A Lily on the Heath (Medieval Herb Garden 4)

“Lord Warwick, I am loathe to disturb you, but there is a problem in the stable. With your horse. ”

Now Mal recognized the young man as one of the night marshals for the public stable, where he housed Alpha and the other horses from Warwick. But recognition of the messenger was much less important than the message itself, and he rolled from his pallet, launching to his feet in a flash. He yanked on a tunic and hose—for like most of his chambermates, in the summer he slept nude—then shoved his feet in a pair of soft boots.

Less than two minutes after he’d been awakened, Mal was following the groom out of the chamber. The first thought he had on hearing the news was a terrible fear that Alpha had been injured by the rabid dogs after all, and that his trusty horse was showing signs of madness. The worry had him striding at such speed that the groom fairly ran in order to keep pace with him.

He could have asked the messenger, but that would have entailed slowing and conversing and mayhap the man didn’t even know the answer to the question “What the hell is wrong with my horse?” His destrier was worth more than a small estate, aside from being his constant, trusted companion who’d carried him safely from countless dangerous situations. Losing Alpha would be a devastating blow, both financially and personally.

And so Mal hurried out through the great hall and into a dark summer night that was lit only by a sliver of moon and a distant swath of stars. Torches studding the ramparts above, manned by men-at-arms, added to the illumination of the bailey. But shadows fell long and wide, casting much of the area into darkness.

The stable was lit and Mal rushed in, expecting to find the worst. At his abrupt arrival, the other marshal jolted in surprise, looking over from where he waited at the entrance to Alpha’s stall.

“What is it?” Mal demanded. “What ails my horse?”

“’Tis his leg, my lord,” said the groom, gesturing to the stall. “’Tis raw and red, and the mad beast willna let me touch it. ”

Mal was aware of a tightening in his chest when he heard the term “mad,” and he pushed past the groom—whose name, he remembered belatedly, was Bruin—and approached Alpha.

The destrier snorted in recognition when his master appeared and eased what had been a shaking, shimmying sort of dance in his stall. Mal opened the half-door of the enclosure and knelt in front of his horse. Most men would have been fools to do such a thing—placing oneself in front of those massive hooves—but Mal knew Alpha, and he was angled slightly aside, half inside the stall. The powerful beast could crush him against the wall, true, but Mal had a comforting hand on the horse’s ribs as he spoke softly to him. He also knew how to move quickly if need be.

In the lantern light, he saw at once whereof the groom spoke. To his great relief, the injury was clearly not from a mad dog. “’Tis a boil on his joint,” he murmured. “Surely you’ve seen aught before, Bruin?” This last was directed to the groom, who, along with the messenger, stood safely in the aisle.

“Aye, my lord. I wished to put a poultice on him, but he near as kicked me through the wall,” replied the young marshal.

“’Tis no wonder, for the beast is in rare pain. ” Mal sighed. Better that he attend to it and lose some bit of sleep—and on the morrow, Gambert or Nevril could assist—than to chance his valuable warhorse to be injured.

But the ailment, though not serious was no small inconvenience, for he meant to join Ludingdon, Fleurwelling, and several others on an excursion on the morrow. Earlier, the king received news of a band of r

aiders or brigands wreaking havoc in the area, and several of his barons—likely as bored as Mal—offered to go in search and put a stop to them. For his part, Mal was delighted with an excuse to leave Clarendon for a time. As well, it would give him the chance to speak with Castendown about taking on Rike’s fostering when he returned to Warwick.

“Bring me the poultice,” Mal said to Bruin, already considering which of the other mounts from Warwick would suffice for the trip.

“’Tis here,” was the reply, and shortly thereafter, Mal found himself playing both groom and physician to Alpha.

Once the boil was carefully wrapped, the thick, aromatic salve oozing from the edges of the bandage, Mal shifted back and rose to his feet. Alpha seemed calmer—which was no surprise, for the bandage likely provided some cool relief to the fiery, pulsing boil—and he butted his head against his master’s shoulder.

Mal spoke softly to him once more, feeding him an apple demanded from Bruin, and then took his leave. “Send to me immediately if there is any other problem,” he directed as he walked out into the night.

The bailey was near as quiet as his own back at Warwick, and Mal took his time wandering back into the close, crowded, privacy-lacking keep. A pang of homesickness caught him by surprise, followed by a clutch of sadness when he thought of Violet. He must return soon to his little one.

There is little reason for me to remain here. I can leave as soon as Alpha is able to travel, and we will stop at Delbring on the return trip. Then all would, as he’d hoped, be arranged well before Christ’s Mass and the winter.

But then a pair of laughing blue eyes, devilish and sparkling, popped into his mind. Beatrice of Delbring? Truly?

Mal allowed himself the luxury of reliving that moment, the memory of the day, riding beside Lady Judith in the sun and about the meadow. He’d enjoyed her company—even the teasing. And somehow, he’d become comfortable in her presence, no longer unsettled by her intense beauty and energetic tongue. Throughout the hunt, he’d admired her face and figure, laughed inwardly at her jests, been entertained by the hunt and the skill with which she managed her falcon, and felt himself growing more and more desirous of being with her.

’Tis no good to continue on this route. Naught will become of it.

She’d told him so herself, in her own blunt yet good-humored way: the queen would never allow her to wed. She said so with joy and amusement, clearly not unhappy with the arrangement. And so he dare not allow his mind to go there any longer.

But there were other options here at court—and was that not part of the reason he’d come? There was no cause to settle for the small estate of Delbring when he might have Tenevaux or another larger property. And a wife not unpleasant to look on. Mayhap even one with whom he could converse.

Funny. Until he spent time with Judith, Malcolm had never considered a pleasant, intelligent, witty woman a boon in a wife. And now…. Now she was forcing him to look at things in an utterly different way.

By now Mal had reached the keep, and he drew in one last fresh breath of air before subjecting himself to the smoky, dank inside. There were nights like this when he missed the days of riding and fighting, sleeping under the stars while preparing for a siege or skirmish—and he looked forward to the task ahead on the morrow. But most days, he simply missed Warwick, and the chance to sleep in his own bed, to walk his own ramparts, to see to his own people, to ride and hunt in his own meadows.

I must leave from here.

He slipped into the hall, gaining sleepy bows from the pair of serf boys whose only job was to keep the fire going all the night. Without mail or spurs, Mal moved silently down the corridors back to the men’s chamber. As he came around the corner, he nearly collided with a cloaked and hooded figure, hurrying along the way.