Dragon Tree Page 8

  She covered her face with her hands and turned away as the sobs began to wrack her body. Once set free, she could not stop them and Marak, knowing it was needed, said nothing more and let her grief and anger run its course.

  He had suspected, from the moment he saw her, that she was no ordinary peasant girl. The lack of calluses on her hands, the flawless skin unblemished by sun and weather, the dulled stiffness of her hair... and the fact that the plaited length on her head did not match the soft yellow down at the juncture of her thighs, all these things pointed to far gentler breeding. She had been raised in wealth and luxury, with servants to tend her every need, but there again, something cruelly contradicted by the evidence of lashmarks across her back and buttocks. She had been subjected to beatings over the course of many months, whipped until the skin bruised so deep it bore permanent marks and stains.

  The long hours he had sat beside her, bathing her flaming skin in cool water, he had listened to disjointed ramblings, bits and pieces of a story he was unable to stitch together fully, but one that hinted at a broad tapestry of ugliness and brutality.

  Even so, the law of the land declared a wife to be nothing more than chattel, able to be beaten within a breath of life if she was disobedient or rebellious, and killed outright if she raised her hand against her lord, even in self-defense. If Amaranth confessed she was running away from her husband, regardless of the circumstances or cause, Ciaran would have no option but to hand her back if someone came looking for her.

  Playing devil’s advocate against himself, Marak also knew that Tamberlane’s interaction with women was severely limited. He was naive in every sense where females were concerned; it was doubtful he had ever courted or even flirted with one before he entered the Order.

  Consequently, if Tamberlane believed Amie to be a common girl, a victim of terrible circumstances, her village burned, her family slain, it would rouse all of the protective instincts that came with the chivalric vows he had taken as a knight. If anything, he might even be driven to feel more protective of her, since she was found on his land and was now, to the extent of his current knowledge, his chattel.

  Not to be discounted was the fact she was a beauty. Beneath the pallor, her cheeks were high and smooth, her face a perfect oval with enormous, long lashed eyes of such an unusual shade of violet blue he could see where she came by the name Amaranth. Her mouth was well formed with a full lower lip and a sweet upper bow that would rouse warmth in the most frozen of hearts. Her hair, when all the stain was washed out, would be the same silvery yellow as her thatch, although even in its present state of reddish gold, it was still striking. Similarly, she was all skin and bone now, but with a few healthy meals in her belly and a resplendent tunic of silk molded to her curves, Marak guessed she would turn any man’s head. Even Tamberlane's.

  Marak clasped his hands together under the shield of his long sleeves. He was no frothing Samaritan, yet these past eight days had formed an admitted attachment. She had been all but dead when Tamberlane had brought her to his chambers, and in truth he had given her one in one thousandth of a chance of surviving.

  Yet she had. She had fought through fevers and corruption of the wound. He had drained the poison half a dozen times and filled the wound repeatedly with maggots only to discover a sliver of the arrow shaft embedded in her flesh that had to be cut away before the process of healing could begin all over again.

  After fighting so hard to save her, he was not about to hand her over to a man who obviously wanted her dead.

  A faint sound intruded on his thoughts and prompted Marak to glance behind him. Tamberlane stood on the threshold, one hand on the latch of the door, the other pressed against the wall.

  Amaranth was still sobbing, still rolled into a fetal ball and was not aware of the knight’s arrival. The green eyes searched the bed a moment, then sought Marak’s with a questioning frown. The seneschal, in turn, raised a bony finger and touched it to his lips as he joined the knight at the doorway.

  “She needs to do this,” he whispered. “She needs to weep for more than just the pain of her wound.”

  Tamberlane lowered his voice, “Her husband, of course.”

  “Among other things, yes.” Marak said slowly.

  The knight nodded and glanced over at the bed, clearly distressed by the sight of the girl weeping. It was not the first time Marak had seen the same look on Ciaran's face. Many a time over the past eight days Tamberlane had come quietly into Marak’s tower room to stand in the shadows and observe, usually under the guise of seeing if the girl had wakened again and could tell them more about the attack. Marak had done nothing to discourage him, for the brooding knight had not shown that much interest in anything over the past three years.

  Now, by God’s own curious grace, there was concern... yes, concern in the iridescent green eyes as they glared at Marak and silently commanded him to heal whatever was making the girl sob so inconsolably.

  “A posset,” Marak murmured thoughtfully. “A posset might help ease her mind. Will you stay with her until I return?”

  Before the knight could answer yay or nay, Marak eased past him into the outer corridor.

  “Should the need arise to use it, her name is Amaranth. And do try not to scowl as if you have just come away from kicking the dogs.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tamberlane stared at the banded oak planks as the door shut behind him. The girl had stopped sobbing, but her face was still averted, and he could see her scrubbing at the wetness on her cheeks, trying to dry them. She knew he was there. She had not looked directly at him yet, but he knew she was aware of his presence.

  He glanced at the fire, at the pot hanging over the tripod... at the wooden horse lying on its side before the hearth. With one eye fixed warily on the bed, he walked over and picked up the carving, turning it over in his big hands.

  “Jibril never lets this out of his sight,” he said quietly. “I vow he sleeps with it.”

  Amie exhaled over a large shudder and looked up. “I... I think I frightened him. He dropped it when he ran out of the room.”

  “He is a timid boy and frightens easily.”

  “Is he your son?”

  “My son?” The knight looked up sharply. “No. No, he is not my son. He is my...” a pause produced a small, wry smile at the corner of his mouth, “my gift from Allah.”

  Amie sniffled and rubbed her eyes again to dry them. “Your gift?”

  “I saved his mother’s life. Her husband was dead and her family did not want to be indebted to a Christian, and so they gave her to me. Her and her son. Had I refused to take them, they would have been stoned to death for bringing shame on the family.”

  “Stoned because you saved their lives? That makes no sense.”

  Tamberlane shrugged. “In truth, the whole idea of a Holy War—men fighting over the right to claim one god is superior to another—makes no sense. Just as the notion of any god sanctioning murder and slaughter in his name makes little sense either.”

  “You question God’s j-judgement?” she asked through a soft hiccup.

  “I question my own judgement more often,” he said quietly. Remembering Marak’s parting words, he attempted a faint smile. “Your arm shows improvement. How does it feel?"

  “Much better, thank you."

  In the awkward beat of silence that followed, Tamberlane moved in front of the fire.

  He was dressed in a plain tunic and doeskin leggings, with little to camouflage the fact that his shoulders were bulked by muscle, his waist solid and flat, his legs well hewn from the years of riding a warhorse. He presented the silhouette of a powerful knight, a prime specimen of a man who one might believe could, indeed, slay dragons.

  He picked up an iron rod and pushed at the burning log, sending a fan of red sparks crackling up into the air.

  He had not expected to see her sitting up when he came to the room, and certainly not weeping. The sight had caused a strange tightness in his belly, for he had always felt
clumsy around women. He had no experience whatsoever with weeping females who looked small and crumpled and helpless. Adding to that was the clever wit of his tongue, wherein he had undoubtedly succeeded in convincing her he was a heretic and a blasphemer. Certes, she would run screaming from the room like Jibril if she knew the full extent of his disgrace in the eyes of man and God.

  "The healer tells me I owe you thanks for saving my life," she said, drawing his gaze from the fire. "He said you slew the man who would have otherwise killed me.”

  "I regret we did not arrive sooner, we might have been able to save more... including your husband."

  The comment earned yet another awkward silence and prompted him to poke the log a few more times.

  He heard a whimper and looked over in time to see Amaranth struggling to push the covers aside and swing her legs over the side of the bed.

  “What do you think you are doing?”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, panting softly through a wave of dizziness. "I have been a burden long enough, my lord."

  She pushed herself up and was valiantly able to wobble there for a full two heartbeats before her knees buckled like candles left too long in the sun. The room began to spin and the floor took a sudden lurch and swooped from under her feet.

  Tamberlane dropped the iron poker and moved quickly enough to catch her as she started to pitch forward. She landed in a soft crush against his chest, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her hair spilling over his hands and arms as they circled around her.

  Reaching for her had been a reflex. Holding her was something else entirely, for the breath stilled in his chest and the blood began to throb sluggishly through his body. Inaya had bathed her, washing away the stink of Marak’s poultices and mustard pastes. She smelled fresh and clean. Her hair was soft as silk, tempting his fingers to run through it.

  He gently guided her back onto the bed. “You try to do too much. Marak will not thank you—or me for that matter—if you fall and crush your head against the stone wall, not after all he has done to keep you alive.”

  Amie sat on the edge of the bed, shaking so badly the linen of her sheath trembled. Tamberlane snatched up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, then spied an ewer of water and tipped some into a cup.

  “Drink this.”

  She focussed intently on the cup a moment before raising her hand to try to take it.

  Tamberlane crouched down and closed his bigger hand over hers, steadying the vessel, helping to guide it to her lips. She kept her lashes lowered, but that only made him notice how delicately those lashes lay against the pale curve of her cheek.

  Tiny filaments of her hair were caught around their hands and glowed like threads of fiery gold in the firelight. Her tunic had become hitched up at the knee, baring the slender length of her calf, the delicate turn of her ankle, the small white feet and pretty pink toes. The scabbed scratches where the mercenary’s sword had cut her were still visible and that made him recall the sight of her sprawled on the ground, her thighs kicked apart, the point of the blade poised to stab.

  He became conscious of her eyes rising to his face and could not avoid meeting them. They were large and solemn and regarded him over the rim of the cup as she took several small sips. When the cup was emptied, a small bead of the clear liquid clung to her lower lip. He watched her capture it with the tip of her tongue and the action caused him to lick his own lip before he straightened and set the cup on the table.

  "Back to bed with you now," he commanded. "And no more foolishness or Marak will pin my ears to the wall."

  "I do not wish to be a burden," she said again. "You have already done so much, I know not how I shall ever repay you."

  "Repay me by getting well."

  She looked up and her eyes were swimming with tears again. "I... I cannot seem to lift my legs onto the bed. It hurts too much."

  Tamberlane's face remained expressionless as he considered his options, but in the end, seeing no other way around it, he leaned over and scooped her gently into his arms then settled her back in place against the pillows. He drew the blankets modestly high under her chin again, tucking her arms beneath. Her eyes had not left his face and he could feel the heat of a blush threatening to rise up his throat. He stepped back before it bloomed fully and noticed a shadow standing quietly in the doorway.

  “Ah. Here is Marak with your posset. More effective than water, I have no doubt.”

  Marak came into the room, followed closely by Inaya and the boy Jibril.

  “Plaguing her with questions, were you?” Marak asked, beckoning to Inaya to set the board she was carrying on the table.

  “I have inquired after nothing but her health,” Tamberlane said, happily relinquishing his place beside the bed to the Arab woman, who now wore a veil across her face, leaving only her huge kohl-rimmed eyes visible. The boy moved with her, his fist clenched tightly to the folds of her sari, but when he spied the carved wooden horse lying beside the hearth, he let out a small squeal of joy and ran to retrieve it.

  Inaya murmured something under her breath, accompanied by a flurry of scolding fingers, chiding the boy for having dropped the toy in the first place.

  The board Inaya had placed on the table contained bread, a small wedge of yellow cheese, some honeyed dates and several slabs of cold meat. Amie was distracted by the sight and smell long enough for Ciaran to catch the few words Marak whispered in his ear.

  His expression changed at once. A ripple of tension coursed through his body and he nodded, pausing half a heartbeat to glance over at the bed before he exited the chamber.

  ~~

  Amie noted the knight's departure with no small amount of relief. His presence unnerved her and tied her tongue in knots. When he had caught her and held her in his arms, the press of all that solid muscle against her body had made her more light-headed than the lack of strength in her legs. She vaguely remembered being held in them before, being cradled against that broad chest during the long and painful ride to Taniere Castle. She remembered the smell of his skin, earthy with the scent of leather and sweat. And she remembered pressing her face into the crook of his neck where it had been warm and comforting... and safe.

  She shook her head a little to clear it and looked up in time to see Marak approaching the bedside with a small bowl, the contents of which, to judge by the smell of the steam rising off the surface, did not bear thinking about.

  "The taste might set your tongue to curling into the roof of your mouth, but the next time you try to stand you will be able to do it without toppling over."

  He held the bowl out and waited while Amie freed her good arm from under the blankets.

  It tasted as horrid as it smelled, but urged on by a pale hand helping her to tip up the bottom of the bowl, she finished it all. Marak smiled his approval and began passing her small tidbits off the wooden tray.

  "You mustn't try to do too much too soon or you will undo all my good work."

  "I have to leave here as soon as possible. My presence puts Lord Tamberlane's quest for solitude in danger."

  Marak's lips—the only part of him visible under the draping of the hood—curved in a half smile. "Why do you assume he craves solitude?"

  "You called him Dragonslayer. I have heard mention of a knight so named."

  Marak reached for the board and began breaking off pieces of cheese and meat and handing them to her. "What have you heard?"

  "That he was once a fearsome warrior, a Crusader who rode at King Richard's right hand side."

  Marak handed her a piece of leavened bread. "He is still a fearsome warrior and if asked, I have no doubt the Lionheart would gladly have him fight on his right again."

  "The whisperers say he took up a sword and fought with the Mohammedans, then ran like a coward when the tide turned."

  The hood tilted. "What else do these whisperers say?"

  Amie shifted uncomfortably. "They say he was excommunicated and banished from the Templars in disgrace."


  "Does he strike you as the type who would run from battle... or from God?"

  "He mocked God's purpose in the Holy War."

  "Questioning something and mocking something are two very different things."

  "Would the Templars expel him for merely questioning their theology?"

  Marak chuckled. "Your mind is as quick as your tongue. I shall have to drink some of my own possets to keep apace."

  Amie flushed and bit into a small wedge of cheese. "I mean no insult to Lord Tamberlane, and I know all too well how stories become distorted passing from one mouth to the next. But I also know that to have attention drawn down upon him now would only stir up memories I am sure he would rather leave in the past."

  "I suspect it may already be too late for that."

  Amie stopped chewing and felt a chill pass along her spine, one that was not eased by Marak's next words.

  "Two of the foresters reported a large troop of knights and footmen encamped just beyond the border of Lord Tamberlane's land. The camp is heavily guarded and they could not get close enough to see the markings on their tunics.”

  Amie's fingers went lax and she dropped the piece of cheese. What little color she had gained back into her cheeks drained away like blood from an opened vein.

  "For the moment, it poses no immediate concern. They have not yet ventured across the river into our demesne and could be nothing more sinister than a band of travelers making their way to London."

  Travelers? Passing through the densest forest in all of England, miles from any well-traveled roads? She did not believe that for longer than it took for her to see Marak's shuttered gaze watching her.