Chapter Seventeen

T he tension clouding the air of Merewood Keep and its people cleared with the parting of their lord. The last few days had proved to some that their lord was a hard taskmaster. To others, it showed what heartache could do to a strong man.

Jillian stood atop the wooden walkway of the curtain wall. Sorrow filled her heart as despair weighed her down. Her husband had been gone just one day, and already she fretted about the inevitable end to their brief marriage.

What would she do? Where would she go?

The next few days did little to calm her down, or to convince her he would turn around and come back for her. By the end of the first week, she became frantic with worry and on the very edge of sanity. She had to take back control of her life.

"Reka," Jillian spoke softly to Garrick's mother, "I must ask your help."

"What is it?"

Jillian looked over her shoulder; but they were alone in her chamber.

"Will you accompany me to London?" she blurted out.

Eyreka looked stunned. "London?"

"I have decided if Garrick wants my land badly enough, then I shall do all I can to see that he gets it. Mayhap if the king agrees, I will be allowed to remain his wife."

Eyreka's eyes filled with tears at the whispered words. "Why would the king rescind his decree that du Guerre should have your land? What will you offer?"

"I cannot tell you." Jillian's throat tightened. "Please do not ask." Her mind had worked long and hard on a solution to her problem. She hoped once she was able to offer Loughmoe Keep to Garrick he would say the words she wanted to hear. He would tell her he cared. The attraction between them, his gentle touch and tender kisses, had been his unspoken promise of caring. He just didn't realize it yet.

The only answer that kept recurring was a simple one. Somehow she had to convince the king to give control of her family holding back to her. It was the only thing she could think of that would convince Garrick he could keep his vow to his keep's people and to her. She understood he needed the coin a wealthy wife would bring.

"Who will escort us?" Eyreka asked, "Winslow?"

Jillian hoped Garrick's mother would agree without having to confide the whole of her plans. "I asked Roderick to accompany us. He has agreed, and promises to have ten men ready to ride just after dawn tomorrow." Hesitating, she asked, "Are you certain you are up to the trip? You seem very tired lately."

Touching a hand to the younger woman's shoulder, Eyreka smiled. "Your concern warms my heart almost as much as your willingness to help my son." Her blue eyes swept across Jillian's face. "When will you admit to your heart that you love my son?"

"Love him?" Jillian choked, "I don't… that is, what I mean to say…"

"Aye, dear, you love him and it warms my heart. We had best be going if we are to be ready for travel at first light."

A heady warmth suffused her entire body, but she couldn't let herself admit the words her heart longed to acknowledge…not yet.

True to her word, Lady Eyreka was waiting the following morning with only a small bundle. Eyeing the size of the pack, Jillian smiled. "We both have the same idea of traveling light."

Smiling, Eyreka motioned to the door. "We had best be on our way. 'Twill take nearly a fortnight to travel to London."

Roderick stood ready to help the women mount. Ten immense knights were saddled, ready to go at his command. With a flick of his wrist signaling their departure, the party cantered out of the bailey as the first faint rays of sunlight peeked through the dusky rose–colored clouds.

They rode until the sun had risen high and bright overhead. After a brief meal and much needed rest, the party resumed their journey. At dusk, Roderick drew his horse up alongside of Jillian.

"We'll stop here for the night," Roderick announced to the group.

Jillian spied a stream through a break in the trees. Her eyes lit up. The cool water would feel wonderful. Turning around, she beckoned to her escort. "Tell Reka I'll be back…there's a stream—"

"Wait," he interrupted, "you should not venture anywhere alone." His warning warmed her heart, but she didn't believe it necessary.

Looking up into Roderick's eyes, she saw them soften. And knew he'd give in. "All right then, but you'd best be careful. I'll send mother to you."

Jillian did not intend to miss out on the brief reprieve she had been granted. She ran toward the stream, paying little heed to the stones scattered across the path. The shock of pain slicing through the sole of her foot sank in too late. The damage had been done.

When Lady Eyreka found her, Jillian was hobbling slowly toward the water. Shaking her head, the older woman sighed as she helped Jillian over to the moss-covered bank and sat down. Jillian gingerly removed her torn leather boot and shredded hose. The arch of her foot was bruised and bleeding.

"Poor dear," Eyreka soothed, "we best wash the dirt from it."

Jillian edged closer to the stream and let Eyreka bathe her foot in the cool water. "I was in a hurry."

"And a lot of good it did you," Eyreka said, washing the wound, and tearing a strip of cloth from the bottom of her bliaut.

"I'm sorry."

Eyreka wrapped it around Jillian's foot. So far, their journey had been uneventful; Jillian hoped this was not a portent of what was to come. Deep in thought, she did not hear the twin snapping of twigs nearby.

The tree branches whistled softly as they sliced through the air crashing down on their unsuspecting heads.

*

"Jillian and my mother should have been back by now." Roderick scanned the stream bank in the distance then turned back around to face his men. "I'll go and find them."

He returned alone, rasping, "They're gone."

"Any sign of Reivers in the wood? Rebels?" one man asked.

"Nary a sign of life…man nor horse," Roderick added.

"'Tis like they were spirited away," another said.

Looking at the men surrounding him, the seriousness of their situation hit him. Roderick felt a clawing hand rake his insides. He drew in a ragged breath. "God help us they've been taken." The deep-rooted fear clutching his belly did not ease up. "Search the area by the stream again. If no trace is found, we head back to Merewood for help."

*

Jillian woke to darkness and pain. She thought to touch the lump on the back of her head, the source of her pain, but her arms were numb. A thread of fear began to unravel within her as she realized her arms were bound behind her.

Opening the other eye caused a sharp pain to lance through her skull. Her dire situation came clearly into focus. She was trussed up like a fowl on a spit and in an unfamiliar section of forest. Rallying her rapidly dwindling courage, she started to talk to herself.

"You've truly made a muddle of things this time. Your husband is in London waiting to annul your marriage, while you've taken matters into your own hands and what happens? You're being held prisoner by heaven knows whom." Her head ached like it had been split open and her foot throbbed miserably. Forcing herself to look over her shoulder, she was just able to see the bottom of her foot. She shuddered; the makeshift bandage wrapped around it was covered in blood, and encrusted with dirt.

The rustle of leaves warned her someone was coming. Shutting her eyes, she lay still. Dear God where was Lady Eyreka?

"Wake up!" A large, booted foot poked her ribs too sharply.

"Ouch."

"Ahh, Lady Merewood you're awake. Sit up wench. I'll untie you. We're hungry."

Jillian looked closely at her fair-haired captor. She didn't recognize him or the ugly purple scar running the length of his cheek ending under his left ear.

Don't let him frighten you. "I don't know you," she said slowly.

"Aye," he answered gruffly. As the large man bent over her to untie her hands, she got a good whiff of him and stiffened.

"Offended by my tender touch? Don't worry…we'll all be getting a turn having you after you've tended the camp."

His lecherous comment left no room for speculation. His evil laugh made her skin crawl. As he loosened the knot, his words rang through her aching head. Finally her hands were free, but the feeling hadn't returned to her arms. She must have been tied up for hours. Terror washed over her leaving her weaker than she already was. The last thing she remembered was sitting on the stream bank with Lady Eyreka. Where had they taken her?

Trying to focus on something other than her fear for Garrick's mother, her tired mind conjured up an image of clear blue eyes. Thoughts of Garrick gave her inner strength. Her fear evaporated, settling her jangled nerves.

The overpowering stench of the man untying her ankles made her gag. With a will of iron, she swallowed the bile surging up her throat.

"Follow me."

She ignored the pain shooting up from her foot and followed. Eyreka sat in the clearing near a dead fire and an empty cooking pot. One look from her assured Jillian she was no worse for the blow to the head they had both suffered.

Watching their captor retreat, Jillian blurted out, "Reka, praise God you are all right."

Garrick's mother gingerly touched the base of her skull and winced. "The back of my head aches."

Trying to make light of their desperate situation, Jillian mumbled, "It must be very hard to find someone to cook for them. Mayhap they should try asking instead of beating women over the head with a stick." Her attempt at levity fell flat.

"Jillian," Reka whispered, "I know that man over there." Reka pointed toward a tall man standing in the center of a group of ragged warriors.

"Who is he?"

"Harald the Saxon. My dear Addison fought with him in the Uprisings. No one saw or heard from him after Addison died. We all assumed him dead or taken captive."

"But what does he want with us?" Alarm took hold of her.

"He knows who I am. Harald is a shrewd man, you can be sure he knows who you are too. 'Tis why we've been taken prisoner."

"Best get to building the fire, wench," the man with the scar yelled from across the clearing.

Not wanting to attract undue attention, the women quietly searched the area for kindling.

The crackle of their small fire warmed them. "Where did you learn how to do that?" Eyreka asked.

"My father used to let me travel with him when I was younger. We'd make camp in the wood, not far from home mind you, lest my mother worry." Jillian smiled at the pleasant memory. "If we are going to keep the flame burning, we must find larger pieces of wood," she added.

The two women combed the immediate area, gathering wood while they quietly talked. Jillian lifted the hem of her once-pale-blue chainse and filled it with larger pieces of dry wood. Her bliaut caught on a briar and tore.

While she struggled to free the cloth, the reality of their circumstances descended upon her with a swiftness that took her breath away. Tears clogged her throat, but she would not give in to them.

'Tis my fault we were captured.

Looking for a way to keep a lid on her fear, she began instructing Eyreka in the tending of the fire. Then she lugged the iron pot to the stream. Feeling sluggish, she felt a wave of heat pulse through her. The pain in the arch of her foot was almost unbearable. The added weight of the iron pot made it next to impossible to walk. Tucking her skirts up under the leather belt slung low on her hips to keep them from getting wet, she bent down and filled the pot half-full of water.

When she returned to the fire, she was surprised by the small supply of vegetables waiting there. "Will there be meat to add to the stew?" she asked.

A man with a patch across one eye glared at them. "I'll be back with a couple of rabbits, but you'll have to skin them yourself."

Eyreka shivered, obviously dreading the task to come. While they waited, they washed and cut up two large heads of cabbage, then peeled onions and shelled some early peas.

"I don't suppose they've any herbs or spices hidden about." Jillian laughed nervously trying to cover up her flagging courage. Stirring the rapidly warming stew, she was totally unaware of the tension forming between the rebels in the camp. Neither woman had any idea that they were being discussed in great detail.

*

"When do we get a turn at the wench, Harald?"

A few of his men turned and added a chorus of enthusiastic ayes.

"Not until we receive the ransom."

"But that could take weeks," one of the rebels groaned.

"I'll bet she's a hot one," the man with the eye patch said.

Nodding their silent agreement, Harald's men champed at the bit, waiting for their first taste of the creamy-skinned beauty bending over her task of skinning rabbits.

Harald stood up, his very presence commanding everyone's attention. "No one takes the wench before I do. She'll do her fair share of work first. By the time I'm ready for her, the wench will beg me to take her. One look at her and you can tell she is not used to toiling over a hot fire. She'll be in my tent by morning," he bragged.

"But what about the ransom?" one of the rebels demanded.

Harald threw his dagger into a tree next to the group of men gathered, waiting to state their reasons for being allowed to be first with the prisoner.

*

Blissfully unaware of the stir she caused, Jillian wiped her hands on the tall grass near the ring of stones that kept her fire contained. She started gutting the next rabbit. Skillfully slicing them up, they were in the pot simmering in no time. Pride and Lady Eyreka kept her going, though she be bone tired and nearly frightened out of her wits.

"Mayhap, they'll leave us alone if we can prove our worth as cooks."

Clinging to that hope like a lifeline, the women concentrated on serving the stew. The men gulped it down, leaving the huge pot empty. They had eaten it all.

"I should have thought to set a small portion aside for you."

"And what about you?" the older woman asked gently.

"I don't think I could eat." Her head pounded and her stomach roiled in protest. Mayhap 'twas the blow.

Sighing, she lifted the pot and trudged back to the stream. After rinsing the pot, she scrubbed it with some loose sand. Finished, she straightened up and dizzying waves of heat swamped over her. Bending back down, she cupped her hands full of water and drank deeply.

"'Twould have been a blessing to eat, or rest." A small nagging voice inside her made her sit down and carefully unwrap her bandaged foot. The site of the dirt-encrusted bandage sickened her.

"Mother would have had my head if she could see the mess I've made of it."

Too late . The damage had already been done; the gash in her foot was filthy and had a yellowish cast to it. The skin surrounding the wound was an angry red and hot to the touch. Silently she wished for her basket of healing herbs. The only thing she could do now was to clean the dirt out as best she could.

Making her way slowly back to camp, she was relieved to see Eyreka resting near the fire. Her eyes were closed, but slowly opened as Jillian drew near.

"Your face is flushed," Eyreka said. "Here, sit down and let me take a look at your foot."

Jillian sat beside her and confessed, "I wasn't paying attention. There was dirt in it. I washed it in the stream just now, but it's infected."

Eyreka's brow furrowed as she inspected the injury. "I'll rewrap it for you—we cannot take too long or we'll draw their attention." She quickly wrapped Jillian's foot.

"Thank you. I am so tired, and my head aches—" The fever that had been slowly burning all afternoon spiked, and Jillian fell unconscious to the ground.

The rebel leader came running. "What did you do to her?"

Eyreka gasped, "You arrogant boar, I was not the one to strike her down from behind with an oak branch."

Harald stepped dangerously close to Lady Eyreka, but she did not back away.

"What ails the wench, Harald?" one of his men asked.

Turning toward the still form of their captive, the rebel leader walked cautiously over toward where she lay in a crumpled heap. Nudging her with the toe of his leather boot, he spoke. "Up, wench, 'tis time to see to my needs. I said up."

Grabbing her by the hair, he roughly pulled her into a semi-reclining position. Watching her slide bonelessly back down into a prone position, he swore colorfully. Thinking to demonstrate his power over their captive, he grabbed her by the chin. Hot dry skin burned his fingertips. He released her.

"God's blood. She's on fire!"

The raucous cries from his men stopped him from crossing himself. As the cries and protests of his men grew louder, Harald shouted, "Silence!" His voice boomed across the camp. The quiet that followed was sharp in contrast.

"Alan, you have the gift of healing. See if you can find out what ails her 'Tis the sleep she's in that seems unnatural."

"I'll see what I can do." Turning back to Eyreka, he asked, "Will you help?"

The plea in the proclaimed healer's voice seemed to soften her stance. "Of course."

He bent down to examine the unconscious patient, while Jillian remained blissfully unaware of her predicament. The men stood in a circle around her as their healer probed and prodded trying to find the source of her fever.

After what seemed like an hour, but was only minutes, he slowly stood. "I cannot find the source of her fever—the bandage she has on her foot is clean."

"It should be, I wrapped it up myself," Eyreka said.

The grumbling started slowly and built to a crescendo, the men could not seem to agree whether to wait for Jillian to awaken from her swoon to take what they felt was their due, or to take turns while she lay on her back oblivious to all.

Lady Eyreka's horrified gasp echoed through the camp. She crouched down beside her daughter-in-law, shielding her.

As if she could feel the turmoil flowing between the leader and his men, Jillian tossed and turned in her fevered state.

The flash of the amber pendant around her neck stopped them. Harald bent down on one knee to have a closer look in the firelight. Grasping the amulet, he turned it over. One side was etched with a cross, while the other had an inscription on it that he could not decipher.

The longer he held the pendant in his hands, the hotter it grew. Not sure if she were bewitched, or the devil himself, Harald dropped the object that burned him. It settled against her creamy skin, giving no indication that it burned her. But the proof had left its mark on Harald's palm.

Shaking his head, he stood and spoke to his men. "No one touches her. I'll have your vow on it."

At his threatening stance, legs braced apart, his sword lance-straight and eye level, his men gave in.

Each in turn cast one last lustful glance at the tasty morsel at their feet, before grumbling and turning back to their duties. Satisfied, the rebel leader nodded once to their healer and strode toward the icy stream.

Eyreka hugged Jillian close and wept.