Clarysa had soothed his wounds using cold water, which her patient then chased with several gulps of wine to numb the pain. She had asked him his name. “James, my lady,” he had replied. He shared that before joining the King’s army, he had worked with his father in the royal orchards, planting peach and apple trees.
Clarysa stared at him. His mouth lay open, his eyes opaque–and now he was dead. Peaches and apples. His father was so proud of the large, bountiful trees, he had said. Those were the last words his youthful frame would ever speak.
“Hurry, Clarysa. We need them now!”
Clarysa broke from her reverie to see Gretchen urgently beckoning her. She navigated the sea of broken bodies and ran forward, arms still filled with the dripping strips of cloth. Gretchen seized the material as well as Clarysa’s right hand.
“Press down right here,” she said.
Clarysa held her hand against a wailing soldier’s side. It sank far deeper into the body than should have been possible.
“Keep the pressure on it. I’ll be right back.”
Blood oozed between Clarysa’s fingers as the gypsy woman scooped a handful of healing flora from an earthenware pot. “Take your hand away, now.” The man screamed in agony as Gretchen applied the herbs and several healing rags to impede the blood loss.
Clarysa stared aghast at the overflowing river of pain coursing through the great hall. What dark sorcery are they defiling us with? How much longer would Stellan and his men be able to hold out against it?
A familiar voice cut through the din of moans and cries of misery.
“Gretchen! Clear a table! We’re going to need bandages and as much Hays Moss as we have,” Stellan shouted.
Clarysa whipped around. Stellan burst through the archway carrying a prostrate form. Her brain registered a flash of blond hair along with a broken body draped in royal Aldebaran attire. She swayed in shock as recognition came.
“Lionel!” she cried.
“Move aside! Make a spot…yes, right there.” Stellan laid Lionel down upon a table. Gretchen arrived bearing an armful of bandages. Stellan ripped apart Lionel’s shredded clothing and worked furiously to staunch the flow of blood, which, sadly, seemed to be everywhere.
Clarysa rushed up and laid a hand on Lionel’s cheek.
“Out of the way!” Stellan said, roughly pushing her aside. “No, wait,” he reconsidered, grabbing her arm. He pointed to a nearby shelf with a blood-soaked hand. “See that large brown bottle? Bring it to me.”
Clarysa nodded, eager to be of any help whatsoever. Clutching the bottle carefully, she brought it over. Gretchen and the prince worked diligently to slow the bleeding. Stellan injected Lionel with some of the liquid from the bottle. Gretchen threaded a wicked looking needle and began to stitch a wide, grisly gash in his side. Lionel’s face paled. He gritted his teeth as the sutures entered and stretched his skin.
“Can’t we give him something for the pain?” Clarysa asked.
“No time,” Gretchen said.
“This might help.” Stellan held a rag soaked with some kind of liquid against Lionel’s nose and mouth. In a few minutes, he drifted into a state of unconsciousness.
Blinking back tears, Clarysa covered Lionel’s burns in specially treated bandages. After the task was complete, she wiped his perspiring forehead with a cloth. She tried to avoid dwelling on the weak rise and fall of her cousin’s chest.
Gretchen finished her stitching. She and Stellan joined Clarysa. All three watched over the Duke. The battle outside was momentarily forgotten.
“What happened?” Clarysa whispered.
Stellan’s brow furrowed. “He saved my life.”
“I’m sure he was glad of the opportunity to help you.” Clarysa stroked Lionel’s cheek. She wanted to be hopeful, but her cousin’s injuries seemed grave. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she looked pleadingly at Stellan. “Is he going to…”
“I’ve done everything I can,” he said, his expression grim. “Now he needs rest.”
An angry voice cut through the air. “Where is Duke Lionel? I demand to see him!”
Clarysa sucked in a breath. Edward! To her right, Stellan made a discrete fist. She suppressed a groan. Don’t make a scene, Edward, not now!
Her brother spotted her. His expression locked in a dirt-streaked scowl, he advanced.
Stellan bristled at Edward’s approach. She laid a cautionary hand upon the Dark Prince’s arm.
Edward pushed his way into their midst. After one glance at Lionel, he locked his angry gaze upon Stellan. Clarysa winced at the tension rising between them.
“Don’t start with me,” Stellan growled.
“I saw you put that cloth to his face. What have you done to him?” Edward pushed Stellan away.
Clarysa gasped. “Edward! You’re being hasty!”
As Edward bent to inspect his unconscious cousin, Stellan grabbed his arms and shoved him against a nearby table. Edward drew back a fist, but Stellan leaped upon him before he could swing. The two men struggled against each other, rattling the table and overturning supplies. A glass bottle shattered against the stone floor.
Stellan pressed his forearm against Edward’s throat. “I’m trying to save his life, as he did mine. Stop interfering or I’ll throw you out of my castle!”
“It’s true, Edward,” Clarysa shouted. “Listen to him, please!”
Panting, Edward cut her a look. Then he took a deep breath. “My apologies. I was concerned for Lionel and spoke prematurely.”
Stellan released him.
Edward neared the table. He looked remorseful as he studied Lionel’s face. “Is he…”
Stellan shook his head. “Thankfully, not yet. But he needs rest. Peaceful rest.”
Edward nodded. “I was…wrong. I shouldn’t have mistrusted you. At any time.” He leveled a gaze at Stellan. “Lionel’s always been an excellent judge of character, but my stubbornness prevented me from recognizing the truth.” His expression became one of determination. “I want to help you win this battle. Tell me what to do.”
Stellan nodded. “Concentrate your men on Pestilence and
