Dragon Tree (7 page)

Was it he who
stood over her now, waiting for her to show signs of waking so that
the torment could continue?

She remembered
nothing after the sword scoring lines up her thighs, nothing aside
from white-hot pain and dark, misshapen images. She had no idea
where she was or how she had come to be here. If she had wakened
before, she had no recollection. If she had spoken through the
fever... what might she have said?

Something else
stirred at the edge of her mind but she was having difficulty
concentrating. Someone was standing beside the pallet, very close
and very still, as if he was trying to detect whether she was awake
or asleep. She could feel his shadow blotting out the warmth of the
fire, miserly as it was.

Were her hands
bound? Her feet? Was she pinned there while irons were being heated
to further her torture, for surely, if these were men sent by her
husband to hunt her down, Odo de Langois’ punishment would be
neither swift nor merciful.

A soft,
involuntary moan escaped her throat. The sudden sound must have
startled whoever was hovering over her, for the shadow moved back
and called to another.

“Marak—? She
stirred.”

A second
shadow came up beside the first. A cool, dry hand was laid across
her brow and when she whimpered again, she heard a faint shuffling
of robes and sleeves and felt the corner of a blanket being lifted
off her arm and shoulder.

The gentle
sliding of the wool against her skin made her realize she was naked
beneath the blanket. Naked, stretched out flat on a table with
nothing to shield her from the probing eyes of her captors.

“Have you
decided to come back to us, Little One?”

The voice. It
was soothing and soft, and she knew instinctively she had heard it
many times already, through the pain, the fever, the brief periods
when the darkness gave way to light and awareness. It did not sound
like the voice of a tormentor, although she had been duped before
by silky words and a glib tongue.

She attempted
to turn her wrist, testing to see if there were bindings. Her hand
came up freely and despite the fact that it felt like a deadweight,
she dragged her fingers upward to search for the crucifix that lay
between her breasts.

It was not
there.

Amie opened
her eyes. The first, the only thing she saw was the silhouette of a
hooded man standing beside her. The room was so dark, the shadows
so thick, she feared perhaps her eyes had been partially scorched
by the fires in the village.

But then the
shadow of the second man moved and her gaze was drawn to him. He
stood closer to the fire and she could see the blurred lines of his
profile, the rim of brighter light around his hair, the glow that
outlined his shoulders and chest.

The hooded
figure moved and Amie’s gaze flicked sharply back.

“Wh-who are
you?” Her voice was barely a whisper, emitted from a throat that
was so dry the words cracked and broke. “Wh-where am I?”

“You are safe,
child. There is no one here who wishes you harm.”

Here?
she thought wildly.
Where is here? Where am I? Who are you and
why have you brought me here?

“My name is
Marak,” the stranger continued, his voice soft and soothing. “And
this—” he turned slightly, “is Lord Tamberlane. He was the one who
found you in the woods and brought you here, to his castle. I have
been tending your wounds these past six days.”

Amie released
another small sound. Six days? She had been lying here fevered and
oblivious to all for
six days?

“Where is
F-friar Guilford—?” The rasp that came out of her throat contained
more pain than sound and it was just as well, for she had blurted
the question and the name without thought.

“Wait, child,
wait.” She must have tried another abortive movement, for the pale
hand moved from her brow to her arm as if to keep her from leaping
off the table. The one called Marak murmured something over his
shoulder, and when he turned back, there was a cup in his hand. He
slid an arm gently beneath her shoulders and raised her head enough
to tip the rim of the cup to her lips.

“It is only
wine and water,” he assured her, “ mixed with a little honey to
help restore your strength.”

Amie looked
from the elongated black shadow where his face should be... to the
cup... back to the hidden face. If it was true he had been tending
her wounds for six days, it was unlikely he would poison her on the
seventh. Bolstered by the thought, she parted her lips and let some
of the liquid trickle into her mouth. It was warm and sweet and she
took a second sip, then a third. She forced herself to keep
drinking, knowing she needed to get her strength back. She might be
naked, wounded, and without weapons, but she still had her wits
about her.

When she had
emptied the cup, he lowered her head carefully back onto the pallet
with a promise to bring more.

The other
shadow, Lord Tamberlane, had not moved. His profile revealed a jaw
that seemed carved from a square ridge of granite, a nose that was
long and Romanesque, a mouth hinting at an utter lack of compromise
or compassion. Amie had seen enough knights to recognize the
musculature and bearing of a man accustomed to wearing armor. She
stared hard and tried to concentrate, but neither his face nor his
name was immediately familiar to her, making her wonder, again,
where she was.

The knight
stood with his hands clasped behind his back, but the longer she
stared, the more he shifted his weight from one foot to the
other.

You have
the advantage, sirrah,
she thought.
You are not lying naked
and helpless on a tabletop.

Amie moved her
hand again—the left, this time—and the effort brought forth such a
bolt of pain that she dropped it back with a stifled gasp.

“The arrow
struck you in the shoulder,” Marak explained. “These past six days,
while you burned with fever, I have given you herbs to keep you
from moving it too much. I can give you more if you wish it.”

"No!" Amie
released a pent-up breath, feeling it take the rush of pain with
it. Herbs to keep her from moving too much...was that why she felt
dull and stupid? No, she did not want to have her wits dulled by
potions and possets. She needed her strength back, and she needed
it soon. "No... I ... no, good sir. The pain is tolerable."

Marak studied
her a moment then refilled the cup with sweetened wine.

“In any case,
you must be hungry. Drink this, then we will try some broth.”

The wine
tasted different. There was a slightly bitter edge to it and she
refused to take more than a few drops on her tongue before pushing
it away.

“Willow bark,”
he assured her at once. “For the pain, nothing more.” He turned and
held the goblet out to the knight. “Drink some and show her that no
harm is intended.”

“Me? Why not
show her yourself?”

“Because a
clever poisoner would know how to protect himself.”

"Would he not
protect me as well?"

"On some days,
yes. On others... no."

The knight
scowled but took the cup and indulged in a long, deep swallow—more
than was necessary for a simple demonstration—then handed it back.
His gaze locked briefly with Amie’s and she saw their color for the
first time. Such a brilliant, crystalline green they were, rendered
strangely luminous by the shadows and scant light.

The intensity
of those eyes caught at her breath and she found it difficult to
look away.

He moved
closer and she felt the skin across the nape of her neck tighten.
“Are you well enough to answer a few questions? Can you tell us
what happened at your village? Do you know who the men were who
attacked you, or why they attacked?”

“Must you do
this now?” Marak asked in a murmur. “Can you not see the child is
frightened beyond any clear thought?”

“Frightened or
not, the questions need answering and she is the only
survivor.”

Amie’s eyes
rounded.
The only survivor? Dear Jesu...!

“Did you know
the men who attacked your village?”

The tightness
she was already feeling in her throat and chest spread, sending
chilling little pinpricks of sensation rippling the length of her
spine, making her heart beat faster, her breath come quick and
shallow.

Unsettled to
the core, she could do nothing but shake her head.

“Do you know
why they attacked or who sent them?”

She shook her
head again and prayed that God would forgive the lie for it was
almost a certainty this cold, darkly visaged knight would not. The
healer, Marak, had attempted to reassure her with words of safety
and protection, and in her weakened state, she desperately wanted
to believe him. But there were no such soothing promises reflected
in the knight’s eyes. They were cool and forthright; there was
nothing to suggest he would not send a messenger to her husband
upon the instant simply to avoid any further complications.

What would he
do if he knew he
harbored
a would-be murderess under his roof?

Her hands
curled into small fists beneath the linen sheet. A wave of unbidden
images filled her head, not of the attack on the village this time,
but of a man’s hairy, muscular body sprawled face down and
unconscious on a blood-soaked mattress beside her, and of her
kneeling over him, the weight of a heavy silver candlestick gripped
in her hand. She had smashed his head once, but she had wanted to
smash it again and again until it was crushed to a pulp. She had
wanted to kill him a thousand times over, and then kill him again
just for spite. His whore, he had called her. His brood mare. Each
time he took her, it was with a brutality that promised worse to
come.

“What is it?
Are you remembering something about the attack?”

The sound of
the knight’s voice intruded and Amie blurted an answer without
thought. “No. No, I cannot remember what happened. I w-was asleep
and heard him scream, then...”

“Him?”

Shocked by yet
another blunder, she focussed blankly on the knight’s face.

“You said you
heard
him
scream.”

“M-my husband.
I heard my husband scream,” she stammered, thinking that much, at
least, was no lie. Even so, she could scarcely breathe through the
incredible pressure in her chest.

"What happened
next?"

She drew a
shaky breath, hoping to pull her thoughts into line, then added
what she prayed was an adequate elaboration which was, again,
mostly the truth. “The bothys were on fire and everyone was
running, everyone was confused and trying to escape. I... ran into
the forest, but I was followed.” She paused again and attempted to
moisten her lips with a dry tongue. “Did you say... I was the only
one who survived?”

“We found no
one else alive.”

“Not even the
children?”

The healer
reached out and touch her arm.

“Enough
questions for today,” he told the knight quietly. “She needs to
rest or all my work will have been for naught. Tomorrow she will be
stronger, and stronger the day after that.”

Amie felt a
scalding hot tear slide from the corner of her eye and trickle down
her temple. She turned her face away from both men and let the
guilt flow unchecked alongside the tears. It was her fault. Her
fault that they were all dead. They had been good, simple people
who had offered her sanctuary and they had suffered the ultimate
consequence for their kindness.

Odo de Langois
was a black-souled devil and God only knew what he would do when he
discovered that she had escaped the raid on the village. Certes, he
would send more men to hunt for her—men who would burn a castle as
easily as they would burn a village.

She also knew
he would not rest until he found her. And this time, to be sure
there were no more mistakes, he would kill her with his own bare
hands.

CHAPTER FOUR

Odo de Langois
did, indeed, take great pleasure in killing. He was kneeling beside
a thin bright stream of water and washing smears of blood from his
hands. The deer he had just gutted hung from a nearby tree. The
carcass was steaming in the cool air, the entrails were lying in a
pile to one side being fought over by a pack of long-nosed
hounds.

He had made
camp by the stream four days ago and the portable trappings of
thirty men and horses were everywhere. Several small fires sent
columns of smoke into the leafy growth overhead. There were
blankets and saddles, bundles of armor and weaponry scattered
throughout the clearing. Several canopies had been hung from the
trees, practical only for keeping the heavy mists at bay during the
night.

His own
pavilion was large and comfortable, for Odo was not a man who liked
to travel without certain necessities. Aside from the nearly three
dozen men at arms who accompanied him, he had two squires, several
lackeys, and an armorer in his retinue. The latter travelled with
all the tools of his trade packed into a large, square wagon. Odo
also had a full string of horses, two suits of armor—one of chain
mail and thick plated iron, the other of molded bullhide. His
swords, shield, lances, and glaives were carried in a warwagon
along with items of a more personal nature—clothes, cooking
utensils, tables and chairs that could be broken apart and moved
with ease—as well as a cot for sleeping.

He had not
departed his castle at Belmane expecting to need more than a paring
knife and a long length of rope to hang his runaway wife when he
found her. Three days into the hunt, however, she had seemed to
simply vanish into the dark forest mists. He had dispatched men
back to the castle for supplies and more men, and now, more than a
month later, they seemed no closer to finding the murderous bitch.
A sennight ago they seemed to have had success within their grasp.
An almoner had mentioned seeing a woman and a priest on the road
headed south. A storm had kept Odo and his men huddled in caves for
a full day, but when it passed and scouts were sent out, a second
report identified those same two travellers taking refuge in a
small village.