WOUNDED
The forest was dark, the clouds returning overhead. Henry ran over slippery leaves, reaching back for Amice's hand. If someone attacked them now, how would he be able to protect her? His chest was aching and he could smell the acrid scent of his own blood, feel the tug and burn of the blood, drying. He was starting to feel sleepy. So sleepy...
Run. Amice is with you. If they catch you, what will become of her? Run. Stay awake. If you die, who will find out what you discovered?
He ran.
Up ahead of them, he heard a huntsman's horn. He tensed. Stopped running. Looked at Amice.
“If they have...dogs...” he paused, panting, trying to catch his breath. “We're dead.”
Amice nodded, her eyes big. “Up the tree?” They were leaning against a big oak tree, its branches bare. It was tall and they might have escaped undetected up there. Henry shook his head.
“We'll be...trapped,” Henry whispered. Amice nodded as he continued. “Got to...cross water.”
“Yes.”
If they crossed even a small stream, the dogs would lose their scent. It was worth a try.
They waited to see if they could hear the hunters, then went forward. The woods were empty.
Amice listened, every sense primed. They had to find water. They walked ahead, listening.
“Henry,” Amice whispered. “Where are we?”
“Heading...south,” Henry whispered back. He had to stop and rest. The pain was wearing at him, and the loss of blood making him dizzy. He could still feel it running, though the flow had lessened. The wound was a slice rather than a stab. If it was a stab it would have killed him.
They went on through the trees. Henry saw Amice go tense.
“Listen?” she whispered. He strained to hear what she heard. A trickle, faint and murmuring. He nodded.
“Water. This way.” He pointed before him and a little left. Amice nodded.
“Let's go.”
They came upon the water after ten minutes of walking. A shallow stream, bisecting the forest floor. It was calm and tranquil, the water clear despite the leaves that crowded the bank. Henry sank down against a tree trunk, feeling suddenly weak.
“Cross first,” he whispered to Amice. “Then I'll cross.”
Amice nodded. She lifted her skirts a little and waded through the stream. She stood on the bank, looking over anxiously. “Come. Henry! I can hear something.”
Henry stood, slowly. Why did everything hurt so much? He winced and walked across the stream. Then he collapsed.
“Henry!” Amice shouted.
Henry lay where he was, too weary to continue. He stared blankly over the leaves, knowing he would die if they didn't get help soon. He couldn't die. What about Amice? What about him? If he died now he would never see her again; never find out what happened in their story.
Gritting his teeth, grunting with effort, he rolled over until he was kneeling, his torso slumped forward. Then he stood.
“The village is that way.”
Amice nodded. She was crying, the tears sliding wordlessly down her face. “We'll get there,” Amice said gently. “We will. You'll live. Please, live.”
Henry chuckled but the action hurt his ribs so he stopped. “I'll try.”
“Good.”
They walked on, step by dizzying, aching step, through the trees.
Smoke, sharp and rich, came from nearby. Henry breathed in the scent, the smell of it weaving up to his confused, weary senses. He coughed.
“Smoke,” he said to Amice. She nodded.
“I know. I can smell it too. Must be someone making a fire.”
“We must be close now.”
Amice nodded. “I think I can see a wall.”
Henry felt his legs go weak under him as he looked to where she was looking. She was right. There at the margin of the trees, was a house. They had made it through the woods to somewhere.
“Yes,” he said. “Now, I need to...walk.”
Amice laughed. “Yes, love. Yes, you do.” She reached for his arm and, as much as he was reluctant to do it, Henry found it helped to lean against her. Together, weary and relieved beyond anything Henry had ever known, they stumbled out of the forest and onto the farm.
The scent of hay and warmth floated up to Henry, mingling with the scent of smoke. He stumbled on the cobbles of the yard and felt Amice wrap firm hands round his shoulder, hauling him upward. His vision was swimming, now, a narrow tunnel of black that admitted one small image at a time.
“Safe,” he whispered. They went to the door. He heard a farmhand shout something, and he shouted back.
“Help.”
He spoke in French and knew he wasn't understood, but he heard Amice repeat the words and the man came up. Then a woman came out of the door, hair covered by a linen cap. She took one look at Amice, at him, and came out to help.
As the older woman took his other arm, hauling him up, Henry felt the blinding pain flare up on his left side as she stretched the wound. His vision swam and faltered. He passed out.
The last thing he remembered seeing was Amice's lovely face, a wrinkle of concern lining her brow. If that is the last thing I see, Henry thought, his heart warming, I will have lived my life well.
He let the blackness fill his vision then, sinking into it completely. The noise of a fire, crackling, reached his ears. Lost in the memory of the burning inn, Henry strove to wake. He had to move, had to reach her. If he didn't, she would burn.
He sat up, eyes wide. Where was he? The room was unfamiliar and he was in a broad four-poster bed, a fire roaring in the grate opposite.
“Amice,” he said sleepily. “Where is Amice?”
He heard an older voice say something. Whoever the owner of the voice was, she sounded confused. He heard another voice reply. Then he heard a third voice, one he recognized.
“Is he...Oh!”
Amice was there. He felt her hand take his and then he saw her, the soft face with its big brown eyes wide with tenderness and care. “Henry,” Amice said, sitting down by his side. “Thank Heaven you're awake.”
“I do,” he said dryly. He tried to laugh but pain seared through him and he stopped. He could barely think or talk, every word coming to him through a fog. “Where are we?”
“We're in the farmhouse. These people are called Lewis. They helped us. We would have died if they hadn't let us in.”
“Probably,” Henry nodded. “What happened?”
“We reached the farmhouse just as the huntsmen came out of the woods. They had crossed the river. I heard them near the farm. As we went inside, I heard them pass the yard. They would have seen us...” she shook her head, sobbing.
“Well, they didn't. Thank Heaven,” Henry added. He chuckled, and then gasped. The pain seemed to be getting worse, if anything. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.
“Mrs. Lewis said you need doctoring,” Amice said, bringing his attention back to the pain of his wound. He nodded.
“I think she's right.”
Amice chuckled. Then she was serious again. “We need to get you to a monastery or something, somewhere where people will help you and won't ask questions.”
“Good...idea.” Henry hissed out a breath. “Is there one?”
“I asked Mrs. Lewis. She said the abbey of Saint Bernard is nearby.”
“Good.”
Amice took his hand. “You should rest. Try and eat something.
“I should try,” Henry agreed. You too.”
“Yes.”
Henry drew in a rasping breath. His vision was blurry and he could feel his head throbbing. He was cold, so cold. He knew he was starting to get feverish. “Gold. In...pocket.”
“I'll look,” Amice promised. “I'm sorry, Henry. But we had to take off your clothes.”
Henry blushed. “Amice! You surprise me.”
Amice giggled. “I closed my eyes, I promise.”
“I don't believe you.”
He heard Amice giggle and he fell back to sleep abruptly, taking the memory of that bright sound into the dark.