A Sorceress of His Own Read online

  As if inactivity left him too much time to think or remember.

  But remember what?

  Whilst Robert continued to pace, limping a bit, Alyssa wondered if his desire to accompany Dillon stemmed from his need to stay busy or if he worried that Camden might harm Dillon though treachery.

  “Ere your arrival,” she ventured at last, “your brother expressed an uneasiness about besieging Pinehurst.”

  Halting, Robert frowned. “Did he?”

  “Aye. ’Twas why he would not hear of my accompanying him, though I have done so often in the past. I begin to wonder if that is not the true reason you have been left behind as well.”

  “Camden can be a crafty little bastard when he is sober,” Robert muttered and returned to tower over her. “Have you seen the future, Wise One? Know you the outcome of this campaign?”

  “That is beyond my capabilities,” she replied, conveying apology with her aged whisper. “My knowledge of future events is limited to occasional premonitory dreams, which I am afraid my sleep of late has lacked.” Nay, her most recent dreams had been consumed with wicked images of Dillon taking her in his arms and tumbling her to his bed. Of him lowering his lips to hers, his hands caressing her.

  Robert raked his fingers through his hair, a gesture of frustration he had acquired from his brother. “I will not let Dillon’s misguided attempts to protect me keep me from guarding his back as he approaches Pinehurst.” He turned sharp eyes on her, as if daring her to disagree with him. “I shall follow him and stay to the trees.”

  Alyssa nodded, relieved. “I pray such precaution will prove unnecessary.”

  He seemed surprised. “You will not prevent me from leaving?”

  Her eyebrows flew up. “I possess neither the power nor the authority to do so.”

  He grunted. “My brother places such faith in your counsel that I sometimes forget…”

  That she was a servant? A peasant?

  Would that Alyssa could forget as well. “I shall gather the herbs you will need, should your leg trouble you further or should anyone incur an injury,” she told him as she turned and walked away, wishing she could be there to heal Dillon if he were wounded.

  “But I know not how to administer them,” Robert protested, following her.

  “I shall give you instructions for their uses.”

  “Why do you not simply accompany me?”

  Robert’s concern for his brother must be immense if he were willing to endure her company—just the two of them and his squire—for such a trip.

  “I cannot go against your brother’s wishes, Robert.”

  “I am,” he reminded her.

  “You are his brother. You are family. I am but a healer. Lord Dillon wishes me to remain here at Westcott, so I shall remain here at Westcott.”

  “Aye, Wise One,” he murmured with a hint of contrition. “Forgive me for pressing you.”

  She smiled. “You become more like your brother every day.”

  * * *

  Bird song flirted with Dillon and his party, bouncing from one side of the road to the other and back. Faint rustling sounds filled the gaps in between as small creatures foraged in the detritus that littered the forest floor.

  A cool breeze wound its way through the men, preventing the bright sun above from roasting them in their mail and thickly padded gambesons. Riffling the manes of the horses, it continued on to pluck golden leaves from the trees.

  Dillon listened with only half an ear to the conversations of his men. His thoughts kept returning to recent events. Particularly to those that had involved the wisewoman.

  Did she truly believe he would never wed? When he had told her of his dream—a dream he had been so sure was a sign, though he shared not her gifts—she had deemed it impossible.

  Had she seen the future? Dreamed of it even as he had?

  Or, knowing the truth now of his sexual conquests (if one could call them that), did she believe no gentlewoman would have him? That none could love him?

  He scowled at the rutted and pitted dirt road that stretched before them.

  He supposed she would be the best judge. She knew him better than anyone did.

  How many nights had the two of them spent hunched over a game of chess or Nine Men’s Morris, exchanging quips or sharing a comfortable silence or even engaging in heated debate?

  Why could he not find a bride who would be willing to do such? he wondered, frustration mounting. A bride like the lovely woman in his dream who had, at last, given him a taste of true tenderness?

  Another kind of heated debate arose behind him.

  Sir Guy and Sir Aubrey had both taken a liking to the cobbler’s daughter. Dillon should have left the pair at Westcott and instead brought more seasoned warriors with him. Older, uglier, more seasoned warriors who could not attract a maid’s notice if they tried. Then Dillon would not have to hear about it.

  Gavin began to sing a bawdy tavern song to drown out the young knights’ bickering.

  Lucifer’s arse! They had been traveling for less than a day and Dillon already tired of their company.

  His mood darkening, he opened his mouth to bark out a command to silence them.

  Something slammed into his right shoulder.

  Grunting, Dillon clamped his teeth shut as fiery pain erupted in his shoulder and traveled down his arm, burning him as though someone had touched a torch to his flesh.

  Looking down, he glared at the quarrel that had pierced his armor.

  “To arms!” Sir Laurence cried.

  Swords left sheaths.

  Dillon forced the fingers of his right hand to curl around the hilt of his own sword. Growling in agony, he drew it from its sheath and laid it across his lap as he searched for the archer who wielded the crossbow.

  Another bolt embedded itself in his right thigh.

  Guy and Aubrey, the men he had only moments earlier regretted bringing, closed in on both sides of him, trying to place themselves between Dillon and the one intent on killing him.

  But Dillon had already located the archer.

  Bellowing in fury, he urged his mount forward.

  The powerful destrier charged off the road and into the forest.

  Halting just inside the trees, Dillon dropped the reins, drew a dagger with his left hand, and launched it at the fellow trying to duck behind the trunk of the tree whose branches supported him.

  Dillon watched with satisfaction as his blade buried itself deep in the man’s chest.

  Guy pointed his sword. “There! And there!”

  As the archer tumbled to the ground, Dillon followed Guy’s aim and saw mayhap a score of men slipping from shadow to shadow.

  Low tree limbs made it too difficult to follow on horseback.

  Guy leapt to the ground and raced forward. Aubrey followed on his heels, their squabble forgotten.

  Dillon slid from the saddle, cursing when it jostled the wound in his thigh, and nigh dropped his sword. His right arm useless, he transferred the sword to his left.

  Laurence, Edric, and John headed after the other villains, shouting battle cries.

  Squires scrambled forward to grab horses’ reins.

  “My lord!” Gideon cried, skidding to a halt in front of him.

  Dillon motioned for his squire to take control of the destrier beside him, then started forward.

  Sir Gavin grabbed him by his uninjured arm and halted him. “Let the others rout them out whilst I tend to your wounds.”

  Dillon shook his head. “They outnumber us. My wounds can wait. Just break the shafts.”

  The burly warrior hesitated a moment, then grabbed the shaft of the bolt protruding from his shoulder and snapped off the bulk of it.

  Dillon growled as his pain doubled.

  Gavin did the same with the quarrel in Dillon’s thigh, allowing him to move more freely without the shafts catching on branches.

  Sucking air in through his clenched teeth, Dillon tightened his grip on his sword. “Go with Guy and Aubrey.”

  Nodding, Gavin headed after the duo, who had already caught up with the bandits and engaged them in battle.

  Dillon turned to see how Laurence and the others fared.

  A third crossbow bolt struck him in the chest with such force he stumbled back a step.

  More fiery agony.

  Stunned, he looked to the archer he had felled.

  The man lay in a motionless, broken heap on the forest floor, no weapon in his hand.

  Two archers.

  There were two archers.

  He opened his mouth to warn his men, but found he could not draw enough breath to do so. His chest, where it did not hurt from the arrow, felt tight. His heart began to race. His legs weakened.

  Someone shouted his name. Gideon mayhap?

  A roar, like that of an enraged bear, filled the forest.

  Staggering backward, Dillon bumped into his destrier, then leaned against it. His eyes searched the trees above and around them until he found the second archer.

  “There!” he cried as loudly as he could and pointed his sword at the man.

  A dagger embedded itself in the man’s throat.

  Dillon sank to his knees. His breath grew short and choppy, crackling in his lungs like dried leaves. His head began to swim. Blood wet his gambeson, tunic, and hose.

  Unable to remain upright, he collapsed onto his back.

  A large form barreled forward and grabbed the archer before he could hit the ground.

  Dillon blinked as the newcomer impaled the dying archer with his sword then found another victim. And another. Tearing through them like a hungry wolf.

  Robert?

  Satan’s blood. What was Robert doing there?

  Fighting like a Berserker, ’twould seem, killing anyone within reach with ruthless precision.

  Gideon knelt beside Dillon and put pressure on the wound in his chest, attempting to staunch the flow of blood.

  Dillon groaned, darkness beginning to cloud his vision.

  He knew not how long the battle raged as he lay there, struggling for breath and cursing his inability to fight alongside his men.

  Robert dropped to his knees and leaned over him, his blue eyes wild, his face and tunic glistening with the blood of those he had slain. “Dillon!”

  Releasing his sword hilt, Dillon raised his left hand.

  Robert clasped it. “All but one are dead. And he will only live long enough for us to question him.” He looked at someone beyond Dillon. “Guy! My sack! Quickly!”

  His brother’s blue eyes held such fear when they returned to Dillon’s.

  “W-Wise One,” Dillon uttered.

  Robert nodded. “I shall get you to her. Aubrey!”

  Aubrey joined them down on the ground as the others crowded around. “Aye?”

  “Put pressure on his wounds.” Robert gave Dillon’s hand a squeeze. “I shall be but a moment, brother.” Rising, he grabbed Gideon and guided him over to the young squire’s horse.

  Through the legs of his men, Dillon saw the two engage in heated discourse before Robert bellowed, “Marcus!”

  Did they argue over how to get him back to Westcott?

  If so, it did not matter. Dillon had seen wounds such as this in past battles.

  As Gideon and Marcus conferred, Robert returned to Dillon’s side and began removing Dillon’s mail.

  Every jerk, every jostle, sent new waves of pain careening through him.

  Robert took a blade to Dillon’s gambeson around the base of each arrow shaft. From his sack, he drew packets of herbs he sprinkled on the wounds with hands that shook.

  Dillon’s thoughts went to the woman who had no doubt supplied those herbs.

  When he had told the healer about the bride in his dream, she had as much as said he would never wed.

  “Sorceress,” he whispered.

  “I will get you to her brother,” Robert vowed again.

  Dillon paid him no heed.

  The seer had been right. He would never wed the woman in his dream.

  He would not live long enough to find her.

  Chapter Three

  Whenever Dillon was away, the wisewoman could more often than not be found in her chamber beneath the kitchen’s massive storerooms. Speculation ran rampant regarding what secrets might be found within its walls. Other than the lords of the castle, none had ever crossed its threshold and beheld the interior. A few, desperate for her healing skills, had garnered enough courage to knock upon her door. But they always kept their eyes averted, fearing a curse would befall them if they saw whatever sorcery she performed within.

  Alyssa knew not if seeing her chamber would ease their fears or enhance them. ’Twas on the sparse side, with very little adornment of any kind. A single enormous tapestry woven by her mother garnished the wall that bordered the dungeon, which frequently lacked occupants. Dillon was neither unduly harsh nor exceptionally lenient when dealing with his people. If punishment was called for, he did not hesitate to exact it. The harsher the crime, the more severe the penalty that must be paid. And sometimes that necessitated imprisonment.

  No sunlight touched her chamber. Only candlelight and the flickering flames of the hearth dispelled the gloom. Two wide floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with ancient tomes and scrolls divided the room in half. The farther half served as her sleeping chamber, boasting a modest wood-framed bed, a small table, and a trunk containing her clothing and a few keepsakes.

  The closer served as a workroom that tended to terrify any who accidentally caught a glimpse of it. A small stool rested beside a long table, strangely organized in all of its bizarre clutter. Stoppered jars, containers, and packets of herbs vied for space on its surface. Bladders filled with strange liquid concoctions hung from the ceiling. Ropes and sticks and staffs of all widths and sizes clustered together in groups. Cauldrons fit for brewing any witch’s potion abounded. And, in one dark hidden corner, three cages housed her pets.

  Standing at her worktable now, Alyssa measured out several herbs that, when mixed together and added to goat’s milk, would aid new mothers who were having difficulty nourishing their babes by stimulating healthier milk production. She had performed the task so often in the past that she could do so in her sleep. Which was fortunate, because she seemed to be having difficulty concentrating.

  Her mind kept wandering, abandoning the actions of her hands.

  Dillon wanted a wife.

  A familiar tightness settled in her chest at the thought.

  That he would marry eventually she had always known. He was the Earl of Westcott, a man of great power and wealth, friend to the king, with numerous properties and his title to bestow upon an heir. Though Dillon had professed many times that he would happily bequeath it all to his brother, he deserved more than to live out his life alone.

  He was a good man. An extraordinary man.

  Dillon may be reserved—if not gruff—with others, but he had let her see enough of his soul to know that he would make an excellent father, showering his daughters with love and affection, lavishing attention upon his sons and guiding them into becoming fine, honorable men.

  But to get those sons and daughters, he must first take a wife. And Alyssa did not know if she could bear to watch him do so from the shadows.

  “Healer!”

  Starting violently at the sound of that frantic voice shouting through her door, she scattered powder across the table and knocked the remnants of the dried ginger root to the floor.

  “Healer, please! ’Tis urgent!”

  It must be, she thought, shaking off her morose thoughts. Naught else would prompt the superstitious people of the keep to seek her out whilst she reputedly practiced her dark arts.

  Pulling the cowl up to shield her face and hair, she strode to the thick wooden door and yanked it open.

  A boy, barely old enough to grow a beard, staggered back a step, breathing heavily.

  Her heart stopped. Prickles of dread tickled her nape. ’Twas Marcus, Robert’s new squire, covered in sweat, grime, and dried blood.

  “Speak quickly,” she hissed. If aught had happened to Robert…

  “Lord Dillon has been wounded,” he blurted.

  Shock rippled through her. “How badly?”

  “Mortally, Wise One.”

  Ice filled her lungs, choking off her breath.

  Mortally.

  Spinning around, she grabbed a cloth bag and started to rake bandages and assorted containers into it. “You will take me to him immediately. See that the fastest mount in my lord’s stables is readied for me at once—”

  “Nay, Wise One. ’Tis too late for that.”

  The bag slipped from her fingers. “What?” she asked faintly.

  His voice softened with regret. “’Tis too late.”

  Her knees buckled. Collapsing onto the stool beside her worktable, she stared blindly at the floor. Never had she known such despair.

  Dillon dead? It could not be. Dillon could not be dead. She would have known it. She would have felt something. Why had she not felt something?

  “They were ambushed,” Marcus said, daring to venture a step or two inside. “Sir Robert and I raced forward as soon as the first shout arose, but Lord Dillon had already been felled.”

  Felled.

  “Sir Robert said ’twas too well timed. They knew everything. They knew ’twas not Lord Dillon who left with the bulk of the troops. They knew how few of his guard accompanied him. When he left. What route he took. They knew everything. And he was their only target, Wise One. Had we not routed them out so swiftly, they would have melted back into the trees without engaging the rest of us.”

  An awful numbness swept through her as she listened, paralyzing her, freezing her insides. She thought that if she were to attempt to move in that instant, her body would shatter into as many pieces as the broken jars in the cloth bag at her feet had when she had dropped it.

  “Sir Robert was not injured?” she forced through stiff, unmoving lips.

  “Nay, Wise One.”

  “Had he any instructions for me?”

  It cannot be true! It cannot be true! Please, do not let it be true!