Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Rebellion

Though he was small, the man was heavier than he looked. She half dragged, half carried, her patient off the road and into the brush, then collapsed panting beside him.

“Sister,” he whispered.

Alys sat up and leaned over him. “I’m here.”

“Promise ye won’t leave me to die alone.”

“I won’t leave you…but neither will I let you die. If I can get the bleeding stopped and the flesh stitched—” She raised her skirts and tore a strip from her chemise. In deference to the cool, damp weather, it was wool, but it was soft and finely woven. She folded it into a pad and pressed it against the wound.

Her patient moaned softly. “Feels like I’m dying.”

Poor man, Alys thought. Then she took a good look at his face. Beneath the dirt and blood, his skin was freckled and hairless as a baby’s. “How old are you?”

“Th-three-and-ten.”

“A child. Who would send a child out to fight?”

“My lord needs every man who can heft a weapon,” he said weakly. “Least with me gone, there’ll one less to feed.”

“Indeed.” Alys was torn between pity and fury. What dire circumstances landed people in such straits? She pressed harder on the pad, then lifted it, pleased to see the wound wasn’t as long as she’d feared. But it was deep. She had needle and thread in the pouch at her waist, but her medicine chest was with her baggage. God alone knew where the carts and horse had gotten to. Wait, there was a small pack of herbs in her saddle pouch. If she could just reach it…

“Stork, I’m called…’count of my long legs,” the boy murmured. “But my real name’s Dickie…Dick of Newton. Just wanted ye to know…fer the prayers. Ye will pray fer me?”

Tears filled Alys’s eyes. “You’re not going to die, Dickie. I’m going to fix you up good as new.” She stood and looked toward the road, suddenly aware that the sounds of battle had faded. Either the trees were masking the noise or the fighting had moved farther away. If she hurried, she might be able to find her horse while it was still relatively safe. “I have to get my medicines.” She placed his hand on the makeshift bandage. “Press here. I’ll be right back.” Alys dashed away. Anxious as she was to return to him, she hesitated at the edge of the woods. A stand of young oaks and gooseberry bushes blocked her view of the road. But she could hear nothing over the thrum of her pulse against her temple. What had happened? Had they wiped each other out?

Parting the brush, Alys looked out onto a scene straight from hell. The bodies of men and horses littered the ground. It seemed no one lived.

“Oh, Sweet Mary have mercy.” Alys crossed herself, then hesitated, reluctant to walk among them. But Dickie would be added to their number if she didn’t act. She lifted her skirts and walked slowly down the edge of the road, trying not to see the details of the horror spread before her while she searched for her horse. There, a few feet into the carnage, she recognized the red-and-black trappings her father’s squire had put on her mount. Was it only this morn? Merciful heaven, but it seemed a lifetime ago.

Alys picked her way to the horse, then knelt and untied the pouch from behind the saddle. As she stood, someone grabbed her from behind, lifting her off the ground and pressing her back against a rock-hard body.

“Who the hell are you?” growled a hard voice.

The question broke through her shock. Alys erupted into action, lashing out with her feet, twisting her body. Her scream was cut off by a wide, callused hand. Instantly she was bombarded by her captor’s emotions. White-hot rage. Dark, seething frustration. Terrified, she whimpered and went limp.

“Bloody hell.” His grip gentled. Remorse now warred with his earlier fury. “I will not hurt you. Swear you’ll not scream again, and I’ll release your mouth.”

Alys managed to nod. When his hand lifted off her lips, she dragged in a lungful of air and tried to steady herself. His skin was no longer touching her skin, linking her with his deeper feelings, but the sizzle of his violent emotions remained. “Please,” she whimpered.

He spun her around to face him, and she got another shock. It was the black-haired man who’d led the attack.

Oh, no! Alys’s knees went weak. She’d have fallen over if he wasn’t holding her upright. He towered over her, his massive chest and wide shoulders straining the links of his mail shirt, his face concealed by a dented helmet.

“You!” he thundered. “You were riding with Ranulf.”

Anger sparked then, and Alys flinched. “I—”

“Sister Alys!” Dickie staggered out of the brush.

The giant released Alys and wheeled around, bringing his sword up. “Stork. What the hell are you doing here?”.

Alys forgot her own fear. Drawing the knife from her belt, she darted between him and the boy. “Get back. Leave him alone.”

“’Tis all right, Sister,” Dickie said. “We are saved. This is Lord Gowain.”

“G-Gowain.” The air left Alys’s lungs in a rush; the knife wavered in her hand and her courage with it.

“Sister Alys?” Gowain raised the visor of his helmet and eyed her skeptically. What she could see of his face, shadowed by his visor, was even less reassuring…glittering dark eyes, roughly chiseled features as stark as the surrounding mountains. “You wield a blade right surely for a nun.”

“I—I was not always one. I—I had brothers who taught me to defend myself,” she stammered, more grateful by the moment for her disguise. If the brigand dared attack Ranulf, what would he do to a mere woman? Doubtless the gown that so resembled a nun’s robe and her healing skills were all that stood between herself and ruin. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“A sentiment I support.”

“Is that meant to justify your unprovoked attack on us?”

“Us?” His mouth thinned. “What are you to Ranulf?”

Alys rued her hasty tongue. “He was my escort.”

“How went the battle, milord?” Dickie asked.

“Well enough. Ranulf fled when the battle turned against him. My horse was cut from under me, but the other lads gave chase,” Gowain replied, his eyes remaining locked on Alys. “Where was he taking you?”

“Newstead Abbey,” Alys replied.

His gaze hardened. “I know that place, but it is many leagues east of here.”

“Aye, well…” She could hardly tell him of Ranulf’s insane notion to wed her. Not and maintain her unanticipated but fortunate guise as a nun. “We became lost.”

“In these woods? Ranulf knows this land right well.”

Drat. “I…I do not know.”

He grunted. “Ranulf only cares for that which profits him. What did he hope to gain by escorting you to Newstead?”

Oh, dear.

“Sister Alys,” Dickie called, weaving unsteadily.

“Dickie.” Alys dropped her knife and reached for the boy. As she wrapped an arm around his back, she fancied she could feel the life draining out of him. Dickie slumped against her, nearly dragging Alys down with him.

Gowain rescued them both by sweeping the boy into his arms before he hit the ground.

“Lay him down right here in the grass and remove his tunic,” Alys ordered. She hurried over to retrieve her knife and pack. When she returned, she found the knight kneeling beside the boy.

“Whatever possessed you to follow us?” Gowain asked. His voice was low, gentle, as he stroked back the boy’s sweaty hair.

“I heard them say how important it was to get the food,” Dickie whispered. “You needed every man.”

“That I did, Stork, but I also needed men to stay behind and watch over the camp. Men I could trust to follow orders.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.” Dickie shivered.