Barbara Leigh - For Love Of Rory

Serine shook her head. “It is bad,” she argued. “They want children to populate their village. They will not easily give them up.”

“Did he say where the village might be?” Old Ethyl asked.

“He said little that made sense.”

Old Ethyl handed Serine a cup of horsetail tea laced with the bitter brew. “Wet his lips with the tea. Some of the liquid will slip down his throat and he will begin to heal, God willing.”

Serine hesitated before administering the brew. She could only pray that Old Ethyl had been able to duplicate the recipe exactly. If the woman had inadvertently deleted one of the ingredients, or been forced to make a substitution, it could cost the man his life and Serine her only hope of finding her son.

Uttering a silent prayer, Serine dipped the cloth into the liquid and touched it to the lips of the unconscious man.

The Celt choked on the liquid and Old Ethyl stayed Serine’s hand. “Gently, gently,” she warned. “Drowning him in herbal juices will not heal him the faster.”

Serine gently squeezed a liquid-soaked cloth, wishing that her hand did not shake so when she was forced to hold him in close proximity, just as she hoped that Old Ethyl did not notice the evidence of her weakness. For Serine found it impossible to control herself where the Celt was concerned.

* * *

Rory’s fever had diminished and he lay beneath the furs in relative comfort as Serine ministered to him.

In all truth, the Celt was probably much more comfortable than Margot and Old Ethyl, who slept on mats at the far end of the chamber.

Serine had tried to talk the women out of guarding their captive so closely, but they would have none of it.

“The man is young and strong,” Margot insisted. “He will let you minister to his needs until his strength returns. Then he will do his best to escape. Of that there is no doubt.”

“He is sore wounded,” Serine argued. “It will be weeks before he is any threat to me. Besides, I would sound the alarm before he could rise from the bed.”

“And what good is the alarm when there be only a few women strong enough to fight him?” Old Ethyl added her thoughts to the dispute. “Dame Margot and I will stay near the door and spell you should you drop from exhaustion. If the man looks to take advantage of our charity, I will see that he thinks better of it.”

There was nothing for it but to let them have their way. Other than bodily evicting the two women, Serine was powerless to rid herself and her prisoner of the jailers. It was odd, but Serine felt no threat from this man. Perhaps it was due to his comatose state, but she could not bring herself to believe that he would deliberately harm her, even though his arms bulged with muscles and his chest was full and deep.

Serine remembered the touch of his body against hers, his hands—strong and firm—holding her, and his lips, those beautiful lips, touching hers. Her heart quickened imperceptibly and she brushed the hair from his forehead.

How unfair it was that Serine had been destined to wed a man so many years her senior. How sad that her girlhood dreams had ended on her wedding day, long before they ever knew the wonder of a lover’s kiss.

And then the water gods had sent her this man who had come to steal her only son. Although he had succeeded in his quest, she found herself unable to hate him as he lay before her, looking for all the world as young and innocent as Hendrick himself.

She smiled, turning her face toward the wall so Margot and Old Ethyl would not notice should they happen to be watching, for it was not only the man’s appearance that held her interest, there was something else about him that sent blood racing through her veins in a most unseemly manner. A virility that could not be denied even in sleep.

What might it have been like to have been given in marriage to a man such as the one resting before her? Would her heart have leapt in her bosom when her father had told her of her betrothal? Would she have waited impatiently for the day when this young, virile man would make her his own, rather than dread the stiff, dry embrace of her elderly husband?

Serine crossed herself quickly, hoping the Lord would not think her ungrateful, for her marriage had given Serine her son. She loved Hendrick above all else. It was just that sometimes, quite unexpectedly, thoughts slipped through her mind and she found herself dreaming of what life might have been had her marriage been somewhat different.

“He’s something to feast the eyes upon, and that’s no lie.” Old Ethyl’s voice crackled through the silence. “You’ve all but stared a hole through him, m’lady. Why don’t you lie down and rest yourself? Or better yet, go get yourself a bit of fresh air. ‘Tis market day, and there be a good crowd gathered. ‘Twould take your mind from your troubles.”

“Hendrick always liked market day,” Serine whispered. “I cannot go. I cannot face it knowing there is no chance that I will see him.”

“It would be reassuring to the villagers if you showed yourself among them. They are all proud of you and you’ve not showed hide nor hair since you brought the Celt to your bower.”

“You know how important it is that we listen for his every word. What if he uttered the name of his village and there was no one about to hear his words?” Serine’s eyes centered on the man. He seemed more alert somehow and she wondered if he could hear what was being said.

“Dame Margot and I will stay with him,” Ethyl assured her. “There’s no need for all of us to miss being out on a beautiful day.”

“You go, Ethyl,” Serine urged. “I would rather stay here.”

“Stay, then, if you must.” Old Ethyl shrugged. “But don’t say you have not been warned if your serfs come to believe you’ve gone daft.”

“You go on and assure them of my well-being.” Serine gently nudged the woman toward the door.

“Aye,” Old Ethyl grumbled, “I’ll convince them you are right and well, but who is going to convince me when I see you sitting there mooning over that Celt like a lovesick hound?”

“I’m not mooning over him.” Serine defended herself. “I’m hoping he will say something that will help me find Hendrick and the rest of the missing children, and at the same time I keep telling him how much Hendrick means to me and how important it is that he be returned to Sheffield. Somehow, I believe that even through the netherlands of unconsciousness he will hear me.”

“As you will, m’lady,” Old Ethyl agreed sourly as she scooted out the door.

It was a sorry day when their lady sat dreaming over a fallen Celt, Old Ethyl thought. But then, all the days had been sorry since the Celts had come to disrupt their lives and take their children. Ethyl, for one, would be glad when the man recovered enough to give his information and be gone. The man had brought nothing but ill luck since he’d stepped foot on English soil. The sooner he recovered enough to leave, the better for all involved. They’d rue the day if word got back to their overlord that they were harboring a Celt in their midst!

The voice was low and soft. It slipped through Rory’s dreams like a song and he awoke to find his fever gone and his mind clear. Though weak, he knew instinctively that he had full control of his limbs, and that his body would obey him, albeit reluctantly. The voice continued as he checked the responses of his muscles, assuring himself that he carried only the nagging pain in his back and side. Satisfied that he was able to move on command, he relaxed, keeping his eyes closed as he turned his attention to the words the woman was saying.

“You see, Hendrick is my only child and heir to this estate. His father is no longer a young man, and it is doubtful if there will be further issue. That is why it’s so important that I bring Hendrick back here. Surely you can understand my situation.”