Chapter 9 #2
“That you would have to ask the king, and he does not take well to being questioned from what I hear,” he cautioned. “We best not linger. We have a journey ahead of us that will be made easier by the horses that are now ours.”
Elara’s eyes turned wide, the violet color glowing like a polished amethyst stone. “Feena, the old healer, maybe she can at least advise me on how to control my visions.”
“You will need to see if you can trust her first,” he said, taking hold of her hand and leading her to the horses.
“I will be careful,” she assured him.
“I know,” he said firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The forest closed around them. The leaves whispered overhead, faintly gold in the morning light, and Elara knew something within her had changed—her gift no longer whispered quietly, it had woken, never to sleep again.
They reached a small village by late afternoon, a scatter of cottages and market stalls gathered along a dusty lane. The air carried the smell of baking bread and wood smoke, and the faint cries of traders bartering over their wares.
Dar’s eyes swept the market. “We’ll rest here awhile. I will see if I can sell the two horses we don’t need. That will bring us needed coins.”
Elara nodded. “I’ll wander the market and keep to myself.”
“Make sure that you do. Speak to no one and keep your hood worn low,” he warned, tucking it further down on her head, his thumb brushing her cheek. He stared at her for a moment, words about to slip off his tongue, then he turned, disappearing with the horses toward a stable.
Elara wondered over his look and that he held onto words not sure if he should speak them. The struggle troubled him and her as well since she worried what it might mean. Did he think differently of her now that he knew she had visions? Could she truly trust him to keep her secret?
She brushed the troubling thoughts aside to remain focused as she strolled through the market.
She passed a stall of rough-spun cloth, another of clay jugs, until she came to one where bundles of dried herbs hung from a wooden frame.
She stopped without thinking, her fingers brushing a generous length of rosemary tied with twine.
The scent sharp, stirring memory and instinct.
Her eyes lit when she spotted the bundles of comfrey and foxglove, Maelis would barter for them.
She shook her head lightly when a woman haggled with the stall keeper over the price of marigold that was well worth the asking price.
“Ah, you know herbs,” the stall keeper, a gray-haired woman with quick, clever eyes, said after the woman left minus the marigolds.
“I’ve studied them a bit,” Elara said carefully, not wanting to draw attention.
The woman smiled faintly. “More than a bit, I’d say. You admire them like a healer would.”
Elara froze. “Why would you think that?”
“Because only a healer’s eyes would admire the comfrey and foxglove as you did,” the woman replied, tapping one bundle with her knife.
“And I saw how you shook your head a bit when the fool woman argued over at the price of marigold—only healers know its worth.” Her brow scrunched.
“Or an herb-scribe, their knowledge greater than that of healers.”
Elara started to answer, but a small voice interrupted.
“Mum, my arm hurts.”
A child, her sleeve stained dark with dried blood, stood beside a plump woman.
The woman gave an embarrassed laugh. “She’s clumsy, fell this morning and got a wound beyond my care, though I’ve done what I can, but…” Her words faltered, hope flickering behind them. “There’s no healer left here. The king’s men took the two we had.”
Elara’s heart twisted, and she offered, “I’m an herb-scribe. Let me see if I can help.”
A look of admiration from the two women made her proud of her chosen field. The studies to achieve her knowledge were arduous and ever continuous, though they had come far more easily to her than others.
“Let the kind lady see your arm,” the woman said to her daughter and the young lass held it out to her.
The child’s arm was swollen and warm, the cut angry and red. Elara looked around. “You mentioned the healers being gone. Could I make use of their cottage and their medicinal herbs?”
“Aye,” the woman said, nodding, her eyes wide with relief. “Follow me. It’s down the lane by the stream. Our healers would be only too glad for you to make use of it to help us.”
Elara followed the woman through narrow lanes to the cottage. It was small and tidy, a thin layer of dust having gathered along the stocked shelves. Herbs still hung from the rafters, their scent faint but comforting.
The hearth was cold, and Elara quickly set a fire so she could boil water.
She found the herbs she needed, betony to help the infection and lady’s mantle to keep it from getting inflamed.
She crushed the leaves in the large mortar and pestle on the table, then mixed them with honey.
After washing the lass’s wound clean, she spread the mixture over the wound and bandaged it with a clean cloth.
“She’ll mend fine,” Elara said, smiling at the lass. “Keep the bandage clean and change it come morning and add more salve.” She scooped the remaining mixture into a small crock and handed it to the woman.
Tears welled in the mother’s eyes. “Bless you, mistress. You’ve a healer’s heart.”
Elara spoke a bit more with the woman, hoping the word herb-scribe or healer would not be heard and whispered through the village. Or there could very well be consequences.
But word travels faster than silence. An old man with a cough was waiting outside when the woman opened the door to leave.
A woman was limping toward the cottage, ankle swollen, and a mother with a crying bairn in her arms hurried from the distance.
Elara couldn’t turn them away. She had the knowledge and skill they needed, and it wouldn’t be right to deny them.
She worked until signs of dusk approached her, hands steady, her spirit light.
When the last of them left, they thanked her with small offerings; apples, a loaf of coarse bread, oatcakes, and cheese.
She hurried and cleaned up the cottage and gave a last glance around, wishing things were different, wishing the healers weren’t in danger, wishing she could simply continue her work as an herb-scribe.
She stepped outside to find not only the woman from the herb stall there, but Dar approaching with the two horses they had ridden.
“I’m here to tell you that everyone in the village agreed. You and your husband are welcome to stay the night, longer if you wish, here in the cottage. You deserve it for tending to our ill.”
Elara saw how Dar’s eyes narrowed and his jaw grew taut. He was angry with her.
“That is kind and generous of all of you and I thank you for a place to shelter for the night,” she said, making it clear they would be leaving tomorrow.
“Then I will leave you to rest,” the woman said. “But know you are welcome to stay longer if you wish and you have a home here any time you wish to return.”
Elara thanked her again and the woman walked off, though made a point of stopping by Dar to say, “You are a lucky man to have such a generous wife and skilled herb-scribe.”
Dar approached the cottage, stopping to tie the horses’ reins to a tree branch before reaching her, grabbing hold of her arm, and hurrying her inside. His eyes swept the cottage. There was no mistake, it belonged to a healer.
“What in the blazes were you thinking?” he snapped sharply.
“They needed a healer. But I am an herb-scribe the closest thing to a healer, so I did what was needed.”
“How did they learn you had more than a healer’s knowledge?” he demanded, his jaw still tight with annoyance.
“I was drawn to the herb stall,” she admitted as if that explained it.
He stepped closer to her. “And what happens when the wrong sort finds out?”
Their gazes locked, the tension between them taut.
“I couldn’t turn them away,” she said, with a resigned sigh. “Would you have me watch a child suffer?”
“Nay,” he said, her honesty and caring causing his anger to subside. “I want you safe, that’s all.”
“No healer is safe until the king finds who he searches for,” she reminded him.
He stood silent for a moment, not paying mind to her words, relieved that no harm had come to her, and the urge to kiss her overwhelming him. He warned himself against it, but it did little good. The desire was too much to ignore.
His hand was suddenly at the back of her neck, holding it firmly as his lips came down on hers.
It was no soft, sweet kiss that landed on her lips. It was eager and demanding and Elara responded without giving it thought. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. But she couldn’t resist and her lips demanded as much from him as he did from her.
His hand slipped off the back of her neck, down along her back to tuck her hard against him, though he didn’t need to persuade her. She responded willingly, instinctively as though it was meant to be, as though they were truly husband and wife.
The thought had her tearing her mouth away from his and stepping hastily away from him, and with labored breath said, “This cannot be. There is no future for us.”
“But there is this moment to enjoy,” he said, his eyes heated unmistakably with passion.
Briefly, she considered it, only briefly. “I do not look for a moment, a joining that means little.”
He stepped back, glancing down at the food offerings on the table and snatched up a piece of cheese. “So, you are a maiden who prefers marriage to pleasure.”
His words reminded her just who he was. “And you are a wanderer who prefers pleasure to anything permanent. A mismatched pair for sure.”
“Aye, that we are,” he said, understanding that she meant they would never know intimacy together. “We’ll leave at first light. Tonight, we’ll enjoy the shelter and decent food.”
Sadness washed over her when she expected relief that he understood and agreed. She was wise in realizing it and yet it hurt her heart to accept it. She had to guard against her feelings for him, not let them root more deeply and grow, for they would never bloom.
Rest was something she could use after the long day, but as for the food, she didn’t know if she could take a bite. Her grumbling stomach let her know it thought differently.
Dar laughed hearing it, glad for the distraction from the kiss that he hadn’t wanted to end but knew it was better that it did. She was right. They had no future together. So why did that irritate him so much?
He waved her toward the table. “Come, wife, and let us fill our bellies, then rest, for tomorrow holds no promise of either.”
Night fell and the village fell silent. A faint wind sighed against the shutters, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and rain. The hearth burned strong, keeping the room heated nicely.
Elara lay beneath the blanket on her side staring at Dar where he sat with his back against the door, cloak drawn around him, his head tilted back against the wood. The firelight touched the sharp line of his jaw, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“You needn’t sit there all night,” she murmured.
“Aye, I do,” he said quietly. “You’ve a way of finding trouble even in kindness.”
She smiled faintly into the darkness. “You make that sound like a fault.”
“It’s a dangerous gift,” he said, eyes half-closed. “But I suppose I’d rather guard it than see it lost.”
The warmth in his tone startled her, and for a moment neither spoke. The only sound was the pop of the fire and the distant cry of an owl.
Sleep began to pull at her, slow and heavy until it finally claimed her.
He sat, his eyes fixed on the flames until they burned low. When at last he turned his head to look at her, he found her sleeping soundly, her silver hair spilling over the pillow like moonlight.
He let out a short breath before he whispered, “You have unleashed something in me, woman, something I don’t know if I will be able to contain.”
Then he leaned his head back against the door, nodding off into a light sleep.