Twin Passions(52)

Hakon gently lay Gwendolyn upon the blanket, then rose to his feet. His tall, powerful body made the tent seem very small. He strode back to where the healer was hastily preparing a thick, green herb paste for a poultice.

"I must return to the battlefield. Send for me when you have news of the lad's condition," he said, his voice low. He walked to the entrance, then stopped and turned back around. "See that he does not die," he muttered tersely. With that, he pushed aside the leather flap and was gone.

The healer sighed raggedly. Gathering together all the things he would need, he hurried over to the blanket where Gwendolyn lay. He kneeled down beside her, then took a sharp knife from his belt and carefully began to cut away first the leather jerkin, then the bloodied woolen fabric surrounding the wound just beneath her left shoulder. He shook his head. Such tender skin for a lad, he marveled, gently touching around the flaring hole. From what he could tell, though blood still flowed in a trickle from the wound, it did not appear to be fatal. He lifted her gently, checking to see if the spear had pierced through to her back. Nay, it had not. He clucked his tongue, relieved, as he set her back down upon the blanket.

Suddenly his eyes widened in astonishment; his breath caught in his throat. The cut half of the woolen shirt had fallen away, revealing to his startled gaze a high, firm breast! The healer almost choked. Swiftly cutting away the rest of the garment, he could not believe his eyes. 'Twas not a lad, but a young wench! Hastily he covered her breasts with another blanket, looking furtively about him to see if any of the other men had noticed. Thankfully none had. It would not do for anyone to know of this before Lord Hakon, he thought wildly. Then he chided himself. It was none of his affair if the lad was a wench! It was only his duty to see that she did not die!

Though still unconscious, Gwendolyn started violently as the steaming cloths were applied to her wound. "Hakon . . ." she murmured over and over, writhing in fevered delirium.

The healer shook his head, pleased, as the flow of blood was finally halted. He took away the cloths and packed the angrily swelling hole with the foul-smelling herb poultice, then gently rubbed the paste on the damaged tissue surrounding the wound. Finally he wrapped a clean piece of cloth over her shoulder and then beneath her arm, around and around, until the entire area was bandaged. He sighed, sitting back on his haunches. There was naught else he could do but hope that the wound would not grow infected. If that happened . . . He shuddered, afraid to think of the consequences. He brought the blanket up under her chin and tucked it in around her.

Now there were others to attend to, the old man thought wearily. He rose shakily to his feet and wiped his soiled hands on his bloodied tunic. There were so many wounded. He carried the platter of rags back over to the caldron and dumped them into the boiling water.

Suddenly Hakon threw back the flap of the tent and rushed in, startling the healer once again.

"My lord, I would have sent word—"

Hakon silenced him with an abrupt wave of his hand. Once he had seen that the battle was indeed won and that those of Rhoar's men who had been captured were put swiftly to the sword, he had returned as quickly as he could, deciding not to wait any longer for news of Garric's condition.

"Will the lad live?" he asked, his eyes flying apprehensively to the far end of the tent where Gwendolyn lay. He grimaced at the ashen pallor of her skin and the shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the woolen blanket. He quickly glanced back at the healer, dreading his answer.

"The wound is deep, my lord, and there has been a great loss of blood," the old man murmured, shifting his feet uncomfortably, "but in time, yea, in time it will heal."

Hakon's broad shoulders slumped visibly with relief. He walked over to the blanket and knelt down on one knee beside Gwendolyn. The healer walked up slowly behind him.

"Th-there is something you m-must know, my lord," he stuttered nervously.

"Yea, what is it?" Hakon asked, his voice low, not taking his eyes from Gwendolyn's face.

"The lad is a . . . I mean, he is not a . . ."

"Speak up, man!" Hakon shouted gruffly.

"'Tis a wench, my lord, not a lad!" the healer blurted out, backing away several steps.

Hakon stood up suddenly and faced the older man, towering over him. "What did you say?"

"When I was dressing the wound, my lord, I discovered that 'twas a young woman you had brought to this tent, not a lad," he hastily explained. He stepped back a few more steps, afraid of Hakon's reaction.

Stunned, Hakon did not move for a moment. Garric . . . a wench! Nay, it could not be! Slowly he turned around, then lifted the blanket. His blue eyes narrowed, an angry scowl darkening his features. What mischief was Loki playing on him? His white-blond brows were knit in confusion.

Suddenly Gwendolyn tossed her head deliriously, moaning in pain. "Nay, my love, nay!" she cried out in heart-wrenching anguish. Though her slender body was racked by shivering spasms, she was bathed in perspiration. Her lips were parched and dry. "Hakon!" she murmured hoarsely. "Hakon . . ." Her voice died away as she lay still once again.

Hakon stared at her as if he had been struck. Falling to his knees, he gathered her into his arms, tucking the ends of the blanket about her delicate shoulders. "Anora," he murmured thickly, his voice catching on her name. He rocked her in his arms, stroking the sweat-dampened hair that curled in tendrils about her pale face. But how? he wondered frantically. Odin help him! She must have disguised herself as Garric and followed him into battle to be near him. That alone would explain the long-bladed knife from his chamber! Gwendolyn moaned softly and licked her dry lips, her muted cry breaking into his tormented thoughts.

"Fetch me some water, man!" Hakon shouted at the astonished healer, who stood wringing his hands helplessly.

"Yea, my lord!" The old man hurried to his vials of herbs, his fingers trembling as he poured fresh water from a small cask into a soapstone bowl. Had he heard right? Was she indeed the beautiful Anora, Hakon Jarl's favored concubine? His legs felt wooden as he rushed over to Hakon. He spilled half the water on the ground in his haste.

Hakon grabbed the bowl from the healer's wrinkled hand and gently raised it to Gwendolyn's lips. He gave her only a small amount for fear she might choke. She swallowed it thirstily, much to his relief. But after giving her another sip he drew the bowl away. "'Tis enough for now," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He handed the bowl to the healer, then gathered Gwendolyn's limp form to his chest and rose to his feet.

"Do you have any other spare blankets?"

"Yea. Here, my lord," the old man replied hastily. He bent and picked up a thick blanket lying on the ground. He shook it roughly, then wrapped it snug and tight about Gwendolyn's shoulders.

"Good. I shall tell Olav to have litters brought here shortly for these men," Hakon said, striding toward the entrance of the tent. "See that their wounds are bandaged well enough for the journey back to the settlement." He wheeled around suddenly to face the healer, his eyes bright with the pain of his emotions. "You have my thanks," he murmured.

The old man bowed his head in acknowledgment, overwhelmed with pity at the anguished expression of concern etched on Hakon's face. "Take care not to jar her overmuch, my lord," he warned, his raspy voice almost a whisper. "It could well cause the bleeding to begin anew."

Hakon nodded. Then without another word he ducked his head and pushed aside the leather flap.

"Lord Hakon, how is it with Garric?" Olav asked, dismounting from his horse. He looked somewhat startled. Why was Hakon carrying the lad from the tent? He was even more surprised when Hakon walked up to him and gently placed Gwendolyn in his arms.

"'Tis not Garric," Hakon muttered tersely. "'Tis Anora. Take care of her for a moment, Olav, while I fetch my horse."

Olav stared in horrified disbelief at Gwendolyn's fair features, so deathly pale in the bright sunlight. Anora! Nay, he could not believe his eyes!

"But how did she . . . when . . . ?" he gasped. A young woman on the battlefield . . . he had never heard of such a thing! And she had saved Lord Hakon's life, no less!

"We can talk of this later, Olav. My only thought now is to get her away from this cursed valley and back to the settlement," Hakon said grimly, easing his spirited stallion up beside Olav. "Hand her up to me, yea, but gently now."

Olav lifted Gwendolyn easily into Hakon's waiting arms, then held the reins for him until he had her settled in front of him, his right arm encircling her protectively.

Hakon tucked in the blankets securely around her, fearful that she might take cold from the wintry air. "My thanks, Olav. I will see to it that a hearty meal and plenty of mead await your arrival at the settlement. Pass that news along to the men as well."

"Shall I not ride with you, then?" Olav asked, his eyes lighting with concern as he handed Hakon the reins. "Surely you do not plan to ride unescorted, my lord! There may still be some of Rhoar's renegades about the valley."

"Yea, Olav, you are right, but I need to leave you in charge of the men," Hakon replied. He nodded toward several of his petty chieftains not far away. "I shall have those four men accompany me."