“Only in your mind, old man,” Alyx yelled, startling everyone with the power of her voice. Visibly, the crowd jumped, and so did Raine’s horse. “Stand back,” she ordered. “The animal’s gone wild. We had to take a whip to him to control him.”
While the people were looking with fear at the great horse, its eyes rolling, smelling Raine’s blood, Raine swung a mace from the saddle. “Have you no work to do?” he growled. “Joss, come to my tent. I have work for you.”
Grumbling, the people began to go back to their fires and hovels.
When the horse was in front of the tent, they stopped and Alyx braced herself to help Raine dismount.
“For God’s sake don’t help me,” he said through clenched teeth. “They will see you. Go and hold the horse’s head. Sing good and loud and draw attention to yourself.”
Alyx did as she was bid and did indeed draw much attention to herself, so much that she was nearly half an hour getting away from the people who wanted her to sing song after song. At last, feeling she’d covered Raine’s awkward dismounting, she went into his tent.
He was propped on his cot, wearing his shirt and loincloth, Rosamund kneeling by his thigh, a basin of bloody water by her knees.
“There you are!” Raine growled. “Can’t you do more than display that voice of yours? Heaven help us if you should go to war. Your enemy would ask you to sing and you would drop all weapons in order to perform like some mummer. Go now, Rosamund, and see to the man I hurt. Jocelin, show her the way. And you, my worthless songbird, see if you can bind this leg or may haps sing the wound closed.”
Alyx opened her mouth to speak, but Joss put his hand on her shoulder, his back to Raine. “He is in pain, remember that,” he whispered before leaving the tent.
One look at Raine’s pale face made her realize the truth of Jocelin’s statement.
“Do not stare at me! Make yourself useful,” Raine spat at her.
She wasn’t going to stand for this treatment. His anger and hostility could only hurt him. “Be quiet, Raine Montgomery!” she ordered. “I’ll not take more of your insults. Lie still and I will tend to your wound, but there is nothing you can do to change the fact that you have been wounded. Growling at me will only make you feel worse.”
He started to rise, but one look from Alyx made him lie back. “They’ll kill each other,” he said hopelessly, meaning the outlaws outside his tent.
“It doesn’t matter if they do,” she said callously, moving to the far side of the cot and Raine’s wounded leg. “There aren’t five of them worth their space on earth.”
Kneeling, she went down beside Raine’s thigh and lifted the cloth Rosamund had placed there. It was her first sight of such a wound, the skin cut, angrily inflamed from the puncture wound, blood still seeping out, and her stomach tightened.
“Are you planning to lose your dinner?” Raine taunted as he saw her pale. “I’ve had much worse wounds, only this one seems to be so deep.”
His legs, with the heavy, muscular thighs stretched in front of her, had several thick ridges of scars. Tentatively, she touched one.
“An ax blade,” he murmured, lying back, at last the loss of blood beginning to drain his strength.
As gently as she could, she cleaned the wound, frowned when she saw how dirty it was, as if the arrow had been filthy and had cleaned itself in Raine’s flesh. When she was finished, she drew a stool near his bed and watched him, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow but even, and she hoped he was sleeping.
After a very long time, he spoke, his eyes staying closed. “Alyx,” he whispered, and immediately she knelt by him. “Under the cot is a case. Would you get it?”
Instantly, she pulled the leather case out, smiled when she recognized it as containing a lute.
“Can you play it?” he asked.
Smiling confidently, she opened the case and withdrew the lute, her fingers already dancing in her anxiety to touch the strings. Softly she began to play and sing one of her own compositions.
It was hours later when she felt sure Raine was asleep, lying still and pale on the cot, and she put the lute aside. In the silence, with only his ragged breathing in the tent, she wished Rosamund would return. Raine seemed worse than he had been and she needed someone to tell her he was going to recover.
A glance about the tent showed her they needed water, and the side of her do
ublet was soaked with Raine’s blood and needed to be washed. In the morning there would be questions from the outcasts as to where the blood came from.
Silently, buckets in both hands, she left the tent and headed for the river, avoiding all contact with the camp people. With a sigh of relief she saw Blanche engaged in a game of dice with several men and knew the woman would not leave to see to Raine.
It was almost dark by the time she reached the water, filled the buckets and began to wash the doublet. To her chagrin, her shirt was also soaked. After a moment’s hesitation, she removed it and the binding on her breasts and began to wash everything, including her own dirty skin and hair. Nearly freezing, she dried herself with the binding cloth and gritted her teeth as she slipped into the very cold, very wet shirt and hose, tossing the doublet over her arm, grabbing the buckets and nearly running back to camp.
Inside the tent, she held her breath, listening, glad Raine was still sleeping. When she’d rid herself of the buckets, she quickly discarded her wet clothes and pulled on one of Raine’s shirts, which covered her to her knees. She knew she was taking a chance, but, truthfully, she wasn’t sure if she didn’t hope he woke and found out she was a girl.
She’d no more put the shirt on than a groan from Raine made her turn.