Chapter Twelve

 

Gabriella was fading in and out of consciousness; images flowed across her vision, her body one tight ache of pain. Like a whisper of soothing wind, she could hear Damon’s soft words of comfort as they flew across the land. The forest became a blur. She clenched her eyes shut with the pain. The scent of rain-washed pine faded in the distance. It was replaced by the stench of battle and the sweet, metallic smell of blood as it flowed from her body. It clung to each of them. It engulfed all her senses.

Each jarring gallop of the horse’s hooves shot pain through her back and settled in her bones like molten lava. She could feel Damon’s arm wrapped securely around her, holding her close, trying to keep her warm, but also keeping the cloth pressed tightly to her wound.

The rain had started again, a slow deluge that seeped into all of their pores, pummeling man and horse alike. The warm glow of the ramparts sputtered in the distance as they pushed the horses harder.

Fleetingly, she heard the crash of waves slamming against rocks, the roar matching the thunder of blood rushing in her ears. She thought she could smell the salty tang of the sea. The thunder of the waves grew louder. The din of the horse’s hooves echoed throughout her consciousness as they galloped across a wooden bridge.

Bleary-eyed, she thought she could see iron spikes hanging down from the top of a building as though suspended in air. As if it were important, she tried to remember what the iron spikes were called, but her mind whirled in confusion, the black, dark mask of pain etching every line of her features.

Her eyes flicked open and closed, open and closed as she remembered the name for the iron spikes. Softly she whispered from parched lips gone dry with pain, “Portcullis.”

* * * * * *

Damon looked down at her pale face, her coloring pasty white against the darkness of her cloak, the scepter of death too near for his liking. She had lost much blood and he was unsure how much more would be fatal to her small frame.

Hearing her words, he looked down into her pain-marred features and responded softly, “Oui, Cherie, ‘tis but a portcullis. You are safe now, I will see to your wounds. Stay with me, Cherie, all will be well.”

Damon had no idea why she had said such a strange thing, but looking at her face, he knew she was close to losing consciousness again. He could feel the warm, sticky substance that clung to her where the blood had soaked through the cloth. Turning his head, he watched the portcullis lower, its iron girth closing with a resounding thud through the slate gray day, protecting them safely inside the walls of Blackmoor.

The dark stone edifice wrapped itself around the riders, the color a perfect match to the swirling pewter heavens. The turrets had sentries posted intermittently along the towers with each man on watch as their lord had ordered at the time of his departure.

It seemed as though a pall of gloom clung to Blackmoor and its every crevice. Death seemed to loom through every archway, every room held its own betrayals. Blackmoor’s history ran deep, and it was whispered among the people that every Lord worked side by side with the devil. No one was safe from the destruction that would eventually claim its inhabitants.

Damon knew the history, but right now, racing through the inner bailey, he kept his opinions tightly to himself. As Fallon thundered through the inner bailey, each stomp equal to the crashing waves, and still holding the weight of its two riders, Damon bellowed orders as he went. People emerged from within the castle’s warm, dry walls to assist their Lord and his returning soldiers. Sliding from his horse with Gabriella in his arms, he threw the reins to the boy who had come to take Fallon to the warmth of the stables. Striding briskly up the steps to the great hall, he shoved the doors open with a crash.

“Rosalynn,” he roared as though a great beast returned home from the hunt. He marched towards the warmth of the fire, his deep voice echoing through the rafters of the hall. “Where is that damned woman?” he asked no one in particular, shifting Gabriella in his arms. Both were soaked through. Her wet hair hung limply over his arm, water pooling on the floor. Her head was cradled against his heart, her lithe frame held easily in his arms. “Now, woman! Come when I call,” he exclaimed.

“I am here, milord,” said the quiet, wizened voice from behind him.

He whirled sharply to face her, surprised that he had allowed her to sneak up on him. She had come from the kitchens, the warm scent of food permeating the air. She moved as silently and gracefully as a cat.

Rosalynn was a short woman, her head coming only to the middle of his chest. Her pale gray hair was pulled loosely in a braid down her back. Her hair matched the drab woolen gown that was hidden beneath the crisp whiteness of her apron.

She was slightly rotund and her face was etched with the lines of age and knowledge. She was old, but hardly looked frail and elderly. Her pale blue eyes showed kindness and sparkled brightly with wisdom in the glow of the firelight. She spoke softly, but Damon knew, if provoked, this kindhearted woman could be as fierce as a bear and roar like the hounds of hell.

The peasants called her a witch, and whispered that she had the gift of sight and cast spells of sorcery with her healing herbs. She had been with Damon since he was a small boy, following him from his home in Normandy. She had lived with him in Artaine through the hell he had suffered as a ward of Lord Banet’s and then followed him through his adventures in the lands of the east. She was with him through the Battle of Hastings, and had been there with him through his wife’s death and the murder of his mother and sister.

She had wept her own tears and suffered the loss of his mother more than he did. Yet her smooth veneer always remained calm, no matter the inner turmoil she may be suffering. She was his rock, always present, never wavering.

There were no secrets he could keep from her and none knew him better than she. She had been his mother’s friend when she needed one, his friend when he had no other, and his provider when he was too small or too wounded to see to the deed himself.

He knew she would always be close at hand when he needed her. Knew, too, that he could always depend on her loyalty. He could admit, if reluctantly, that she did possess an uncanny amount of luck, and he knew from his own past experience of rents and wounds that she had attended to that she had a way with medicines, but he refused to call her gifts magic.

If it was not a tangible item that he could touch, smell, or taste, then it was not real. He was not some naive lad who could afford to live by hopes, dreams and magic. He lived by the blood and sweat of battle, the blood and sweat of life. He had no time for the fancies of young children and old women.

He glared, trying to use his height and sheer size to intimidate her. He should have known it wouldn’t work. It never worked when he was a lad, and it wouldn’t work now. Clearing his throat, he said, “I need dry clothes for the girl and your medicines for her wound.”

“All is waiting, milord,” she replied calmly. “A room has been prepared. Bring her, quickly,” she stated softly as she moved towards the stairs leading to the upper level of the keep.

He didn’t know how she knew he would be bringing her, and right now, he didn’t care. Clutching tightly to Gabriella’s limp frame, he turned and followed Rosalynn across the hall.

Wall sconces burned brightly down the hall that led to the main rooms of the castle. There was an alcove to the right just past the stairs and a large window reflected the lights off its dark panes of glass. The glass spoke of wealth that most knights did not possess. Many were not awarded the luxury of a castle, let alone could they afford glass to keep the wind and cold from seeping into the castle proper.

But Damon was no ordinary knight. His windows were covered in glass. Glass that was covered in drops of rain that continued to fall against their darkened surfaces. In the firelight, he could see the brief reflection of Gabriella in his arms, soft and beautiful, frail and needing. In such little time, she was beginning to make her mark upon him.

Damon brought her to the end of the long hall and stopped before a large wooden door. On the right was the room reserved for the lady of the castle, his room was directly across the hall from it. He had not been in the lady’s room since his wife’s death shortly after their arrival to Blackmoor.

He stood at the threshold, not wanting to enter the room. The memories of her death still haunted him, and he swore he would never cross its dark threshold again. He stood utterly still as the past washed over him. He could see her at her small writing desk, the candlelight glowing across her pale hair, rosewood filling his nostrils with its clawing scent. The night beyond the castle’s walls thundered, much like tonight, as storm and sea crashed against each other.

He felt the red fury of betrayal fill his veins. His heart clenched in pain with the thought of her loving another. He knew, had read the proof with his very eyes, held the letter she had written in his own hand. They fought, she screaming at him, calling him a monster. He had called her an adulteress; a whore. He had the proof, intercepted the letter to her lover and confronted her, demanding his name so that he could call him out to the battlefield.

He remembered the rage that he had felt as he watched her spew her words of lies and deception. It was all he could do not to throttle her himself and force the truth from her. She had run from him that night, run in an attempt to flee him, to flee the web of her deception.

He had chased her through the castle, across the great hall and out into the thundering night. All the while begging her to stop, pleading that she return to the castle, that they try to somehow work this out, yet she would not listen. She ran to the cliffs that surrounded Blackmoor on three sides. In horror, he watched as she flung herself over the edge of the cliff, her body crashing on the rocks below to be swallowed by the pounding surf.

“Do not allow the past to haunt your future, milord,” Rosalynn said, as she stood within the entry of the room. The candlelight glowed softly around her, her hair silver in its light. “Do not allow it to harm your future, or the future of the lady you hold in your arms. The past has no more control over you. ‘Tis time to let it go.”

Hers was the soft voice of reason, bringing him back from the shadows of his past, the shadows of anger, pain and loss. His demons slowly vanished, stirring him to action. He brought Gabriella’s still form to the bed and laid her down amidst the blankets and furs that covered its large expanse. He noted the warmth of the fire that filled the room. The tapestries that covered the floor and walls. The bed was hung with thick green curtains, pulled back to let in the glowing firelight.

The bedding had been blue when Therese had resided here, and the scent of rose had clung in the air. Now, all of it had been changed; green and silver reflected in the candlelight, sandalwood and rosemary clung to the air. Where everything for Therese was stark and cool like an ice goddess, the colors and scents now seemed meant for Gabriella; soft, earthy, warm and beautiful.

He took stock of the table laden with candles, their glow adding to the warmth of the room. A large bowl and pitcher were also on the table along with a plethora of herbs and salves. Cloth was stripped and folded in piles all in readiness for the patient lying amidst the bedding.

“Tend to your needs, milord,” Rosalynn said firmly, a servant girl joining her. “I will see to your lady’s wounds.”

He looked from the still, pale form on the bed to the warm caring face of his guardian. He knew that she would take care of her as if she were her own. She would be gentle where Gabriella’s pain was greatest, kind where evil had marred the skin. Gabriella was in the best care that could be offered. Taking his demons with him, he nodded curtly and strode from the room.

* * * * * *

Rosalynn and the servant girl, Anne, quickly built up the fire and stripped Gabriella of her sodden clothes. A paste made from Yarrow, Plantain and Calendula was prepared. They washed her and made an infusion to cleanse the wound on her back. Rosalynn sewed the gash and covered it with the herbs that would heal it and keep the infection out. She wrapped it tightly and put a sleeping gown over the girl’s unconscious frame. As she laid her back against the pillows, she watched as dark green eyes slowly fluttered open. “Be still, milady, all is well. You are safe, where you belong,” she said, gently caressing her brow.

“Where…am…I,” Gabriella whispered, her voice cracking with pain. “Where…where is Damon?” her strangled words barely broke the silence of the room.

Rosalynn watched her. She was tiny, yet strength exuded from her. Her wet, dark red hair clung to the pillow in whirling waves of crimson.

Rosalynn stilled as though the gods were speaking to her. Knowledge filled her as though viewing the pages from a book. The end was not yet written, this chapter of her life only just beginning. Certainty coursed through her and she softly caressed the hair from the girl’s face. “He is near, milady, and will be with you soon. You must rest now and gather your strength,” she crooned. “Rest now, all is well.”

* * * * * *

Gabriella closed her eyes to the soft glow of candles. She was warm, warmer than she could remember being in days. The kind lady said she was safe now, and that Damon would be with her. For reasons she couldn’t explain, she believed her. She felt disconnected from her pain, lethargic as if she was floating, and she was tired, so very tired. Slowly, she succumbed to sleep.

The peacefulness didn’t last; dark dreams engulfed her subconscious. Visions of sword wielding demons haunted her. In a mist thick with voices, she could hear the screeching cries of the dying chasing her, haunting her from the darkness. The ground beneath her feet squished, sloshed around her shoes, sticking her in the crimson mud. A scream clogged her throat, and she swore she could vaguely hear the call of her mother echoing from the darkness. The thunder of horses surrounded her, and the pitch of zinging arrows filled her heart with fear. The visions faded, and she fell into soot-gray darkness.