After the Storm (25 page)

Warin turned and ran. He soon disappeared into the gloom of the forest. Bastien sprinted back to Isabeau's hiding place. She was sitting with her head braced against her drawn up knees. She groaned as he pulled her to her feet.

"Men are coming. This is no time for a headache, woman."

"Men? Who was that man? I know—"

"Horsemen. Your betrothed, I'd wager. Come on." He scooped up his bow and quiver, then grabbed her hand and hurried her around the iris pool. He picked out the tallest of the nearby oaks and pointed into the branches. "Up. Hide yourself in the canopy. Hunters from outside the forest often forget to look over their heads."

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

"Two-dimensional thinking," Libby agreed as she shook her head to clear it.

"Just so. Can you climb?"

She looked at the weathered, lichen-covered trunk. "This thing's been here since the druids."

"No doubt. Hurry. Or do you want to lie in Rolf's arms tonight?"

"No way."

"Then get up that tree."

She heard the urgency in his voice. More importantly, she heard people coming.

She hoisted her skirts up and scrambled for a foothold on the wet wood. The climb wasn't easy, but she managed. Halfway up, she looked back to see if Bastien was following her. He was nowhere in sight. Her heart stopped for a moment, then fear for him rushed through her as a shout went up in the distance.

She heard men and horses crashing through the underbrush.

"Wolfshead!" someone cried. "There he goes!"

Libby almost jumped down to rush toward the shouting men. They had come looking for her. Bastien was creating a diversion to keep her from being caught by Rolf. She didn't have any weapons on her, she'd left all her supplies in the hut. She didn't know the forest the way her outlaw did. He was probably safer with her out of sight up in the tree. So, shaken with worry and frustration, she found herself a wide branch and settled down in the concealment of the thick layers of oak leaves. After a while the noise of the chase passed her by.

The arrow had been nearly spent when it hit him. There wasn't much blood, not with the arrowpoint still buried in the wound, but it hurt. It had hit him in the back of his arm, the position awkward and hard to get at. The shaft had broken off when he'd tried to pull the barb out. Bastien ignored the pain as he made his way carefully back to where he'd left Isabeau. It was near dark. The rain had Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

stopped, but clouds still hung low and heavy above the treetops. He'd long since lost the men who'd been chasing them. In fact, he'd watched them ride away along the Canterbury road while he bled in the shadow of a tree and no one noticed. It had been Rolf and his men, ill-armed and ignorant of the tricks and hiding places of Blean Forest. They'd be back, he thought, but he and Isabeau would be long gone before they returned. If he could remember in just which tree he'd left her, that is.

She was waiting for him at the base of an oak as he approached the iris pool. She leaned against the wide trunk with her arms crossed and a stern expression on her face.

"You've been practicing that pose for hours, haven't you?" he said as he approached. He straightened his spine as he walked forward, and tried to look as though he didn't care that there was an arrow sticking out of his arm. She noticed anyway.

"You're hurt," she said as she rushed forward.

He didn't try to deny it. There was, after all, an arrow sticking out of his arm. He let her help him sit on the ground. He couldn't see what she did as her fingers examined the wound, but they were firm and confident, hardly adding to his discomfort at all.

"We've got to get the point out."

"Yes. Not here," he said.

"Of course not. I've got a first aid kit back at the hut. Let's get you back there so I can build a fire and—"

"No fire," he said. "We shouldn't stay in the same place two nights running," he added. "Blackchurch."

He hadn't planned on going there, but it was nearby. They could find shelter in Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

the village long enough to deal with the wound. Then he remembered that there was sickness in Blackchurch. He wasn't afraid of the fever raging there for himself, but what about Isabeau? It had been foolish to consider the place even for a moment. It would be too dangerous to take her there. He could not expose her to the contagion.

"No," he said on a gasp of pain. The wound throbbed as she tied a bit of her torn-off underskirt around his upper arm.

"Blackchurch. Old Osbeorn's keep. I remember where that is."

"Have to stay away." He put his head back against the tree. He was beginning to get light-headed even though he hadn't thought he'd lost that much blood. "Not the keep, the village. We can't go—"

"I'll get the stuff from the hut and be right back," she told him.

"Fever," he said, but she was already hurrying away.

"You won't get a fever if I can help it," she called back. "Rest. Everything's going to be fine."

Bastien closed his eyes. Maybe with Isabeau in charge for the moment everything would be fine. At least he could pretend it would be for now. Being back with her and knowing she was safe, he could rest, just for a little while.

By the time Libby returned from the hut with her hastily gathered stuff, Bastien was propped against the tree. He was asleep. He woke the moment she knelt beside him. His eyes were a bit glazed, his skin a bit waxy. "Can you walk?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't resist when she helped him to his feet. His eyes might be unfocused, but there was a grim, determined set to his jaw. He wobbled a bit unsteadily and leaned heavily on her after a while, but he walked. For as long and as far as she needed him to go.

Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Marj looked from the horse to Reynard to the ornate belt he was holding in his hands. She could see that many of the jewels had already been picked out of their filigree settings. The young man who'd been riding the appropriated horse sat in the mud on the edge of the road, a hand cupped around his sore jaw. He hadn't wanted to get off the horse when they'd stopped him, or hand over his loot. So Reynard had knocked him off the animal and taken the belt and a jewel-filled pouch from him. Marj thought she should have been shocked at the sheriff's violent action. Instead she agreed that it was the only sensible thing Reynard could have done, short of drawing his sword. She wasn't feeling particularly civilized at the moment.

She was feeling extremely frustrated, however. They'd been following the belt, which had stopped transmitting a few minutes before they'd actually captured the thief. Of course, Reynard did not know that they'd been following a signal. He had decided to follow the horse's tracks away from Lilydrake at her insistence.

So she couldn't explain about sensors and tracking devices. Before meeting Reynard it hadn't bothered her that she couldn't explain anything to the people she encountered. She tried not to be bothered now.

It was nearly dark, and the forest seemed to be closing in as night approached. It had rained all day, which hadn't helped with tracking the animal. It was starting to rain again. The trees were still dripping with water from the last downpour, and the rutted track was more like a small stream than a roadway. Of course, it hadn't been much like a road to begin with. Since the road led to Canterbury, Marj had been half tempted to quote Chaucer all day. But the author of
The
Canterbury Tales
wouldn't be born for quite a while yet and Reynard wouldn't understand if she started speaking Middle English. There was so much he wouldn't understand, even if she tried to explain in Norman French. She had no words for things like miniature electronics and brain wave pulses and the fact Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

that being alone with him was not good for her at all. No, she had words for that, but she wasn't up to trying to explain. Despite the fact that they'd spent the day riding through the countryside on a fruitless quest, she'd had a wonderful time.

She sighed, and tried to stick to business. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I was so certain the horse would lead us to Isabeau. I can't think why she abandoned it."

Reynard held up the belt. "Your lady had nothing to do with abandoning the horse. Bastien did this to show his contempt for her wealth. It seems it's the lady herself he wants."

Or Libby did it to throw me off her trail
, Marj thought. To Reynard she said, "I think that they are a pair of fools."

Reynard nodded. "Blind with lust, you think?"

Works for me
, she thought, and tried not to concentrate on his craggy features and knowing smile as he looked up at her. "It's not just lust," she said. "She isn't just running from Rolf, either. Isabeau wants to help Bastien."

Here was something else she couldn't explain. She was getting sick of this role playing no matter how necessary it was. Libby seemed to have forgotten the necessity in her zeal to fix the mental damage the time accident had inflicted on the outlaw. Maybe Libby was just reacting this way because she couldn't fix herself and thought she could do better with Bastien. Libby was not a person who dealt well with being thwarted.

Or maybe it was just lust.

"Help the outlaw?" Reynard asked. "How?"

Marj sighed, and went on with telling half-truths. "Apparently he's a grieving widower."

Reynard tilted his head to one side. He looked skeptical. No, he looked amused.

The expression was gone in a moment, and with the light fading Marj really Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

couldn't tell if Reynard had been close to laughing or not. She still said, "This isn't funny."

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Of course not, my lady." He turned to the horse thief sitting by the road. "Where did you find the animal?"

The boy got slowly to his feet. He looked frightened, but eager to explain himself to the big, deep-voiced man. He pointed back toward the direction of Lilydrake. "I found it just outside the village, my lord. I was bringing it back, but I got lost."

"Please spare us that tale," Reynard said. "Did you see Lady Isabeau, or the wolfshead called Bastien?"

"No, my lord. I saw no one."

"Just found the horse wandering down the road?"

"Yes, my lord. I swear by Saint Thomas!"

Reynard rubbed a finger across his mustache. "I wish I didn't believe you." He looked back at Marj. "Lady Isabeau's more than a little trouble, isn't she?"

She nodded. "I'm sorry to bring you into this."

He smiled. "It's an excuse to spend time with you, my dear."

While she blushed with pleasure the boy backed up a few steps, toward the nearby trees. It looked like he was going to run for it. Reynard did not look like he was interested in stopping him. Marj was relieved. They needed to continue the search, not worry about arresting a horse thief. Besides, she had no urge to see the man lose his hands, or suffer worse punishment, for taking Libby's abandoned horse.

Neither she or Reynard made any comment when the thief turned and ran. She got down from her own mount and stood in the middle of the road next to Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

Reynard.

"What do we do now?" she asked him.

"Make camp. We'll continue searching for your lady after we've gotten some rest."

There was nothing else they could do in the dark, with no tracking device to follow. So Marj looked around and said pragmatically, "I just hope we can get a fire going."

He put a hand on her shoulder. His voice was a deep, rumbling, suggestive purr.

"I don't think we'll have any trouble with kindling a fire, Marjorie."

She was suddenly having trouble breathing as she grew warm from the inside out. Just before he kissed her, she said, "I meant with wet wood, good sir."

Then, standing in the middle of the Canterbury Road, in the pouring rain, she put her arms around Reynard of Elansted and forgot about everything but loving him for a while.

It was well after dark before they finished the silent trip to the outskirts of Blackchurch. A big, thatch-roofed barn loomed out of the darkness on the edge of a field. By the size of it Libby thought that it might be a tithe barn, used for storage except during harvest time. Libby left Bastien long enough to reconnoiter the building. When she found it empty she guided Bastien inside and helped him to sit, propped against a thick, wooden post. Then she closed the barn door and sat down beside him in the dark. The barn was dry and smelled comfortingly of fresh hay. She searched through her bundle by feel and brought out a tiny round box. It looked like a piece of delicately carved ivory, suitable for holding needles, perhaps. It could be used for that. She flipped back the lid of the box, pressed a switch, and light filled the area around them. She glanced at Bastien, to see his reaction to this bit of magic. His eyes were closed, his wide Sizemore, Susan - After the Storm

mouth slack. Asleep. She brushed her fingers affectionately across his cheek, and found it cool to the touch. No fever, yet. Good.

She set the light on the barn floor and continued her search through her belongings. Her first aid kit was as well disguised as her flashlight. A native of the thirteenth century would have thought the object she placed beside the light was a reliquary, made to hold some saint's bones or ashes. She did say a prayer when she opened it, praying that she retained the memory of how to field dress a wound. Even if she didn't, she was going to have to do something for Bastien before infection set in. Libby took a deep breath, gathered the supplies she needed and got to work.

The first thing she did was cut Bastien's homespun tunic sleeve away from the broken shaft of the arrow. Beneath the tunic he wore a silk shirt. She'd forgotten about that, but smiled when she saw the bloodstained material. It was not too bloodstained. Silk was a very strong fabric. Instead of the threads breaking, the silk had probably been gathered around the twisting arrowhead as it drove into flesh and muscle. The silk shielded Bastien's flesh from actual contact with the arrowpoint. It helped protect him from the damage that could have happened when sharp metal pierces human skin.