After walking around the campsite,
taking in the various spits that cooked
the noon meal, and the tall trees
surrounding the camp, she finally
stopped a soldier and asked where the
injured soldiers were being kept. He
seemed shocked at her request before
he escorted her there. This tent was
longer, possibly the longest in the
camp. Jaisyn thanked him, drew a
deep breath to prepare herself for the
injuries that she would see inside, and
entered.
Numerous
cots
supporting
the
injured were set up alongside each
other in the cloistered tent. A sickly
stench hung in the air, slightly
overpowered by the herbal remedies
that had been given by a healer or
surgeon. Jaisyn remained in the
entrance for a moment, taking in the
injured, as well as the handful of
women, who moved around the tent
giving water to them, and a man, who
attended to an injured soldier on the
other side of the tent.
She walked further inside and
cleared her throat. One of the healers
lifted her head and her eyes widened
greatly. She stood immediately and
dipped her head.
“I’s sorry, Majesty. Is something the
matter?” she asked, wiping her hands
on the skirt of her dress.
“I would like to help, in any way
that I can,” Jaisyn told the woman,
who looked even more surprised by
her statement than her presence. The
healer turned to the man in the
farthest corner of the tent, but his
attention was on his patient. Finally
turning back to Jaisyn, the healer
wrung her hands and nodded. She
was a Morden woman, and was
naturally pale, but as Jaisyn watched,
she seemed to grow even more so.
“Ye can help wit the water sharing,
Majesty,” the woman said softly,
indicating something behind her.
Jaisyn turned and noticed a small area
with jugs of water. She nodded and
walked over to it. Picking up one of
the jugs and a tankard, she headed
back to the woman, who was seemed
worried.
“Who hasn’t been given water as
yet?” Jaisyn asked, ready to help the
soldiers.
The woman snapped into action
immediately. “I usually give out water,
Majesty. The soldiers on this side ’ave
already received. Them on that side
’aven’t got to yet.”
“All right. I will start here,” Jaisyn
pointed to a soldier whose arm was
wrapped in a sling.
Jaisyn was on her third soldier when
someone stopped behind her. She
took the tankard away from the
soldier’s lips and gently laid his head
back onto the cot before looking up.
“I’m sorry, Majesty, but this is no
place for a queen.” It was one of the
surgeons and he looked cross. Jaisyn
stood, taking her jug and tankard with
her. She turned to face the aged man
and replied evenly. “You will need all
the help that you can get, Surgeon. A
queen is not above helping her own
people.”
He blushed heavily and dipped his
head, lowering his voice slightly. “I
meant not to suggest that, Majesty,
but the King would not—”
Jaisyn smiled slightly and the
surgeon’s
speech
halted.
“My
husband has great respect for his
soldiers. He would be happy to know
that I am offering what limited
experience I have to those in need.”
With that, she turned away and
continued her ministrations. The
surgeon sighed and went back to his
work.
She’d made her way to the other
end of the tent, after refilling her jug
numerous
times,
and
had
just
arranged the skirt of the day dress that
she wore so that she could sit
comfortably. The first thing that she
noticed about the soldier was his skin.
He was Lytherian. Both of his arms
were bandaged and a few older scars
marred his golden skin. Jaisyn poured
the cool water into the tankard and
moved her gaze to the man’s face.
She froze. It was impossible. The
man lying on the cot bore a striking
resemblance to Malcolm, although he
was a shade or two paler. Malcolm
and Tarbin had gone to Neren, hadn’t
they? So Malcolm could not possibly
be lying in this camp, injured. She ran
a hand across his brow. Hot and
damp. Fever.
Taking the back of his head into her
hands and lifting slightly, she placed
the tankard to his lips. His eyes rolled
behind his lids and he gave a low
groan.
“Open your eyes for me and drink,”
Jaisyn murmured softly, feeling her
heart pound against her chest. The
man would open his eyes, they would
be golden, and she would know that
Malcolm was in Neren, or at least,
somewhere safe.
She tipped the tankard slightly,
allowing the water to touch his
parched lips, and he began to drink.
His eyes rolled beneath lids until
finally, they opened slightly. She could
not mistake that azure color for gold!
“Malcolm?”
she
whispered
frantically, her mouth agape. His eyes
closed once more and she removed
the tankard from his lips, setting it
down next to her. Moving closer, she
eased him down and looked around
frantically.
“Surgeon!”
she
called
loudly,
catching his attention and pulling him
away from his other duties. “What has
happened to this warrior?”
The surgeon looked down at
Malcolm, his eyes swiftly roaming his
body, before returning to hers. “Two
cuts on both arms that have become
infected. He contracted a fever
yesterday. The healers have given him
herbs for the pain and to fight the
fever but in the end…it is not in our
hands, is it, Majesty?”
Not in the mood for religious
rhetoric, Jaisyn continued doggedly.
“How did he receive these cuts?”
The surgeon shrugged and said, “I
don’t see how they receive their
ailments, Majesty. I am only called to
help after they’ve received them.”
Jaisyn stood abruptly and the
surgeon, who’d bent to address her,
straightened
immediately.
“Please
excuse me. I will return shortly.”
***
After watching the Mitherie soldiers
ride from the campsite, Vulcan turned
to his brother and instructed Varian to
have two of his generals and one of
the surgeons meet him in his tent.
He was sitting in his tent, Varian
beside him, the two generals seated
opposite them, and the surgeon
slightly off to his right.
“We will head to Lytheria first and
stay a few nights at St. Ives Castle,”
he looked to both generals, who
nodded once. Turning his gaze to the
surgeon, a Doctor Thierry, Vulcan
asked, “How soon can the injured be
ready for travel?”
Mr. Thierry, a younger surgeon for
he was not yet grey of hair,
contemplated that for a long time
before speaking. “A minimum of two
days, liege. Most of the men have
shallow wounds—cuts about the arms
or legs—but a few have severe
injuries, and stitches that would easily
open if we were to leave earlier. We
also
have
to
be
cautious
of
inflammation and fever, which have
plagued two of the injured thus far.”
Vulcan nodded and ran his hand
across his unshaven cheek. The
unchecked hairs there prickled his
fingers and he sighed and looked back
to his generals.
“Send word that we will ride for
Lytheria two days hence. The soldiers
of Morden will camp before St. Ives
Castle or can find lodgings within the
city until we are ready to leave for
Morden.”
He searched his brain, thinking of
anything else that he needed to
discuss with the men gathered. With a
wave of his hand, he dismissed them.
Varian remained. His eyes were
neutral as he looked at Vulcan, who
lifted his brows in his brother’s
direction. “What of Isolde and
Mathilda?”
Stretching out a leg that had been
curled slightly, Vulcan listened to the
question and heard much more. He
stared long and hard at his brother.
Varian’s eyes remained as they were,
and what little tension was in his body
seemed to leave. He looked relaxed,
carefree even, but Vulcan was not
fooled. When Varian looked relaxed,
he
was
tensing
inwardly. And
although the question had been asked
of both princesses, he had the feeling
the Varian was more interested in just
one: Isolde. He knew that his brother
felt something, perhaps lust, for the
princess, and had hoped that with
time, it would leave him. Isolde and
Mathilda were princesses, wards of a
powerful king. They would be married
for political purposes: to make and
keep allies. As the brother of a king,
Varian too would face that fate too,
just like Vulcan. He had agreed to
marry Mathilda St. Ives to assure that
the Lytherians accepted his rule. It
had been sheer luck that her sister had
taken her place.
“What is it to you, my brother?
They are my wards.”
Nodding, Varian replied calmly.
“That they are, brother. Will they be
returned to Lytheria or are they to
remain at the castle in Morden?”
His eyes were hard as Vulcan
contemplated that question. “Lytheria
is their home and they will be
returned…eventually. Jaisyn would
enjoy having both of her sisters at
Morden. The court season is to begin
shortly and I wish to publicly
introduce them as my wards. They
are both of age.”
Varian dipped his head as an easy
smile appeared on his lips. “Of
course.”
“Have you grown tired of your
duties in Lytheria?”
“No, brother. Have you tired of
having me there?”
Vulcan shook his head before doing
something extraordinary. He laughed,
a low, mirthful sound that escaped as
if unwilling to be trapped in the large
body of his brother. “No, Varian. You
have ruled brilliantly in my stead, as I
knew you would.”
“That means much coming from
you, Vulcan,” Varian replied, his
smile fading as his eyes grew serious.
Vulcan stilled, knowing that whatever
his brother said next he would not
like. “I—”
His tent flap was suddenly pulled
back and Jaisyn entered, looking as
cross as she had when Vulcan had
removed her veil the moment they’d
formally
met.
He
sobered
immediately.
“Varian, if you will excuse us. I
need to speak privately with my
husband.”
Varian took one look at Jaisyn’s
face and began to skim her body for
weapons. Finding none, at least any
visible to the eye, he stood and moved
slowly to the flap, his eyes on her. She
didn’t notice, but Vulcan did. He
glared at his brother’s retreating back
before he returned his gaze to his
wife. Pausing by the door, Varian
searched her body once more for a
sword. Pleased that her dress didn’t
seem large enough to conceal one, he
left.
“What has you so riled, wife?”
Vulcan asked as soon as Varian left.
She drew in a deep breath. “Why is
Malcolm lying injured in your camp?
How was he hurt? Who—?”
The intensity of Vulcan’s glare
stopped her as he made his way to his
feet. “Malcolm betrayed the Crown,
Jaisyn. I know that he is your friend,
but the law decrees that he receive
just punishment.”
Delicate brows lifted angrily and she