He glanced into the darkness where Alys’s presumed guide had melted into the shadows. He suspected he knew who it was. “Back out to the village again, to visit the sick?” he asked.
Her eyelids flickered. “Aye.”
He noticed she carried a sack that bulged awkwardly. Presumably, she carried either her medicines or her personal belongings. “Did I not offer you escort-nay, did I not insist that I provide you with a man to ensure your safety if you were thus called again?”
“Aye, my lord, but I have my own escort. I’ll come to no harm this night.” Again, her eyes flickered toward the shadows.
He recognized this gesture as her nervous sense of urgency, but he was not quite ready to allow her to pass. Not until he had his own concerns allayed. In an effort to keep his next words indistinguishable to anyone but Alys, he moved closer, but took care not to block the light from an overhead sconce. He wanted a clear view of her face.
“You are a healer,” he said, looking at her with unrelenting eyes. “Will the tainted meat cause harm to anyone?”
At once he saw that she understood what he knew, and what worried him. “Nay, my lord,” she said, reaching to close her fingers briefly onto his wrist. “I give you my word. No real ill will come of the tainted meat. Aye, some discomfort, but that is the most of it. I swear it.” She lifted a silver filigree crucifix from under her neckline, clasping her fingers about it in oath.
He searched her eyes, and saw them completely bereft of guile . . . and filled with something like understanding. Will stepped back, hooding his gaze from her knowing one, and nodded. “Aye, then, Lady Alys. You have put my fears to rest. Now, may I escort you through the bailey, at the least.”
His words were not a request but a command. And when she acquiesced, he had a clearer glimpse of her guide, who’d thus far remained in the shadows. But as they walked through the hall and out into the bailey, the other man passed beneath a torch such that Will was able to see his face.
He recognized him at once: Allan-a-Dale.
A companion of Locksley.
CHAPTER 15
“Is he badly hurt?” Alys asked as the man led her through the darkness.
She didn’t know his name. She’d awakened to her maid’s gentle shaking, and gone out to see the man, who’d said only, “We need your assistance, lady healer. Will you come?”
She’d risen hastily. She knew him to be Robin Hood’s companion, for she’d seen him during her short captivity in the tree hideaway. Some of her salves and herbs were already in the bag, but she shoved more in, along with a sharp knife and some clean linen cloth. Without knowing the nature of the problem they had called her to help with, she knew she must be as prepared as she could.
Outside the keep, her guide, who at last told her his name was Allan, walked quickly. Besides offering his name, he spoke not at all, and expected her to keep pace with him. She wasn’t certain whether it was because he did not care that her legs were shorter or because he was in a great hurry to return, but she had trouble doing so.
“Did you fetch me for Robin?” she asked finally.
“Aye,” he said, responding to her question. “We can do naught more, and he has lost much blood. The arrow slid betwixt two ribs beneath his breast and he has not been able to breathe since. ’Tis broken off inside.”
Alys increased her pace, deeply worried. “Does he sound wet when he breathes?” she asked.
“Aye, as though he is breathing through water.”
Nay. Oh, nay, that was not good. Alys’s heart sank. “Does he speak?”
“Nay. He makes no response.”
A pang struck her deep in the belly. Robin could die. He likely would. There was naught she or any leech or healer could do if the chest was pierced and the breathing was wet. And with a piece of arrow lodged within . . .
Alys drew in a deep breath, walking as quickly as her short legs would allow, her hems dragging along ground still damp from recent rain. She’d not even paused to braid her hair, merely tied it with a loose thong.
Nay. Not Robin. Not bold, foolish, grinning Robin. Robin of the kind heart and overgreat thoughts of himself. Nay.
She began to pray.
Allan led her quickly across the bridge from the bailey, down into the street of the village. Had he not brought a horse? Must they walk far into the wood? It would be hours before they arrived, and his life could be slipping away. . . . They must go faster.
A shadow pulled away from the darkness in front of them, and transformed into a man leading a horse.
“Alys,” he said as they came nearer.
“Robin?” She could not contain the leap of relief, and . . . joy. “You are not hurt?”
“Nay. Not I. I told Allan to fetch you for me, for one of my men. You came.” Gone tonight was the playful smile, the eyes gleaming with humor. Robin was sober and serious, cloaked in a dark wrap that added to his austerity.
She understood now the mistake she had made when Allan had spoken. “Aye, of course,” she said, moving toward him. She felt nothing but an odd relief beneath her continuing apprehension.
