well-exercised and uncommon strength, while his ease and presence spoke of barely restrained power.
"Your name?" he asked in a deep whisper that hinted at an uncanny suspicion. "I would know your Christian name."
The hairs lifted slowly on the back of her neck. Her name was absolutely the last thing he'd ever hear spoken from her lips. Footsteps sounded and she hurriedly pulled the long doublet over her head, pulling it down before letting the blanket fall. Leggings followed. She reached to her boots.
In four strides, the great red giant appeared at the door, bending so as not to hit his head. Between the two knights, the room shrank. Flaming red hair brushed his broad shoulders, and firelight danced in his sharp brown eyes. Every maid's worst nightmare, like his master, the tall, red-haired lion looked made of muscle and ready to fight, clad in a dark brown, ermine-lined doublet, suede breeches and tall black boots. A long sword hung from his thick black belt. Before she understood what it meant, the unusual compassion on the man's face struck her like a blow, at first because the plain emotion seemed ill-suited for his face and appearance, then because she realized the emotion was meant for her.
"The man. He be badly wounded."
“ No!” The word came as a plea as she jumped up and ran two paces before the room of wooded colors and firelight and shadows swirled into a melting gray that stole her breath. She stumbled, tried to catch herself. Those strong arms swept under her, she heard a curse before, with sheer force of will, she attempted to pull herself up from the darkness that threatened. "Please ... I can walk, I—"
"Apparently not without fainting. I will take you to his side."
He carried her out into the night air. His knights had lit the area with torches. Peasants gathered on the side, solemn and still shaken, though no longer frightened, due to the aid and assurances of the knights. Potiers lay on a litter. The sight gave her strength, and with a desperate twist of her legs, she touched the ground and ran to his side. "Potiers! Potiers! Mon Dieu." She stared upon his ripped and bloodied jerkin. Blood oozed from a huge, jagged chest wound. Another wound bled at his thigh. Either wound alone was enough to lay a far younger man to the ground. Still, no one on earth could manage to call up more hope than the girl at his side. "I need torchlight here," she said as she hurriedly pulled off his boot. "Shears and boiling water and cloth for bandages. Use the ripped dress in the cottage. Hurry. S'il vousplait—hurry."
The men exchanged confused glances, certain the wounded man needed only a priest. Vincent motioned with his head, that was all, and two men rushed to do her bidding. She pulled off his other boot. With an effort, she ripped open a legging, then the other side. These she wrapped quickly around her hands, which she then pressed to Potiers' chest to stop the bleeding. With a grimace, he woke up, took one look and managed to smile. "Blessed saints, ye are well!"
With all her strength she forced away her tears and graced him with a smile. "Aye! And little thanks to you! I had to be rescued by the English!"
"Ye gawds, a fate worse than death. I shall never hear the end of it."
"And why, just look at yourself," she scolded, desperate to keep him to her as she felt the precious lifeblood soak over her hands. "Not just one wound, but two. Two of them. You will probably be wanting a month of free days for your recovery, and what am I supposed to do without you, I wonder—"
A woman rushed up with a pair of shears just as a man returned with the dress, torn into strips. "The water is heating as I speak."
She quickly discarded the soaked bandages and wrapped her hands in the other two, returning them at once to the wound. She felt the dull throb of his wound, slowing. His face blurred; she caught her lip as someone knelt beside her. A gentle hand came to her eyes, wiping the tears so that she might see,
"Your name?" he asked in a deep whisper that hinted at an uncanny suspicion. "I would know your Christian name."
The hairs lifted slowly on the back of her neck. Her name was absolutely the last thing he'd ever hear spoken from her lips. Footsteps sounded and she hurriedly pulled the long doublet over her head, pulling it down before letting the blanket fall. Leggings followed. She reached to her boots.
In four strides, the great red giant appeared at the door, bending so as not to hit his head. Between the two knights, the room shrank. Flaming red hair brushed his broad shoulders, and firelight danced in his sharp brown eyes. Every maid's worst nightmare, like his master, the tall, red-haired lion looked made of muscle and ready to fight, clad in a dark brown, ermine-lined doublet, suede breeches and tall black boots. A long sword hung from his thick black belt. Before she understood what it meant, the unusual compassion on the man's face struck her like a blow, at first because the plain emotion seemed ill-suited for his face and appearance, then because she realized the emotion was meant for her.
"The man. He be badly wounded."
“ No!” The word came as a plea as she jumped up and ran two paces before the room of wooded colors and firelight and shadows swirled into a melting gray that stole her breath. She stumbled, tried to catch herself. Those strong arms swept under her, she heard a curse before, with sheer force of will, she attempted to pull herself up from the darkness that threatened. "Please ... I can walk, I—"
"Apparently not without fainting. I will take you to his side."
He carried her out into the night air. His knights had lit the area with torches. Peasants gathered on the side, solemn and still shaken, though no longer frightened, due to the aid and assurances of the knights. Potiers lay on a litter. The sight gave her strength, and with a desperate twist of her legs, she touched the ground and ran to his side. "Potiers! Potiers! Mon Dieu." She stared upon his ripped and bloodied jerkin. Blood oozed from a huge, jagged chest wound. Another wound bled at his thigh. Either wound alone was enough to lay a far younger man to the ground. Still, no one on earth could manage to call up more hope than the girl at his side. "I need torchlight here," she said as she hurriedly pulled off his boot. "Shears and boiling water and cloth for bandages. Use the ripped dress in the cottage. Hurry. S'il vousplait—hurry."
The men exchanged confused glances, certain the wounded man needed only a priest. Vincent motioned with his head, that was all, and two men rushed to do her bidding. She pulled off his other boot. With an effort, she ripped open a legging, then the other side. These she wrapped quickly around her hands, which she then pressed to Potiers' chest to stop the bleeding. With a grimace, he woke up, took one look and managed to smile. "Blessed saints, ye are well!"
With all her strength she forced away her tears and graced him with a smile. "Aye! And little thanks to you! I had to be rescued by the English!"
"Ye gawds, a fate worse than death. I shall never hear the end of it."
"And why, just look at yourself," she scolded, desperate to keep him to her as she felt the precious lifeblood soak over her hands. "Not just one wound, but two. Two of them. You will probably be wanting a month of free days for your recovery, and what am I supposed to do without you, I wonder—"
A woman rushed up with a pair of shears just as a man returned with the dress, torn into strips. "The water is heating as I speak."
She quickly discarded the soaked bandages and wrapped her hands in the other two, returning them at once to the wound. She felt the dull throb of his wound, slowing. His face blurred; she caught her lip as someone knelt beside her. A gentle hand came to her eyes, wiping the tears so that she might see,
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