Chapter 5 #3
Nyneve told herself she’d stay awake in case Galen sent for her, or if someone else in need of help came to the cottage’s door. But when a series of aggressive knocks sounded some hours later, it pulled her from what she groggily realized had been a deep slumber.
“For the Morrigan’s sake, you don’t need to be so godsdamn loud,” she muttered, dragging herself to sit up.
She blinked into the pitch-dark; the hearth had gone out, and her vision was blurry with sleep.
The knocks sounded again, and she dragged herself to her feet, finding she was still fully dressed, save for the boot she’d removed from her injured ankle.
She grabbed it and shoved her foot into it, cursing under her breath as she shuffled to the door.
When she pulled it open, the light of the moon and the torches bracketed to Camelot’s serpentine stone walls nearly blinded her. “Yes?” she asked.
“You the new apprentice?” a short, squat man of middle age asked. “I’m the stablemaster.”
“I am the new apprentice,” Nyneve confirmed. “Galen’s in the noble quarters with Lady Morien, I’m afraid.”
“I just need some herbs taken to the stable,” the man said. “Colicky mare. I’d take them myself, but a scouting party returned and I need to meet ’em at the gate.” He stepped back, examining her with a narrowed eye, the same way he might have appraised horseflesh. “Can you handle that?”
“Walking herbs a few hundred paces?” Nyneve asked in a breathy, maidenish tone, her eyes doe-wide. “Why, yes, sir, I do think I’ll manage it.” Like most men, the stablemaster did not catch the derision in her tone.
“Good,” he replied gruffly. “Chestnut, chamomile, and elm. For a draught.” And then the stablemaster turned without another word, disappearing down the path and into the sweep of nightfall.
“Lovely to meet you,” Nyneve said into thin air, leaving the door open as she turned toward the shelves, searching for the herbs. Once she found them, she bundled up the jars in linen wrapping as she’d seen Galen do, grabbed a single crutch for appearances’ sake, and then set out for the stables.
At the cottage’s fence line, she paused, driven by years of Druidic apprenticeship. She reached deep into her overdress’s pockets and produced a few iron nails, as well as dried rowan buds. With a few quick words, she sprinkled them at the cottage’s gate and then was on her way.
She’d noticed earlier when assisting Galen that the stables weren’t too far from the physician’s cottage, which pleased her.
She’d always liked horses—animals in general, but particularly horses.
Though more rest and sleep would’ve served her well, a little part of Nyneve was pleased at the prospect of spending some time in the stables, surrounded by the smell of sweet hay and the muskiness of horses’ coats.
Moonlight shimmered on the stable’s thatched roof, the base of which was made of the same dark gray stone that seemed common throughout Camelot.
The structure was impressive, Nyneve thought, a spacious L-shape set at the top of a hill with paddocks on either side, the larger pastures farther downslope, accessible by a well-worn dirt path.
She steadied the crutch under her arm and walked through the entry arch. The stables were quiet this time of night, only the soft munching of hay meeting her ears. At the far end of the aisle, though, someone led a pretty, fine-boned gray horse away from her—likely the colicky mare, she knew.
“Hello,” she called out, setting the herbs on a wooden trunk pushed up against the wall. “Galen sent me. I’ve got the herbs the stablemaster requested.”
At the far end of the aisle, the mare turned, coaxed by her handler. A few lanterns lit the stables, but considering how quickly fire took in a place filled with hay and straw, they were few and far between, making the horse and the person difficult for Nyneve to make out.
Until, all at once, she could. Her breath caught.
Beside the pretty mare walked a tall, powerfully built man.
By the sword at his waist, she knew him to be a knight or a noble—or otherwise someone of import to Camelot’s society.
The lantern light carved out his angular features: deep-set eyes and a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and a slightly aquiline nose.
He moved with a kind of easy grace that Nyneve had only ever seen in predators.
She bit down on her tongue, frozen in place as he drew closer, until the knight from the clearing stood only a few paces from her.
He raised one large hand to stroke the mare’s mane, the glow of the lanterns tracing the veins and tendons of his forearm, exposed by the rolled sleeve of his tunic.
Unbidden, she wondered what those long fingers would feel like on the curves of her own body.
She met his oceanic gaze, suddenly aware of every stitch and seam of her garments, her bust straining against the laces of her kirtle.
“Hello, again,” he murmured, his voice deep and rumbling. “Come to steal another horse, little thief?”