Sharon Schulze (15 page)

He turned and took her right hand in his. “Squeeze my fingers, as hard as you can,” he ordered.

She tried to do as he asked, but could barely tighten her grip on his hand at all.

“You’ll not be able to do anything with that hand quite yet,” he observed. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm before gently lowering it to her lap. “Let me see if I can reach the arrow. If I can, I’ll hold it myself while you cut the shaft.”

If she’d thought her stomach felt bad before, ’twas nothing compared to the way it churned now. How could she hack at the arrow with her left hand, while Padrig himself assisted her?

He twisted his arm at what looked a most uncomfortable angle, but managed to grasp the shaft. “Come on, sweeting. I doubt I can stay like this for long,” he said, his voice sounding strained.

Alys took hold of the dagger with both hands, hoping she’d be better able to guide her movements that
way. If Padrig could endure this, so could she withstand the pain radiating down her right arm.

“Now.” She focused all her attention upon her task, trying to saw through the shaft with as few strokes of the blade as possible.

Padrig sucked in a breath when she began to cut, but otherwise betrayed no discomfort. His grip remained tight, so that when the wood gave way, his arm dropped heavily to his side. He leaned forward, his weight resting on his bent arm. “Thank you, milady.” Amazingly, his voice remained strong and even.

Alys slumped down and laid her cheek against the coarsely woven surcoat covering Padrig’s back. She muttered a prayer of thanks before forcing herself away from his warmth. She still needed to pad the wound and bandage it as they had Rafe’s.

’Twas an easy matter to do so with Padrig sitting there helping her.

They’d no sooner knotted the binding when a rustling sound from the bushes behind them startled them.

Alys still had Padrig’s knife. Holding it clutched at the ready, she whirled on her knees.

Crawling out from the thick underbrush, his dark eyes huge as he stared at her, was the filthiest child she’d ever seen.

Alys shrieked. The child did, as well.

Padrig turned and lunged for the boy, grabbing him by the front of his tunic and dragging him forward.

The lad’s eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled over in a dead faint.

P
adrig scooped the child up off the ground and gently propped him against a nearby tree. “Where in God’s name did he spring from?” he asked. He straightened out the boy’s legs and smoothed his tousled mop of dark hair away from his filthy face. The child didn’t stir at all, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

He looked to be about seven, Padrig thought, for he was about the same size as the lads who came to l’Eau Clair to be fostered. His clothes were as dirty as his skin, and Lord knew he smelled none too fresh, but he didn’t appear to have gone hungry.

Padrig glanced at Alys, about to ask her if the lad had said anything, and instead leapt to his feet to catch hold of her.

She’d jolted up from her knees when the boy came out of the bushes. Now she stood next to him, her body swaying precariously, her amber eyes providing the only color in her pale face. She looked ready to keel over right next to the boy.

Padrig lunged for her and caught her up in his arms.
“Ah, sweeting, what shall I do with you?” he muttered to himself.

“You could set me down and let me see to that poor child,” she said, her voice tart. Despite her bravado, however, her body trembled as she drew in an unsteady breath.

“You’re shaking,” he pointed out. “At least let me hold you until you’ve had a chance to calm down.”

She shoved weakly at his chest. “Put me down! You’ve an arrow in your back. You shouldn’t be carting people about.” When he ignored her words and continued to clasp her in his arms, she cupped his jaw in her hand and stared into his eyes. “Padrig, please.”

He could not mistake her sincerity, for her eyes glowed with it. Nor could he look away from her intense gaze. “Alys—” He closed his eyes, then turned his head and pressed a kiss to her hand.

“Save your strength for moving Rafe,” she told him when he opened his eyes. “He needs it more than I.”

As if he needed a reminder! “I’ll be fine, Alys.” He set her on her feet, but kept his arm supportively about her waist.

“As shall I.” She stroked her hand over his cheek, her touch soothing, before she stepped away and turned to the child. “We need to get out of here at once,” she said, looking over her shoulder as though expecting to see Welsh archers leap from the bushes. “Since I doubt you could carry a grown man and this lad both, we must get one of them to awaken.” She peered closer at the boy, then glanced at Rafe. “I believe the child to be the more likely of the two to do so.”

“Aye, milady. If you’ll see to the boy, I’ll finish tending to Rafe.” He took a step back from her before he gave
in to the compulsion to pull her close once more. “Although I fear there’s little more we can do for him here.”

He could not spare the time to indulge his curiosity about the child, but he trusted Alys to take care of him. Padrig took Alys by the hand and helped her to kneel by the lad before returning to Rafe.

He checked the bandages on Rafe’s back. Blood seeped at a slow but steady rate from beneath the linen padding they’d placed over the wounds, he noted with concern. No doubt ’twould continue to do so until he removed the arrows and stitched the holes closed.

That procedure, however, would have to wait. For now, all he could do was ensure Rafe didn’t bleed to death bit by bit in the interim.

He replaced the dressings and took a moment to give Rafe a swift examination, looking him over for any other wounds that needed tending.

A strange sense of urgency had been plaguing Padrig since just before they’d arrived at Winterbrooke Manor. He’d ignored it then, but ’twas clear now there’d been reason to worry. He didn’t know who the enemy was, how and why they’d ended up in control here, or why he’d felt something was wrong in the first place, but he’d do well not to discount his instincts again.

He felt that same sensation thrumming through him still, warning him to take Alys and Rafe, and now this poor child, and get them away from this place as swiftly as they could manage to do so.

He should have known, he berated himself, should have realized something was wrong.

Was that not part of being a good leader, knowing how to read the signs that all was not as it should be?

Instead, because of his carelessness, he’d sent his
people into danger. Mayhap even to their deaths, either outright at the hands of the Welsh in command of the keep, or for those already hurt, through lack of attention to their injuries.

What could he expect for them, having entered all unknowing into a dangerous situation—to be tossed into a cell or the dungeon and left to rot?

Simple lack of care would likely be all it would take to send the worst injured to their deaths.

He doubted any of his men would have permitted themselves to be taken captive without a fight, and most of them were in no condition to fight a child of ten, let alone an armed warrior.

Having checked over Rafe from head to toe and found no further wounds, Padrig glanced at Alys, who looked busy with the now-awake child. They were talking, both appearing intent upon the conversation.

Leaving her to it, Padrig sank down to sit on the ground and closed his eyes, giving in, momentarily, to the pain in his shoulder—but more than that, the devastating sense of failure that threatened to overwhelm him.

’Twas no use taking himself to task any further, however, for he could do naught to change the past.

All he could hope was to make things right in the future…and that no one else would die because of his mistakes.

But for now, ’twas time to leave.

Breathing deeply, he sought that dark and quiet place within himself where determination and equanimity dwelled in equal measure.

The procedure worked, thankfully, as it often had in the past when he’d been overset by his inability to breathe. ’Twas not in his nature to panic, but neither was
it to indulge his emotions, or his discomfort, for long. He settled himself quickly, regaining his composure. Saying a silent prayer for the help they surely needed, he opened his eyes.

And found Alys sitting before him, watching him with an intensity he found most disquieting.

He’d no time, however, to do more than fix the memory of her expression into his mind for later examination. He feared if he took the smallest step toward discovering what she meant by it, they’d once again fall into a situation they’d no business exploring.

And this was most definitely not the time or place.

He stood, reaching down to help her to her feet.

“Are you all right?” she asked, keeping hold of his hand when he would have moved away.

He nodded, and she let him go. “What of the boy?” He moved to the lad’s side and knelt near him. Alys gathered her skirts in her hand and sank down beside him with a surprising grace, considering her hurts.

Like any good soldier, she’d already begun to adapt to her limitations. Her resilience amazed him.

The child watched Padrig, his face pale beneath the dirt, his dark eyes wary.

“Dickon, this is Sir Padrig ap Huw. He is a knight in Lord Rannulf FitzClifford’s service, and my protector on this journey. Like you, he is very strong and very brave.” Dickon’s gaze shifted from Padrig to Alys once she said that. She reached out and brushed the lad’s hair from his face, gifting him with a reassuring smile. “If you would tell Sir Padrig what you told me, I’m certain he will want to help.”

His expression solemn, Dickon sat up a bit straighter against the tree. “Lord Rannulf came here to Winter-
brooke once.” His voice started out weak, but grew steadier with every word. “I got close enough to ’im that I could see the carving on his sword. He asked
me
to hold his horse for ’im,” he added with an emphatic nod, his face glowing with pride.

“Lord Rannulf is a good man,” Padrig said. “If he trusted you with his horse, and since Lady Alys also vouches for you, that’s more than enough recommendation for me.” He leaned closer to Dickon and lowered his voice to speak with him man-to-man. “What news have you to tell me, Dickon?”

The child glanced past Padrig for a moment, looking toward Winterbrooke Manor. When he shifted his gaze back to them, his expression had hardened with a determination Padrig didn’t expect to see in one so young. “Aye, milord, I’ll tell you what’s happened here.” He met Padrig’s eyes straight on, his gaze steady and true. Padrig could see he need not doubt the truth of the boy’s tale.

“Go on, lad,” Padrig prompted when Dickon hesitated. “No matter what you have to say, neither Lady Alys nor I will hold it against you.”

Alys laid her hand on the boy’s arm. “’Tis all right. You may tell Sir Padrig anything,” she added. The look she sent Padrig made him believe she meant the words. “He needs to know what has happened here, so he may make it right again.”

’Twas gratifying, almost frightening, to be the recipient of such sweeping faith. Padrig wasn’t certain he deserved it, or even if Alys truly meant it, but if her confidence in him would prod Dickon along, he’d accept it gladly.

“Aye, milady. Do ye mind if I stand up now?” Alys
shook her head. Dickon stood and paced away from them and back several times as though gathering his thoughts, then paused, facing them. “The Welsh’ve been after us for months, piddlin’ little raiding parties stealing our animals from out in the hills, or ruinin’ the crops in the fields. Anything to lure the garrison out o’ Winterbrooke, my father says.” Tears welled in Dickon’s eyes, but he blinked them away. “They never come near the village for the longest time, though, nor attacked the keep. They’d go after the farms far away from here, or steal sheep from the flocks way up in the hills. Naught to cause anyone any real harm, ’cept for the worry about us goin’ hungry this winter.” He stared down at the ground, then glanced up. “Thought mayhap they was hungry, too.”

“How and when did they get inside the keep?” Padrig asked quietly.

Dickon’s hands clenched at his sides. “They come down from the hills like a huge herd of beasts.” His voice trembled. “Many on horseback, more’n half o’ them, mayhap. I never seen so many soldiers before, not even when your father came here, milady,” he added. “They swept through the village afore Sir Cedric could muster his men and get outside the walls. Everyone tried to reach the keep, but a lot o’ ’em didn’t make it.” Tears ran unhindered down Dickon’s dirty cheeks, leaving a pale tracery of lines in their wake. “I think my family made it, but I’m not certain. I’ve not seen any sign o’ them out here.”

“Is there anyone left hereabouts who could help us?” Padrig asked. Surely others besides the child had survived!

Dickon shook his head. “Nay, milord, not a one.” His
eyes filled with tears once again, but he stood bravely and went on. “If you’d come to Winterbrooke from the other road, you’d never have traveled past the village, for the stench alone would’ve told the tale. The streets are filled with bodies,” he said, choking back a sob. “I tried to bury ’em at first, but there were so many—”

Alys gathered Dickon close. He clung to her, and she held him while he cried. She met Padrig’s gaze, her eyes wet with unshed tears, and whispered, “Give him a moment, milord.”

How could he not? he thought, nodding.

Christ save the child, and bless the poor souls who’d fallen, Padrig thought, making the sign of the cross.

The lad was a tough one, no doubt about that!

He turned away, pacing the small confines of the area, pausing to stare out at the walls of Winterbrooke Manor. Once again, they were empty save a few guards, but how long might that last?

What were they planning to do next? That the attackers would come after them sooner or later, certainly once they realized they’d not yet gained possession of Lord Roger’s daughter, he could not doubt.

“Padrig,” Alys called. “Dickon is ready to tell you more.”

He joined them, taking Alys by the arm and drawing her down to sit once he saw how pale she’d become. When she made to protest, he shook his head and told her quietly, “Rest now, milady, for ’tis like to be the last chance you’ll have for a long while.”

He settled beside her and motioned for Dickon to sit with them.

“Dickon, I know you’ve much yet to tell us, but right now, ’tis more important that we move Lady Alys and
Rafe—” he pointed to the still-unconscious man “—away from here. We need to go for help, and we need a way to escape this place without being followed. Do you know of any way we can do that?”

The boy’s eyes were alight with eagerness by the time Padrig finished speaking. “Aye, milord. I know a place where the Welsh’d never think to look.” He moved closer to them and lowered his voice, as though the wily Welsh were just outside the stand of trees. “I’ve been hiding there myself, and they’ve never caught me yet!”

He hated to dampen the boy’s enthusiasm, but Dickon evidently didn’t understand what he meant. “We’re not in need of a place to hide, lad. We need a way to safely leave this place and go for help.”

Dickon nodded. “’Tis one and the same, milord! I’ve stayed here ’cause I didn’t know how to go anyplace else, but there’s passages we could follow that’d carry us for nigh a league away from here.”

“What do you mean?” Padrig asked, confused.

“’Tis the Lair, milord,” Dickon said.

“Ffau gan ’r diafol?”

“Aye, milord, though I’ll not use that heathen tongue to call it so. The Devil’s Lair, that’s how we can get away.”

Alys remained seated, her back nigh twitching with impatience to be gone from this place while they still could leave, while Padrig and Dickon swiftly hammered out the details of how to convey Rafe to the Devil’s Lair. She didn’t look forward to the trek herself, given her present awkwardness of movement. As it was, walking was a challenge under the circumstances. Climbing a massive rock outcropping one-handed would be nearly impossible.

In addition, she didn’t like heights. Merely looking out the windows of a tower or standing on a narrow wall walk had the power to make her head spin and her stomach roil. Jesu, how was she to manage this climb, when she was already listing drunkenly to the side before she even began?

Yet climb she would, one way or another. The alternative, to be captured by the Welsh, scarce bore thinking of. They might treat her decently, if they hoped for a rich ransom from her father, but what if they did not? Not all men were honorable in normal, day-to-day life. When it came to war, or raiding, or whatever their current situation was, she could not expect that the Welsh invaders of her father’s keep would consider her anything other than a spoil of war.