Dragonblade Trilogy - 03 - The Savage Curtain (24 page)

“Oh, Stephen,” she breathed, with
sorrow. “How did you find me?”

Stephen’s cornflower blue eyes
were appraising as he gazed down at her from his lifted visor.  He just stood
there a moment, looking at her, before shaking his head in bafflement.

“What are you doing?” he asked
simply.

“Are you going to beat me?”

He just shook his head again,
this time with disgust. “Do you honestly feel the need to ask that?”

She blinked, knowing she had been
righteously caught  She had taken a chance and it had failed; every time she
tried to help the man, to take matters into her own hands by trying to do
something to aid the peace of Berwick,  she managed to fail.  Perhaps she
should simply give up and trust that Stephen would not get himself killed. He’d
been keeping himself alive for many years before she met him; perhaps she
simply needed to have faith in him.  Gazing into his suspicious eyes, she
realized that she needed to tell him everything and tell him quickly. No lies,
no evasiveness. As it was, he thought she was about to betray him.  She could
read it in his face.

“Nay,” she swallowed, pulling the
tartan off her head and letting it fall to the ground. It was a gesture of
defeat, not unnoticed by Stephen.  Her shoulders slumped as she forced herself
to look him in the eye. “I do not need to ask that question for I already know
the answer. But you may change your mind; I lied to you. I lied to you because
I felt I could do what you could not.”

He maintained his even
expression, though there was wariness to it. “And what is that?”

“Find the rebels. Find them and
discover what their plans were.”

He just looked at her.  “For what
purpose?”

Her pale blue eyes glimmered in
the weak moonlight. “So I could tell you.  Then the next time they attacked,
you would be ready. Perhaps you could defeat them once and for all and stop
this madness that continues to perpetuate itself. So much fighting and dying,
Stephen. I told you that I did not want you to be a casualty; if I can prevent
your death, I will.  I would do it a thousand times over.  I would die if it
meant you would live.  Do you still not understand that, husband?”  Tears began
to fill her eyes. “Everything I do, I do because I love you and would do
anything to ensure we have a long and happy life together.”

He began to understand what was
going on and his shock at her escape, his disappointment at finding her far
from the castle, began to fade. Perhaps he was a fool to believe her, but he
did.  He simply couldn’t believe anything else.

“So your cousin did indeed give
you information,” he ventured quietly.

“Aye.”

“What did he tell you?”

She looked extremely guilty. “He told
me to go south on the main road towards the cemetery,” she looked over her
shoulder at the darkened church in the distance. “He said that the priest would
tell me where the rebels were.”

Stephen looked at the church
also, as did a few other men who happened to hear what she said. “The priest is
part of the rebellion?” he glanced up at Lane, at Tate, who were gazing down
from their mounts as the situation unfolded.  Noting their uneasy expressions,
he refocused on Joselyn. “If that is true, then we are exposed here.  God only
knows who could be lingering about, watching us even now. We must return to the
castle immediately.”

He grasped Joselyn by the arm and
led her over to his charger. “But now that you know, are you not going to
confront them?” she asked.

“Not with only a few men,” he
grasped her around her slender waist and lifted her up into the saddle,
noticing her clothes as he did so. “You are all wet. You will be lucky if you
do not catch your death of chill.”

He was scolding her, much more
mildly than she deserved and she knew it. “I am sorry,” she said softly,
painfully. “I thought I could help. I truly did.”

“We will discuss it later.  Right
now, we must return to Berwick.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Furious.”

“Do you hate me, then?”

He didn’t reply and she shut her
mouth, tears spilling over. He had every right to be angry and hateful, and she
was beginning to feel like the most worthless fool in the world. But those
thoughts were cut short when something cold, powerful and painful suddenly plowed
into her back.

Stephen heard the high-pitched
whine of the arrow a split second before it hit Joselyn, sitting high and
exposed on the saddle.  Horrified, he caught her before she could topple,
somehow managing to mount with her in his arms as Tate began to bellow orders
to the men.  Soon, they were scattering back to the road, thundering at top
speed back towards the castle. Stephen could only feel complete terror as
Joselyn lay limp in his arms, a nasty arrow protruding from her back. He
honestly didn’t even know if she was alive.  Never in his life had he known
panic, not for himself but for Joselyn. He was clearly experiencing it now and
it was more than he could comprehend. It was a nightmare.

More arrows sailed overhead as
they retreated down the road but there was no rebel army to follow. There was
not even any shouting or screaming as the Scots liked to do; simply an odd,
dead silence with the ambush of arrows.  The retreating English reached Berwick
in little time, de Lara rousing the fortress on high alert as they passed
through the massive gatehouse. Tate was off his horse as Stephen raced through
the gate, extending his arms for the unconscious Lady Pembury as Stephen reined
his charger to a halt. The woman slid off into his embrace as Stephen, in his
haste, nearly fell off his mount behind her.

“Watch the arrow,” Stephen’s deep
voice was quivering as he took a moment to examine his wife. “Do not jostle it.
Hold her still.”

Tate had Joselyn in a bear hug,
her arms and head over one shoulder as he held her carefully around her torso. 
She was completely lifeless as Stephen examined her with shaking hands; the
first thing he did was feel her neck for a pulse.  It was weak and rapid.  The
sigh of relief that came out of his mouth was nothing Tate had ever heard out
of the man.  It was like the exhale of a dying man, venting emotion never
before experienced.

“Get her up to our chamber,”
Stephen commanded hoarsely. “I need to remove this arrow.”

“Stephen,” Tate was extremely
concerned with the man’s pale face and shaking hands. “Perhaps I need to send
for a physic. I have a very fine surgeon within my ranks and….”

“No,” Stephen snapped, his jaw
ticking furiously. “I will not trust the life of my wife to anyone but me.”

“I did not mean to suggest
otherwise,” Tate could see how disturbed the man was, completely out of
character for the normally in-control knight. “I simply meant as an extra pair
of trained hands.”

Stephen didn’t reply. Tate was
not even sure he really understood what he was suggesting but he let it go.
Lane and a couple of soldiers had already raced ahead to the keep, throwing
open doors so there would be no delay in getting Lady Pembury to her bed.  
Stephen had Tate by the arm as the two of them moved as quickly as they could
to the great keep of Berwick, maneuvering the narrow stairs to the chamber on
the third floor. 

Entering the chamber, Stephen
began to rip off pieces of armor, tossing the protection into the corner with a
great ruckus. He tore his gloves off, reaching out to carefully take his wife
from Tate. Between the two of them, they managed to turn her around and lay her
on her stomach.  Stephen fell to his knees beside the bed, demanding his
medicament bag, which someone put next to him.  His hands went to the arrow
that was embedded just beneath his wife’s right shoulder blade.

It was in a bad spot. Stephen
knew just by looking at it and his heart sank. Many vital veins ran through the
area and his concerns multiplied.  He struggled to compose himself, to maintain
his control, as he carefully began to peel away the material around the wound
to gain a better look.  After several long moments of close examination, he
finally let out a heavy sigh and raked his fingers through his dark hair in a
frustrated gesture.

“What is it?” Tate was standing
next to him. “What do you need, Stephen?”

Stephen had to shake his head to
clear his vision, his mind.  He rubbed at his eyes, struggling to think
clearly. “The wound is not bleeding much, which concerns me,” his voice was
raspy. “This is a very vital area with a good deal of blood flow, so I suspect
the arrow is acting like a barrier and preventing her from bleeding to death. 
Removing the head will be like undamming a river; everything will flow.”

Tate crouched down next to him,
watching the man’s big fingers dance gently over Joselyn’s slender back. He
could feel the man’s grief as it radiated out of every pore of his body. “What
will you do?” he asked.

Stephen inhaled deeply, clearing
the last of the panic from his mind. He had to think clearly if Joselyn had any
hope of surviving.   He knew what had to be done, as he had done this kind of
thing before, many times. But never on someone he loved.

“Send for your surgeon,” he said.
“I will need an experienced assistant. And find the serving women and tell them
I need boiled linen, all they can manage, and hot water.”

Tate relayed the orders to Lane,
standing just inside the door, and the man went on the run. Meanwhile, Stephen
continued peeling back the torn and bloodied material away from the wound,
trying to think professionally about the injury and not from the position of
the emotional husband.  It was extremely difficult.  When the material was
pulled away sufficiently and he touched the arrow shaft again just to see how
deeply it was buried, Joselyn suddenly let out a groan.

Stephen was down beside her in an
instant, his face looming next to hers. “Jo-Jo?” he asked gently. “Can you hear
me, sweetheart?”

Her pale blue eyes remained shut
but her lower lip began to tremble. Tears began flowing from her eyes.

“It hurts,” she whispered.

Stephen thought he could very
well cry himself at her declaration. “I know,” he kissed her wet face gently.
“I’m so sorry; I know it hurts.”

“What happened?” she breathed.

He wiped the tears from her face.
“An arrow,” he murmured. “We were ambushed.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am.”

She sighed faintly. “Then I am
content,” she whispered. “But I am sorry. I… brought this about. I should not
have… I should have told you….”

She faded off and he kissed her
cheek again, her limp hand.  “Not to worry,” he said softly. “It was not your
fault. I will heal you as good as new.”

She twitched, crying out softly
when excruciating pain radiated throughout her body.  The tears fell faster.
“Please,” she breathed. “It hurts so much. Please… remove it.”

Stephen kissed her hand, her
face. “I will, love, I promise.”

He began to rummage about in his
bag, blinking back tears as he looked for one of the mysterious powders he used
from his days as a Hospitaller. It was a powder derived from a flower that was
grown far to the east, expensive and rare, but with astounding medicinal
qualities.  He kept it in a bladder envelope, tightly sealed.   He found it
carefully wedged at the bottom of his bag and he drew it forth, asking for a
cup of wine.  Someone handed him a wooden cup, half-full, and he poured some of
it out on the floor before dispensing a careful measure of the white powder. 
He stirred it with his finger and tasted it.

“Tate,” he looked over his
shoulder. “Pull her up so that she can drink this.  Gently, please.”

Tate’s enormous hands reached
down and, at Stephen’s direction, grasped her carefully by the torso.  Joselyn
wept in pain as he lifted her with extreme care, struggling to drink the liquid
that Stephen was tenderly attempting to administer to her.  She was in so much
pain that she could hardly think, but Stephen’s gentle coaxing helped her drink
the contents of the cup.  Once the bitter brew was down, Tate lowered her
carefully back to the mattress.

“There,” Stephen set the cup down
and stroked her dark head. “Soon the pain will fade and you will sleep.”

Eyes closed, she licked her lips,
tasting the last of the brew.  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Stephen?”

“Aye, love?”

“Please tell me that you do not
hate me for not telling you the truth.”

He couldn’t stop the tears then;
he put his lips on her cheek, eyes closed as his tears gently fell on her dark
hair.  His head against hers, he spoke.

“I love you more than my own
life,” he murmured against her flesh. “I know you were not being deliberately
malicious. I know you thought you were trying to help.”

She began to cry again, pitiful
sobs as he gently shushed her.  His big hand stroked her dark hair as he kissed
her temple, whispering words of comfort that only she could hear.  Eventually,
the tears faded and she drifted into a heavy sleep. Stephen continued to stroke
her hair until he heard her heavy, steady breathing.

Silently, he began to assemble
what he would need to remove the arrow.  Tate pulled up a stool next to the bed
and sat, watching Stephen as the man focused on what he must do. He could only
imagine the turmoil he must be feeling.