are we, sir?” the lad asked while he shook himself off and shivered. Though Everand strove hard to erase the trepidation from his voice, Henri knew he surely must fear what was to come. Truth told, he feared it himself, though not for the same reasons.
He needed to reach safe haven so that the boy would have a chance at survival. At the moment, Henri was not certain he could manage that. His own chances were meager at best. Doggedly he placed one foot before the other and steeled himself against the grinding pain. The bleeding wound just below his ribs ached less than the hurt in his heart. He had lost everything.
If he died, he must account to God. And if he lived, he must face his father. In his mind, there was little difference. Not that he expected harshness in either case, for both had treated him benevolently thus far and would again. And that would be far worse than any punishment they might inflict. A bitter brew, indeed, was defeat.
He had not caused it. In fact, he had done all within his power to prevent it. And yet, he still felt accountable, responsible somehow for losing what had been entrusted to him. The lives of those who had followed him when he’d been called to war were forfeit. All gone. All drowned, save young Everand.
“I know this land. We are not lost,” Henri finally assured the squire. He experienced a sharp stab of guilt that he had dragged this young man so far from his home in Sarcelles to fight against the English. And to a near watery grave when their ship sank off the coast of Portsmouth. Even so, the fourteen-year-old lengthened his short-legged stride to keep in step. Eager as a hound pup to please the master, even now. Henri shook his head at the earnestness of youth.
“You should rest, my lord. That wound of yours worries me.” The squire did not mention that Henri had begun to stagger and show signs of weakening. Loyalty and compassion had been bred in this boy’s bones, Henri thought. For that reason alone, he had chosen Everand Mercier, a deceased cloth merchant’s youngest, to serve him. What a fine knight he would make one day, despite his size.
“There should be a settlement not far up the coast. We will bide there and send a message to my family,” he told the boy.
“We have little coin left to hire anyone for that, my lord,” Everand informed him. “Will it not involve their traveling near the width of Scotland?”
Henri halted and pulled the silver chain from around his neck. He also removed the ring he wore on his smallest finger, and shoved both pieces at the squire.
“If death takes me, use the chain and pay someone to cart us to Baincroft Castle in the Midlothian. The baron there, Lord Robert MacBain, will notify my father. He will have a care for your future.”
To his credit, Everand did not argue or offer assurances that death was impossible. He knew better. He only nodded and asked, “What of your ring, my lord?”
Henri smiled and reached out to lay his hand upon the small, bony shoulder. “The ring is yours to keep. Tell Lord Robert and my father that I would call you my son.”
Everand blushed and laughed with disbelief. “I, my lord? Look at me! I am as light as you are dark! That aside, they will never credit that you sired such a runt even if you were old enough at the time to have done so! Which you were not,” he added wryly. “I doubt me you were even…tall enough at the time.”
“Tall enough?” Henri chuckled in spite of himself, for his head had grown light as air. Ev could always draw a laugh from him, even in the darkest hour.
Though he knew the night was not yet near, the landscape seemed to darken and waver against the horizon. Henri sank to his knees and sat back on his heels. “Tell them, all the same. I claim you. Lord MacBain will accept this. He is a brother to me, yet we share no bond of blood.”
“But, sir, you cannot mean to deceive your family into thinking I am your bastard,” Ev argued.
“Of course not. Never think I would ask you to deny your legitimacy, Ev, or the good man who sired you. But I mean to adopt you here and now if you do not object to it. While you can never be heir to my title, you will inherit a portion of my personal wealth. You deserve that for all you have done for me.”
“Then I thank you, sir. Though you are too generous.”
Henri sucked in a pained breath. “I fear you were right on one issue, Ev. A rest might be in order.” He grasped his side and felt the sticky wetness warm his palm. After days of this, he must be nearly bled out.
He gave what he felt could be his final order. “Go and find that village and fetch a cart for us, Ev. I will wait for you here.”
Then Henri lay down on his good side and watched Everand’s short legs pumping nearly knee to chest as he raced up the coast to seek help. When the lad became a speck in the distance, Henri muttered a brief prayer, closed his eyes and welcomed sleep. For however long it lasted.
“Begone from here and leave me be!” Intrigued as Iana was by the young fellow who had constantly bedeviled her for the past half hour, she was not inclined to hie herself off with him on some wild errand of mercy. She had been busy all day in preparation for leaving Whitethistle. There simply was no time for this.
She shifted the sling bearing the sleeping child to a less awkward position on her back, lowered the bucket into the well and waited for it to fill. If she washed their clothing now, it would dry before nightfall. They could leave the village before sunrise.
Pity for the young lad’s plight prompted her to speak as she began tugging on the well rope to draw up the wash water. “I have heard there is a healer a league or so north of here. Get her to go with you.”
“You must come,” he insisted, impatiently shifting from one foot to the other. “Thus far you are the only person I have found who understands a word I say. Does your husband speak my language, too? I will explain our plight to him so he will let you come. He would be glad of the reward we offer, would he not?”
“I have no husband,” she replied. “Nor do I have time to waste upon some wounded vagabond. Now, off with you.” She picked up the bucket and turned to go.
“We are not mere wanderers, I swear. Sir Henri will die if I do not bring him help. Please!”
None in this godforsaken place spoke any French at all, that much was true, Iana granted. Even should this lad make himself understood, no one hereabout would trust him. Earnest as he seemed, what woman in her right mind would go blithely off down a deserted beach with him when he might have older friends waiting to ravish her or worse?
Yet she could see for herself that the boy was no beggar, nor did he look to be an outlaw seeking sport. His clothing, wrinkled and ruined as it was, possessed a richness foreign to these cottagers. His speech indicated a worthy education and his manner indicated gentility. She did not truly doubt he was what he declared, some knight’s squire.
Iana set down the bucket again and faced him, hands on her hips. It troubled her to think she could save someone with a few moments of her time and a handful of herbs, when he might otherwise die. “How far away did you leave this fine master of yours?”
“Only a short distance,” he assured her. He lied. She could see it in his eyes and rebuked him with her expression. “Very well, then,” he amended, shamefaced, “I admit it is a good two hours’ walk.”
“Two hours?” Iana threw up her hand and rolled her eyes. “Why me? Why would you think I know aught of healing?”
