THE RANSOM

"But God will redeem my life from the grave; He will surely take me to himself." Psalm 49:15

Chapter 1 The Betrayal

Shrewsbury, England, April 1274

As they cleared the forest edge and began their ascent toward the castle keep, Jared's senses heightened in anticipation. Not only was their long journey about to end, but its outcome was highly uncertain. Though exhausted from the perils of the journey as well as hours with little sleep, he nursed a throbbing ache in his head by rubbing his temples with one gloved hand. Whether they met with success or not, he longed to throw himself onto anything softer than the hard ground and spend a few days stretching his legs. He'd pressed his brothers into riding from before dawn till it was too dark to ride safely, and the pace had taken its toll on them all. His plan had taken months of careful thought and preparation, and now they were about to present it to the king. All their futures hung in the balance, teetering upon the edge of either being executed or, with God's grace, bringing an end to decades of fighting to defend their lands.

Passing along the edge of the dense forest he lifted his hand to signal their pace into a canter. Once out from behind the cover of the wood they were much more vulnerable, yet no one had to see that at first glance. Boldly leading his four half brothers into the open field, he rode ahead just enough to present a united front. He pursed his lips and banished their countless arguments and fights from his memory, judging it as much a reward should they manage to end the fighting among them. Though he was the eldest and therefore in charge, he was nevertheless forced to endure their constant challenges to his authority, a test his father somehow considered him capable of passing.

Three of them had different mothers, his own having died when he was still a boy. Medwin, David and Morgan shared a mother now long cold in her grave as well from stillbirth. Geoff was the youngest and enjoyed the luxury of having a mother, and although she was excellent with the boy she had taken it upon herself to see to Jared's finding a wife. These past months he'd endured a score of parties whose main purpose was to display what she thought would be a suitable candidate for him to marry. In his usual characteristic manner he'd successfully avoiding appearing at the majority of them despite her throwing a fit whenever he managed to find pressing business far off in the hills or chieftain villages. Thankfully his father had not disowned him, though he sensed of late that his failure to make arrangements to secure his inheritance were causing even more friction in an already troubled relationship. In summation his life was in constant turmoil, though not as horrific as the kind endured upon Crusade. Now, gazing up at the deep blue sky of late spring, he prayed inwardly for a better year, one in which he could perhaps find a bit of peace.

Riding pass the first line of lean-tos and tents belonging to the masses encamped around the keep, he took his last breath of fresh air before the stench reached his nostrils. Their timing couldn't be better however, for the crowds gathering for the tournament provided more opportunity to move about without attracting much attention, giving them a chance to survey the particulars of the inner bailey. Should they be found out prematurely, they would throw themselves upon the king's good reputation and beg for the mercy he was sometimes known to extend to those less fortunate than himself. Such as the likes of us, he thought cynically.

Before long the sentry shout echoed toward them and he urged his stallion onto the access road, knowing their approach had been noted and was being carefully studied. He caught a glimpse of a few early risers among the tents and shelters, noting with compassion the young girls forced to trudge about their daily chores while their parents slept on, no doubt from a night of revelry. Breakfast porridge from their crudely dug camp pits alleviated the filthy water sopping the grounds at the perimeter. Tournaments always drew crowds of travelers eager to gain entrance either through honest means or robbing or stealing their way inside. But it was time to concentrate upon the task at hand, and he straightened his seat and shot a critical glare at the gatekeepers atop the parapet. Only two on this side, he noted.

Glancing back at his brothers, he nodded curtly before turning to study the bridge being lowered with the heavy grinding of chains. His stomach clenched at the sound, and quite unexpectedly it brought back flashes of his tortured past to blind his concentration. Gasping in surprise, he swallowed a protesting groan, vaguely aware of Medwin riding up to his side and gesturing at him. Shaking his head to clear the visions, he saw David appear at his other side. Cringing at his man's proud and arrogant stance, Jared sensed that somehow David had changed his mind and was looking forward to gaining an audience with the king. His wink and smile of approval seemed to confirm it.

While Jared parted his lips to warn against overconfidence he heard the gate crash to the ground. David's smile deepened as he bent forward, spurred his horse and shot away, Medwin following him with a whoop as they left Jared and the others behind. Though he shouted in protest they left him no recourse but to charge after them. So much for a united front!

"Stay close!" he ordered his younger brothers, grateful when they obeyed and did not rush to join the others. What are those two up to now? he wondered irritably, charging after them but feeling a creeping sense of something having gone terribly wrong. Shifting his attention to the huge battlements rising before them, he bit back a well deserved rebuke at David's cavalier attitude. It astounded him that his half brother was able to underestimate the influence and strength of this their enemy, or worse, challenge it by approaching in such a manner. All his carefully laid plans were quickly unraveling before his eyes. All he could do was try to catch up to them and cut them off.

Their coming here was to have been carried out anonymously, he outlined for the hundredth time in his mind. The plan was to register under different names, compete in the tournament and through successfully winning as many events they could gain the notice and audience of the king. As he watched David charge toward the moat bridge he was struck by the arrogant swagger in his demeanor. Even if they were the main contingent to beat at tournament, there was nothing to be gained by brandishing the fact ahead of time.

Following them onto the moat bridge he spied an escort in the distance, apparently leaving the bailey by way of a rear exit. When the small group of armed guards noted their presence however it halted and quickly began to reposition itself for defense. Jared drew on his reins to stop, watching in disbelief as David charged toward them with a shout of glee, switching his direction as Medwin followed close behind.

"It's the king!" David's voice trailed back to them, both he and Medwin choosing to ignore Jared's shouts to halt.

"Are you insane?" he called after them, cringing at the half dozen mounted guards riding out from the inner keep and heading straight toward them. Holding up a silencing hand to Geoff and Morgan, he watched as they charged instead after David and Medwin, leaving them with only two mounted guards to approach the place where they stood alone on the bridge.

"Shield us!" David called without looking back.

"Cease your plans!" Jared warned instead, but to no avail. David, to his horror, quickly drew his bow while Medwin lifted his spear as they bore down upon the escort's guard.

Watching helplessly as they shot arrows into the escort and quickly veered off back toward the forest, Jared realized that he had to go after them. Spurring his mount he turned to retreat back toward the cover of the forest, his younger brothers right with him. Perhaps they could distract the guard and escort now starting after them. A warning sounded from high on the battlements to announce another half dozen riders as they burst forth from the inner keep. Fortunately their own horses were much faster, and Jared could see that David and Medwin had already disappeared into the forest. He led his brothers in cutting a diagonal retreat into the forest, not surprised when he heard an arrow sing by his shoulder. Dropping back to let his younger brothers enter ahead, he prayed they would remember to make their way toward the pre-appointed meeting place and wait for him. To his surprise the castle guard was slow and disorganized, finally splitting up and entering the dense, rock strewn forest as if to sweep it clean for vermin.

Watching his younger brothers crash wildly up the incline, Jared guided his mount through the maze of obstacles and felt some relief when they gained considerable distance from him. He credited their wild escape to his own stallion Prince, glad that he'd lent him to Geoff, who tended to throw caution to the wind and endanger himself on one too many occasions. At least he would be safe and Father would not have his head, he thought distractedly, concentrating upon his own escape. He was not accustomed to Geoff's mount, a spirited but untried seat in battle. Even as he thought of his years of experience in battle he felt something pierce his leg, causing him to wince in pain. Forced to keep his eyes upon a quickly executed escape route, he felt a warm wet sensation spreading over his thigh. To make matters worse, Geoff's horse was weakening and losing speed despite his encouragement.

"Come boy," he repeated, finding the horse increasingly difficult to control. Geoff and Morgan were no doubt away, and even he was outdistancing the guard. The horse whinnied in fear and stumbled, quickly regaining his footing as they dodged numerous roots, boulders and ravines. He urged the tiring horse up the incline toward the ridge, trying his best to control it. Suddenly they swerved to one side and Jared leaned in the opposite direction to hold their balance. But he was too late, for the animal seemed to give up with a groan. Together they hurled sideways toward their shared fate, hitting the ground with such force that Jared was blinded by light which swiftly dimmed into darkness. His hands slowly loosened their grip and fell to the ground on either side of his hips.

Aileen covered her mouth in horror, eyes wide with alarm as she watched from her place of hiding. She'd thrown herself into the bushes at the thundering sound of riders, rolling beneath their cover just before the first two flashed by and disappeared. This was followed only a short time afterward, and she had seen how the horse's side was streaked with blood. As she stared at it in silence she judged its gasping wheeze as all too familiar–a death cry if she'd ever heard one. The rider lay halfway beneath it, having hit hard. Somehow the stallion had jerked himself away as if to avoid crushing his rider beneath him, a fact she found remarkable. The man lay still as the only sound was the labored breathing from the horse's pierced lung. Off in the distance she could hear more riders approaching, forcing her to keep her head down and stay where she was. She lay hidden just below an outcrop of stone, heart pounding and wondering why she had been so foolish as to come out alone this morning.

Why didn't I listen to Father this time? she chastised herself. He had spent all night helping a difficult birthing, and she had been lonely enough as it was before that. All her efforts to find an escort to accompany her in the search for wild herbs—everyone was busy preparing for the hateful tournament which, in her opinion, snatched away all sensibility and reason from her male friends and transformed them into souls hungry for blood and conquest.

Swallowing hard, she watched the horizon cringing with fear as riders appeared over the ridge. There were four of them coming this way, two resembling the pair that had flashed by earlier. Their gazes were fixed upon the landscape as if searching for something that could only be the fallen one. Praying they would not discover her, she studied them carefully and knew the instant they had spotted the man. It prompted a gathering together which was more by instinct than by agreement, and they quietly approached the fallen one. They were all mail clad, she noted, no doubt here for the tournament. Yet she could see no distinguishing markings or colors in their attire or decorating their mounts. As she cringed and lowered her chin to the ground she studied their gestures and sizes. Two dismounted and walked over to him, standing and staring silently down at him. She nearly jumped when they began to speak heatedly all at once. Unfortunately they spoke in a language she could not understand, their words further muffled by their helms.

Why didn't they do anything to help the fallen man? she wondered. Why were they arguing amongst themselves, and about what? Truly a strange lot they are…

Cursing fluently, Medwin flung himself to his knees and checked Jared's neck for any pulse of life. He avoided looking at the grotesque twist of his leg as he shouted his report to David.

"He's alive, for now," he barked, gazing at the arrow embedded in the horse's chest. He'd heard the last wheeze of its breath and now all was still. Not even Jared's breathing could be heard. He looked up at David, whose eyes were hardened with hatred. Medwin cringed as he kept his eyes on David's face, silently pleading for mercy for Jared's sake. Suddenly David slid from his saddle and came over to shake his head at their oldest brother.

"We can't take him," he decided, glancing up to Morgan who nodded in agreement.

"He'll only slow us down," Morgan said harshly, turning his mount. "Let's go."

At this Geoff jumped from Jared's horse and stood facing them in defiance. "We'll not leave him!" he shouted, his voice cracking comically. "He's our brother, and they'll torture him if we leave—"

"He's been through worse before," David scoffed, kicking at his still brother. Smiling with pleasure, he kicked his side again while struggling with Geoff and holding the boy aside.

"You've no reason to hate him, after all he did for you!" Geoff cried, his face red as he swung at David but missed him. "I'm going to tell Father everything—"

"You'll do no such thing, if you want to escape punishment yourself," David warned darkly, shoving him away. He turned brusquely and went back to his horse. "After all, it's your fault he's riding your horse, isn't it?"

"They'll be coming," Morgan warned in a call over his shoulder as his horse sauntered away.

"It was your idea that got us into this mess!" Medwin argued, rising to stand by Geoff. "How dare you kick him when he's down—"

"He was going to make peace with Edward!" David sneered, leaning forward over his pommel. "I had to do something—now get back up and let's be off, before we're all caught!"

Geoff switched a frightened gaze from David to Medwin, who nodded with one last glance down at his brother. He frowned in regret but strode to his horse and mounted.

"But Father will have all our hides," Geoff railed, tears in his eyes. Still, he turned to get his horse.

"We must leave him," Medwin growled, shaking his head as he spurred his horse. "He cannot ride for risk of losing that leg."

"Jared was right," Geoff complained, catching up to him. "We're all fools, left to ourselves."

Medwin glanced up toward David's retreat, pursing his lips. "We couldn't let an opportunity like that pass," he tried explaining. "We got at least one arrow into the king, which was worth it!"

"It wasn't worth losing a brother!" Geoff sniffed, wiping his sleeve across his nose. "Not a brother like Jared!"

Aileen watched them ride off, too afraid to move lest they come back. Strangely divided they were, it seemed, over leaving what could only be their friend or relative. Only the youngest seemed insistent upon taking him along, and she wondered why they did not. As the silence of the forest enveloped her once again she realized how they had misled the castle guard, yet she prayed they would somehow find their way here. Though she knew she faced a stern lecture from her father she needed to tend to the injured man, and she needed help. The guard would eventually comb this section of the forest, yet it might be some time given the fact that even she had not ventured this far into the wood. But until they did time was running out for the man. And so with a beating heart she crawled out of the brush and got to her knees, slowly approaching the man who laid still, a small pool of blood beneath his leg. Eyeing his position beneath the left flank of the dead horse, she knew that she could not do much to help him. Yet still she dropped to her knees beside his shoulder, her hands reaching gently beneath his neck.

Leaning over him, she pressed her fingers to his neck and felt a faint, rapid beat which confirmed he still lived. His neck did not seem injured, though blood trickled out from under his helm on one side. She began to unfasten the laces of the helm as he suddenly gasped and gripped her boy's tunic. His eyes shot open and stared up at her dazedly, though she doubted he could see her clearly judging from the head injury. They were an unusual colour, a combination of gray and green, but she was quickly distracted by his choking.

"Breathe shallow!" she ordered, quickly unlacing the helm and pulling it aside. He took great breaths of air, his grip on her tightening as his shoulders curled toward her. "Don't move!" she ordered, shoving him back down as he grunted in pain.

He stilled beneath her pinning hands, gritting his jaw and obviously in pain. His hands gripped her upper arms, as he attempted to breathe more slowly and focus upon her.

"Can you understand me?" she said loudly and slowly, hoping to somehow communicate with him though she did not recognize the language of his companions. "Sir Knight?" she prompted, studying his eyes to determine his clarity of mind. They were the colour of the sea, she decided as his hands dropped from her arms and fell limply to his sides. "Try to lie still," she lectured calmly. "I think you may have broken a rib or two as well."

His vision was clearing, causing him to stare into her eyes in a fashion she found increasingly disarming. As they traveled from a quick survey of her face down her neck and over her chest she blushed and gripped his shoulders tighter.

"I need to bind your leg to stop the bleeding," she nearly shouted, staring at his confused expression. "…parlez vous Francaise, monsieur? Do you understand what I am say—"

"Course I do," he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. "—not deaf!"

She lifted her hands from his shoulders. "You can?" she gasped just before snapping to attention. She began to pull out the long tunic from her baggy pants to tear it into strips, her gaze shooting back to his face. He pursed his lips and relaxed a bit too suddenly, she judged, knowing he had already drifted away to a less painful place.

"It's better that way," she told him, pulling her sewing scissors from her bag and beginning to cut at the fabric above the bleeding. To her great relief she heard the calls of the guard back and forth to each other, and within minutes she heard her own name called in disbelief. Ignoring her friend Artus yet flinching inwardly from the railing she knew was forthcoming, she worked quickly and efficiently.

"What are you doing out here?" he complained as he dismounted and came to her side. Calling to one of his men he added, "I think we found one," his eyes holding hers before piercing the man with a glare of disapproval. "Rory, get Aileen's father and the wagon as well."

"Aye, sir," the guardsman replied. "We'll rope the corpse and lift it off him, too."

As his men ran off to carry out his orders she watched him drop to one knee. Without further comment he helped her to staunch the blood flow with a tourniquet.

"Well?" he breathed as he dropped some thick branches at her side to splint the leg.

"I was gathering herbs," she shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "I heard riders and hid."

"Did you see the others?"

"Two passed by, then this one, then two more…is the wagon coming?"

"Donal," he called loudly, though she could still feel his eyes upon her profile. "Start digging a hole to bury the horse, but bring me the bag and whatever scrap you can find from the surrounding area."

"Right, mate," he answered, climbing over the horse's legs to retrieve the saddlebag.

"Help me get his boot off," she ordered Artus, which he did without question. "I need you to set the leg—you're stronger than I."

"Aye sir," he teased her, working alongside her. "Are you sure no one saw you?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. "I was in the bushes above—they couldn't have seen me."

"Good—did they say anything?"

"They argued among themselves," she answered, holding his foot while the leg was set. Thankfully the man was senseless and spared the additional pain. "I couldn't understand them," she continued, leaving out the fact that the man had spoken to her in their own language. "Their tongue was northern, I believe."

"Cymri," he sighed, leaning back on his haunches after they splinted and bound the leg.

"Maybe," she quipped, her heart beating faster at the prospect of Cymri warlords coming here, into Edward's hunting domain. But why would their avowed enemies come here, she wondered, to lands that neither bordered the Dyke or extended anywhere near their disputed lands.

"Tell me everything that happened," he ordered, getting to his feet to gaze down at the man, "in particular why you think they might have left this one behind."

"He's obviously too hurt to ride," she shrugged, gazing off toward the sound of the wagon coming through the forest.

"Cymri never leave one of their own behind," he stated, "not even their dead."

"They argued about it, I think. Maybe they were traveling separately and met here," she guessed, not really knowing why she could not tell Artus truth.

"What did the others look like?"

"Big and muscular, more stocky than this one," she realized as she said it. "All had dark hair and eyes except the oldest—he had red hair, as far as I could tell from what hung beneath their helms."

The wagon was drawing closer, and in the back she saw her father, his face gathered into a storm when he saw her.

"No colors or insignia?"

"No," she answered, biting her lower lip at her father's expression, "just plain mail."

Artus turned to wave to her father. "It doesn't give us much to go by…"

Aileen quickly put her things away, cringing at the sound of her father's tone. "Aileen—what did I tell you about being out alone?" he asked.

She looked up as he dismounted and came toward them, nodding his thanks to Artus. Without a word Artus went off to speak to his men as her father dropped to his knees to examine the injured man.

"I'm sorry, Father," she said meekly, waiting until he glanced up. "I just needed to gather more herbs, and couldn't find an escort. When I heard riders, I hid—no one saw me, Father."

"Good," he replied, glancing at her boy's clothing and relaxing somewhat. "Did you see this happen?" he nodded toward the man.

"I did—the horse took an arrow to the lung. I pulled the shaft from his thigh, but it pierced the horse's side. After a few seconds it stumbled and fell. The horse tried to roll off him, Father—as if it knew it would hurt its rider…"

He glanced toward the animal as four men came up and began tying a rope around it. "Looks like a lot of blood lost," he judged, getting to his feet and helping guide the wagon driver closer.

"Artus set the leg—do you think you can save it, Father?" she said once standing at his side.

"I'll try," he frowned, glancing down at the man's ashen face. "If he wasn't a knight he'd be better off without it. What about the head or neck?"

"He'll need a few stitches to the scalp, I'll wager," she estimated. "I believe a few ribs suffered as well."

"We'll have to be careful moving him," he concluded, motioning to the men. "Get a plank to slide beneath him."

"Aye, sir," Donal answered, moving toward the wagon.

Artus led his horse closer and mounted. "My men will escort you back—I must question the watchmen for further details."

Aileen waved as he rode off. Donal returned, and with two other men they managed to lift the body of the horse off the man, then carry him to the wagon on the plank. Finally her father stood to one side, offering her a hand up.

"Careful," he ordered as she climbed in back and began to cover the patient.

"I'll steady his leg," she offered, looking momentarily back to the dead horse as it was being dragged toward a large hole. Such a fine animal, she thought sadly, forcing her attention back to their patient.

It was a bumpy ride until they made it to the access road. Holding his leg elevated with another board and resting over her lap, Aileen stared at the bridge hoping the man would not awaken before they could give him something to dull the pain.

Lord, help him to fight, and to survive, she prayed silently. Please spare his life…

It did not once occur to her that he might be considered an enemy.

Jared groaned softly at the pain gripping his leg. Pain knifed his side and a choking thirst burned his throat. Finally opening his eyes, he tried to see into the darkness. A few candles lit the room in which he lay, and it appeared he was alone. Lifting his head took a great deal of effort, rewarding him with a wave of nausea that pressed him quickly back to his pillow. Pain shot through his lower leg, stabbing at his knee and thigh. He felt along the bandages at his side toward his leg, finding a thick padding which began at his thigh and extended down below his knee, farther than he could reach with the pain in his side. Unable to feel anything below his knee, he was gripped by panic and tried to call for help. All he heard was the croak of a bark that seemed to come from his throat.

What happened to my leg? he wondered, panting and trying to dispel the quaking fear that it was no longer there.

A cool hand touched his brow, startling him. He pried open his eyes just as someone bent over him, a dark shadow. He caught a strangely familiar scent, like lavender and flowers, yet he had no idea why it would be familiar.

"Sir Knight—" a woman's soft voice spoke just above a whisper. The cool hand touched his jaw. "I have something for you to drink." When she turned away he could see the curve of her cheek in the dim light.

Something which felt like parchment touched his lips. He turned his head away and pursed his lips.

"You need to drink something," she scolded gently, "-you are burning with fever."

How could he drink? He couldn't even raise his head. Yet the parchment touched his lips again.

"You mustn't lift your head," she warned. "Just suck the liquid up through it."

He slowly turned his head back, trying to look up at her but frustrated by the darkness. "What is it?" he whispered through cracked lips.

"Watered wine, with something to dull the pain."

He tried studying her face, only able to see the bit of light gilding her cheek and her long hair framing her profile.

"You will have to trust me," she said gently, gently touching his lips with the parchment, almost like a caress.

Chastising himself for his delusional observation he did as instructed. When the wine trickled over his tongue and bathed his throat he sighed with blessed relief, pulling more into his mouth.

"Slowly!" she warned, withdrawing it. "Only a little at a time, or you'll sour your stomach."

The strange funnel touched his lips again, and he took more. Closing his eyes, he felt warmth flow into his chest and burn pleasantly down inside him. She turned away and he stared at her shadowed movements set against the fire, feeling the pain already begin to weaken its grip. She busied herself mixing what smelled like leaves and other liquids poured into a small bowl. He shifted his head to take the pressure off the back of his aching head and tried moistening his lips.

"Where is...this place?" he rasped.

She continued to blend something, peering into the bowl. He soon wondered if she had heard him.

"The physician's quarters at Shrewsbury," she told him, glancing toward him as her hands stilled.

"How long?"

"You have been in and out of delirium for three days now."

She turned at that and reached across the small table for something. Her body was lit by silhouette, and he closed his eyes at the feminine curve of her arm and chest. A cool compress touched his brow and was held in place. A shiver ran up his neck and he forced his attention back to his injuries.

"My leg…"

She withdrew the compress and reached for something, which she draped over his bare chest, giving him immediate relief from the chill shaking his shoulders.

"You have had two breaks, with much bleeding," she told him softly. "I think you know that a few of your ribs are cracked."

"I cannot feel anything below my knee," he changed the subject back.

"Do not worry, the medication prevents you from feeling anything," she explained softly. Turning away once again, she brought a candle closer to examine his face. He stared up at her, silently studying the heart shaped curve of her face. Her eyes were huge and dark, her lips full and soft in the light.

"My father believes you will recover most of the use of your leg, with time," she stated with a slight smile.

Who is she? he wondered. "Your father...?"

"Neal Carrick," she explained, setting the candle down upon the closer table. "My name is Aileen…and you are...?"

He closed his eyes, beginning to remember a boy with similar eyes who leaned over him in the forest.

"Sir Knight?" she prompted, touching his shoulder gently. "Have I given you too much laudanum?"

"Sir Knight suits me fine, milady," he whispered, watching her guardedly. Perhaps it was her twin brother, who found me. What else did he find, and see?

She smiled fully, making him wish the light was better to see the effect. "A jester, I think," she laughed softly. "Not a knight."

Jared felt pleasantly drowsy, closing his eyes and feeling extremely weak. Something sticky touched his lips, and his eyes shot open. "What is that?"

"You need something in you," she explained. "It's only oatmeal."

He let her push the spoon between his lips and accepted it, surprised at how wonderful it tasted. Swallowing carefully, he accepted another spoonful, then another. "Thank you," he breathed, lifting a hand after only a few more spoonfuls. He had not, after all, eaten much over the past few days in an effort to fast and pray for a resolution to the wars within and outside their people.

"Do you remember your injury, Sir Knight?" she asked after setting aside the bowl.

He studied her carefully, deciding that it was she who had found him, perhaps while disguised as her twin brother. "Not much," he answered, remembering her removing his helm.

"It was I who found you in the wood," she said softly, leaning back in her rocking chair to study him.

He had never had such attention from a woman's eyes before, save for a bold and hungry lust he did not welcome. "I know," he admitted, surprising himself.

She held his gaze. "The guard wished to question you, as soon as you wake up," she sighed, drawing her shawl over her bosom. To his surprise and without intending to, his eyes followed the gesture. "I have been telling them you are not coherent enough."

He almost laughed at her gentle tease, but pain gripped his leg unexpectedly. "I appreciate that," he said hoarsely.

She leaned forward, touching his arm. "Which pains you more, leg or side?"

He closed his eyes, willing sleep and sweet oblivion to escape the feeling. "Tis all the same, milady."

The parchment touched his lips after a moment, and he drank, tasting a bitter wine. But he did not question her as to what it contained.

"We have prayed for you, Sir Knight..." she said softly, and he heard the chair creak softly as she began to rock slowly. "Quite earnestly..."

"I do thank God for my life," he said, opening his eyes again. "And you and your father, for saving my leg."

She nodded, looking away toward the fire. He studied her profile against the firelight, feeling strangely content. Perhaps it was because he sensed her own peace of mind. She was waiting for him to fall asleep, but he fought it just to speak with her. What fate awaited him after that, he knew not.

"My name is Jared," he told her after a while.

She turned her head to look at him and smiled gently. "I am honored to make your acquaintance, sir."

"You should not venture out alone," he lectured her gently, closing his eyes. He heard her sigh of resignation.

"Everyone tells me that," she agreed reluctantly.

"'Tis not safe for one so young…and fair."

After a moment of silence, she began rocking again. "I appreciate your concern—"

"I am serious," he said lazily, waiting for her to look at him again. Which she did.

She shook her head gently. "The light is very poor in this room, Sir Jared."

"It wasn't in the wood," he said softly, holding her gaze.

She looked away and he could almost see her blush. For some reason he found that endearing.

"You mustn't strain yourself with such trifling, milord."

He closed his eyes, feeling pleasantly relaxed as the pain ebbed away. "It might hasten my recovery."

"Teasing grown women is a waste of time, Sir."

"I am not teasing, Aileen." Her name sounded different when he spoke it, feminine and soft.

"I take care for my safety," she defended. "And now for yours."

When he did not respond, she sensed he had fallen into a deep sleep. His breathing was comforting, and she dared to watch his muscular chest rise and fall gently with each subdued breath. It must pain him a great deal even to breathe, she thought with dismay, remembering the cause. The fierce kicks delivered by his friend or companion, more like an enemy she thought angrily. When there was a sound at the outer door open she got up quietly and left to see who it was. Peeking through the spy hole, she saw her father standing at the threshold. At either side she could see the helms of two guards and leaned back with a scowl. Then she lifted the latch.

Neal entered quickly and locked it behind himself, frowning as he nodded toward the inner chamber. "Is he about his wits?" he asked quietly, walking with her toward the other room.

She nodded. "I think he just fell back to sleep, with the help of additional laudanum. He is in a lot of pain."

Neal guided her back toward the table and sat heavily, rubbing a hand over his whiskers. "I told them it wasn't time yet."

Aileen glanced toward the door with a scowl. "They have posted guards at our door?"

"He is a suspect in the attack against Edward, my dear."

She sat down, leaning her arms upon the table. "Still, there is no need to spy upon us!"

Neal frowned. "It is to be expected—did he eat anything?"

"Some gruel, but only a few spoonfuls."

"Good—what about the fever?"

"Still there..." She poured him a drink, and one for herself. "He remembered me, from the wood, Father."

"Really…"

"His name is Jared."

Neal studied her a moment, then took a sip. "The two they managed to capture have admitted to hiring him as their escort," he informed her. "Apparently he was told they were just attending the tournament, nothing more."

Aileen knew there was more to the story, but kept silent.

"Edward will be coming himself in the morning, to question him.

She shook her head. "It's too soon."

"We should be grateful we are not tending him in the dungeon, my dear."

She sat up straighter. "What if I can get him to talk?"

He stared at her a moment. "Edward will still wish to speak with him directly—this is a serious matter, Aileen."

"Not if he was only a hired escort."

Neal sat back, gazing toward the door. "I'll watch him tonight; you must be exhausted."

She nodded and rose. "I think I should fetch us some dinner," she stated, going to the door. "I'll be back with something."

"Take care, Aileen," he said gently, watching her until the door closed between them.

Once outside it she lowered her head and hurried past the two guards, glancing back at them with a frown. "You'll see," she vowed under her breath as she headed down the adjacent corridor. "He's no threat to Edward."

And as she thought about his traveling companions, she shuddered and prayed that it would turn out to be true.

c. 2008 by Christine Levitt