although perhaps not in quite the way she’d hoped. Lady Ethel de Sheddlesby had not been a font of gentle kindness to her daughter, or anyone else, during her long life.
In spite of that, however, her death had left a void in Lady Jane’s existence. She had her small household to oversee, of course, and since it was unlikely she would ever marry, given her age and lack of beauty, she must find her joy in that. Or become a nun, and that she didn’t want to do.
No, she would maintain the estate until she died and it passed to a distant male relative, and she would go to the church to pray for her mother’s immortal soul, although she rather expected her mother was not in heaven and never would be, no matter how many prayers and masses were said in her behalf.
Still, the building, made of stones that came pale from the earth, then turned to a warm brown, was not an uncomfortable place to spend some time, and the lingering scent of incense and damp wood and stone was a comfort in its own way.
“My lady! My lady!”
At her maidservant’s panicked cry, Jane glanced at the double doors, where Hortensa pointed a shaking finger into the yard. “There’s a … a man!”
Despite her maid’s agitation, Jane saw no need to be frightened or rush to the door. Hortensa was prone to hysterics, so this man could be a peasant, a tinker, a soldier or even a priest passing by. Instead she rose, made the sign of the cross and then, wrapping her cloak more tightly about her, started toward the door.
“I think … I think he’s dead, my lady!” Hortensa cried with ghoulish relish.
That made Jane quicken her steps. When she reached the door, she peered into the churchyard.
There was indeed a man lying prone among the gravestones. He wore chain mail and a surcoat, and his arms were at his side as if he’d been crawling toward the church when he’d collapsed on the ground. He had no sword in his scabbard, or helmet on his head, and his gray-and-black hair looked damp, no doubt from the dew. He’d probably been there at least a portion of the night.
Most disturbing of all was the dried blood on his surcoat. He’d obviously been attacked—but by whom and how had he come there? Was he alive, or dead?
Jane opened the door wider, intending to go to him, until Hortensa stuck her arm across the opening to bar her way. “If he’s alive, he might be dangerous!”
“If he’s alive, he’s unconscious,” Jane replied, certain of that if nothing else. “Look at his surcoat—that’s no thief or outlaw’s.”
“He could be one of them mercenaries riding about the countryside! Terrible men they are, robbing and raping and God knows what else!”
There was a chance Hortensa was right, yet Jane didn’t think she was. “I’ve seen the sort of mercenaries Lord Wimarc commands, and they don’t dress like that.”
“That fellow could have robbed a knight. I wouldn’t put nothing past those blackguards Lord Wimarc hires.”
Hortensa was right about that, too, and yet.” I can’t leave a man in such a state,” Jane declared as she pushed away Hortensa’s none-too-slender arm. “He might die before our very eyes.”
“What if he’s a thievin’, rapin’ murderer?” Hortensa protested as she reluctantly followed her mistress, trotting to keep up with Jane’s brisk pace. “What would your poor sainted mother say?”
Her mother had never been poor, and she would never be a saint. “Probably exactly what you’re saying.”
Despite what Hortensa might want to believe, her mother’s postmortem censure had no power to influence Jane. She’d lived too long under her mother’s thumb while she was alive not to enjoy her freedom now that she was dead.
Jane knelt beside the man and gingerly parted the torn surcoat of thick black wool where a blade had cut through both surcoat and mail into the right shoulder; the mail, cloth and flesh beneath were now crusted with dried blood.
How long had it been since he’d been wounded? How had he managed to live despite that grave injury? He must have lost a quantity of blood.
He groaned.
Startled, she sat back swiftly.
“Careful, my lady!” Hortensa unnecessarily warned.
Jane looked up at her anxiously hovering maid. “He’s too seriously injured to do us any harm,” she said before she gently rolled the stranger onto his back.
He moaned piteously and his arms flopped as if they had no muscles. More blood trickled from his full lips and matted his grizzled beard and hair. His nose arched like one of the Roman emperors whose busts she’d seen in London, and his skin was brown from hours in the sun. A soldier, surely, and perhaps a knight.
“Sir?” she ventured as she looked for more wounds. She couldn’t see any more, thank God. “Sir?”
When he didn’t answer or open his eyes, she laid a hand on his forehead.
“God’s wounds, he’s burning. Hortensa, run back to the manor and fetch two men with a wagon. We’ve got to get him home and in a bed. Then go for Brother Wilbur. This man’s wounds and fever are too severe for my skills.”
“But my lady, we don’t know nothing about him—who he is nor how he come here. Your mother would never do such a thing.”
Jane pressed her lips together. No, her selfish, querulous mother would never bring a wounded stranger into her household—but she was not her mother.
“My mother is dead,” she said firmly, “and I’m chatelaine of Sheddlesby, so if I order you to fetch my men to take this poor Samaritan back to my hall, you will do it.”
“Yes, my lady,” Hortensa replied, suitably chastised by Jane’s forceful words.
As Hortensa ran off toward Sheddlesby, Jane took the stranger’s callused hand in hers.
“You’re going to be all right,” she softly vowed. “I’ll take care of you, whoever you may be.”
CHAPTER FIVE
NORMALLY, LIZETTE enjoyed being in the cool, quiet woods. Many a time she’d fled to the forest outside Averette to get away from the conflict in the household: her tyrannical father raging at her poor, sick mother; Adelaide doing her best to come between them and make peace; in more recent years, Adelaide’s unwanted suitors, who could be amusing or interesting, but just as often a lascivious nuisance; Gillian gravely looking on or going to the kitchen to be with the servants, endearing herself to them with her quiet, competent ways.
Alone in the forest, Lizette could pretend to live the exciting adventures she craved. Sometimes she was a poacher sneaking up on a mighty stag; sometimes she was a ‘Gyptian girl, telling fortunes or dancing for money. Other times, she was a bold knight tilting at trees with a long stick, guiding her imaginary trusty steed. or else she was simply Lizette, singing with the birds—exhibiting her one true talent to them alone.
Unfortunately, this forced march through trees and undergrowth, over a barely visible path, fleeing men who wanted to do her harm,
