Warrior (51 page)

After walking around the campsite,

taking in the various spits that cooked

the noon meal, and the tall trees

surrounding the camp, she finally

stopped a soldier and asked where the

injured soldiers were being kept. He

seemed shocked at her request before

he escorted her there. This tent was

longer, possibly the longest in the

camp. Jaisyn thanked him, drew a

deep breath to prepare herself for the

injuries that she would see inside, and

entered.

Numerous

cots

supporting

the

injured were set up alongside each

other in the cloistered tent. A sickly

stench hung in the air, slightly

overpowered by the herbal remedies

that had been given by a healer or

surgeon. Jaisyn remained in the

entrance for a moment, taking in the

injured, as well as the handful of

women, who moved around the tent

giving water to them, and a man, who

attended to an injured soldier on the

other side of the tent.

She walked further inside and

cleared her throat. One of the healers

lifted her head and her eyes widened

greatly. She stood immediately and

dipped her head.

“I’s sorry, Majesty. Is something the

matter?” she asked, wiping her hands

on the skirt of her dress.

“I would like to help, in any way

that I can,” Jaisyn told the woman,

who looked even more surprised by

her statement than her presence. The

healer turned to the man in the

farthest corner of the tent, but his

attention was on his patient. Finally

turning back to Jaisyn, the healer

wrung her hands and nodded. She

was a Morden woman, and was

naturally pale, but as Jaisyn watched,

she seemed to grow even more so.

“Ye can help wit the water sharing,

Majesty,” the woman said softly,

indicating something behind her.

Jaisyn turned and noticed a small area

with jugs of water. She nodded and

walked over to it. Picking up one of

the jugs and a tankard, she headed

back to the woman, who was seemed

worried.

“Who hasn’t been given water as

yet?” Jaisyn asked, ready to help the

soldiers.

The woman snapped into action

immediately. “I usually give out water,

Majesty. The soldiers on this side ’ave

already received. Them on that side

’aven’t got to yet.”

“All right. I will start here,” Jaisyn

pointed to a soldier whose arm was

wrapped in a sling.

Jaisyn was on her third soldier when

someone stopped behind her. She

took the tankard away from the

soldier’s lips and gently laid his head

back onto the cot before looking up.

“I’m sorry, Majesty, but this is no

place for a queen.” It was one of the

surgeons and he looked cross. Jaisyn

stood, taking her jug and tankard with

her. She turned to face the aged man

and replied evenly. “You will need all

the help that you can get, Surgeon. A

queen is not above helping her own

people.”

He blushed heavily and dipped his

head, lowering his voice slightly. “I

meant not to suggest that, Majesty,

but the King would not—”

Jaisyn smiled slightly and the

surgeon’s

speech

halted.

“My

husband has great respect for his

soldiers. He would be happy to know

that I am offering what limited

experience I have to those in need.”

With that, she turned away and

continued her ministrations. The

surgeon sighed and went back to his

work.

She’d made her way to the other

end of the tent, after refilling her jug

numerous

times,

and

had

just

arranged the skirt of the day dress that

she wore so that she could sit

comfortably. The first thing that she

noticed about the soldier was his skin.

He was Lytherian. Both of his arms

were bandaged and a few older scars

marred his golden skin. Jaisyn poured

the cool water into the tankard and

moved her gaze to the man’s face.

She froze. It was impossible. The

man lying on the cot bore a striking

resemblance to Malcolm, although he

was a shade or two paler. Malcolm

and Tarbin had gone to Neren, hadn’t

they? So Malcolm could not possibly

be lying in this camp, injured. She ran

a hand across his brow. Hot and

damp. Fever.

Taking the back of his head into her

hands and lifting slightly, she placed

the tankard to his lips. His eyes rolled

behind his lids and he gave a low

groan.

“Open your eyes for me and drink,”

Jaisyn murmured softly, feeling her

heart pound against her chest. The

man would open his eyes, they would

be golden, and she would know that

Malcolm was in Neren, or at least,

somewhere safe.

She tipped the tankard slightly,

allowing the water to touch his

parched lips, and he began to drink.

His eyes rolled beneath lids until

finally, they opened slightly. She could

not mistake that azure color for gold!

“Malcolm?”

she

whispered

frantically, her mouth agape. His eyes

closed once more and she removed

the tankard from his lips, setting it

down next to her. Moving closer, she

eased him down and looked around

frantically.

“Surgeon!”

she

called

loudly,

catching his attention and pulling him

away from his other duties. “What has

happened to this warrior?”

The surgeon looked down at

Malcolm, his eyes swiftly roaming his

body, before returning to hers. “Two

cuts on both arms that have become

infected. He contracted a fever

yesterday. The healers have given him

herbs for the pain and to fight the

fever but in the end…it is not in our

hands, is it, Majesty?”

Not in the mood for religious

rhetoric, Jaisyn continued doggedly.

“How did he receive these cuts?”

The surgeon shrugged and said, “I

don’t see how they receive their

ailments, Majesty. I am only called to

help after they’ve received them.”

Jaisyn stood abruptly and the

surgeon, who’d bent to address her,

straightened

immediately.

“Please

excuse me. I will return shortly.”

***

After watching the Mitherie soldiers

ride from the campsite, Vulcan turned

to his brother and instructed Varian to

have two of his generals and one of

the surgeons meet him in his tent.

He was sitting in his tent, Varian

beside him, the two generals seated

opposite them, and the surgeon

slightly off to his right.

“We will head to Lytheria first and

stay a few nights at St. Ives Castle,”

he looked to both generals, who

nodded once. Turning his gaze to the

surgeon, a Doctor Thierry, Vulcan

asked, “How soon can the injured be

ready for travel?”

Mr. Thierry, a younger surgeon for

he was not yet grey of hair,

contemplated that for a long time

before speaking. “A minimum of two

days, liege. Most of the men have

shallow wounds—cuts about the arms

or legs—but a few have severe

injuries, and stitches that would easily

open if we were to leave earlier. We

also

have

to

be

cautious

of

inflammation and fever, which have

plagued two of the injured thus far.”

Vulcan nodded and ran his hand

across his unshaven cheek. The

unchecked hairs there prickled his

fingers and he sighed and looked back

to his generals.

“Send word that we will ride for

Lytheria two days hence. The soldiers

of Morden will camp before St. Ives

Castle or can find lodgings within the

city until we are ready to leave for

Morden.”

He searched his brain, thinking of

anything else that he needed to

discuss with the men gathered. With a

wave of his hand, he dismissed them.

Varian remained. His eyes were

neutral as he looked at Vulcan, who

lifted his brows in his brother’s

direction. “What of Isolde and

Mathilda?”

Stretching out a leg that had been

curled slightly, Vulcan listened to the

question and heard much more. He

stared long and hard at his brother.

Varian’s eyes remained as they were,

and what little tension was in his body

seemed to leave. He looked relaxed,

carefree even, but Vulcan was not

fooled. When Varian looked relaxed,

he

was

tensing

inwardly. And

although the question had been asked

of both princesses, he had the feeling

the Varian was more interested in just

one: Isolde. He knew that his brother

felt something, perhaps lust, for the

princess, and had hoped that with

time, it would leave him. Isolde and

Mathilda were princesses, wards of a

powerful king. They would be married

for political purposes: to make and

keep allies. As the brother of a king,

Varian too would face that fate too,

just like Vulcan. He had agreed to

marry Mathilda St. Ives to assure that

the Lytherians accepted his rule. It

had been sheer luck that her sister had

taken her place.

“What is it to you, my brother?

They are my wards.”

Nodding, Varian replied calmly.

“That they are, brother. Will they be

returned to Lytheria or are they to

remain at the castle in Morden?”

His eyes were hard as Vulcan

contemplated that question. “Lytheria

is their home and they will be

returned…eventually. Jaisyn would

enjoy having both of her sisters at

Morden. The court season is to begin

shortly and I wish to publicly

introduce them as my wards. They

are both of age.”

Varian dipped his head as an easy

smile appeared on his lips. “Of

course.”

“Have you grown tired of your

duties in Lytheria?”

“No, brother. Have you tired of

having me there?”

Vulcan shook his head before doing

something extraordinary. He laughed,

a low, mirthful sound that escaped as

if unwilling to be trapped in the large

body of his brother. “No, Varian. You

have ruled brilliantly in my stead, as I

knew you would.”

“That means much coming from

you, Vulcan,” Varian replied, his

smile fading as his eyes grew serious.

Vulcan stilled, knowing that whatever

his brother said next he would not

like. “I—”

His tent flap was suddenly pulled

back and Jaisyn entered, looking as

cross as she had when Vulcan had

removed her veil the moment they’d

formally

met.

He

sobered

immediately.

“Varian, if you will excuse us. I

need to speak privately with my

husband.”

Varian took one look at Jaisyn’s

face and began to skim her body for

weapons. Finding none, at least any

visible to the eye, he stood and moved

slowly to the flap, his eyes on her. She

didn’t notice, but Vulcan did. He

glared at his brother’s retreating back

before he returned his gaze to his

wife. Pausing by the door, Varian

searched her body once more for a

sword. Pleased that her dress didn’t

seem large enough to conceal one, he

left.

“What has you so riled, wife?”

Vulcan asked as soon as Varian left.

She drew in a deep breath. “Why is

Malcolm lying injured in your camp?

How was he hurt? Who—?”

The intensity of Vulcan’s glare

stopped her as he made his way to his

feet. “Malcolm betrayed the Crown,

Jaisyn. I know that he is your friend,

but the law decrees that he receive

just punishment.”

Delicate brows lifted angrily and she