heavens.  'Tis
a mess and a miracle at the same time.  But his head . . . "  She lifted
her gaze.  "John, tell Anne to cook wheat.  She must use the plumpest and
heaviest grains.  I'll need some ready in case his wound becomes proud.  Tell
Beth to boil a goodly amount of garlic.  And ask Peter to fetch some clear
yellow wine.  The age must be of this year."  The nurse glanced up at
Eleanor.  "'Tis in case the arrow was poisoned."  She straightened
and turned to John.  "Can ye remember all that, lad?"

He nodded, his
face as pale as Lord Kyle's.  "Aye.  Will he die, Nurse?"

"He will
unless ye do as yer told."

Ashen, John
bolted from the chamber.

"Poisoned?" 
Eleanor reached out to the wall for support before dizziness dared pull her to
her knees.

Sir Jerrod sat on
the bed beside Kyle and lifted him under his arms to raise him so that nurse
could tempt the liquid past his lips. 

Kyle reminded her
of icons she had seen of the crucifixion: his head lolled to one side as he
hung, motionless, unaware.

The fruity smell
of the yellow liquid mingled with the blood and the firesmoke.  Her stomach
lurched and roiled.  All seemed unreal, like a nightmare.

Kyle jerked.  He
shook his head as if to stir his mind.  "What goes on here?"

A cry of relief
escaped Eleanor's throat.  Tears of gratitude flooded her eyes as she looked
down to see him struggle against Sir Jerrod's hold.

Sir Jerrod
groaned.  "Be still, Kyle.  You've already left a trail of blood that will
make the leeches ecstatic."

Lord Kyle's face
appeared a splotched combination of red-tinged anger and far-too-pale.  Then
his gaze met hers, and held.  And despite her fear for his well-being, warmth
uncoiled from her icy chest into her extremities.

A twitch lifted
the corner of his mouth.  "'Tis but a scrape, love."  Pain slashed
across his face; he collapsed onto the pillows, eyes closed.

Terrified,
Eleanor grasped his hand.  "Lord Kyle!"

He didn't
respond.

Nurse Kincaid
struggled to her feet.  "I’ll make haste to prepare some herbs fer
him."  She groaned and pushed away from the bed.

"I'll stay
with him, Nurse."  Eleanor brushed back a stray lock off Kyle's too-white
forehead.  She couldn't stop touching him.  If she did, he might disappear.  

"Aye,
milady.  I'll be up anon."

 Nurse leaned
against Peter's side and he assisted her around the end of the bed toward the
door.

Distraught for
Kyle, Eleanor cradled his battle-scarred hand, large, strong, yet tender when
he had touched her, caressed her.  He must not die.  She pressed a kiss into
his dry palm, then looked up through blurred eyes to see Nurse and Peter
whispering to servants who quietly filled the room.  The people of Trystonwood
obviously loved their master.  Even more, they surely understood their fate
should he die.

An older woman
stepped forward and curtsied to Eleanor.  "Milady, me name is Jane.  He
saved me mistress, he did."  She sniffed and wiped her eyes.  "He
brought me here as well, so I wouldn't be punished fer aidin' him.  He's the
best lord anybody could want."  She burst into tears and turned to run
past Nurse and Peter through the doorway, then let out a stifled scream.

Brigham strode into
the chamber.  "What happens here?"

Eleanor could
only stand there, her throat clogged as if she had swallowed the bowlful of
cooked wheat Nurse had ordered.

Sir Jerrod lifted
his gaze.  "Ah.  Brigham.  'Tis Kyle.  He's been . . . wounded."

Surprise flashed
on Brigham's face.  "Wounded?"  He moved to the bed. 
"How?"

Defensive
instinct exploded and Eleanor stepped between Kyle and Brigham.

The steward threw
her a hateful glare.  "Out of my way, wench."  He shoved her and she
stumbled.

Sir Jerrod caught
her and held her to his side in a protective gesture.  He appeared calm, but
Eleanor sensed his controlled rage.  "Lord Kyle deflected an arrow off his
tough hide as he came in search of you, his trusted...friend.  By chance, where
have you been, Brigham?"

Brigham stiffened
and confronted Sir Jerrod, his face an angry red.  "What do you imply? 
And what do you mean he came in search of me?"

"We've heard
tell of a hidden abode with your name upon the door.  On our way to pay a
friendly call, we were ambushed.  Might you know the man who released the
errant arrow?"

Fury contorted
Brigham's face.  "You accuse me?"  He stepped forward to grasp Sir
Jerrod's tunic. 

As quick as
lightning Sir Jerrod released her and grabbed Brigham's wrists.  Then he
shrugged as if unconcerned, but readiness showed beneath his relaxed demeanor,
much like an animal prepared to lunge for the kill.  "I only asked if you
knew aught of the matter.  After all, you are the one who knows this part of
the country the best, since you are the steward, the man in charge, so to
speak."

Brigham jerked
his hands from Sir Jerrod's grip.  "Who told you this foolish tale?  No
one here would dare..."  Deliberate in his slowness, Brigham turned to
confront Eleanor, eyes narrowed, face flushed.  "You!  The whore!  You
spread lies as easily as you spread your thighs.  Cease with your
interference!  Look at the damage you've caused."

Eleanor cringed
with the guilt-laden truth.  She had meddled yet again.  And now Kyle lay near
death. 

"I know you
hope to oust me, witch, but your spells cannot touch me." 

Eleanor heard a
collective gasp.  She had forgotten about the silent mourners.  She wondered if
they showed shock because Brigham had revealed she wanted him removed from
power, or because he had claimed her a witch.

He glared at
Eleanor as he gestured toward the door.  "Leave!  Get out while you still
can."

Eleanor
sidestepped toward the bed.  "Nay, Sire!  I will stay with Lord
Kyle."

Brigham clutched
her arm and jerked her toward the door.  "I'm in charge now, witch!  I say
out!"

"Nay!"
Eleanor wrenched free. 

Sir Jerrod wedged
between her and Brigham.  "Lord Kyle would be most displeased if he
awakened and found not his...uh..." Sir Jerrod cleared his throat. 
"Companion."

Eleanor wilted
with shame.

"Kyle will
be well to be rid of her."

"Then let
Lord
Kyle do the ridding."

Bless Sir
Jerrod's heart.  Eleanor owed him her gratitude.  Encouraged, she straightened
and met Brigham's glare, praying he didn't see her fear beneath her bravado. 
"I will stay with Lord Kyle until he no longer wants me, Sirrah.  He is my
lord and master.  And he needs his rest."

"You think
to dismiss me?  You high-hand me?  You act as if you're the lady of this keep,
but I remind you, the game of chess remains unfinished.  You're naught but a
harlot."  Brigham reached to snatch her wrist.

Before she could
react Sir Jerrod ensnared Brigham's arm, then turned him toward the door. 
"'Tis time to use the night for its intended purpose, Brigham.  'Tis time
to sleep."

Brigham attempted
to yank free, but Sir Jerrod refused his release. 

"There is no
wager, Jerrod!  'Twas only an evil ruse of the green-eyed witch."

Sir Jerrod guided
Brigham through the doorway past her view. "Goodnight, Brigham."  His
voice echoed down the stairwell.

Nurse motioned to
the others in the chamber.  "The lord needs his rest.  I know yer
concerned, but iffen ye care, ye'll leave him be."

Sir Jerrod
re-entered as the others filed out, a magnificent carving of a wooden ship in
one hand.  "I'll sit with you, lass.  I promised Kyle I would protect
you.  'Twas his last request before he blacked out."

The revelation
that she had been Kyle's last thought released her unshed tears.  Sir Jerrod
wrapped his arms around her cold body.  She sobbed against his chest, wondering
if the ache in her own would ever cease.

"Come come,
lass.  You tremble like a frightened sparrow.  Let's sit.  We might have a long
wait ahead of us."

Numb, she sat at
his urging and he gently placed the miniature ship in her hands, the wood
smooth from long rubbing.

"Lord Kyle
shaped this himself, lass."

Memories of Kyle
claiming he had shaped her womanly path to fit him seared into her mind.  She
tightened her hold on the hull, absorbing the feel of the wood he had once
touched with such loving care.
 
Jerrod placed a woolen blanket on her
knees, then sat beside her. 

"Lord Kyle's
father loved to carve, as did his father before him.  When not as pleasantly
occupied as he has been with you, he works wood to soothe his mind.  Now,
apparently, you fill that healing need."  He ran his fingertip over a tiny
sail so full blown with wind the wood seemed to breathe.  "He fashioned
this during our tense hours in Wales, then stuffed it amongst my possessions
and said 'twas mine to keep or burn, my choice."

"He
never mentioned such a talent."  Fighting tears, she caressed the masts,
the sails and deck, picturing his hands touching where she touched.

Sighing, Jerrod
placed a booted foot on the edge of the fur-covered mattress.  "Twas only
a short time ago I sat with Kyle whilst you lay ill.  I wonder if the dragon
stirs in his dreams, or if you now fill the black space of his sleep."

"Lord Kyle
and I have talked of this beast.  I've sensed the creature.  I say 'tis
Brigham.  He says nay.  Then he spoke of the death of Prince Davydd.  I
understood not the connection."

"He spoke to
you of the dragon?  And about Davydd?  He has never bared his fears to any but
me before now.  You're special to him, for certain.  But then, I knew as
much."  He met her gaze.  "'Tis a danger, this attachment."

Eleanor fell
silent and waited, in dread.

Sir Jerrod
shifted and placed his foot on the rush-covered floor.  "Kyle will not
like my interference in this matter, but you must know the risk he takes.  He
wants you too much, you see.  His passion for you will most likely cause his
death."

The black hole of
despair opened beneath her.  "Please, Sir Jerrod.  Tell me of the
dragon."

"Aye.  The
dragon."

S
ir Jerrod settled back in his
chair and propped both his black-booted feet on Lord Kyle's bed, ankles
crossed, fingers clasped on his lap of pewter linen.

Eleanor shivered
as apprehension crawled along her flesh, uncertain she wanted to know the truth
of the dragon, but certain she must.

"Kyle's
nightly visits by the beast started a year ago this month, the night of the
memorable exit of Prince Davydd ap Gruffydd, of Wales.  Our liege lord, King
Edward, requested that Kyle, his trusted knight, be his witness at the
execution, then report back to him of the historic event.  Some say 'twas the
first ever.  Yet somewhere, sometime, some ruler must have exercised such a
macabre execution.  I stood by Kyle's side.  We will both take the images to
our graves.  'Twas a gruesome spectacle."

Sir Jerrod's feet
twitched.

"Not a man
there didn't imagine what 'twould have been like to have been in Davydd's
place.  We knew him, you see.  In better days, Davydd was befriended by Edward,
and thus by Kyle and me.  He even wed the King's cousin, Elizabeth, at Edward's
urging.  Davydd was a man full of rebellious humor, a sly wit unparalleled. 
He'd been granted a title, given lands.  But Davydd returned to Wales to fight
for his country's freedom from Edward's unquenchable grasp.  And when Davydd's
brother, Llewelyn, lay beheaded, Davydd became leader, although for only a
brief, painful moment in history."

With Kyle’s
wooden ship clutched against her heart, Eleanor rested her head against the
rung of the chair back and listened, and wondered.

"Kyle
reported to King Edward how Prince Davydd had died with dignity, yet no man
alive could believe 'twould have been possible.  Later, Kyle and I discussed if
King Edward felt disappointment with that bit of news.  After Kyle revealed the
information, our liege lord then requested to hear the details of Prince Davydd's
death."

Dazed, Eleanor
forced words past her throat.  "Lord Kyle revealed the loathsome
tale."

"Did he?  I
doubt he told you all.  'Twould not be his way.  And 'tis important you
know."

She felt the cold
wedge of separation slide between her and Kyle.  Sir Jerrod's tone rang a death
knell to her hopes of a future with the man she loved.  Her fragile spirit
slipped a notch.

"You see,
King Edward had decreed that Prince Davydd be dragged by horses to the
scaffold, then hung, but taken down while still alive.  A knife was heated
red-hot while the condemned watched; they used the glowing steel to sever his
manhood.  He was disemboweled, his entrails burnt, then he was beheaded.  They
even cut out his heart. 

"King Edward
had the townships bid for the quartered body parts to be displayed for all to
see.  Prince Davydd's head graced the gate of London since the royal city
triumphed with the highest bid.  Iron bands bound the prize lest it fall to
pieces from putrefaction.  Then 'twas set upon a long spear-shaft beside his
brother Llewellyn’s for the mockery of the citizens.  The town of Lincoln chose
not to bid and was fined for the audacity."

Eleanor
concentrated to quell the threatened heave of her stomach.  She wanted to ask
what the gory revelation had to do with the dragon but could no longer find her
tongue.

"After Kyle
had finished his report, King Edward smiled.  He said the news should dampen
any further attempts at rebellion.  And indeed, Wales became his without
question.  King Edward had made his point.  He cared naught for treason."

Sir Jerrod
brushed at a non-existent thread on his surcote.  "Our Plantagenet lord
chose that poignant moment to bless Kyle with the proposition that he plight
his troth with Lady Mellisande, the king's distant cousin.  The analogy could
not be missed.  Cousin.  Treason.  Upon the honorable announcement, quiet
engulfed the king's chamber.  I understood Kyle's dilemma.  Of all the deeds
done by the Hanleys, and even though Kyle would never forgive them for their
treatment of Cathryn, he hated them most for what they had done to his
mother."

Eleanor swallowed
her bile and sat upright.  "His mother?"

"Aye.  While
Kyle and I were but squires and testing our newly acquired skills in battle,
his father died.  Lord Hanley kidnapped Kyle's mother and wed her against her
will.  He thought to claim Trystonwood as his.  Kyle's mother fell down a
flight of stairs, broke her neck, and died.  Some say she had tried to escape
his cruelty.  'Twas the start of the personal war". 

Sir Jerrod
shifted in his chair.  "After a short period of mourning, Hanley wed the
wealthy Lady Elizabeth who bore Hanley a son, then later, a daughter, the
infamous Lady Mellisande.  Lady Elizabeth also died of mysterious means.  Then
he wed Cathryn.  He's had four wives in all, all dead.  But Kyle still lived
and could lay claim to Trystonwood.  Determined to have the land at any cost, Lord
Hanley plotted to snuff Kyle's life, but he failed.  Kyle will fight him to the
grave, if need be."

Eleanor studied
Kyle's death-like pallor.  The sadness that had claimed Kyle's past reached out
to snatch his future.  Yet, what could she, a powerless peasant, do to change
his destiny?  How could she fight a king?

Sir Jerrod
released a resigned breath.  "King Edward's new law that certain lands
pass to the eldest male heir not only gives him more control over his subjects,
but also ceases these local wars over property.  This marriage is meant to
bring about peace." 

Eleanor sat in
silence, all hope lost.  An invisible chain dragged her heart to beneath the
ground.  Her gaze refused to move from her motionless knight as he lay amongst
the linen, almost as white as the sheets, the gash on his shoulder and the
swelling on his brow ugly reminders of her interference.  If he would only
move, show signs of life.  "What did Lord Kyle tell the King?"

Sir Jerrod bent
his knees and rocked his chair up on the back legs.  "Kyle thought for a
long moment.  Then he cleared his throat and faced King Edward.  He explained
the bitterness between the two families.  King Edward knew, of course, and
claimed the merger would stop the wars, the differences.  He considered the joining
as tactical genius.  And Kyle would become a distant kin--a position of honor. 
Kyle thought for another long moment, beads of moisture upon his forehead.  He
pled grief for Cathryn.  He disclosed he wasn't ready to commit to another as
husband; he needed more time.  King Edward gave him his time.  A year.  The
dragon haunted his sleep that night.  And every night since.  'Til you."

"And now
King Edward plans a visit."  She could only whisper her statement.

Wind rattled the
window, demanding an entrance.

"You can see
his dilemma."

A chill draft
swirled around Eleanor's chair, her heart, stirred the smoky haze, her despair.

Sir Jerrod rested
the chair on four legs again.  "When the king hears that Kyle refused
Edward's cousin, then married a peasant of unknown parentage even though ‘tis
forbidden, 'twill be an insult.  Treasonous behavior?"  He cocked his
head, mouth pursed.  "Perhaps."

Her spirit
plummeted.  "And the King cares naught for treason."

"Aye, lass. 
I see you understand."

"And, ‘tis
forbidden?" The arrogance of the man to have bet his life in exchange for
a bedmate! 

"Aye."

"Then Lord
Kyle really has no choice in relation to the wager."  Anger welled within
the core of her fear.  How dare he have made the ill-conceived bet in the first
place.  Having done so, how dare risk his life for her.

"No choice?
’Twould seem as much.  Except, his heart pounds too loudly to hear the
scoldings of his mind."

Surely one hope
existed.  "Lord Kyle mentioned that the king owes him a favor, that all
would be well."

"'Tis true. 
Kyle saved King Edward in exchange for a broadsword across his back.  He almost
lost his life."

"The scar. 
Lord Kyle had called the wound superficial."

Sir Jerrod
grunted.  "Which means he didn’t die."

"Might the
king honor Lord Kyle with a favor?"

"Aye.  But
would King Edward understand rejection?  In truth, 'twas the same as a
command."

The king's
man.  Things of which she knew naught
. 

Eleanor wished
numbness would overtake her bloodied heart.  Yet, all the pieces of the mystery
were not yet in place.  "What about Brigham?"

"Ah. 
Brigham.  Kyle's bastard brother."

She jerked her
gaze to Sir Jerrod.  "Brother?  And a...a bastard?"

"Aye.  Kyle
promised his father to always care for Brigham.  'Tis a weighty burden."

"So, 'tis
why Lord Kyle is loyal to the man."

Eleanor splayed
one hand over her abdomen.  Deep inside, where Kyle had spilled his seed, could
she detect a tiny life?  'Twas too soon to tell, but if she concentrated, could
she detect a heartbeat?

Sir Jerrod placed
his warm hand atop hers.  "Bastards have a difficult time in the world,
lass."

"The world
needs not another Brigham."

"Nay, lass. 
You and Kyle would never have a Brigham."

She released a
tortured sigh.  "But 'twould still be a bastard.  Did Prince Davydd have children?"

"Aye. 
Three.  All young.  One born only three months before Davydd’s capture."

"What
happened to them?"

"The babe,
Gwladys, was sent to a convent to live out her days.  The two sons, five and
three, reside as prisoners in Bristol Castle, rumors hint of cages.  'Tis
doubtful they will ever see the glorious sky again.  We are not certain of the
whereabouts of Lady Elizabeth, King Edward's cousin."

"But,
perhaps King Edward fears that the children of Prince Davydd might claim a
right to a country.  Our child--"

"Who knows
how a regal mind thinks?  A child makes a useful pawn."  Sir Jerrod
shrugged.  "And who is there to say him nay?"

Overwhelmed, she
longed for privacy so she could ponder the plight.  "Sir Jerrod. I know
you're exhausted.  Will you sleep now?  I'll call you if . . . when Lord Kyle
rouses."

"Aye, lass. 
I'll sleep in the solar."  He pushed to his feet.

Hating to release
what Kyle had shaped with his own hands, she held the wooden carving up to
Jerrod.  "Bless you for taking the pains to show this to me."

"'Tis yours,
lass"

"Mine?  But
'twas from Lord Kyle to you."

"To do with
what I will."

"I know not
how to repay you for such a gift."

"Just heal
him, lass.  Heal him."

He nodded and
scuffled across the stones, weariness in his step.

"Sir
Jerrod?"

He turned to face
her, one hand on the open door.  "Aye?"

"What think
you I should do about this situation?"

His shoulders
sagged.  "'Tis grievous, for you are the greatest goodness in his life,
and yet the greatest danger.  He cares for you as he has never cared for
another, and I suspicion, will never care again.  But 'tis impossible,
lass."

Bittersweet truth
scoured into her mind like ground glass, hard and cutting.  Lord Kyle cared for
her, but she could never be his lady.  "Earlier this eve, you started to
say something about the dragon and me.  What did you intend to mention before
Lord Kyle commanded you cease?"

"Ah." 
He stilled, his mouth pursed.  "Your heart will not leap in joy with the
telling."

He referred to
her death by fire.  She tensed in readiness.   "I wish to know."

He nodded, then
stepped back into the chamber and shut the door.  Sighing, he leaned against
the wall, arms crossed.  "The night you arrived, when Kyle visited with
Brigham and me in the solar as you escaped into the storm, he stared into the
fire and saw . . ." Sir Jerrod hesitated.

"What?  What
did he see?"  And yet she already knew.  A chill feathered her skin.

"He saw the
dragon in the flames.  Then you."

'Twas good she
sat or she would have fallen.  "Then he knows."  She forced her voice
past the boulder in her throat.

"Aye.  At
first he made no connection, and when he did, he fought the concept.  But then
later, he admitted the truth.  The dragon.  'Tis you."

"Me?" 
Eleanor leapt to her feet, shocked, hurt, insulted, the precious ship clutched
in her fists to keep her emotionally afloat.  "'Tis ridiculous!  What
nonsense do you spout?"

"You are the
one who will cause his death."

The revelation
jarred her memory of when Lord Kyle had called her 'sweet temptation'.  He had
accused her of being other than she pretended.  Fighting for control, she met
Sir Jerrod's scrutiny.  "Beyond the fact that royal decree forbids he wed
me, if Lord Kyle believed me the dragon, then why would he even consider
honoring the wager?" 

"He gave a
knight's vow." 

His answer drove
the ugly truth deeper into her heart.  She might be a comfort to Kyle in a
lonely bed, but he married her because of honor.  He lusted, not loved.  And he
believed her the dragon.

Sir Jerrod shook
his head as if befuddled.  "He knows he courts his own demise, even so, he
is drawn to you like a moth to a burning brand."

Indignation
eddied with her anguish.  Needing the heat she paced to the hearth, then turned
to face her accuser.  "I am not the dragon, although I'm confused as to
whom the beast may be.  I first believed 'twas Brigham, then perhaps the king. 
And this day I wondered if 'twas Lady Mellisande." 

Realization crept
upon her like a nightmare.  Stunned, she stared at Sir Jerrod.  "When I
sat with Lord Kyle upon his steed I sensed that danger hovered nearby.  Soon
after, you appeared from the shadows.  Perhaps you are the beast.  Perhaps you
name me to shift the suspicion to another.  Are you the dragon, Sir
Jerrod?"