First Knight: Thornton Brothers Time Travel (A Thornton Brothers Time Travel Romance Book 3) (18 page)

Opening her eyes, Jennifer saw a cluster of men and women huddled over her. There was a cool cloth on her forehead.

“What happened?” But before anyone could speak, she cried out, “Edward.” Frantic, she pointed to the Scot. “He said Edward is dead. I don’t believe him. I have to see for myself.”

One of Edward’s garrison guards frowned. “You cannot. The battlefield is no place for a woman.”

She glared up at him. “You just try and stop me.”

The man looked to Brom. Edward’s captain saw the determination in her face. “Stay. I will go with her.”

He only swayed slightly when he stood. “Jennifer, I swear it. We will find him.”

It was the first time Brom had ever called her by name, and it made her worry even more. A cup was thrust into her hand, and she saw one of the girls who worked in the kitchens.

“Drink, mistress. You will need it for what you are about to see.”

Hand trembling, Jennifer drained the cup and held it out. “One more.”

The girl refilled her cup and she drank again. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “Let’s find Edward and bring him back.”

No way would she believe the Scot. He couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t. Edward was larger than life, a legend. Sure, he’d been injured, but he was always fine, always victorious. There was no way the man she had fallen in love with could be dead.

The urge to scream was so strong that Jennifer had to bite her tongue. Did it take finding out he might be dead for her to realize she loved him? No. She could afford to indulge her emotions later; right now she had to find the man she loved.

Outside, there were men everywhere. Some wounded, some prisoners. And the smell. She imagined this was what it must be like to walk through a slaughterhouse. The overwhelming coppery smell filled the air, so strong not even the faraway breeze from the ocean could wash it away. Overlaid on the blood was another scent, one that clung to the back of her throat and made her clear her throat several times. As she tried to place it, Brom leaned down and spoke quietly.

"’Tis fear you smell. In battle, the smell lingers. Fear and death.”

Her eyes met his, and she saw there the horrors he had seen during his life. The gruff warrior patted her arm. “Edward is probably drinking a pint with one of the prisoners as he tells the man how much gold he will get for his ransom. I am certain he lost track of the time.”

“If that’s true, I’ll kill him myself.” Then she burst into tears, all the emotion and worry spewing out of her. Brom patted her on the back hard enough to make her stumble.
 

The grassy fields looked red, and she avoided looking at the worst of the carnage. Other women moved among the fallen. Some were crying over their men; others…others were taking clothes, weapons, and other things.

“Anything of use is gathered. ’Tis the way of battle.” Brom took her arm, guiding her around two men. Their eyes were open and unseeing. Jennifer shuddered as they passed.

They came to a wagon. Men in kilts were loading their dead. “I thought the Scots that survived were prisoners?”

Brom shook his head. “We took all the prisoners back to the castle. Those you see have come to claim their dead. There will be no more fighting tonight. This is a time of truce. They gather their dead, as do we.”

Not looking where she was walking, Jennifer stepped in something that squished. An awful feeling went through her as she heard Brom’s sharp intake of breath. She tried not to look at what she had stepped in, but failed. A low moan escaped. It was part of a man. The rest of the scene was too horrible for her mind to process. Brom lifted her up and set her back down on solid ground, but her stomach had had enough, and revolted. She leaned over and threw up. Over and over again until there was nothing left.

When she stood, Brom didn’t say a word as he handed her one of the failed handkerchiefs she had embroidered for the men. Her work looked like that of a child compared to what the other women did, but they’d seemed happy for the gifts. He thrust a leather bag into her hand. “Rinse your mouth out and spit it out. Then take a few sips. You’ll feel better.”

Grateful, she took the bag from him and did as he told her. When she handed it back, he wore a different look on his face. One of respect.

“Everyone vomits after their first battle. You have been through several and have not been sick, not even when you tended the men today. You have done well, Jennifer. Edward would be proud of his lady.”

“Thank you.” She looked at the soiled handkerchief. “I think I’ll wash this before I give it back to you.”

He grinned at her, helping to lighten the mood, to banish a small bit of the horror that was all around them.

It was an awful job, but they looked over every inch of the field of battle. Some of the men were on their stomachs, and they had to turn them over to see their faces. So much mutilation and death. Jenifer felt like she was swimming in it. And yet everywhere they looked, there was no sign of Edward.

Red stained her from hand to elbow. The words sounded ripped from her throat. “Where is he? He isn’t here.”

The haunted look on Brom’s face must have matched her own.
 

“I do not know.” He turned and looked back toward Somerforth. “There is one last place we can look.”

“Where?”

"’Tis a terrible place. Are you sure you want to come with me?”

“I would face all the demons standing at the entrance to hell to get Edward back. Lead the way.”

He blew out a breath, his steps slowing as they came closer to the castle gates.
 

“Where exactly are we going?”

“The black chamber.”

The words made her cringe, though she didn’t know why. But if Brom was nervous to enter this chamber, she should be terrified. Jennifer didn’t utter another word all the way back to the castle, nor when they passed through the gates. Not until they came to a building she had never noticed before. Turning to meet his eyes, she said, “Please tell me he’s not in there. I can smell the death from here.”

Brom’s shoulders slumped. “We must go in and see.”

The small stone building stood alone at the back of the castle, against the wall, as if it could not bear to be close to anything else. The stone was blackened on the front, as if someone had tried to burn it at one time, and there were Latin words above the door, almost completely worn off. Jennifer swallowed, filled with trepidation.

The smell filled her mouth and nose, permeating her skin and hair. The stench unbearable as they walked through the door into the dimly lit chamber.

No effort had been made to adorn the building. It was rough stone on the inside, not at all like the keep. She swallowed again as Brom touched her arm.

“This place has stood since Roman times. ’Twas where they brought their dead. Some say ’tis haunted by the spirits of those who have passed.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Breathe through your mouth. It will help with the stench.”

He took a torch from the wall and held it in front of them so they could see a few feet ahead. A man’s voice echoed off the walls. Scratchy like an old record that had been played so many times it had degraded in quality. Back home, her friend, Maddie, had loved vintage records, searching high and low for her favorites, swearing the songs sounded better on vinyl.

The man with the discordant voice turned, and Jennifer stopped. He had frizzy gray hair sticking out all over his head, and wore a black patch over one eye. From the smell about him, he not only drank copious amounts of ale, he also bathed in the stuff.

The man ignored them, turning back to the lumps lying on the floors and on slabs carved into the walls. The lumps were men, yet she had a hard time thinking of them as such.

Holding the handkerchief over her mouth and nose helped a little, but saliva pooled in her mouth and she sent up a plea that she wouldn’t throw up. She kept telling herself not to, that it would be disrespectful to the poor men who lay here dying. It was an awful place to spend your last moments on earth.

The man sang some sort of song, telling the men it was time to die. To let go and embrace death. Not to fight it or to call out, but to go quietly into the night and not disturb the others around them.

She gripped Brom’s arm so hard her fingers cramped, yet he did not complain. When she looked down, her hand was white as a bowl of milk, the bones standing out. Forcing herself to relax her grip, she went up on her toes to whisper, “Wouldn’t it be better for them to die outside, looking up at the sky?”

“Perhaps. This is the way it has always been done. Edward did not change things when he became lord. The man singing—his father did the same, as did his father.”

Grim-faced, Brom knelt down and pulled a blanket back. A man with red hair lay there, eyes open and unseeing. The cloying smell of death seemed to have weight as it pressed down on her. She felt it in her shoulders and the top of her head. But she owed it to Edward.

If he were here…there was no way she was letting him die in this place. Not a chance his last moments would be hearing that terrible, sad song and seeing the others around him dying, breathing in death, waiting for the reaper to take him. No. She shook herself. Jennifer would find him if he were here, and she would take him outside, cradle his head in her lap, and let him go as he watched the stars.

So she wiped her eyes and one by one checked the men. Some were dead. Others wounded so horrifically that it was hard for her to tell who they were. So she ripped a piece of her dress and wiped the blood and the muck from their faces so she could see who they were.

Though somehow she knew, even if Edward were covered from head to toe in mud, she would know him. A part of her soul would recognize him.

The man’s voice came again. “Let go; go to your final rest. Death awaits you. Let go.”

She muffled a sob as a man reached up and grasped her wrist. There was a bucket and ladle nearby. She gave him water. As his eyes met hers, his mouth moved, but no words came out. And then he was gone. It was as if one moment there was a living, breathing human being behind his eyes, and the next they were empty. Like glass eyes in animals mounted on the wall. Nothing there.

She ran her hand down his face, closing his eyes, as she had seen Brom do. The smell was getting worse. Dark and cloying, choking the breath from her.

Brom was on the other side of the room. If he found Edward, she knew he would call out. The stone cavern continued underground. Cold air seeped into the room, stealing the warmth from her bones. The black chamber was much larger than it looked from the outside. So many had been wounded.

As she came to the wall, she turned around in a circle, frantic. He was not here. Before she could call out, Brom was beside her. He spoke in a low voice.

“Bloody hell, he’s not here, lady. Mayhap the Armstrong took him and will ransom him.”

But a small sound deep in her heart, or maybe it was her soul, called out, and Jennifer turned. She had that feeling in her stomach. Right before cresting the first hill on a rollercoaster. The moment and time suspended until she was falling, falling, falling.

There, behind what might’ve been an altar at one time, was a bundle of bloodied blankets. She almost dismissed it, when something moved.

“Damn rats.” Brom went to kick the bundle, and Jennifer gasped.

Blood thundered in her ears louder than her heartbeat. She stopped him with a hand, trembling. On her knees, she snatched back the sodden blanket. There was a man there. So covered with blood it was difficult to tell what color his hair was. But it did not matter; she would know him anywhere. His tunic was crimson, as were his skin and hair. The beautiful blonde turned burgundy.

“It’s Edward.” Tears streamed down her face as she touched his cheek. “Edward, please wake up. Don’t die.”

Brom sprinted out of the chamber, and before she knew it, he returned with three men. “Lady, you must let us take him.”

Somehow she found the strength to stand and move back so they could move him.

One of the men retched, and another wept. “Our lord is dead.”