Lyn Stone - The Quest

“’Twill take a few moments to work upon your senses,” she told him. Then she set the jug aside and took out a needle the length of his smallest finger. To the eye of it, she guided a full ell of thread.

“By the saints,” he muttered. “You’d sew me with pikestaff and rope?”

“Aye, and glad of it you’ll be,” she said, adding ruefully, “but not right soon.”

The languor offered by the spirits began to envelop him in its warm cocoon. The sun was setting now. He could see the last rays of it dancing across the waves. Idly, he wondered if he would ever see it rise again. No matter. “Have your way then, madam.”

His eyes closed of their own accord, though he’d faintly hoped to expire while gazing upon her striking features. He forced them open again to see whether he had imagined her beauty. She looked the same.

Strange to find such a one here in the hinterlands. Though he had seen a good portion of Scotland in his day, he had never come this far to the west. For some reason he had imagined there would be only tall, ruddy maids with wild, matted locks and thick, sturdy limbs. Unruly Viking stock combined with the fierce warring spirit of the Old Ones.

Not this woman. She appeared almost delicate, her movements graceful as those of a nimble hart. Her skin brought to mind fresh cream reflecting firelight. Sparks glinted in the depths of her sin-dark eyes each time her gaze caught his own. If only he could see her hair. Smooth, silken and long enough to reach her waist, he imagined, though she had it properly covered so that he could not even guess its true color. Dark, he thought, because her brows were. How he would love to see her hair, run his fingers through its smoothness. Oh well, he supposed he would soon be past pleasures of the flesh.

He turned his head slightly, and there was Ev, sitting cross-legged beside the fire. In his lap sat a small, thin, ethereal creature with eyes the size of walnuts, peering at him curiously. A child? Where had it come from?

It looked unreal, its eyes old, its mouth frowning, its body nearly wasted away. The sight of it made him want to curl an arm around it and shelter it. As though he had sent that silent message to his squire, Everand did so in his stead. The boy’s act comforted Henri as nothing else could have done at that moment. A fine knight Ev would make one day, he thought yet again.

Henri looked back to the woman, wondering whether he had conjured up both these strangers. The fever fogged his brain, he decided, giving him visions of both hope and despair. The one of hope seemed more real to him, definitely healthier, and he clung to her winsome visage.

He allowed his lids to drop once more, content to hold her image for as long as his mind worked. Drifting into permanent oblivion, entertained by such a vision, possessed great appeal.

Suddenly he jerked and howled, “God’s nails!”

She quickly flinched away from his upraised arm, the needle held aloft in front of her. “You must hold still!” she said firmly.

He followed the taut line of thread and saw it attached to the raw edge of his skin. If he was not dying already, she would surely kill him on the spot.

“I shall hold him down,” he heard Everand say in a deep voice, as though he were a man full grown and oak sturdy.

Henri almost laughed aloud at the idea of small Ev rendering him immobile. Instead, he upended the jug and downed the remainder of the strong brew that promised surcease from his torture. He was already drunk, but not drunk enough.

“Go to,” he gasped to the healer. “Everand will restrain me. He has more strength than his size allows.”

Henri knew he must lie still and bear it without moving, or else Ev would lose face. At least one of them should retain some dignity before their lovely benefactress, and Henri knew he had already forfeited his own.

At long last, she announced, “There, ’tis done.”

Henri tasted blood in his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. He turned his head and spat as soon as Ev released his arms.

Again, he spied that child of the ether, the one he had imagined before. It sat upon the sand, silently sucking upon one finger, those large, hopelessly sad eyes trained upon him still, weeping inwardly without sound or tears. Was it a shade awaiting the release of his soul?

Never in his life had he wished to faint. Now certainly would be an excellent time for it. Talons of fire gripped him like the sharp, unrelenting claw of a dragon.

The woman pressed a cool, wet cloth to his face and moved it gently as she spoke. “You must sleep now. I shall return anon with a litter and remove you to a place of shelter. Likely ’twill rain before morn.”

“Will I live?” he asked, doubting even she could save anyone so damaged and untended for days. The fever had caught up with him two days ago and raged worse as the hours passed. Now it had him seeing ghost children and thinking death might be welcome, after all.

She did not hesitate in answering him honestly. “Anything is possible. I have done all that I can do. The rest is up to you and God.”

Henri reached for her hand, grasping the long, slender fingers as tightly as he could. “You will not leave us then?”

Indecision marred her brow, then vanished, to leave a look of resignation. “Nay, I will not. Your lad promised me the silver chain in return for my care of you.”

“Alive or dead. That was to be the offer,” Henri bargained, hearing his own words slur. “You will see me to my brother’s home…either way.” When she looked as if she might object, he added, “It is too much silver for so few stitches and a meager taste of spirits. Be fair.”

For a time she considered his words, then she nodded, replaced her implements within their sack and pulled the cord tight to close it. “If you live, I will tend you until you can do for yourself. If you do not recover, I shall wrap you, pack you in clay and transport you to the place you wish to go. Your squire will show me the way, aye?”

Henri heard Ev’s sound of protest and turned to him, though he also spoke for the woman’s information. “Go east and cross the Firth of Clyde. After you pass the hills on the far side, ask directions either to Baincroft or the castle of Trouville.”

“So be it,” she declared, then pulled her hand from his, rose and turned away.

“A moment more, madam,” Henri rasped. “I would know your name.”

She looked over her shoulder and, after a brief hesitation, told him. “Iana…of Ayr.”

“A free woman?” he demanded gruffly, though he would not retract the offer even if she were not. He only needed to know whether they would be followed by some irate laird intent on recapturing his comely healer.

“Free?” she asked, puzzled, as if the word were foreign to her. A light dawned in her eyes, even as he watched. “Aye, I am that,” she said then, “free as a lark. And I fully intend to stay so for as long as I live. I shall see you to this place called Baincroft, and your family will reward me by giving me work to do.”

Trusting that Everand would be in capable hands, Henri surrendered to his fevered dreams.

Iana instructed the boy to mind Tam for her, and hurried away into the night. She had warned him that his master’s fate rested upon how well he minded the child. His lack of reluctance for the task surprised her and made her feel guilty for the untruth. She hated lying.

It was no lie she had told the knight, however, saying that she was free. This heaven-sent bargain of his had granted her that freedom. He did not need to know how long she had considered herself unfettered, now did he?

Iana felt fairly certain she could keep him alive, and devoutly hoped she would succeed in doing so. The wound was not deep, nor had it festered. However, the loss of blood or fever might well take him yet, unless she dosed him heavily with herbs and kept him warm and dry for several days before attempting to travel.