If My Heart Could See You (The MacLarens 1)

Sixteen

Dristan stood in the Great Hall with Riorden and Fletcher. Leaning over the large oaken table, he perused various parchments etched with the improvements he desired to have constructed on the castle walls and grounds. He weighed the merit on the words of the two men closest to him when they voiced their opinions with possible changes and gave them credit for seeing a few flaws in his theory of change. They were details he should have thought of for himself, but he had been distracted of late. He glanced up once again and swore for the hundredth time when serfs headed towards the stairs, carrying yet another stack of linen and several pails of water. His brow furrowed with worry. ’Twas obvious Amiria was not improving as he had hoped.

“Scowling will not cure what plagues her, Dristan,” Riorden commented dryly.

Dristan’s concern focused on the now empty stairwell. “Use any other word but not that one, Riorden,” he replied sharply. “Last thing we need is something as deadly as the plague running rampant throughout the countryside.”

“’Tis becoming a lovely shade by the way, my lord,” Riorden said with a smirk, apparently trying to lighten his foul mood.

“What is?” Dristan questioned snidely, trying to pay attention to their conversation and failing terribly.

“Your eye, of course,” Riorden answered. When Dristan cursed it only made the obnoxious man laugh louder. “’Tis a shade of purple that would not look well on others but it seems to suit you most splendidly indeed, my lord.”

“You risk much to further sour my foul humors, Riorden. If I was not so worried about the girl, I would take you to task for your cheek with a quick trip to the lists so I could show you a thing or two about respect,” Dristan grumbled, giving his captain a warning look that this conversation would continue at a later time.

“I am still perplexed on how such a wee bit of a girl managed to fool us all into thinking she was in truth her brother,” Fletcher marveled. “Considering she is a woman of such small stature, she handles a blade most admirably.”

“God’s blood, I knew there was something about Aiden that was not right! I just could not figure out what was wrong with the lad . . . er . . . girl,” Riorden continued, clearly annoyed he had not been able to solve the mystery where the boy was concerned.

“So where do you suppose her brother is?” Fletcher inquired.

Riorden waited a moment for their liege to answer. When none came forth, Dristan gave a brief nod and Riorden began to recall to Fletcher all he had learned. “Her men claim to believe he is buried in some unmarked grave since they saw him fall by their lord. They had hopes that perchance he yet lived and have searched everywhere. There is no word this has come to pass.”

Dristan continued his unapproachable stance. He heard Riorden’s words but they in truth did not register that he needed to offer further comment. All his thoughts were with a small slip of a woman, who lay in her chamber with an illness Kenna had not been able to heal. Since he was so preoccupied, he missed the looks given between his two closest guardsmen.

Dristan barely acknowledged Riorden as he began to pace. ’Twas clear his mind was elsewhere and not on the task at hand of perusing the parchment afore him. His captain strode to a sword leaning against the wall near the hearth and grasped the hilt, feeling the weight in his hand. Only a fool would leave their weapon unattended whilst under the close scrutiny of their lord. Visions of a lad hefting such a sword swam through Dristan’s mind.

The sound of metal scraping against stone tore Dristan out of his internal turmoil coursing through him and back to the present.

Riorden began swinging the blade back and forth afore him.

“’Tis hers,” Dristan muttered hoarsely.

“Aye, I see that now upon closer inspection,” Riorden replied as he handed the sword to Dristan.

Dristan took the offered hilt and studied the blade for several moments. “’Tis too heavy for her.”

“I agree, which would explain her utter lack of progress on those moves you were trying to instill in her,” Riorden exclaimed.

“’Twould appear so,” Dristan voiced coolly. “’Tis still a fine blade despite the weight.”

Silence stretched on between the men ’til Kenna appeared, rapidly descending the stairs. She halted afore the three knights, her brow heavily furrowed with worry lines. She swayed slightly and Dristan reached out to steady his healer afore she fell from fatigue.

“What news do you bring, Mistress Kenna? Will she be well?” Fletcher asked hopefully.

She raised tear filled eyes to Dristan but clearly ’twas plain to see she would not bear them glad tidings. “I fear I have done all I can, Lord Dristan,” Kenna said quietly with downcast eyes. “I am afraid ’tis in God’s hands now.”

“Nay! I refuse to believe ’tis so!” Dristan voiced in exasperation as his words resounded off the walls. He bolted from the room, taking the stairs two at a time just as he did when he carried Amiria up them but recently.

He heard the others following him up the stairwell, leading to the third floor housing the family members. Upon reaching the landing, he turned left and raced in the direction of Amiria’s chamber. He halted at her door when he noticed young Patrick, sitting on the floor in the passageway, crying. Taking a moment, he squatted down to his page and patted his shoulder, offering him what comfort he could.

“Please, my liege, I beg of you . . . make her well,” Patrick hiccupped, wiping his tear filled eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. “I canna lose them both.”

“I am no healer, Patrick, but I will do what I can,” he said gruffly, and the boy nodded his head.

Entering the room was akin to walking into the scorching heat of a raging fire. A serf knelt at the hearth with her sleeves rolled up, busily setting wood to the flames to further heat the chamber. A pile of linens were being collected by another, who all but ran from the room. The skin of those who remained glistened with sweat as they mopped their overheated brows. With much reluctance, his eyes went to the bed. He was prepared to see the worst. ’Twas not far from the truth as his eyes scanned the slight form, lying motionless upon the bed. Amiria lay under multiple coverlets, shivering with cold. Her ashen face caused the color of her hair to appear an even darker redden hue. Lady Lynet knelt by the bed with a rosary in her hands. Her nimble fingers moved from bead to bead as she mouthed a noiseless prayer for her sister over each. She glanced up when she felt his presence at the edge of the bed but remained silent.

His expression grim, he came to sit upon the edge of Amiria’s bed and saw how her breathing was shallow as if each breath she took cost her a bit more of her life. He reached his hand out to her brow and felt the beads of cold sweat running down her face. Perplexed she should feel chilled to the bone with the chamber a furnace of heat, he placed his hand down between the coverlets on the bed and felt the cool wetness of the mattress. Growling his aggravation, he threw the linens from her drenched body and heard the gasps of shock coming from the occupants of the room behind him.

“What madness are you about, my lord, that you would disturb my sister when she is so ill?” Lynet voiced, worried for her sibling. She rose on wobbly legs from spending time upon the floor in prayer.

Dristan’s piercing gaze briefly met the young girl’s, subduing her words. He ignored any further protests from the others, as well, and silenced them with a single glance. He leaned down and scooped Amiria up into his arms. Worry crossed his brow as he carefully held his charge, feeling as though she weighed no more than a mere babe. Tenderly, he cradled her unresponsive form, bringing her shivering body closer to the warmth radiating from his own.

He began shouting orders afore he even left her room. A serf scrambled to open the heavy oak door. Others rushed down the passageway to Dristan’s own chamber where they proceeded to stoke the fire in the hearth and turn down the bedding. He cared not who he left in his wake. His only concern was to break the chills consuming Amiria’s tormented body. Most would not approve of his methods he thought to use, but he could think of no other option.

“Leave us,” he commanded to those who had followed him to his chamber. All but one fled in haste.

“My lord, I beseech you, perchance−” Kenna began.

“I said leave us!” he shouted, still holding the trembling girl to his chest.

“I think only of her reputation, my liege. ’Tis not proper you should be alone with her even though she is ill,” Kenna dared. “I fear I must speak on her behalf since she is unable to do so herself, although those who remain outside may also have cause to echo my concerns for her welfare.”

“You have nothing to fear on that account, Kenna.”

“Be that as it may, others may not agree, and then who would see fit to wed a woman who is soiled? Whether you touch her or not, her reputation will still be sullied,” she answered gravely. “Not all would believe your words, given your reputation, my Lord Dristan.”

“There will be no others to worry about asking for her hand.”

“My lord?” she questioned with concern, afraid Amiria would spend her life alone or be sent to a nunnery.

“I have been given my orders from our king and obey him I must without question.” Dristan looked at his healer and let out a deep breath he seemed to have been holding a lifetime. “Amiria of Berwyck and clan MacLaren will become my bride, forever sealing the fate of this land and its people to England.”

Her alarmed expression of shock showed on his healer’s features and ’twas apparent from her reaction to his words that for once she had not seen such an event coming. ’Twas obviously the first time her sight had failed her and it took several moments of staring at him afore she at last found her voice. Her words were not very reassuring but he would have been surprised if they had been.

“If this is so, then tread lightly and with care, my lord, or you will find yourself saddled with a hellcat. She will not take it well she is used as a pawn in a king’s game for power. Lest she comes to love you of her own free will, I am afraid you will truly learn what hell on earth really means.”

He nodded to her only once. For now, ’twould have to be enough and he would deal with the repercussions of his actions when Amiria was healed. He gave a silent prayer to God above, hoping his meager offering would be enough to appease a higher being.