ANOTHER STRIKE
The wind moved fretfully across the practice ground. Even its keening did nothing to blur out the harsh voice of the armorer, crying out in surprise.
“Stop! Lord Dougal!”
Dougal did not listen. Blind fury took over inside him. All the tension, the pain, and the longing that consumed him had suddenly been transformed into a blinding, seething rage. Heedless of the agony of his shoulder, he swung his sword at the man opposite in a blow that could have cleaved his head, had he not been practiced enough to avoid it.
He saw the look of terror in the man's eyes and it cut through the rage enough to make him pause. This was his own man. He was on the practice ground, putting them through their paces. This was not a fight and he was not here to kill.
He stepped back.
“Well done, Fintan,” he said firmly. “That strike's hard to block. Did you all watch?”
The men around them stepped nervously forward. Their faces were gray with shock. Dougal felt a sudden guilt descend. He wasn't here to make his men hate him worse than before. He wanted to be seen as one of them, training them himself. Now they feared him, and from fear was a short step to mistrust and hate.
“Sir,” one of the men said nervously. “Is there another way to parry such a strike? What he did was...skilled.”
Dougal smiled, seeing his adversary beam. “It was,” he agreed.
The men all smiled nervously, and the tension quickly lifted. One of them laughed.
“Now,” Dougal said, keen to press his advantage. “There is another way – to answer your question. If you lift your arm like this, then...”
As he continued the explanation, he looked across the courtyard. Some of his men were walking from the gate, seemingly engaged in conversation with a dark clad man. A traveler, probably. Or a merchant. He would ask them later about it.
“Now, split into pairs and practice it. Just like we did. Both ways of parry, though.”
They fell to the task, relieved, and Dougal smiled at his sparring partner.
“That was good,” he admitted. “You're the best of them.”
“Th...Thank you, sir.” the man swallowed hard. “My grandfather taught me. When I was a bairn.”
“Good for your grandfather,” Dougal nodded. “Now. Do you know the parry for the down stroke?”
The man demonstrated quickly. Dougal noted his elbow stuck out and mentioned it, the two of them working together to make minor changes in his stance.
“Me arm was broke once, sir,” the man explained. “Lost some grip. 'Tis easier for me this way.”
“Oh,” Dougal commented. “Well, maybe if we...”
A shout, raw and frightened, broke his thought. He looked up.
“My lord!” one of the men shouted. “Brien's ghost!”
Dougal twisted round to crane his neck up at the battlements, where they had all turned to face and looked up, pale and tense.
“Where? I don't see...”
It happened quickly. Dougal felt a sting, then a sudden cold. He grunted, not understanding. Then he felt the blood.
He put his hand to his side. It came up red. Frowning at the blood, he lifted his hand. His men were shouting, running, exclaiming. However, his world had turned suddenly quiet. Information came at him slowly. His side started to burn with pain, as if gripped in blacksmith's irons.
He grunted and fell to his knees. His other wound's sting had abated, and all he could feel was this pulsing, throbbing, burning.
“I...”
He pitched forward onto his knees, suddenly short of breath. He panted. His men had come forward. They had a man in their grasp. A man who was fighting, shouting, scorning him. His eyes were bright with a kind of zealous madness.
Dougal tried to sit up straight. Looked at the man. At his own men. He felt like nothing touched him. He was cocooned in wads of cloud, people appearing through the veils of mist that clouded his vision. He drew a breath.
“Take him downstairs,” he said. “Hold him. I'll question him...tomorrow.”
He pitched forward then, his world suddenly dark. He could hear feet moving, someone shouting. His men, voices hushed.
“Call the priest!” someone shouted. Running feet.
Then silence. And blackness. And quiet.
Dougal woke. It was dark. He could hear the crackle of a fire. He felt warm, and strangely motionless, as if he wore armor. He opened his eyes.
Firelight. Candles, burning on the mantel. He was in his bedchamber, he realized, recognizing the heavy marble round the fire. He sighed. Heard a sound and looked sideways.
Joanna was there, sitting by the fire. She had her gaze focused on something she held up to her eyes – embroidery, he realized. White cloth, with fine white stitches on it. He watched her. The fire licked gold down her hair, shimmering in the soft, diffused light. Her cheek was opalescent, curved and soft. Her breasts were full, and he could just see the shine of her skin there, imagining it soft and scented.
He coughed. His voice broke the silence. He wished he hadn't – he could have watched her there forever.
“You are awake!” she flew to his side, dropping the cloth into a basket beside her chair. She sat on the bed, looking down at him. “Do you feel ill?”
“I feel horrible,” he said. Why was he so weak? Even talking drew on his strength, wearying him so. He frowned, squinting up at her. He could make out her eyes, the darkness of her lips. Her face was a little blurred, this close, the image wavering.
“Here,” she said. “Drink this.”
Dougal slipped back up the bed towards the pillows, trying to shuffle up to sitting. The wound in his side, on his chest, both ached. He gritted his teeth. He tried to move and found he couldn't. He let out a long, shuddering breath.
“I'm a mess.”
Joanna looked sad. “You're not. You have three wounds. One of them superficial, healing well. Two...more serious.”
He smiled at her, glad to have her with him. He lifted his hand, the one on his good arm. Touched her hair.
“Thank you, Joanna. I'm glad you're here.”
“I'm not certain I am,” she mused. “It's bad enough seeing you wounded without...without all this worry.” Dougal sighed and she bit her lip. “I'm sorry,” she added. “It's not something to speak of here. Now, all you should do is concentrate on being well. Don't think of anything besides that.”
He chuckled. It hurt. “Yes, ma'am.”
She shot him a look. “And don't get cheeky, either. I'm your physician – self-appointed, but resolved. And I require your utter cooperation in matters of healing.”
“I accede to your every whim.”
She smiled at him. Her eyes were soft, red lips damp and parted. “Oh, Dougal,” she said.
“What?”
“This is a mess, isn't it?”
He sighed. He knew what she meant. Them. The way they loved. The fact that they knew the deepest longings of each other’s souls and yet were kept so apart.
“You know,” he said softly, his hand covering hers. “I have a piece of land in my own name. My father signed it to me when I came of age. It's near his estate. Perhaps we could go there, and...and just stay. No one would even know.” They would find them, eventually, that was clear. However, Dougal did not want to think of that.
“Oh, Dougal.”
Dougal sighed. He knew what she meant. Knew why she frowned so at him, why she did not reply and why she looked so sad. He knew it was impossible. Yet, part of him longed to believe it. Part of him ached to do as he suggested. Just go. Take her with him and run. Away from all of this. It was too dark, too involved for him to fathom. He could not resolve this. Perhaps no one could.
Yet, he knew he had to try.
“The man they caught,” Dougal said slowly. She looked up.
“Stop it,” she said firmly. “I told you to stop thinking about anything but being well. Don't you listen?”
He laughed. It tore at the edges of his wound and he grimaced painfully.
“We have to solve this,” Dougal said softly. “If we do, then...then maybe we really can just go. Walk away. Leave the place to my father to oversee. Or Alexander. I want no part of it.”
Joanna frowned. “We should solve this,” she agreed. “I heard the men. They said...they were saying it was the ghost.”
He laughed. “Pretty solid ghost, that.”
“Not that,” she said, flipping a hand at him. “They said it appeared. Sanctioned this.”
“Oh.” Douglas felt his heart sink. All he needed was them saying his demise was elected by the dead earl. The whole castle would hate him.
“Well, stop thinking on this,” Joanna said firmly. “Here. This is supposed to dull the pain. Drink it. Sleep. I will ask some questions of my own, try and find some clues.”
He let out a ragged breath. He should not impose on her, should not let her do this. She had no reason to wear herself out on this problem. It was his problem, after all, his to solve.
“Joanna...”
“Drink. And trust me.”
Dougal sighed. He would drink. He did trust her. And he would sleep.
“Joanna...?”
She turned. She had stood, lifting her hair and turning it over one shoulder. “What?”
“If I sleep...”
“I've asked the guards to stand by your door all night,” Joanna said firmly. “And I'm staying here.”
“What?” He stared at her. For her to be in here alone was shocking enough, taboo in all cases. However, for her to stay the night...
She gave him an exasperated stare. “I'll sleep in the chair. You're wounded and I think all would agree probably too worn out for anything untoward, so drink.”
Dougal felt a sting of surprise. His manhood being questioned hurt his pride. Yes, he might be lying here with three stab wounds in him. Nevertheless, if she was here, a little closer, in his arms, he was sure he could seize the moment. So to speak. He frowned.
She watched him over the rim of the cup, eyes solemn.
“Drink.”
He drank. The concoction was bitter, vile. Hot. He choked and spluttered. “What is this?”
“It's a tea of Valerian. Yes, it tastes horrible. There's clove, for the pain, and spikenard. Drink all of it.”
Dougal winced. There was still some dark liquid in the cup. He lifted it and drained it, coughing on the bitterness. He lay back on the pillows.
Before he thought about it, his vision was starting to blur. He blinked at her. He felt as if he was riding through trees, the wind whistling past his ears, trees rushing past him. He tried to focus but his vision swam.
“Joanna,” he said. Her chair was beside his bed now, the cup in her long fingers as she replaced it on the table by his bed. He gripped her hand.
“Sleep, dearest. I'm here, watching over you.”
He felt a sudden wellspring of love growing in his chest. It was a beautiful feeling, as if a light had been let into his chest. He smiled up at her.
“...love you,” he murmured.
He lost focus then, his lids dropping over his gaze. He moved down on the under sheet, dropping into sleep. The last thing he heard was a whisper, which could have been his words, said back to him, and the gentle hushing sound of someone crying.