The Witch's Reward (8 page)

He was right, she wouldn’t appreciate it. She began to talk as she scooped up water to wash her face, neck, and arms, not caring if the liquid splashed her dusty dress. She spoke of Farr. It was the only thing she knew, besides medicine. And so as she washed and took care of her needs, she described the people she’d grown up with and life as the granddaughter of a small village healer. 

“You almost finished, witch?” he soon interrupted her one-sided conversation.

After a brief pause, she replied, “I have a name, you know.”

Another pause.

“Fine, then. Finish your washing and we’ll get back to camp…Larra.”

From her position on top of the rock, Larra almost smiled at the use of her name. The way he said it made it sound almost elegant. It was such a small thing, to not be constantly referred to as a witch, yet it made a world of difference to how she felt.

She reached down and wet her fingers, bringing her hands up to smooth back her hair and twist it into a large bun. Grabbing a stick from the ground, she used the piece to hold the bun in place. She felt refreshed and well, all things considered.

It wasn’t until she began to lower herself from the rock that she realized she had a problem.

Chapter 8

“Captain?”

“What is it?” Christoff asked, leaning his head back against the tree trunk. The minutes waiting for her, listening to her soft, low voice as she washed had been almost interminable. He’d kept the knife in his hand as a precaution, but he doubted its necessity. Lucien’s words kept hammering in his head, reminding him not to trust her, to always be on guard. But his gut told him she wasn’t a threat. Not at all.

And his gut was never wrong.

He was in a serious predicament, that was for sure. The day had been long and difficult, and through it all the girl had been nothing but brave, accepting her arrest with a quiet strength and resoluteness that was admirable.

And she was so beautiful. So beautiful that looking at her was almost painful. He was strong enough, experienced enough as a knight, to know not to let physical attraction get to his head. But coupled with courage and dignity, and everything he’d learned in his training was pushed to the limits.

If they’d met in a different time and place, if she’d been born of noble blood, or at least out of a respectable family, he probably would have courted her. She was that exceptional.

But she was a witch. He and his men had visited several of the villagers on the list and their testimonies matched. There was no doubt about what they had witnessed. Which meant that what he was thinking and feeling was likely little more than a carefully crafted deception. He had to remember that.

“Captain?” her voice intruded again on his ponderings. “I’m done, but have small problem. I’ve applied the salve to my feet, but it’s not dry and I’m afraid if I stand on the ground I will just re-infect the cuts. Do you have something I can wrap around my feet so that I can walk back to camp?”

Christoff looked down at his clothes. He’d removed a portion of his armor at the campsite, and the black and green embroidered garments offered little in the way of bandages. He could always walk back to camp and find some strips of cloth, but didn’t trust the girl enough to leave her alone for even a moment. He looked to the dogs, which whined just slightly as if feeling his indecision.

He sighed. There was really only one thing to do.

He stepped around the tree and approached the girl as she sat upon the boulder. Bracing himself, he ignored her startled gasp and reached for her.

“What—?”

He slipped one arm around her back and the other under her knees, scooping her up to his chest. He could have sworn he felt his heart stop beating when she threw an arm around his neck to keep from falling—not that he would have dropped her. She wasn’t skinny, but she was slender enough that carrying her was no burden. And she was warm. She felt warm and alive, and very human.

Her thick brown hair was bundled up, giving him a bird’s eye view of elegant features and slender shoulders. She hadn’t relaxed against him, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d never been held like this before. Perhaps she hadn’t.

It was probably the longest walk of his life, holding her so close, trying to keep his emotions in check. He’d given in to them briefly that morning, when he’d seen that young man from the village chasing after the wagon. It bothered him to admit that she obviously had admirers—ones who didn’t care that she had magic.

She was a healer. He wondered what type of witch spent her life healing others. The notion was so conflicting with what Lucien had said about witches, that they were wholly selfish and dangerous, that Christoff found himself intrigued. What kind of a witch preferred healing instead of hurting?

When she’d asked him to call her by name, he had been momentarily caught off guard, but he figured that if he could call his dogs and horses by their names, then it couldn’t hurt to call a witch by hers. He only hoped that doing so wouldn’t prove to be a mistake. He didn’t want to get any closer to this girl than he needed to in order to fulfill his father’s orders. She was too much of a temptation.

He spied the campfire ahead, creating a flickering, orange glow in the darkening night. From the looks of things, his huntsmen and dogs had returned with several fat woodland hares, which were being rotated on a roughly made wooden spit over the fire. The men were chatting, breaking bread and drinking from their flasks as they waited for the meat.

The chatting ceased when Christoff entered the clearing. Ignoring their bewildered looks, he beckoned Sir Griffen to join him with his human cargo near the wagon.

“She had no shoes,” he said lamely at Griffen’s quizzical look. In his arms, he felt Larra’s head lift, and one of her arms reached out to hand the knight the container of salve.

“Thank you,” she said. “From the smell, it contains the right mixture of herbs to help prevent infection. I am very grateful. Surprised, actually, since it is oddly similar to what my grandmother makes.”

“You are quite welcome,” said the older man, smiling gently.

Of all the men in his party, Christoff knew and trusted Sir Griffen the best. During Christoff’s training to be a knight, the older man had been his mentor, teaching him about horsemanship and how to outmaneuver an enemy on the field. He was the most experienced of all the men here, and though he was technically retired, he had agreed to accompany Christoff on this particular assignment. Griffen claimed he needed time away from home and the incessant nagging of his wife, but Christoff knew he just wanted to be back in the field. Retirement could be hard on a man who was used to spending every day training and fighting, and knights were forced into it at an early age because of the demanding physical requirements of the occupation. Since Christoff knew Griffen to be only forty-six and plenty spry, he figured the man was just bored. Besides, Christoff knew Griffen’s wife, and she wasn’t the type to nag much.

He had asked Griffen earlier for the container of healing salve he always carried. It had come in handy on more than one occasion, and Christoff knew it would help with the scratches on the witch’s feet. He felt somewhat guilty that she had been cut up. He hadn’t given her time to get her shoes, and while she was guilty of witchery, she didn’t deserve to be abused. He also couldn’t help but admire her for not complaining about the scratches. Most of the girls he knew would have been hysterical over such injuries.

“Grab a couple of blankets for me, Griff. Spread one out by the wheels. She can eat there before she has to go back into the wagon for the night,” Christoff nodded at the pile of bedding that lay warming by the fire. 

“Untied?” she asked hopefully as she was being set down.

He paused while in the midst of removing his arms from around her. “Until we know more about you, I think it’s best to take the extra precaution.”

“You can’t be serious! How can I possibly sleep with my hands tied behind my back?”

“I’m sure you’ll make do.” He stood up and moved back.

“I’m not an animal, you know.”

Her words caught him by surprise.

“I’m not an animal,” she repeated, more forcibly this time. With the fire behind him, she was cast into his shadow.

“I realize that. Why do you think I let you wash in the river? We’re not monsters, Larra. We’re just cautious. If it were up to my advisor, you would have never been allowed out of the cage at all. The fact that I not only let you wash up, but removed your bonds to do so should testify to the fact that I don’t consider you an animal. Far from it.”

“Cautious?” she asked, amazed. “Of me?” She laughed acerbically. “I’m a healer. I heal people. I help them become better, help them live. And yet all of you assume I am a threat to your existence.”

“You are a witch. And you are not to be trusted.”

He turned his head and gave a shrill whistle. “
Andres, Hermes!
“ The two wolfhounds jogged up. “Guard!” he said, pointing a finger at Larra. The two hounds immediately sat and pinned their unwavering attention on her. “I’ll have someone bring you food. You’ll have a few minutest to eat before getting locked up.” She opened her mouth to argue further, but he walked away before she could utter another word.

I can’t believe this!
It was outrageous that she had to be both locked up and tied. Was he afraid she was going to be able to undo that lock and latch all by herself, without a key? She looked down at her slender arms. Even if she did have the key, she didn’t have the strength to swing the heavy door open.

She was even more upset when the man who came to lock her up was none other than Smithen.

“Captain asked for a volunteer to tie the witch,” he said, one brow rising in a sardonic manner. “I told him I wasn’t afraid of a puny little girl, even if she did have magic.” His ugly grin revealed a gap in his teeth where an eyetooth had been knocked out in a fight or accident. 

Probably a fight.
Larra drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around her body protectively. He scared her, this big, mean man. Mean in a way that made her want to curl up within herself and disappear.

She didn’t know what he planned, but glancing past him she saw that some of the other men, including the captain, were observing the exchange. She could only hope he wouldn’t hurt her with the others looking on.

“Come on, now, dovey. Get up and pull those hands behind your back so I can tie them.” She slowly unwrapped her arms and stood. He walked behind her, holding out the rope.

“Captain says not to tie them too tight, so I’ll be real gentle,” he emphasized the last words, his sarcasm and intentions obvious when she felt the jerk of the rough rope around her wrists. She felt him twist it, the pressure almost cutting off all circulation. Numbness began to settle in her fingertips. 

After a couple more jerks, he pulled her around to the open door of the wagon, then bent over her shoulder to whisper into her ear. She could feel his warm, foul breath fanning her cheek and resisted the urge to shrink away.

“You think you’re uncomfortable now?” he whispered. “Just be glad I’m not the one who took you to the river. So count your blessings, little witchy. I’d be real relieved to be tied up if I were you, ’cause the alternative, when it happens, is going to be a whole lot worse.” He rose to his feet, giving her one last frightening smile. “And you’d better not say anything to the captain about me, because he won’t believe you. He’ll just think you’re trying to trick him. And when I find out that you tattled,” he paused for emphasis. “I’ll make sure to visit your grandmother when I’m done with you.”

She shuddered as his beefy hands grasped her by the waist and hefted her into the wagon like a sack of grain. Struggling to sit up, she watched through the bars as he returned to his spot by the fire. He wasn’t bluffing. There was no mistaking that look of determination in his eyes. He truly wanted to harm her. And for a girl who had been protected her whole life, this was an awakening. It was a moment when naivety dried up and fell away like the shredded skin of a snake. A moment when she realized the world was not like Farr. The real world was cruel, because there were cruel men in it. And that cruelty was aimed at her.

If he ever took a turn at taking her to the river to wash, she was going to be in trouble. She could feel desperation pulling at her like a greedy grave robber on the door to a rich man’s tomb. Her trial hadn’t even begun and likely never would. Even if the possibility of a pardon existed, she’d never reach the palace to find out. She would die violently at Smithen’s hands before she ever made it that far.

She shifted until she could lie down on her side on the blanket. She would have cried out about the ropes being too tight, but she forgot all about them. The numbness in her hands ceased to register as her mind drifted down in a dark spiral of depression. Finally, exhaustion overtook her, and she fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

From across the camp, Christoff glanced to the girl lying still as death on the back of the wagon. He seriously doubted she was capable of escaping the enclosure, even if she used her magic; the door was difficult for even a knight to open, much less a slender reed of a girl. But the men were tired, as was he. They needed their nights free from the worry of an escaping prisoner, and the bonds gave them an added measure of security.

He had ordered Smithen to tie the bonds comfortably enough not to rasp her skin, but tight enough to guarantee they wouldn’t slip off. He hoped the man had followed his orders to the letter, especially after his blunder with the girl’s grandmother. Christoff was tempted to check the ropes himself, but decided against it. As a leader, he had to show a little trust. It was how training worked best—show a little trust in a man, and he trusted you in return. It was an important concept, and one that was worth a knight’s very life on the battlefield. Trust was a key to survival.

But Christoff still worried. He had seen the soldier whisper in Larra’s ear, had seen her close her eyes and cringe. But she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t yelled or complained, so he couldn’t react. He had to let things be. He would let the girl sleep, get some rest himself, and continue the journey in the morning. If there were any problems during the night, he was confident either Sir Griffen or Sir Gyles, who were covering the night shifts, would wake him.

And wake him they did.

“Sire.”

A rough shake on the shoulder pulled Christoff from his troubled dreams not many hours later. His eyes felt heavy as Sir Griffen’s image floated into sight. It was very dark, still in the deepest part of the night, and the fire was burning low in the center of the circle of sleeping men.