Free The Whispering Night by Kathryn Le Veque

on
the wound. He would have liked to have taken the time until she was properly
fortified, but there was no time to waste.
    Some of the material was
imbedded deep. Garren used a long pair of tweezers that Aglette had brought to
pull out the bits and pieces, listening to Derica gasp and then finally sob
softly in pain. More than once, he put his hand on her shoulder, gently
rubbing, apologizing for the pain he was causing her.  Derica would only nod
her head to acknowledge him.
    After an agonizing
eternity, Garren was finally ready to stitch the wound.  He set his tweezers
down, apologized again to Derica, and poured some of the ale on the wound to cleanse
it.  She emitted a piercing shriek and abruptly fell silent.  Garren hurriedly
put five neat stitches in her soft skin.
    "It is over,"
he said quietly, taking a strip of clean linen from Aglette to bind Derica's
arm. "Your bravery astounds me, my lady. I have seen battle hardened
knights handle pain not a morsel as well as you did."
    Derica was beyond the
crying stage. Lying back on the pillows as Garren expertly wrapped her arm, she
didn't respond. The wine had taken its toll and she hovered in fitful
unconsciousness.
    Garren took longer than
he had to tying off the binding. His gaze moved between Derica's white face and
his work. When he was done wrapping the arm, he kissed it softly. His guilt was
overtaking him completely and he was deeply sorry for her agony.
    “Sleep well,
sweetheart,” he murmured.  “You have earned it.”
    He collected the basin
and linen next to the bed, preparing to leave her in peace. But Derica’s weak
voice stopped him.
    “Do not go,” she
whispered.
    He handed the bloody
rags to Aglette. “I thought you were asleep.”
    “Please stay.”
    Her face was the color
of the linen upon which she rested. Garren sat back down next to her.
    “I will not leave you,”
he murmured.
    “Promise?”
    “On my oath. I will
never leave you.”
    Her eyes opened and her
head lolled in his direction. Garren smiled at her as their eyes met. Derica’s
only response was to open her hand, slowly, and lift it with great difficulty.
Garren saw the gesture meant for him and he quickly took her hand, holding it
tightly. With that, Derica closed her eyes once more and sleep claimed her.
     

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER FIVE
     
    “I am in no mood for
foolery. My daughter has been injured this night and my patience is at an end.”
    “I assure you, I bring
no foolery, my lord. Fourteen hundred men have landed at the mouth of the
Welland River. Nottingham is a two day’s ride from there.  Can you imagine such
a force for our cause, my lord?”
    A man dressed in shabby
clothes and a patched eye sat near the hearth, warming himself. The bugs that
found home in his garments and against his skin were jumping off of him due to
the searing heat. Bertram watched small, black things fall onto his stone
floor.  He moved his foot when a dark dot with legs moved too close.
    “You’re sure?” Bertram
asked.
    The man nodded. “I have
eyes everywhere, my lord. I trust their word.”
    Bertram digested the
information. The man was a spy, someone who had worked for the prince’s cause
for several years. He looked and acted like a mad peasant, making him the
perfect spy. He could go almost anywhere and glean whatever knowledge he
could.  His network was laced with relatives and other unscrupulous
acquaintances on the prince’s payroll. More often than not, the information
they provided was startlingly accurate and Bertram was well aware of the fact.
    Which was why he
considered the man’s statements carefully.  “Teutonic mercenaries,” he
muttered. “Fat, evil, well paid murderers.”
    “Moving for Nottingham
Castle.”
    “Then it is up to the Earl
of Nottingham to amass them until the prince is prepared to move. Any news of
the Irish mercenaries?”
    The dirty man shook his
head. “I have not heard, my lord. The hope is to move them through Liverpool,
far to