Dragons knight, p.18
Dragon's Knight, page 18
Damn her to hell!
He wanted nothing from her. God praise the day he could deliver her to her family and be free once more.
But as he quickened their pace, he was beset by a certainty that he might never feel free again. With that unhappy thought tugging at his mind, Jarrod set a pace that would see them far from this place by nightfall.
They rode for hours, leaving the cliffs of Scotland behind, passing into England without stopping, and on. Only when they came to a spot where the road curved through a dense wood did Jarrod slow their pace.
He was aware of Aislynn, who rode behind him and in front of Sir Ulrick. She had offered not one word of complaint as they traveled. Nor of anything else.
Looking about them, Jarrod saw that the shadows of the trees had become long on the leaf-covered ground. Yet he did not like the feel of this place, the forest, which was a mix of both deciduous and evergreen trees. These trees would offer too much cover to those seeking harm.
He did not wish to contemplate the notion that his discomfort with this wood might be caused by the fact that he had sometimes ventured this far afield as a lad. That it had been a relief to be away from the home where he had felt none of the welcome of a son nor the anonymity of being a stranger.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, Jarrod heard a soft but distinctive whistling sound that was accompanied by a rush of wind as something sailed past his head by inches. A soft cry came from behind him at almost the same moment.
He swung around, watching with horror as Aislynn slumped forward on her mare’s neck.
Crying out, “No!” Jarrod leaped from his stallion, but he could not arrive in time to catch her before she fell to the ground with a sickening thud.
His heart stopped, then started again with fearful intensity as he saw the blood that stained the right shoulder of the pale velvet of her gown.
Dear God, his mind whirled. Someone had shot Aislynn.
Desperately he lifted her head. Seeing the way it fell back, he realized she was unconscious. Torn between concern for her and the knowledge that their assailant could still be there, he searched for the source of the attack, seeing nothing but those damned trees.
Concern for her brought his attention back to Aislynn’s face, which was deathly pale. He lifted her in his arms, pressing his cheek to her breast. She was breathing. Relief rushed through him in dizzying waves.
She was alive. Thank God. Alive.
But she was bleeding, and badly, for the stain was spreading quickly.
He must…
Ulrick’s voice intruded on his chaotic thoughts. “What has happened to the lady Aislynn? I was watching to be certain that we were not followed and looked around only in time to see her fall.”
Jarrod swung around to see his own dread mirrored in the older man’s eyes. “She is hurt but alive. I believe it was an arrow, for it narrowly missed me.”
Ulrick turned desperate eyes on the surrounding forest. “But how? Who?”
Jarrod shook his head, trying to think past the pain that held his chest in a tight grip. “I know not, but we can assume it was the same man who has shown so much interest in our camp. I want nothing more than to find the bastard and see him dead by my own hand, but we must get this bleeding stopped or…”
Jarrod could not finish. He could not allow himself to even contemplate what might occur if he did not stop the bleeding. He feared she had a head injury, as well, which his questing fingers soon confirmed by the bump on the back of her head. It was bad, but the bleeding wound must take precedence.
As he set to ripping her gown out of the way, the better to see the wound, a terrible thought intruded upon his mind. The arrow had barely missed him. He was suddenly and utterly certain that the arrow had not been meant for Aislynn but for him.
It had missed him by no more than the span of a hand.
Guilt crowded into a heart already overrun by tumultuous emotion. Desperately Jarrod told himself this would not help him now. He must clear his mind, set himself to getting the bleeding stopped.
To indulge his own feelings now would be to risk the life that was quickly seeping between his hands.
He spoke to the other man without looking at him as he continued to bare Aislynn’s shoulder. “Ulrick, you must make certain there is no further danger. For all we know whoever did this might be lurking out there, waiting for a chance to get off another good shot.”
The knight drew his sword and moved off without hesitation. “Pray that I find him, sir. He will die with the taste of my blade in his belly.”
Jarrod kept his attention on Aislynn. Once her shoulder was uncovered, he felt his heart twist again. It was so very fragile, the arrow wound an ugly intrusion into the soft flesh, but it was difficult to see how badly hurt she was with the blood flowing so freely.
As best he could, Jarrod examined the area. In battle he had seen many men wounded by arrow shot. He noted that it did not appear to have damaged the bones, for her shoulder moved freely. It seemed only to have torn the muscle. Awful as this was, it was far better than broken bones. He was aware of occasions when wounds such as that never healed properly, the arm being useless forever after.
He realized that he was only fixing on these details because he could not bear to think of what would happen, how he would feel, if Aislynn was to…
Dear heaven, could anything hurt as much as the thought of losing her? Jarrod did not think so, could not allow himself to wonder why. He knew only that his heart felt as if it had been struck by that arrow. And if her heart ceased to beat, he knew his would halt at that same moment.
He lifted her head, looking down into her face, the lids heavy on her closed eyes. Gently he whispered, “Aislynn. Aislynn.”
Her lids fluttered though they did not open, but Jarrod knew that somehow she had heard him. “Stay with me, Aislynn.”
Again her lids fluttered.
Jarrod wiped the cold sweat that had gathered on his brow. He wanted more than anything to pull her close against him and protect her with his body, to give in to his own feelings of grief and anxiety.
Yet he could not do that. He had to think clearly, to make every moment count.
He raised her gown and tore a long wide strip from the bottom of her shift. This fabric he knew was soft and far cleaner than any of his own garments. It would make the best covering for the wound.
Deftly, forcing himself to remember that this was for her own good, he wrapped up the wound. The fact that it was somewhat painful to her was evidenced by the grim lines that came to her brow as he worked.
As he worked to bind it tightly, Jarrod could not help knowing that he needed somewhere to take her, somewhere that she could get better attention than he could afford her here in the open wood.
And suddenly he knew where it must be. In spite of the fact that he had no notion of how he might be welcomed there, or even if they would turn him away, Jarrod had to take her to Kewstoke. Kewstoke, the place where he had grown up, but never felt a part of as he had at Dragonwick. God rot Kelsey and his minion.
It was her only hope.
With the decision made, Jarrod wanted to mount his stallion and ride without delay. Yet he realized he must tell Sir Ulrick of his plans.
Trying to still the impatience that was born of his anxiety, Jarrod called out, “Ulrick.”
There was no reply but what could only have been moments later, the knight rushed out of the cover of the trees toward them. “I saw him, Sir Jarrod, riding hard away from here.”
Jarrod stared up at him. “You saw him?”
“Aye, and though he was riding fast, I believe it was Sir Fredrick as we suspected. The man has a distinctive gray cloak.”
Jarrod felt a renewed rush of hatred. Here then was another reason for him to hate Kelsey with all his being. The man seemed determined to kill those he loved most.
As soon as the thought entered his mind, Jarrod knew it was true. He did love Aislynn. The realization came in wave after enveloping wave of tenderness and need so strong they left him weak. When it had occurred he had no idea, but his heart could not recall a time when she had not filled it.
Just what this might mean to him he did not know except to be aware of the fact that when he was in a position to actually think about it, it would very likely bring him great pain. But not now, not when Aislynn’s life was slipping away with each passing moment.
Forcing himself to do what he must in spite of his revelation, Jarrod stood with Aislynn in his arms and held her out to the older man. “I am taking her to a place called Kewstoke not more than two hours’ ride from here. You must go on to Bransbury and tell her father what has occurred.”
Ulrick hesitated, his brow troubled as Jarrod mounted his stallion and brought him near. Jarrod held out his arms and the knight shook his head as he said, “I do not know if I should leave her.”
Jarrod looked him directly in the eyes. “I would give up my life for her. And her father must be told. It is the least we must do for him in the event…”
The other man nodded and settled Aislynn into Jarrod’s arms. “I will see to it. And to the mare.”
Jarrod nodded, knowing that there was no time to linger. He turned his mount toward Kewstoke, making no reply as the knight called out, “Godspeed.”
He was lost in his concern for Aislynn, his uncertainty as to what he would find when he arrived at the place he had once called home. Welcome or rejection.
Jarrod pulled on the reins, drawing his mount to an abrupt halt directly beneath the tower, which overlooked the gate. He called out, “Open the gate!”
The guard inside peered down at him in the darkness. “And whom should I say bids entry?”
Jarrod grimaced. “You may tell your master that it is Jarrod Maxwell.”
The man leaned out further from the window, his voice filled with obvious shock and disbelief. “Jarrod Maxwell. Brother to the Baron?”
“The very same,” Jarrod shouted back. “Now hurry for I have grave need…someone has been hurt.”
As the man disappeared back inside, Jarrod pulled Aislynn closer into the circle of his arms. The darkness did not completely disguise the fact that the stain of blood on her gown had spread since beginning their journey.
Dear God, he prayed, let them admit him and let them hurry.
It seemed an eternity later, but was likely no more than a handful of minutes, that another man looked out from the window. Although the voice had deepened and changed Jarrod knew that this was his brother as he said, “Jarrod?”
“Aye, Eustace, it is I, Jarrod.”
Immediately Eustace called out sharply, “Open the gate. It is indeed my brother.”
Thinking of little save his relief that he would soon have Aislynn where her wound could be properly seen to, Jarrod was also aware of a feeling of surprise that he had been so readily granted entry. The last time he had seen Eustace, his brother’s face had been filled with triumph and resentment.
That had been the day Jarrod had left Kewstoke. He had looked up to see Eustace standing on these very battlements staring down at him as he rode away to start his new life with his then unknown foster father at Dragonwick. Jarrod recalled the regret that had torn at his own breast, the feeling of leaving all that he knew behind, even as he hoped that what lay ahead would be better.
And it had been. His father had, if nothing else, chosen a man who was worthy of all the honor and love that Jarrod had longed to give.
Jarrod shook his head to clear it. He did not wish to think on any of this now. Aislynn was hurt and nothing else mattered in the face of that calamity.
Not even his own confused feelings at facing his brother after all this time. Not even when he had no notion of how he would be accepted here. The fact that he had been granted entry to the keep could be a sign, yet of what?
He rode through the gate and into the courtyard, aware of the castle folk who had gathered there in the light of several torches, along with his brother, who stood on wide low steps to the hall.
The young lord of Kewstoke looked at him from eye level as he came to a halt at the bottom of those steps. He spoke without inflection. “Jarrod, I—”
Jarrod interrupted him, albeit as politely as he could, even as he slipped to the ground with Aislynn in his arms. “Forgive me, Eustace. I would speak with you on any matter of your choosing if only you will first help me to see to the lady Aislynn. She has been injured.”
Instantly Eustace motioned to one of the men standing there. “Take her.”
Jarrod pulled her close against him. “Nay, I will carry her.” Only then did his brother seem to fully take in the desperation in Jarrod’s face and tone. Eustace beckoned Jarrod forward. “Follow me.”
Jarrod did so, looking down at Aislynn’s face, so pale and still in the light of the torches that it made his chest tighten painfully. He had ridden fast and hard, thinking of nothing save the fact that he must reach help as quickly as possible.
And now that he was here, he could only hope that all would be well.
Eustace led him directly through the hall, calling out, “Aida, bring mendicants and bandages to the west chamber.” They did not pause to see if the summons had been heard, but moved up the narrow stairs that led to the upper rooms.
They entered a chamber that held a wide bed with heavy velvet hangings. Eustace pulled them back before turning to Jarrod, “Put her on the bed. Aida will be here in a moment.”
As Jarrod laid Aislynn down, she stirred, moaning softly, and Jarrod felt his heart twist. With a gentle hand he reached out to smooth the hair back from her brow, which felt too cool beneath his trembling fingers.
“What happened?”
Jarrod turned back to his brother. “She was shot with an arrow.” He went on with unmasked regret. “It was meant for me.”
Eustace watched Jarrod closely, but before he could make a reply a brusque female voice intruded, “What is amiss here, my lord?”
Eustace swung around to face the round squat figure of a woman Jarrod did not remember from his time here. He motioned to Jarrod. “Aida, this is my brother, Lord Jarrod. His lady has been shot and appears to be bleeding quite profusely. She needs your help.”
The woman trotted forward, not even remarking on the fact that Eustace had just told her that Jarrod was his brother. She took one look at Aislynn’s blood-soaked shoulder and said, “Out with the both of you. And send May up to me with some clean water.” She placed her bundles on the table near the bed and moved to Aislynn’s side, the two men seeming to have been forgotten.
Jarrod wavered as his brother went to the door without hesitation. Eustace turned back to him with an expression of sympathy that surprised him, and he said, “Come, Jarrod, I know you are worried, but there are no better hands for healing than Aida’s.”
The woman looked to Jarrod, her gaze also sympathetic but undaunted. “You’d best be going. I can better concentrate on the girl without you to distract me.”
Realizing that there was nothing he could say to refute this, Jarrod reluctantly followed his brother from the chamber.
For Jarrod the next hours passed in a haze of anxiety as he waited in the Great Hall for word of Aislynn’s condition. Eustace stayed with him for a time, saying nothing when Jarrod told him that he would be happy to explain all when he knew that Aislynn would be well, but that he could not make conversation until then. He accepted this, seeming content enough with the silence as he ordered warmed wine for both of them.
Although in a state of anxiety, Jarrod could not help noting that his brother seemed somewhat older than his years. His slight shoulders were stooped and there was a pale cast to his pleasingly intellectual features, the wheat-blond hair receding from his high brow. And when he rose, stating in a strained voice that he must seek his bed, he seemed to move with slow and deliberate care.
Jarrod made no comment on his observations, feeling it would be churlish to do so, even if he were not so very deeply concerned with Aislynn’s well-being.
It was not until much later that Aida finally came to Jarrod. She came up short when he stood at her approach and said, “Is she…?”
She nodded. “Aye, she will be well, I think. She has a bump on her head but came around enough to know that she does not seem rattled in the mind. Methinks ’twas loss of blood that kept her unconscious for so long a time. The shoulder wound had to be sewn closed, but with a few days of rest she will come right.”
He closed his eyes as relief washed over him in a weakening flood. “Thank God.” He took her plump hand in his. “And thank you, dear lady.”
She patted his hand over hers. “You are most welcome.”
He released her and started toward the upper floor. She stopped him with a sharp “Wait.” When he swung around to face her, she said, “Pray do not wake her. She has been through much and, though I have given her a potion to aid her sleep, she may awaken if you disturb her.”
He raked a hand through his hair and moved toward the door once more. “I will have a care.”
She spoke again. “You will do her and yourself a service by finding a bit of sleep.” When he opened his mouth to refute this, she went on. “I have placed a chair near the fire. You will find it and close your eyes.”
Jarrod paused at the door and nodded sharply. He would agree to anything if only he could see Aislynn with his own eyes. In the sick chamber, the fire now warmed the room with both its heat and light.
Carefully and silently Jarrod moved to the bed, his gaze seeking out Aislynn. She was so small and delicate against the pillows, and her cheeks were still pale but not as they had been, for there was now the lightest trace of pink just below those high cheekbones beneath the fringe of her lashes. Her glorious hair lay spread across the pillow behind her and there was no trace of blood on either the white night rail she wore or on the bedlinens.
Again he was flooded with feelings of relief and tenderness that were so intense he had to reach out and grasp the bedpost to keep from staggering. Then, ever conscious of the healer’s warning, he moved to the chair beside the fire to sit. He would gladly have stood there looking at Aislynn, loving her, for the rest of his life, but he would settle for being nearby. Because that was all he might have.
