The Selkie’s Daughter (3 page)

Indecision crippling her, thoughts swung wildly as what was best to do.  “Oh, Annys, stop being a dimwit and do
something
,” she chided aloud.  The horse once more bobbed his head up and down as if agreeing.  She eyed the beautiful animal.  “A sharp one, are you?”

The creature stuck his head out and he made a deep-throated sound, his soft muzzle moved as though he were trying to talk.  The beast had brought the man here.  She would have to trust the animal to help her just a bit more.

“I need to get him inside and to the hearth, horse.  Will you allow me to lead you inside the house?  I do no’ think I can move him.  He needs to be beside the fire, or he will die.”

Once more, the animal’s head went up and down as though he understood her.  She prayed so.  The only chance to save this man was to get him inside where she could shelter and treat him.  Then, she spotted another problem––the horse could squeeze inside with care, but it was not wide enough to also drag the warrior without running peril that the hooves might come down on him.  There was nothing else to do, but get the horse close to the door as possible, and then drag the man the remaining distance.  It was only from the door to the fire, surely it would not be too far for her to manage.

The horse allowed her to take hold of the bridle, and with soft steps, he permitted her to walk him as close to the doorway as she could get.  She gave a soothing pet to his forehead, earned for following her lead.  If this man lived, it was because of his devoted beast.

She gently pulled his stiff arm through the stirrup.  In reaction, the warrior cried out and tried to rise up.  His feet slipped, but she caught him before he hit the icy ground again.  Her previous concern of her being unable to move his weight was proven.  He was so solid that his heaviness nearly pushed them both down to the snow-covered earth.

“Can you understand me?”  Annys held him before her, cradled in her arms.  Her grip on his belt kept her from losing control of his body.  “You needs must help me get you inside.  I do no’ think I can drag you that far.  Can you walk?”

He rotated partially in her embrace, looking up into her face.  A weak smile spread on his lips.  “My snow angel,” he said, in magical wonder. 

“Och,
snow angel
, indeed,” she scoffed.  Poor man must be losing his sense of mind.  “I have to get you to the fireside so I can tend your wounds.  ’Tis not far, but I do no’ think I can pull you on my own.  Can you stand and lean on me?”

A feeble laugh came from the freezing man.  “For you…I would dance…through…the gates…of Hell.”

His whimsical words brought a smile to her, though she failed to take the gallant sentiment to heart.  Men were oft too free with talk.  “Och, a fine expression.  But such words are spent without the cost of coin.  Let us see if you can make good on them.”

Annys took several breaths to measure how best to get him on his feet and walking.  One shaft protruded from his left shoulder.  The other jutted out from his right hip.  She could not get him to lean on her from that side without driving the shaft deeper or breaking it off.  That left no choice; she would have to disturb the shoulder wound.

“The least painful way I cipher to move you is if I keep hold of your belt, you put your arm around my neck and lean on me.  ’Tis only a few steps to inside by the fire. Then, you will be warm again.”

“Warm?  I forgot…how that…feels.”  His halting speech patterns came from exhaustion, not from feeling the cold.  He pulled his legs in to get upon his feet.  His movements were slow and lacked any strength or coordination.

That his teeth did not chatter alarmed her.  When people were cold they could not stop the shivers from wracking their muscles.  When the body gave up the fight, the uncontrollable shudders ceased.  He was past that point, so she had to get him dry and warm quickly.  His life slipped away from her breath by breath.

It took a couple of tries, but he got his feet under him and the arm around her neck.  He grimaced in pain from the shiftings of the wounds.  The man must be half-made of grit and fortitude, for he pushed his body past the point where others would simply have given up.  She almost cried, hearing how each step cost him.

“A few more steps and you can rest on the pallet before the fire.”  She tried to sound strong, but inside she quaked with fear.  Over the years, she had learnt many healing needs from Hagatha, but she rarely had the chance to use such things. 

“My horse…” he gritted out between his teeth, as he tried to sit down on the bedding.

“Oh, aye, once I get you settled and warm, I will see to him.”

“Nay, now.  I am alive…because of
Spirit
.”

“You need––”

“Right this breath,
all
I require… is to hear he is…sheltered and safe.  He needs water.”

Men who were used to giving orders little understood when the control was taken from their hands.  A spark of stubbornness rose within her, but she pushed it aside.  She understood.  The horse had saved his life.  He owed the animal.  It bespoke of his character that even in this weakened state, he still fretted over his charger.

“If you sicken and die you will have no need of that fine fancy steed.”  When he said nothing more, she sighed.  “Very well, I shall put your
Spirit
in the shed with the cow.  They can have each other for warmth.”

“He needs water…” he insisted.

“I heard you, my lord.”  Putting her hands on her hips, she eyed him.  “Are there any other orders you wish to give me before I go out into the storm again?”

His face slackened, but the hurting was still carved there, his color grey.  “I regret…you…having to go into the storm.  I owe that horse.  He will not suffer…or die because he saved me.”

Annys eased him to lie back on the pallet and nodded.  “Rest, Sir Knight.  I will see your beastie settled.  I have some water here I will share with him.  Later, I will need to fetch in some snow and melt it, but that will have to wait until I care for you.  Those arrows must be taken out soon, or else you will sicken with fouled blood.”

He gave a brief nod, and then his mind seemed to slip away.

The horse was waiting patiently at the door, and once more, accepted her leading him around.  She had heard horses that belonged to knights oft would take commands only from their masters.  “But you are a special beastie, are you not?”  The horse again nodded.  “Come meet the silly cow.  Her name is Agnes.  I found her wandering about in the woods last winter.” 

The byre was almost as large as the house, so plenty room for the horse.  The shed was more than a shelter for animals, for Hagatha used the rafters to hang herbs and worts for drying.  Setting down the pail of water, she put some oats into the trough.  Hay was in the corner.  The cow would just have to share.  The horse stood peacefully while Annys removed the saddle and then bridle, and hung them over the gated entrance to the peat shed.

“I will come on the morrow and care for you again.  But now, I needs must try and save your master.”  She paused at the door, judging if the two animals were going to tolerate each other.  Both seemed content with the presence of another, so she pulled up the hood on her mantle and pushed open the door.

The icy pellets lashed at her face and she struggled to make it back to the cottage.

****

A humming floated through Rhys’s mind; the soothing melody wrapped around him and cocooned him with a warm sense of security.  Lulled by the feeling, he wanted to cling to that serene state, but he was drawn to discover the source of the tune.  He slowly opened his eyes to see a woman sitting by hearthside, a long-haired black cat curled up and sleeping beside her legs.  Her pale brown hair was in a single braid that hung over her left shoulder and down to her waist.

An aura of innocence and beauty surrounded her, the vision so perfect that it hurt Rhys to breathe.

Intent upon her task, she crumbled dried herbs, flaking them into a mortar and then grinding them with the wooden pestle.  The scene was so eerily similar to the dream he had before he passed out in the snow that a shiver crawled over his skin.  In that fantasy, he had not reached out to the woman, had failed to grasp the secret wish held in his heart.  Fate had given him another chance.  No fool, he would not make the same mistake.  With no hesitation, he lifted his left hand to her.

The perfect tranquility was shattered as mind-numbing pain wracked his body.

The excruciating throbbing summoned images of the attack to fill his head. 
Getting lost in the blinding snow and unable to locate shelter.  Quarrels flying at them from every direction, coming out of the blanket of falling snow. 
Were his men alive?  Had anyone besides him escaped?  The only thing he knew at this point: 
Spirit
had saved his life.

Sensing he was awake, the woman’s head jerked in his direction.  She put aside the wooden bowl, and came to him.  “I let you rest and warm while I prepared a poultice of woad.  The arrows have to come out or your blood will taint.  You were in luck’s embrace, saving you from losing a lot of blood.”

“I left them in.  They plug the wound.”  Talking was an effort.  He stifled a groan as he tried to shift to ease the ache in his side.

“The snow and cold also helped.  Your blood was thick from freezing.  You bleed less.  Only, you are warming and the arrows need to come out.  The woad will staunch the blood once I pull the arrows out.”

“
Bolts
…they were from crossbows.”

She gave a small shrug with one shoulder.  “I am no’ learned with weapons and such.  There is a difference?”

“An arrow is shot by a man with a common bow or longbow.  It takes skill.  A bolt comes from a crossbow.  ’Tis used for closer attacks.  No training is needed to wield it.  Even a common serf can bring down a knight.  A coward’s weapon.”

“You were attacked?”

Rhys gave a faint nod.  “I do not know by how many.  We were lost…must have taken the wrong…branch in the road.  The blinding storm came from nowhere.  I had ridden ahead…trying to find shelter.  ’Twas impossible to see more than a few arms’ lengths ahead.  Suddenly, we heard some sort of scream or yell, and then quarrels were loosed from every direction.”

Worried, her head looked to the door.  “Then…there are others still out there?”

“I doubt it.  My men fell.  They valiantly tried to rally, but in the snow ’twas total confusion.  I took the bolts and could not stay in the saddle.  As I lay there, I could hear the enemy going to each man…making certain the wounded were dead.  No one left alive to carry tales.  ’Twas naught but murder they did.  I was missed because their leader grew afeared of being near the grove of some witch and wanted to be away.”

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Rhys.  Rhys de Valyer.”

Her dark brows lifted over warm brown eyes.  “You are Welsh?”

“My mother was.  My father is Norman.  I am knight to Julian Challon…serving at his
honour
Torqmond in England.  I train destriers for my lord.”

“Ah, that explains that fine steed of yours.  Mayhap ’tis your Welsh blood.  ’Tis spake your countrymen have a fae way with the beasties.”

“Challon sent for me to come north…join him at his new holding, Glenrogha.”

“Hagatha spoke of it, though I have never been there.  A holding of one of the daughters of Hadrian MacShane.”

“And what is your name?  Or, shall I just call you Angel?”

She huffed a small laugh.  “Silly mooncalf nonsense.  I am called Annys.”

“Annys,” he tested how the name sounded on his lips.  “A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”

“Do no’ waste your breath with such thoughts.  I have a kind heart and will try to help you.  ’Tis no need to sing praise to secure my aid.”

Rhys was surprised.  She was not playing coy, but truly seemed to think he offered tribute to win her care.  “Has no one ever told you how pretty you are?”

Sadness filled her brown eyes, but she smiled trying to hide the reaction.  “Such things do not fill the grain bins, pick apples, or stack the shed full of peat block.”

“’Tis not mindless to give offer of heartfelt words of value.”

She shrugged off his insistence by ignoring him.  “Rhys de Valyer, I need to get you out of the mail and your clothing so I can get at the wounds.”

Rhys asked with unease, “Is there anyone to aid you?” 

“Nay, I am alone.”

He was stunned.  This woman lived all alone and so far from any traveled path?  “How do you survive?”

“I lived here with my friend Hagatha since I was ten and two.  She took me in.  We planted our crops.  Sometimes people came for needs––they would do work for her, or pay her with a goat or a cow to prepare all the herbs needed for large fortresses.  In the summers, I cut peats to keep us warm in the winter.”

“A hard life for someone as lovely as you.”

Shocked by his words, she lowered her eyes to her lap.  “’Tis no need for flattery, Rhys de Valyer.”

“Have you ever extracted an arrow from a man before?”

She shook her head no.  “Not many men come into the grove.  They feared Hagatha, believed she was a witch.”