The Captive Heart (47 page)

“Praise God and his Blessed Mother you are now rid of that crazed lord,” Father Donald said. “We are free to roam our own hills again in safety.”

He was near now. He sensed it. He had stopped at one of the Douglases’ lairs just on the border separating England and Scotland. The Douglases populated both sides of the periphery between the two countries. He would not remain the night with them, for he did not trust them, but stayed only long enough to gain directions to Dunglais. While he had been there once before, he was not entirely certain of the way. He rode out again. Above him the sky was lowering and threatening. There was the sound of thunder in the distance, and the distant sky was filled with sheet lightning.

The Douglas chief watched him go, and his son remarked that the man was a fool to leave when the weather was turning dangerous. “What does he want at Dunglais so badly that he continues on in such a storm?” the boy asked his father.

“The laird’s wife,” the Douglas chief said, laughing knowingly. “He stole her once before. It’s not likely he’ll succeed again. The man is as mad as a rabid fox.”

“Should we send word to the laird then, Da?” the boy asked.

“Nah. No need. The laird will kill him on sight. No reason for us to be involved,” the Douglas chief decided as the skies opened up and the rain began to pour down. He peered through the torrent, but Sir Udolf Watteson was no longer in sight.

Indeed, he was now a distance from the Douglas house and struggling to keep his edgy horse under control as the thunder boomed and jagged lightning began to pierce the skies around him. The animal danced nervously, becoming more frightened with each clap of thunder, which seemed to be growing louder. In a rare moment of sanity, Sir Udolf began to consider that perhaps he should have remained with the Douglases at least until the rain was over with. And then, without any warning, a bolt of lightning shot almost directly into the path before them. It was so close it singed the horse and Sir Udolf smelled the scent of burning hide. His animal reared up, terrified, throwing the rider from its back and galloping off into the mists.

Sir Udolf hit the ground and his head struck a rock, rendering him unconscious. But before he lost his senses he heard a crack and a fierce pain shot through him. Around him the thunder continued to boom, now moving away with the lightning, but the rain poured down in torrents for at least another hour. Night fell, and Sir Udolf lay unconscious on the hillside. Now and again he would swim to the surface of the darkness only to fall back again.

The following day dawned fair, and two women out seeking medicinal plants came upon the injured man. One of them was young and garbed in a red jersey gown. The other, obviously a servant, older. It was she who spotted Sir Udolf first.

“Mistress, look!” She pointed to where the fallen man lay.

“Is he alive, Fyfa?” the younger woman asked, her bright blue eyes curious. “I hope he is alive. It has been some time since I have had a man to amuse me.” She peered closely. “His clothing is good. See what is in his pockets. Does he carry a money pouch? It’s been so long since I’ve had any coin of my own.”

“Mistress, this is not wise,” she said nervously.

“Do as I bid you, Fyfa!” the younger woman commanded in a hard voice.

The serving woman bent down and rifled through the fallen man’s clothing. She found one small pouch containing some silver coins and three coppers. “Here,” she said, handing them up to her mistress. “It isn’t much.”

The man groaned suddenly, and Fyfa jumped up with a little shriek.

“Oh, he’s alive!” the young woman said. “Good! We must get him to the cottage if we are to keep him alive. You stay with him. I will go back and fetch Rafe.”

“Mistress,” Fyfa quavered. “I do not think this is wise.”

“You never think what I do is wise, Fyfa,” the younger woman replied, and then she tripped off.

The man groaned again, and his eyes opened. “Where . . . am I?”

“Do not move, sir,” Fyfa responded. “You have been injured. We are getting help now. How came you here?”

“Where is my . . . horse?” Sir Udolf asked.

“There was no horse when we found you,” Fyfa said.

“The storm . . .”

“Is long gone, sir. It was yesterday afternoon, and a fierce storm it was,” Fyfa replied. “Did the storm frighten your beast? Did it throw you?”

Sir Udolf tried to remember, and his brow furrowed. Then he nodded. “Aye.”

“When we get you safe to the cottage I’ll send Rafe to seek it. If you are a fortunate man we will find your horse, sir,” she told him.

“Where am I?” he asked her again.

“Near my mistress’s cottage. She has gone to get help. We have a man to do heavy chores. He is simple-minded, but willing and strong of back,” Fyfa said. “She is fetching him so we may get you back to the cottage in order to treat your wounds, sir. It appears that you hit your head on yon rock. See. There is blood.”

He turned his head, and pain shot through him. He groaned. “I may have broken a bone,” he said.

“Will you permit me to check for such an incident, sir?” Fyfa asked him.

He nodded. His head hurt him, and he was helpless. “What is your name?” he asked the woman, who, from her appearance, was a servant.

“Fyfa, sir,” she responded. Her hands moved gently over him. “I believe you have dislocated a shoulder and possibly broken your left arm.” Her hands moved carefully over his torso, and he winced. “Bruises, I’ll wager, nothing more,” she assured him, “but all in all ’tis not too bad.”

“I’m hot,” he said. “Have you any water?”

Fyfa put her hand on the man’s forehead. He was burning up with fever, and had obviously caught an ague lying out all night in the damp. “Nay, I have nothing with me, but it will not be long, and Rafe will get you to safety. Might I know your name, sir?”

“Sir Udolf Watteson,” he replied.

They waited silently then until her mistress and Rafe came for them.

“Be careful of Sir Udolf,” Fyfa told the big dull-witted serving man. “His left shoulder is dislocated, and the arm may be broken. Be gentle, Rafe,” she cautioned.

Rafe nodded and then picked the injured man up as gently as he could. The wounded man cried out and then fainted. Rafe trotted back to the large cottage with his burden, looking to his mistress for further directions.

“Put him in the little bedchamber,” she said, licking her lips. Then she turned and looked at Fyfa. “You obtained his name?”

“He is Sir Udolf Watteson, but that is all I know,” Fyfa said.

“Time enough for the rest of his story,” the young woman said. “Go and tend to his wounds, Fyfa.”

“I will need your help, mistress,” Fyfa said. “We must get him out of his clothes to gain the true measure of his wounds.”

The younger woman nodded. “Very well,” she said.

Together the two women entered the little bedchamber where Sir Udolf had been set upon a small bed. There was no help for it but to cut his clothing off.

“Burn them, Fyfa. They stink. We’ll have to bathe him after we’ve examined him. Pull his right boot off. I’ll remove the other.”

Fyfa threw Sir Udolf’s soiled garments into the hearth. Rafe had been told to take a horse and see if he could find Sir Udolf’s own animal. Perhaps there would be a change of clothing in his saddle-bags. If not, they would have to find something for him. For now the unconscious man needed to be washed and tucked beneath the coverlet. And then Fyfa thought she would have to make some kind of a brew to take down his fever, get his shoulder relocated, and put a splint on his arm.

“His manhood is quite nicely proportioned,” the young woman noted. “When he is well enough I shall avail myself of it.” Reaching out, she fondled Sir Udolf, her elegant fingers sliding up and down its length. Her dainty hand slipped beneath the man to cup his balls in her palm. “They are a bit smaller than I would have anticipated, but then he is injured, and his cock shows promise.” She chuckled, releasing her hold on the now stiff fleshy rod. “Let us heal him quickly, Fyfa. I will leave him to you now,” she said, and departed the tiny chamber.

The serving woman fetched a warmed cauldron of water from the cottage’s hearth, some rags, several jars, and two pieces of wood. She set to work bathing Sir Udolf as best she could. When she had finished she put her knee into his shoulder and pressed down hard, and to her relief it snapped back into place. She poulticed the arm to help it heal before binding the two short pieces of wood to it. Fortunately the bone had not come through the skin of his arm, but she had been able to see the damage before she bandaged it. It was not likely the arm would be of much use to him again even if it did heal. Then she managed by pulling and rolling him to get him beneath the coverlet. He stirred and opened his eyes as she began to draw the curtains about the bed to keep the draft from him.

“Where am I?” he rasped.

“You fell from your horse, Sir Udolf, but you are now safe in my mistress’s cottage. I have bathed and tended to your injuries. I am going to get you a soothing draft to drink now. It will help you to sleep, and sleep will heal you.”

“Fyfa,” he said. “Your name is Fyfa.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, and then she left the small chamber.

She had left the curtains half-open. He scanned his surroundings. A cottage, but not a servant’s or peasant’s cottage. That kind of cot would have had just one or two rooms. There would not have been a chamber, however small, for a guest. Nor a bed with hangings. He became aware of himself suddenly. He was naked beneath the coverlet. His arm was poulticed and splinted and, while sore, his shoulder seemed back where it should be. He shivered beneath the coverlet and, closing his eyes, dozed fitfully until the door to the little chamber opened and Fyfa returned carrying a steaming mug.

“I’ve fixed you a nice cup of broth with some healing herbs mixed into it,” she said and, drawing up a stool, she began to feed it to him. She didn’t mention that she had also added a sleeping draft. Sleep was the best medicine for his injuries, and for the ague he had contracted out on the moor in the pouring rain.

“Whose cottage is this?” he asked her, speaking between bites.

“My mistress will tell you all you need to know on the morrow, my lord,” Fyfa told him. “You are safe, and Rafe has returned. I am sorry, but he was not able to find your horse anywhere. The storm obviously sent it into a long gallop.” She continued to feed him until the mug was empty and his eyes were beginning to droop.

“I am tired,” Sir Udolf said.

Fyfa stood up. “Then I will leave you to sleep, my lord.”

He watched her go, and while he needed to know where he was and who the mistress of this small house was, he accepted that with a broken arm he was helpless for now. He would have to wait a bit longer to claim Alix, but had he not already waited several years? He could wait a while longer, but she would be his. He could hear the faint stirrings of the household about him as he fell asleep.

“Will he live?” the mistress of the cottage asked her serving woman.

“He’ll live,” Fyfa said. “I’ve washed him, tended to his injuries, and fed him. He’ll sleep until the morrow. He’s got an ague, but I do not think it will trouble him too greatly, mistress.”

“How quickly that lovely cock of his rose when I stroked him,” the young woman murmured. “In a few days, when his healing has begun, I shall take him for a little jog,” she said with a smile. “How long has it been since I have had a man to fuck? We do not see many visitors, Fyfa, do we?”

“This one is a lordling,” Fyfa said. “English, by the sound of him.”

“We shall have to learn what he was doing in so desolate a place,” her mistress said softly. “And if anyone will miss him if he does not come home,” she purred, her blue eyes narrowing in thought.

Fyfa said nothing in reply. There was no stopping her mistress when she made up her mind. It was all she and Rafe could do to keep their mistress contained to the cottage and the area around it. But that was their duty. She and her brother had been fortunate to gain this employment. They had been penniless and homeless when the laird had found them on the streets of Edinburgh. After he had questioned them and learned their circumstances, he had offered them a comfortable home in exchange for watching over a mad relation.

“Let her have her way within reason and as long as she does not harm herself,” the laird had instructed them. “But she must not be allowed from the cottage unless you are with her, and she must not be permitted to roam the hills about the cottage. She is isolated for a reason. If you feel at any time you can no longer continue to mind her, you will send to me and I will see you are relieved of this duty. You will not be sent off penniless. I will provide that you and your brother receive coins enough for a fresh start wherever you choose to go.”

But where would they go? Fyfa thought to herself. They were country folk driven from their father’s farm by their elder half brother, who had inherited. He didn’t want an unmarried sister and half-witted brother about when he married shortly. And so Fyfa had taken Rafe to Edinburgh seeking employment, but there had been none. She had taken to begging on the streets to sustain them, and then the laird had come along. He had carefully questioned them. Fyfa was gentle-spoken and Rafe simple-minded but obedient to his sister. And so the laird had brought them to this isolated place in the borders to look after the mistress.

They lived comfortably. The house was a large cottage with several rooms. Rafe slept in the loft of the little barn with the animals. They had a cow and several chickens for which he was responsible. There was a small brown and white hound and several cats. Every few months a large fellow would come from the laird with the supplies necessary to keep them well fed. If they needed something, Fyfa would request it of the big man. The mistress was always kept in her own chamber when the man came. Fyfa grew a kitchen garden in which there was an apple tree. And she was skilled in the making of herbal drafts and cures. It was a pleasant life but for one thing. Her brother had had the task of burying several men over the almost seven years they had been here. They were hapless creatures, young and fair, who had stumbled upon the cottage, been ensorcelled by the mistress, and then killed by her when their usefulness ceased. Fyfa knew she should have told the laird’s man the first time it had happened, but then what would happen to her and her poor brother? Although she had no reason to distrust the laird, she could not be sure he would keep his word. He might even blame her for these terrible things that had occurred. And then they would be homeless once again, at the mercy of who knew what. Rafe could not manage on his own. He was content now in the life he had. Fyfa remembered how difficult it had been for him in particular when their brother had cast them from the only home they knew. So she kept silent.