The Knight's Prisoner (Medieval Discipline 1)

Ferrum pressed a dagger into her hand. “If something happens, I want you to climb up a tree or find some other place to hide and stay there, quiet as a mouse until it's all over. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

By the first light of dawn, they heard muffled sounds outside the camp. Phillip made a war cry, and his men leaped on their mounts and went on the offensive.

“Do as I said,” Ferrum said tersely and squeezed her shoulder as he left.

Clutching the dagger in her hand, she slunk toward the protection of the trees, surveying their dark forms in the blue-black light to see if any might be climbed. Instead, she opted for a cluster of large rocks which she could crawl into at a crouch. The camp had exploded into noise—shouts and war cries. The clang of sword striking sword made her teeth ache, and the clenching feeling in her belly grew tighter and tighter as she listened.

And then it finally occurred to her—this was her moment to escape. She was on the opposite side of camp from where King Benton's men had been waiting. It was dangerous, but so was staying with the Red Fox. She closed her eyes a moment and breathed deeply, gathering her courage about her. It was not the sort of escape she'd imagined. She had no provisions, but she did have the dagger, which was more than she'd had the last time.

She crept out of her hiding place stealthily, moving in the cover of the trees, away from the battle. When she was far enough away to avoid attention, she broke into a run, keeping in the brush but following the path of a stream, so she didn't make the same mistake she'd made the last time. She ran and she ran, and she didn't look back. A stitch in her side finally made her pause to catch her breath with her hands on her knees, her head down.

As she panted, her mind flicked to the battle. She wondered how it was going—how Ferrum fared. A pang of regret washed through her at leaving him. Not out of any sense of obligation to the Red Fox, but because it felt like something personal between them was unfinished.

A wave of vision flashed into her mind. Ferrum was wounded. She couldn't see his face, but she saw his torso, his tunic, soaked with blood. Ice washed over her, and she let out a loud ragged breath—the sister of a sob.

This wasn't her battle. And this was her chance to be free. She started up again, walking briskly this time, glancing over her shoulder every now and again to be sure no one had followed. But the vision of the blood soaked tunic wouldn't leave her mind. Ferrum. Injured. Mayhap he needed her. She was probably handier with a needle than any of the rest of them. She could stitch him up. She could tend to his needs so he could recover. She slowed her walking, indecision tearing her purpose in two.

He might be dead. The thought was like a stone in the center of her chest.

But to be practical, if he were dead, she wouldn't want to go anywhere near the Red Fox's camp again. Ferrum was the only one who made being a prisoner bearable. She tried to feel into it—was he dead? She saw him cutting a man down with a single stroke of his sword, his face covered in blood, his tunic a deep red. Mayhap it wasn't his blood at all. He looked every inch the fearsome warrior, not injured at all. But no, she saw him pressing his forearm to his ribs as if to staunch the flow of blood as he whirled around.

She stopped walking. Shite. Damn, shite, damn it all to hell.

She turned and started walking swiftly back the way she had come.

* * *

He'd known the moment she left. He had been throwing glances over his shoulder in case she needed help. He'd seen her move from the rocks where she'd taken shelter and flee to the cover of the woods. It had been curious sort of pain he'd felt at it. One part of him was happy for her—he knew how badly she wanted her freedom. One part felt gutted at the loss. One part was relieved she was safely away from the melee of the battle, and one part feared she'd get lost or meet trouble fleeing them.

But now here she was, kneeling beside him, removing his leather armor, peeling back his tunic and undershirt, her face pale and drawn.

He brought his hand to her thigh and squeezed it. “I'm all right,” he muttered.

“I see that,” she said, but her jaw was still clenched. “It's a surface wound. The leather kept it from going too deep. It's long but it didn't make it through your ribs. I'll just stitch you up, we'll keep it clean, and you'll be fine.” She spoke firmly, as if she were reassuring herself of it.