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The Quest. Lyn Stone
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Well before dawn they emerged from the cave into the dewy darkness and began their journey. Henri ignored the stinging pains in his side, made worse by the slow rocking motion of the wide-backed bay that carried him.
Lady Iana had advised them to travel silently, but he saw no point in it. No one would be about this time of morning. Those with any sense at all would still be sleeping.
The waning moon barely gave off enough light to keep them from riding straight into the tree trunks. Soon it would be gone altogether in that darkest hour before the sun rose. Then, he supposed, they must ride with their hands before their faces to avoid low-hanging limbs.
“Do you think her suitor will give chase when he finds her gone?” Ev whispered from behind him. “We are hardly armed for a fight.”
Henri turned slightly to answer. “Very likely he will follow. In his place, I would. She is a comely woman.”
Everand’s soft, knowing chuckle made him smile. The boy had only recently shown any interest in females, but when the notion that he liked them struck, it had done so with the force of a battle-ax.
“What are we to do if that happens?” he asked Henri.
“Stand against him. Give her time to flee with the babe. I have my dagger and you have yours.”
Everand scoffed. “Mine is hardly larger than a paltry eating knife.”
“And you well know how to use it, not only at table,” Henri reminded in a chastising tone. “A blade is a blade, Ev. Remember your training.”
“Silence!” The order came from the lady. “You’ll be heard from here to the coast.”
Had she been listening when he’d called her comely? Henri wondered. She was that and more. Aside from that beauty, he had to admire her strength of purpose. For a woman, she certainly had proved resourceful. Left alone to fend for herself and that poor mite of a child, she seemed to seize every opportunity. Henri was happy he had provided one for her. He much feared what could have happened if she had continued to live there unprotected. Of course, he planned to see that she had what she needed to live comfortably after this.
He had her to thank for his life. Surely he would have died if she had not agreed to help and had not stopped his wound’s bleeding. Even then, he might well have perished from this cursed fever had she not found a place of shelter and fed him that thrice-damned bark.
Who was she, really? Highborn, he strongly suspected. No peasants, few free men and almost none of their women should be able to speak such excellent French. She had been tutored by someone, and none too briefly, at that.
Her frequently imperious manner indicated she had once held a position of some power, one important enough so that she fully expected to be obeyed when she issued an order. That supported her tale of the dead husband, a noble one with a household for her to direct.
Then again, she might have been a player or singer, one of a troupe of jongleurs who had only observed the behavior of nobles and thought to copy it. They traveled much, which could explain her French. Surely that had not been her lot of late, with a babe in tow. Of course, she might have been some lord’s leman who had acquired these attributes from her generous lover, got with child and been cast off by him.
Henri realized he might never know the truth about her, for he surely owed her the right to keep her secrets after all she had done for him. Yet curiosity bedeviled him as they rode for what seemed hours on end.
He had not been on horseback for several months, having spent that time at sea. Aside from the increasing discomfort of his wound, muscles unused for that while screamed in protest of the long hours riding bareback.
Soon he did not care who Iana was or what untruths she might have fed him. All he wanted was for her to cry off this journey for a while, so he would not need to ask for mercy. He had little pride left as it was.
The tantalizing burble of the stream they had followed since they’d left the cave beckoned powerfully. How good it would feel to lie down and wallow in the coolness of it. He had yet to wash the sea salt from his body and his clothing.
“We must rest and water the mounts,” he declared when he could bear it no longer.
She turned with a look of concern and immediately reined in. “Are you bleeding?”
Henri almost lied, certain it would be worth it to rip open his wound if that was what it took to get him off the horse. “No,” he snapped, as he leaned forward, slid one leg over the bay’s back and quickly dismounted before she could object. He grabbed on to the mane when his traitorous legs buckled beneath him.
He noted with satisfaction that she had a similar problem. Though she obviously knew how to ride—another clue that she was no underling—it was clear that Iana had not sat a horse lately for any length of time.
“You should have stolen saddles as well,” he told her, softening the rebuke with a forced grin.
Ev hurried forward and took the reins of Henri’s bay. “At least she managed to bring the tack, sir,” he declared in defense of her. “We might have had to make do with ropes of braided grass.”
“This way,” she ordered, dismissing Henri’s complaints as unimportant. Limping a bit, likely due to the weight of the babe, she led her roan mare through the trees to a very small clearing beside the shallow stream. “We shall rest here for a short while.”
What was her bloody hurry? Another mystery to solve. If the man who wished her hand in marriage—if such a one truly existed—were persistent enough to trail after her, he would still need time to discover that she was missing. She had been gone only one night and half a day.
Henri looked up through the trees. It was just before midday. “We should wait until the sun is not directly overhead,” he advised, “else we could err in our direction.”
“Oh? Very well,” she agreed reluctantly. “Sit. I will portion out our food.”
She untied the cloth from around her shoulders and set the child upon the grass. It did not move, like a fawn protecting itself by its immobility.
Henri observed it closely for some moments, reluctantly meeting the wary brown gaze it fastened upon him. He offered his finger to grasp. “Have you a name?” he asked softly.
“Her name is Thomasina. Tam,” Lady Iana informed him. “She does not speak.”
“Is she ill?” he asked, quite concerned about the too slender limbs and protruding belly. Even the child’s dark hair grew in thin and wisplike. “Does she eat well?”
A sharp “aye” was the only answer he got as Iana busied herself with the victuals. What did that mean? he wondered. Aye, she was ill, or aye, she ate well?
“So, Tam,” he said softly, offering her his hand, palm up. “What a gentle sprite you are.” The baby ignored his overture, but her lips parted as if she would utter something. Then she suddenly ducked her head and stuck her finger in her mouth.
He liked babies, though he had seen few of them since his sister was born some sixteen years ago. Alys had been nothing like this one. As he recalled, it had required three nurses, taking shifts on guard, to keep that rapscallion confined to the keep. He could still remember her earsplitting screeches when things did not go her way. The memory made him smile.
Iana shoved his share of the food toward him, cupped in a large leaf.
Oats and berries again, fewer than last eve, he noticed. “Suppose I catch some fish,” he offered.
“With what?” she asked curtly. “And if you managed that miracle, should we eat them raw? We cannot risk a fire to cook them.”
“Why not?” Ev queried before Henri could form the same words.
“Because…because someone might see and come