Medieval Ever After (27 page)

The cell door slammed open with enough force that dust and flotsam rained down from the ceiling. Shaken from an exhausted sleep, Kynan looked up to see Stephen bearing down on him. The big knight reached down and yanked Kynan into a seated position.

“Enough of this,” Stephen snarled. “I have had enough of you and your reckless rabble. If you do not help me put an end to these constant raids, I shall hang you from the battlements as we hanged your cousins. I shall leave you for the ravens to pick the eyeballs from your rotted skull so listen to me and listen well: there is much I can stand in warfare and very little I cannot. What I cannot stomach are reckless idiots who have no true direction or conviction as they wreak havoc. Your rebels from the church at the southern end of town launched an ambush that seriously wounded my wife. Then they proceeded to burn a large section of the southern end of Berwick and murdered one of my knights. This has to end, MacKenzie. It has to end now.”

By this time, Kynan was wide awake and staring balefully at Stephen. “What do ye mean about Jo-Jo? How did they hurt her?”

Stephen slammed the man back against the stone wall, speaking through clenched teeth in an uncharacteristic fit of anger. “She took the information you gave her about seeking the priest at the church at the southern end of town and went there. Your rebel brethren were waiting and launched an ambush. They struck her with an arrow. Even now she fights for her life and I swear by all that is holy, if she dies, every Scot within a fifty mile radius of Berwick will die. Man, woman, child, I care not. I shall slaughter them all unless you help me end this rebellion. Is that in any way unclear?”

Kynan was pale with fury, with distress over Joselyn’s injury. “She is dying?”

Stephen was a wreck. Not only had he seen Joselyn injured this night, but he’d watched Ian fall to a morning star that nearly tore his head from his shoulders. That same morning star ripped through de Lara’s left arm. Now Stephen’s fury was unleashed and he was focused on Kynan as the source of his anger. He had little control over it at the moment.

“She is very sick,” he said honestly, calming for the first time since entering the cell. He was so unused to fits of fury that he was sweating profusely with it. “I do not know if she is dying. Only time will tell.”

Kynan sighed heavily, scratching his dirty head. His defiance was leaving him now that those he was allied with had injured his cousin. Somehow the situation was not clear cut any longer. Joselyn was hurt by men who Kynan had said would help her.
His
men. He was beginning to feel some guilt for that and with that guilt came defiance.

“Ye only married her ta cement an alliance,” he growled. “She’s a Scot. She’s a symbol of submission ta ye. Dunna pretend as if her sickness tears at yer heart.”

It was the wrong thing to say. With a roar, Stephen grabbed the man by his tartan and lifted him off the floor, tossing him to the opposite side of the cell. He would have killed him had de Lara not been there to stop his rage, the man’s left arm heavily bandaged. Trying to hold Stephen back was like trying to tackle a raging bull. Doing it with a bad arm was nearly impossible.

“No, Stephen,” Tate hissed at him. “You’ll not kill him. We shall never get to the bottom of this if you do. Think man,
think
. He is your only link to the rebels.”

Stephen stopped pushing against de Lara long enough to pause, his blue eyes blazing with unbridled rage. His gaze was fixed on Kynan even as Tate tried to calm him.

“No killing,” Tate’s voice was firm, steady. “You need him if you are to end this.”

Stephen was visibly shaken, struggling to calm himself. He’d nearly killed the man with his bare hands purely out of anger. He’d never snapped like that before, not ever, and it was an awesome realization. He took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, and seemed to cool. His characteristic calm began to take hold again. But it was difficult. Eyes still on Kynan in the corner, he rubbed wearily at his neck.

“I need Ken,” he muttered. “I need the man here. I need his wisdom and his sword.”

Tate nodded faintly “I agree,” he said. “I shall send for him tonight.”

“Do you think Mortimer will spare him?”

“He will have to.”

Tate tried to tug him from the cell, but Stephen was still fixed on Kynan. After several long moments during which Stephen further calmed, he eventually dislodged Tate’s grip from his arm and took a couple of steps in Kynan’s direction. He faced the prisoner much more like his old self and not a raging lunatic.

“You and I will be very clear from this moment forward,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “I married your cousin to form an alliance; that is true. But she loves me and I love her, and there is nothing in this world that I would not do for her. I would pull the stars from the heavens or walk through fire if she wished it. Now she lies gravely wounded and my heart is in pieces in spite of what you think. It aches as no man’s heart has ever ached. If you have any loyalty to your cousin, then you will help me end these raids. The Scots are defeated. The English are in charge of Berwick. The sooner your people come to terms with this, the better for all of us. I need your help. Joselyn needs your help. Do right by all of us.”

Kynan’s glare was dull, bottomless as he gazed up at Stephen. “I can find out who did this to Jo-Jo but I canna do it from inside this coffin.”

“’Tis more than that and you know it. You will rot here unless you tell me what I want to know.”

“I shall not help ye crush my people more than ye already have.”

“If that is all you can see in this situation, then you are a fool.”

With that, he turned and quit the cell with Tate and Lane on his heels. The guard locked the grate and the cold clang of the bolt being thrown echoed through the vault. Kynan sat against the stone where Stephen had tossed him, smarting and disoriented with the turn of events. The conversation with the English knight had him reeling in spite of everything.

The situation was not so clear after all.

The first thing she was cognizant of was that her eyelids felt as if they weighed one hundred pounds apiece. They were so heavy that she couldn’t open them. And her head pounded painfully. Joselyn tried to lick her lips but there was no moisture in her mouth, not a drop. She must have sighed or made a noise, because Stephen was suddenly beside her.

“Jo-Jo?” he whispered. “Are you awake, sweetheart?”

She tried to speak but all she could manage to utter was a pathetic groan. A cool cloth touched her cheek and brow.

“Sleep, love,” Stephen whispered, kissing her on the cheek. “Just sleep.”

She did. Fading off, she spent an indeterminable amount of time in blissful darkness. But then the dreams came, crazy things, in which she could see her parents again. Her father, her mother, her grandmother. All making themselves busy in her dreams. They rushed past her, around her, and she could not keep track of them. Then she was back at Allanton, her family’s home, and she could even smell the violets that grew in great bunches against the manor wall. She was in the kitchens, watching her grandmother cook barley loaves and her mother was boiling down apples to make the wonderful apple butter she used to put up every fall.

She wanted some of that apple butter.

But she couldn’t seem to make it over to the hearth where her mother was cooking. She was rooted to the chair, sitting, watching everyone else go by her. Her grandmother picked up the barley loaves and they suddenly burst into flame, ashes falling to the floor. The kitchen seemed to be heating up and the apple butter boiled over, spilling into a fire that was now shooting flames into the room. She tried to get away from the flames but she couldn’t move. Everything was hot and frightening around her. She began to think that she might be in hell. It felt like it. And it was growing hotter.

Stephen had been awake all night, watching Joselyn sleep heavily. She awoke once, he thought, but she promptly fell back asleep. Just after dawn, sleep claimed Stephen as well as he sat next to the bed, his great head on the mattress near Joselyn’s still form. He had been asleep for a few hours when the mattress began to twitch, rousing him from his exhaustion.

His head came up, alert, as he fixed on Joselyn. She was quivering and he immediately put his hand on her head, feeling a fairly significant fever. Though he had expected it, still, he had hoped the heat of the wound would pass her by. It was disheartening but he was not overly panicked about it. It could be controlled. He removed his hand from her head and sent Tilda, sitting quietly in the corner, for plenty of cool water. As he moved for his medicament bag, Joselyn spoke.

“Apple butter,” she mumbled.

Stephen froze at the sound of her voice, his brow furrowing as he attempted to figure out if she was lucid or not.

“Apple butter?” he repeated, amusement in his voice. “Do you want apple butter?”

Surprisingly, her eyes lolled open and she tried to push herself up using her left arm. The right arm, bandaged against her body by Stephen to keep it immobile, was useless.

“Apple butter,” she said again, then slammed back onto the mattress.

Stephen tried to steady her so she would not rip out his stitches. “Lay still, sweetheart,” he said soothingly. “All will be well.”

She didn’t seem particularly eased by his words. “Apple
butter
,” she said insistently, rolling about.

Stephen held her still as she tried to squirm. “I will get you apple butter if you stop moving,” he told her. “Jo-Jo, can you understand me? You must be still.”

She stopped fidgeting and the pale blue eyes opened, staring into space. Stephen waved a hand in front of her eyes but she didn’t track his movements, nor did she blink. She just stared. Had he not been concerned about the fever, he would have found her behavior rather humorous. But he realized she was mildly delirious. With one eye on her, he went back to his medicament case to find something for her fever.

Suddenly, she bolted upright, nearly pitching herself off the bed. Stephen grabbed her before she could fall and gently laid her back on the bed, trying to position her so it would not put any strain on her wound. She reached up her good arm and began scratching at his face and neck, as one would scratch an itch. It was not violent in the least but he dodged her wriggling fingers as he tried to hold her still.

“Jo-Jo, sweetheart, you must be still,” he insisted gently. “Be still, love.”

She scratched at his stubble, his mouth, and began to giggle. Then her arm fell back to the mattress and she tried to claw her way off the bed. Stephen corralled her.

“Apple butter,” she sighed.

He sat on the bed beside her, his massive arms braced on either side of her slender body, and watched her eyes slowly close. With a faint smirk, because her behavior was truly funny, he shook his head and dared to move back to his bag once more.

Rummaging through his bag, he extracted a leather envelope of another whitish powder. He dared to move away from the bed and collect a cup with a small amount of wine in it, left over from a meal he’d had the night before.

Dissolving some of the whitish powder in the wine, he went back over to the bed and gently gathered Joselyn into one massive arm while carefully coaxing her to drink the contents. She was semi-lucid and able to follow his instructions somewhat but didn’t like the taste of the dissolved powder. Stephen still held her in one arm as he set the cup aside and was surprised, when he looked back down at her, to realize she was awake and focused on him. He smiled faintly.

“Are you truly awake?” he whispered. “Or am I to receive more demands for apple butter?”

She blinked at him. “Apple butter?” she repeated slowly. “I… I had a dream that my mother was making apple butter. Did I ask for some?”

He was more relieved than he could express that she was lucid and able to respond. It was the first such occurrence since the arrow had plowed into her back and he took her left hand, kissing it tenderly.

“You did not ask, madam, you commanded,” he grinned at her. “Unfortunately, you are the cook in this family. I cannot make it.”

She sighed faintly. “I was having unsettling dreams,” she murmured. “My grandmother was there, too. And my father. We were at Allanton and then everything burst into flame.”

“Dreams can be strange sometimes, especially with illness.” His hand toyed with her fingers as he held her. “How do you feel?”