Thomas slumped into the saddle.
Tears of relief filled her eyes. She swung up behind him and held him tight. With a prayer, Alesone kicked his steed toward the south. If she didna find the monastery soon, he would die.
Chapter Four
Holding Thomas before her as he lay slumped in the saddle, Alesone guided his mount down the steep incline. The sharp tang of pine filled her each breath as she scoured the curtain of snow, making out naught but several trees nearby. With her sense of direction lost in the swirl of flakes, had she traveled in the wrong direction?
Where was the blasted monastery?
The horse edged around a clump of fir, and Thomas’s limp frame rocked against her.
On edge, she pressed her fingers against his neck.
A low, steady pulse thrummed.
’Twas weak, but he still lived. Cursing the miserable weather, she narrowed her eyes against the fall of white, struggling to make out any sign of culled stone.
As the destrier crested the rise, she caught the faint scent of smoke.
“Whoa.” Through the whip of flakes, Alesone strained to catch a shimmer of light, the outline of a building, anything to guide her.
Naught.
A gust howled past.
Icy shards buffeted them, and she tucked her cape tighter around Thomas. With the amount of blood he’d lost, if they didna find shelter soon he would…
Nay! After Grisel, she couldna lose Thomas as well. However extraordinary their first meeting, the warrior’s actions were given to protect his king.
Like magic, the clouds overhead thinned. Within the sun’s rays, the snow tossed about with mayhem moments before spiraled earthward like fairy dust.
The tang of smoke again slipped past.
On a relieved exhale, Alesone urged the horse down the steep terrain. They broke through a stand of fir, and the smell grew stronger. She dug her heels into the animal’s flanks, the thud of hooves upon snow a potent reminder of the knight’s life slipping away.
At the end of the field, a line of oak and ash arched skyward as if to bar her path. Refusing to give up, she guided her mount into the shadows, and then wove through the tree-laden maze. Without warning, the thick swath of trees fell away.
Far below, framed within a snowy blanket of white, smoke swirled from the chimney of a stone hut. It wasna the monastery, but at least it was a place where they could seek shelter.
She stilled. Was whoever lived below loyal to Bruce or Comyn? Were they kind hearted souls who would help without question? Or men who chose to live alone and wouldna appreciate her presence? With Thomas’s declining condition, little choice remained.
By whatever means necessary, whoever lived within would help them. Alesone headed down the slope.
* * *
The fire in the hearth popped with cheerful abandon as a stocky man close to her age, with thick red hair secured in a leather tie walked over. He halted at her side, a bowl of warm water in his hand. “How does he fare?”
“The same,” Alesone replied, thankful the stranger, John MacLairish, had nae only welcomed them without hesitation, but had carried Thomas inside and insisted on helping to tend to him.
He set the bowl on the table. “’Tis a nasty wound.”
“Aye.” She soaked the cloth, surprised and thankful to discover the depth of his healing skills. After wringing out the excess water, she wiped away any lingering dirt, and then threaded the needle. “He has lost a lot of blood.”
John grunted. “From the look of the damage where the arrow went through, he is fortunate he didna die.”
She smothered the rush of fear, well aware of the severity of Thomas’s condition. The next few days would determine if he lived. “He is a strong man.” And as determined and mule-headed as any she’d ever met. And loyal as well, a warrior she could trust. Unsure how to deal with the feelings Thomas inspired, she refocused on her task.
“You didna mention his name,” John said.
