Twilight Magic (21 page)

“You are wounded!”

“Not badly enough to warrant concern. It can wait for tending until later.”

He retrieved his dagger, wiping it clean on a dry spot on his victim’s tunic, deliberately not looking at Rose. He would, later. Maybe bury her so the carrion couldn’t have her. Surely he owed her that much for her valor and loyalty.

When he reached Emma’s side, she was staring down at her blood-smeared palms. Ye gods, she must have held the reins so tightly they’d sawed off skin.

“Rose would be alive if not for my cowardice,” she declared. “The other day, at Hadone. The bloody water in the washbasin.” She glanced over at the gruesome scattering of bloodied bodies. “This is the vision I would have seen, had I not stopped it.”

“You cannot know what you did not see.”

Her hands began to shake.

“I know,” she disagreed. “I know!”

Chapter Fifteen

E
mma watched Darian toss the third soldier over the back of a horse and could no longer hold her tongue.

“Darian, this is not wise.”

His anger still burning hot, he put hands on hips, blood seeping from the wound he hadn’t allowed her to tend yet.

“Would you have me bury them?”

Just as he’d buried Rose.

He’d found a small camp shovel in one of the soldier’s packs. Ever since, he’d worked feverishly to clear away all signs of their battle with the bishop’s soldiers. By himself. All he’d allowed her to do was gather stones to cover the wolfhound’s grave.

“You should not have to bury them.”

“Then what would you have me do? Ride into the next village and inform whoever is in charge there of several bodies in the forest? I have no intention of spending hours answering the questions of some village official. Do you want to tell anyone how these men died?”

Never would she forget the sight of Rose tearing out a man’s throat, or the spear taking the hound’s life in turn. Or the sound of bones breaking under the horse’s hooves. Or the sight of Darian’s dagger protruding from a man’s chest.

She might have to live with those memories, but the mere thought of relating them closed her throat.

“Nay” was all she could say.

Having gained the answer he wanted, he nodded sharply. “I prefer no one know we were involved. Granted, we were the victims of their aggression. But we won out, and some might wonder how and speculate, and I prefer not to have my name, or yours, on people’s minds and lips.”

Neither did she. Once they were done here, she would cover her bloody garments with her cloak—as would Darian—and no one would know what they’d endured this morn.

Except one man. Bishop Henry of Winchester. If Darian carried through with his plan, the bishop would know well before nightfall that the man he’d sent his soldiers out to capture had prevailed. She didn’t need a vision to tell her retribution might come in horrific form.

“Darian, I beg you to reconsider. The bishop is a powerful man. Sending his soldiers back to him this way will surely—”

“Enough, Emma!” He slung the fourth soldier over his shoulder. “Go out to the road and see if the way is clear. The sooner done, the sooner we can be on our way.”

Emma tossed her hands in frustration. Darian was set on this course and there was no talking him out of it. As he flung the soldier over the saddle, blood flew from the man’s crushed skull to wet the bushes beyond.

Stomach roiling, Emma fled, at first not trying to be quiet. But once away from the sight and coppery aroma of blood, she slowed, and for a moment put her hand on a stout oak for support.

Tears welled up again, and several slid down her cheeks before she dashed the rest away. Crying would do her no good—nor Darian. Nor Rose.

Resolved to playing out her part in what she still considered Darian’s unwise plan, Emma made her way through the trees, hoping she went the right way.

How Darian had managed to find a small clearing in the woods between the road and the Thames in the middle of the night, she didn’t know. How the bishop’s soldiers had managed to find them, she didn’t know, either. But what had happened had happened. There was naught she could do to change it.

Could she have prevented the carnage and saved Rose? That mind-bending thought harassed her until she finally saw the road.

Slowly, quietly, she eased out from the cover of the trees. To her left, London. On her right, Oxford, Bledloe Abbey, and Nicole. All seemed so far away.

She saw no one, heard no other sound than a slight breeze playing with leaves, which had begun to turn color and would soon fall.

The restful silence didn’t last long enough to suit her. From behind her she heard the plop of horses’ hooves on the forest floor. She turned to see Darian leading a line of horses, one tied to the other, bearing gruesome burdens.

Darian tilted his head, his expression questioning. Emma took another look in both directions before waving him forward.

He set the string of horses in motion, leading them a way down the road before swatting the lead horse to keep it moving.

The horses lumbered along as Darian ran back to where she stood. What was done was done, but it still seemed senseless.

“Do you really expect the horses to walk all the way to Winchester Palace without interference or mishap?”

“That would be far too much to ask. One or two of the bodies are likely to fall off.” He crossed his arms, also watching the horses climb a slight hill, then disappear from view. “Most people will look at them and cross themselves and leave them alone. However, I am willing to wager some imaginative soul will see a fast way to make some coin and lead the whole lot of them to the bishop in hopes of a reward.”

“Or some not so naive soul will dump the bodies and sell the horses.”

Darian shrugged. “Either way we are done with them.” How could he be so callous? So hard and unfeeling? Even as she wanted to rail at him, she knew she wouldn’t. Had he shown a dram of mercy to the soldiers earlier, she and Darian might be the dead bodies draped over horses.

“I need to wash,” he announced. “Coming?”

They walked briskly back to the clearing. Darian scooped up his satchel on the way through, never pausing on his way to the river.

Emma hesitated. She could use a wash, too. Her hands were still bloody, and a dip in cold water might banish the remains of the sting. But to go near the river was a risk. The Thames had caught her once and she didn’t want to repeat the experience.

She’d almost decided not to follow Darian; then the clearing suddenly seemed smaller, and men’s shouts and Rose’s growls again bounced off the trees, accusing her of cowardice, blaming her for their deaths.

Emma hurried after Darian, who’d noticed her absence and waited for her several yards from the river.

“I need to wash, too, but I cannot get too near the river,” she stated.

“Give me your hand and close your eyes.”

Emma felt as much the babe as she had when he’d put on her hose. But as his fingers entwined with hers, she knew her trust not misplaced. She closed her eyes, allowing him to lead her through the woods and down the slope to the river, the sound of flowing water becoming louder. She halted when he did. Grasping her by the shoulders, he turned her slightly.

“There is a rock behind you, where you can sit and not see much of the river if you look left. Back up a step. There.” He took hold of her hands. “Now ease back. Good. You can open your eyes now.”

He released her hands and hurried down the slope. She didn’t dare watch for fear of becoming entranced by the water. So how was she supposed to wash the blood from her hands, the grit and sweat from her face?

Darian had no such problem, judging by the splashing she heard. Perhaps, if she walked backward down the slope—she’d trip over a rock or fallen branch and end up
in
the river.

Then Darian stood before her, water dripping from his hair to slide down his bare chest, holding his sodden tunic out for her to take.

Gratefully, she rubbed the soft, cold wool over her face and throat, and washed away the worst of the blood from her hands. They would be raw for a while, but wouldn’t bleed, not like Darian’s wound.

Darian pulled a short-sleeved tunic from his satchel and tugged it on, leaving his wound exposed.

“Have you an unguent or cloth for bandaging?”

He glanced at his injury. “ ’Twill heal on its own.” “ ’Twill continue to bleed if you do not wrap it. If you have no bandaging, cut off the hem of my chemise. That should do for the nonce.”

Sighing, he knelt before her, drew his dagger, and lifted her bliaut above her knees to get at the chemise. And she couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d knelt before her, helping her dress. That hazy memory seemed a lifetime ago, made more unreal by the sound of his blade slicing through linen.

“We need to replace your bliaut,” he said flatly. “Perhaps we can purchase a gown along the way.”

Such a mundane concern, but he was right. She would rather not enter the abbey garbed in a bloody gown.

He stuck the dagger in his boot, stood up, and began wrapping the long linen strip around his arm, too loose and jumbled to do any good at all.

Without a thought of why, she bolted off the rock and swatted his hand away, his ineffectual tending pricking her ire. Fiercely, she unwrapped the bandage.

“One would think a man who wields a weapon would know how to wrap an injury! If you intend to stop the blood, then you have to wrap it tighter, like this.”

“Emma, I know how—”

“Not that one could tell.”

He remained silent while she neatly wrapped and tied off the linen.

“What about your hands?” he asked softly.

She held them up for him to see. “They have stopped bleeding. Your arm has not. My hands will heal long before your arm.”

He stared at her as if she’d gone daft. Perhaps she had. All she knew was that her body hurt and her arms ached and she wanted to be quit of this place
now.
She spun to go back to the clearing. Darian clamped a hand on her shoulder.

“Easy, Emma. In a few days the images will fade, the horror will lessen.”

She shrugged him off, wanting no comfort. If she let down her guard, she would surely begin sobbing again. “Please, can we just leave?”

Without another word, he obliged her. Soon they were riding out of the clearing as they’d entered it; atop a battle-trained horse, Emma riding across Darian’s lap.

Except this time Rose didn’t range ahead, enjoying the freedom of scampering along the road and occasionally veering off to investigate some intriguing scent.

Emma desperately tried not to listen, but over and over, the nagging voice she’d heard earlier scolded her for stopping the vision forming in the washbasin.

If she had known they would be attacked, Rose and five soldiers might now be alive.

She’d never slept in a barn. But then, until of late, neither had Emma slept in an inn or on the ground.

Or with a man.

Only some of those new experiences did she wish to banish from her memory.

Rain had forced them to quit the road earlier than she was sure Darian preferred, the handiest shelter a peasant’s farm. A few pence gained them a place to sleep, a spare blanket, and, later, a bowl of stew and bread. Unfortunately, the farmer’s wife owned no spare gown, so in her bliaut Emma must remain.

She stood near the barn’s doorway with the horse while Darian climbed the ladder to the loft, ensuring no mice or birds occupied the space where they would sleep.

The cow in the far corner eyed the horse suspiciously. Swallows flitted in and out of gaps in the walls. Three gray geese couldn’t make up their minds over whether they wanted in or out. Several plump brown chickens roosted among the grain sacks. Perched atop a stack of wooden crates a cock watched over his flock. Muddy puddles revealed where the roof wanted for repair.

All and all a warm, cozy place, if somewhat smelly and noisy.

“Looks dry,” Darian called down. “Hay seems clean, too.”

Good news—and his longest utterance since leaving the clearing. Not that she’d said much, either, both of them keeping their own counsel.

Emma removed her sodden cloak and spread it over the handles of a plow, then pulled down Darian’s cloak from where he’d tossed it across his saddle.

She jumped when he reached from behind her to snatch it away.

“I will take care of this. You go rest.”

Rest. Be at ease? For that, one need be at peace, an unachievable state of mind just yet. Still, she found a chicken-free sack of grain and sat while Darian hung his cloak on a peg, which also held leather strips, and proceeded to unsaddle his horse.

Emma noted the bandage had held tight and no blood seeped through. Chagrined to realize he might be right about the slightness of his wound, Emma’s cheeks warmed over how she’d insisted on bandaging his arm, swatting away his hands because he wrapped the cloth wrongly. Ye gods, how shrewish she must have sounded.

“I beg your pardon, Darian. I did not mean to be so peevish about your wound.”

He set his saddle in a dry area near the wall. “Think naught of it. You were overwrought, a not unexpected reaction.”

He didn’t have to say to what she’d reacted. Damn near every moment of the bloody battle was still too fresh and horrifyingly clear, including sobbing her eyes out against Darian’s chest.

“You said the images will fade.”

“In time.”

“How long?”

He led the horse to the back of the barn. The cow bawled a protest at the intrusion, but seeing neither man nor horse pay any heed, it soon relented to sharing the hay manger.

“Hard to say,” Darian finally answered. “Your reaction is not unusual. I know of men who recovered swiftly after their first battle and others who did not.” He pointed a finger at her. “The first thing you need do is stop blaming yourself for what happened. If anyone is at fault, I am for not...Well, I can think of several things I might have done differently.”

A long speech for a man who’d been so silent, and apparently he felt as guilty as she, though for different reasons.

“I cannot help wondering if I had allowed the vision to form if we could have ...evaded the soldiers.”