To Tempt a Knight (6 page)

She was no great warrior. She was inadequate to the task ahead. But she would never abandon those who needed her help. William would not suffer alone.

With Siobhan en route to the monastery, William concentrated on the battle ahead. He gripped his sword firmly in his hands and prepared for the onslaught. Four men attacked without so much as a shout of challenge.

William stayed upright as his sword sank home in the bowels of one warrior, then in the chest of another. Both dropped to the ground, replaced by two more. A horse and rider bore down on him, the morning light at the rider’s back. The horse might not kill him instantly, but it most certainly could cripple him long enough for the other warriors nearby to do the deed.

Dodging the beast, William threw himself aside, rolled and came up with his sword at the ready. De la Roche roared at his foiled attempt. “I’ll have your head, Templar. One way or another,” he goaded.

He brought his horse around for another charge as William continued to defend himself against the half-dozen foot soldiers who advanced upon him. An arrow shot at close range pierced his mail, but William did not register pain. He twisted to the left and drove his weapon into the back of one man, then took the arm off another.

William jerked the arrow from his shoulder and tossed it aside. He grasped one of the men’s fallen swords in his left hand, now fully armed against the enemy.

More men. More swords. More arrows. More horses.
How many of them could there be? Too many, his brain registered, as his body started to falter. Judging by the red seeping through his chain mail, they’d wounded him several times. He still didn’t feel the pain, but he knew his body wouldn’t hold up long.

His arms grew heavy. He braced for more, found depths of strength deep inside and continued to fight.

De la Roche came at him again, his horse’s eyes bulging, nostrils flaring. William advanced on the horse as he had during other battles, mounted on his own steed. He stumbled, but he kept pushing himself forward.

Frightened by the flash of steel a hairsbreadth from its eyes, the horse reared, sending de la Roche to the ground.

William mustered all his strength and charged, forcing the men back, forcing de la Roche back. But that one burst of energy cost him. He stumbled again and hit the ground with one knee. His borrowed sword fell to the ground. His arm went numb. His chest heaved. His own sword wobbled in his grip. He held tight. Losing his sword meant losing his life.

De la Roche grinned. “You’ve fought well, but now it’s time to die.”

Suddenly a volley of arrows pierced the doublet of the Frenchman, and cries of anguish filled the air.

William staggered to his feet and stumbled away from the next volley. Hoofbeats sounded behind him. Friend or foe? He braced himself for more. Holding his weapon high, he turned to see a horse and rider bearing down upon him.

William’s chest tightened at the sight of Simon heading toward him. And then he saw the others and went weak with hope and excitement. The air’s cold dampness suddenly seeped into his bones, and pain sizzled along his nerves, but he barely let the sensations register. All
he could think about was maybe, sweet Mary, maybe there was hope to survive.

Simon rode straight for him. “Take my arm, you fool.”

William reached out and felt himself being hoisted into the saddle behind his Templar brother.

Arrows continued to rain down on de la Roche’s men as Simon guided the horse away. “Where’s your horse?” Simon asked with a hint of irritation.

“I sent Phantom away with the girl. She’s at the monastery.” William gasped as pain rushed over him, no longer willing to stay buried inside. Battle was like that. It had a way of disguising the pain until the danger was gone. Then, when one’s body relaxed and felt safe once more, pain flowed over one’s being with bitter intensity.

“Hold tight,” Simon said as he kicked the horse into a gallop.

“How did…you know…I needed help?” William forced out the words between waves of agony.

“We still have friends in this land. Friends who would lay down their lives to preserve our cause.” They crested a hill. At the top stood several men on horseback, each bearing a longbow and quiver. Crofters, and men he knew as former Templars. His brethren.

William could only nod at the men as he and Simon rode by.
We have friends who will help us.
The thought comforted him as he clung to the saddle, trying to keep the pain at bay.

They remained silent during the rest of the journey. At the monastery, Simon dismounted. William slid from the horse’s back. He hit the ground, then stumbled as pain seared him.

Simon frowned. “Just how bad are your injuries?”

“I’ve been through worse.”

Simon’s gaze lingered on the red that covered his tunic.
“I know you have.” Simon gripped William’s arm and placed it over his own shoulders, disregarding the look William sent his way. “I’m amazed you can even stand.”

William didn’t comment. He allowed Simon to support him as they approached the gates. Simon pulled the rope attached to the bell.

Before the peal of the bell had fully formed, the gates flew aside and two robed men rushed forward, grasping William by the arms, bearing his weight.

“Tempting death again, are you, Guardian?” the Reaper asked as he hauled William inside the gates of the monastery, addressing him by his Brotherhood name.

Resolved to help William in whatever way she could, Siobhan left the tiny monk’s cell and stepped into the corridor, only to come face-to-face with three men. Two faded from her view as she concentrated on the man between them.

William.

“You survived,” she breathed.

“I can walk on my own.” William stiffened and pulled away from the others. He staggered a half step forward before the men beside him once again draped his arms over their shoulders. William reluctantly relaxed against them.

“This way,” said one of the men holding William upright. Siobhan flattened against the stone wall as they walked past her and to a small room down a long hallway from her own.

Siobhan followed, pausing at the door to see Brother Kenneth pull back the covers of a serviceable cot against the wall. The others laid William’s large body down upon the ticking.

“He’s badly hurt,” one of the new men stated. “Is there anyone here who can attend him?”

“The apothecary is a day’s ride away, and Brother John is visiting his dying father in Aberdeen. There’s no one,” Brother Kenneth said with a frown. “Looks like it’s up to us.”

Siobhan stepped into the chamber. She took a deep breath before she spoke with a calm that belied the maelstrom of fear and doubt that raced through her. “I can help.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to her.

“Spare yourself, Siobhan. These men have seen the wounds of battle before.” Pain reflected in the depths of William’s sherry-colored eyes.

“Brother William, don’t argue with the woman. If she can heal you, let her,” said Brother Bernard from next to William’s side. He removed William’s sword and sheath and his tunic, then unlaced the pieces of mail covering his torso and set them on the floor.

William scowled.

Siobhan ignored him and strode to the cot. “Yes, you are fearsome,” she said with a wry smile. “But you can’t intimidate me.” She knelt beside William. From the amount of blood she could see through the links of his mail, she marveled he survived.

Simon removed William’s hauberk. Gathering her nerve to continue, Siobhan turned to Brother Kenneth. Thank goodness her father had allowed her to read anything in his library and had possessed a multitude of books on the healing arts. “I’ll need some ale to help dull the pain, as well as hot water, salve, a needle and thread, and strips of clean linen, if you have them.”

“We do.” He turned and left the room.

Siobhan turned back to William just as Simon removed the quilted aketon from William’s chest. She gasped. A multitude of scars and wounds crisscrossed his skin, some fresh, with ragged red edges, some whitened with age.

“A warrior’s life is harsh,” he said, watching her closely. For what? Revulsion? Fear?

She straightened her shoulders. He would see no weakness in her. “You need not apologize. We all have scars, William. Some of us wear them on the outside, others on the inside.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And your scars? Are they inside or out?”

“We aren’t discussing my scars. Yours are the only ones of interest at this moment.”

William’s eyes pinned her in place. She had a sudden terrifying feeling that he could see inside her, see the very scars she talked about.

He reached for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, held fast. “Siobhan,” he said softly. “It’s not weakness to be afraid. Someone else can treat my wounds.”

She ran her tongue along her lower lip and swallowed hard, then slowly lifted her chin. “Nay, I can do this. Please, let me help you.”

He nodded and released her hand.

Mustering all her inner resources, she searched his torso for the deepest cuts.

Brother Kenneth returned a moment later with a mug of ale. He and Simon assisted William to sit up and helped him drink. The tangy scent of the strong spirit lingered in the chamber.

While they helped William lie back down, Siobhan tore the cloth Brother Kenneth had brought into tourniquets. Some of the strips she folded, and when the men moved back from William’s body, she set the folded linen atop the worst of his wounds before she tied strips of fabric around his arm, his upper chest, his shoulder. With a sigh, she sat back. That would help forestall the worst of the bleeding while she sewed each wound.

Brother Bernard patted Siobhan’s shoulder. “We will
leave William in your care, my dear. Brother Patrick will be just outside the door should you need anything. Brother Simon, might I have a word?”

Brother Simon hesitated. “I think I should stay—”

“I’ll be fine,” William reassured his friend, his voice steady and calm as the effects of the ale set in.

Simon’s gaze lingered on Siobhan for a moment before he turned and left the room. A shiver coursed through her. Did the man not trust her with his friend? She pushed the thought away, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand. Siobhan picked up the needle, wishing she had spent more time at her embroidery frame. The needle took only a moment to thread. She ran the metal through the hot flame before she set to work sewing the worst of his wounds.

The room suddenly seemed too warm, the air too thick, as she tugged from one side of his rent flesh to the other. Bent so close to him, she could perceive the tightening of his muscles, the increased rhythm of his breathing. As she sewed his shoulder, she turned toward him, realizing how close his face was. How close his lips were.

He looked at her intently through dark lashes, as if to read her thoughts by studying her features. She drew a sharp breath, suddenly aware that she was breathing too fast, as though she’d been running. It wasn’t fear that moved through her now, but something else.

Siobhan sat back, forcing her attention on the wound on his chest. Her stitches were even and steady. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle duet of their breathing.

She stared at him, and her breath caught. In that moment she saw past the blood and grime still covering his face to the true handsomeness there. Golden hair framed his face, a face that held no brutality and menace, but determination.

It was the kind of face a woman couldn’t help but stare at in awe and with desire. Before she could think about what she did, she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. Her hand strayed to the strong, straight line of his cheekbone and down to the cleft of his chin. “I’m so sorry to bring you pain,” she whispered.

A faint smile came to his lips and a curious light filled his eyes. He brought his hand up to cup her cheek. “I hardly felt a thing.” He let her go with a slight caress along her jawline.

Siobhan curled her fingers against the light flutter that took flight in her stomach. To be the focus of such a look was not something she was used to. She returned his smile with a nervous one of her own. “That’s stretching the truth, even for a monk.”

The light faded from his eyes. “Monks are not without sin. We have failings, just as everyone else. Besides, I am a lay monk.”

“What is that?”

“A monk who gives more of his time to manual labor, or in the case of the Templars, to battle. We spend our lives in the service of the Lord.”

“I see.” She hesitated, still a bit disconcerted by the rapid change in his mood. “If I offended you a moment ago, I am sorry.”

“I need out of this bed,” he said changing the subject. Slowly, he sat up. Siobhan moved to assist him, but he waved her away. He reached for his quilted aketon, then pulled his hand back at the sight of his own blood.

“Might I help?” Siobhan asked.

“The robe,” he said, a bit breathless, pointing to the brown homespun monk’s cassock hanging from a hook on the wall. Attempting to sit so soon was taking its toll.

Siobhan brought the robe to him.

With a grunt, he settled the fabric over his head and
blocked his broad, well-muscled chest from her sight. “Where is the scroll?” he asked with a frown.

“Safely hidden. I assumed that in the monastery it would be less of a risk to leave it unguarded.”

His eyes hardened. “Assume no such thing.” His voice grew tight. “Trust no one with that scroll. No one.”

Siobhan took two steps back, toward the door. Her breath caught as his features chilled. He was tired, she reminded herself. Wounded. If he sounded a bit harsh, it was to be expected.

Yet now that he was tended to, she wanted to check on the scroll. She had hidden it well, hadn’t she? She twisted for the door and raced down the hall, startling Brother Patrick, who sat outside the doorway. She entered the tiny chamber she’d been taken to previously and dived for the bed. Only when her hands grasped the leather casing did she release her pent-up breath.

She sank onto the heather ticking. A shudder went through her. She’d always known the scroll was important. Why hadn’t she pushed her father for answers long ago about what it revealed?

She shook her head, clearing away her regrets. Such emotions served no purpose. She didn’t have her father to help her understand. But she had the scroll.