“Oh, please, God, no,” Sorcha whispered.
“Get him, you fools!” Darton pointed at the fleeing stallion. Chickens flew, scattering feathers; men and women alike hid in their shops.
Bjorn didn’t move. Dread coiled around Sorcha’s heart. His eyes were closed, his lips pale. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. She dropped to her knees and felt for a sign of life. His breath was shallow, the beating of his heart faint. “You must not die,” she said, placing a hand upon his cheek. “You must not.”
A few drops of rain began to fall, and the wind whipped through the bailey, tugging at her hair.
“Take ’im inside,” the cook said, but Sorcha didn’t move.
As if in a trance, she reached into her pouch and pulled out the necklace that had once surrounded Leah’s neck. “May the gods be with you, Bjorn,” she whispered as she placed the red, knotted string over his head. She laid her hands upon his chest and closed her eyes, oblivious to the men who had finally captured her horse, or the crowd of peasants who stood a safe distance from her and yet stared in awe, or the commotion at the gates where Hagan and his hunting party had returned early.
“Save him,” she whispered, willing Bjorn to live. He had acted with noble valor, throwing himself in front of the horse to protect the child. He didn’t deserve to die. “Please …” she prayed, her voice soft on the rising wind. Cold rain drizzled down her neck and fell upon her hands as she touched him. “Don’t give up,” she said, and the earth seemed to tremble. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard her name, and then the serpent ring began to warm her finger. With one hand she clutched the twigs of the necklace. “Live, Bjorn,” she commanded as the breeze tossed her hair in front of her face. “Please, live.”
She didn’t know how desperate she sounded, didn’t realize how she appeared, on her knees, in the mud, her hands caressing the bloodied tunic of the stableboy.
Hagan watched in silence. He slid from his destrier and stood a short distance away as the day seemed to turn to night. The wind shrieked through the castle walls and rain lashed the ground, but the peasants and soldiers, who could easily have run into the castle or huts for warmth, stood transfixed, as did he, fascinated as Sorcha leaned over the boy. Her lips moved silently with the words of love, her hands offered warmth and comfort. Jealousy cut Hagan to his soul.
Lightning sizzled across the sky.
“ ’Tis the sign of the devil!” Ada, the cook, cried.
Thunder cracked across the hills.
Still Sorcha didn’t move.
“Saints preserve us!” one of the seamstresses whispered.
Bjorn’s eyes blinked open and he moaned.
“ ’E’s alive! By Christ, ’e’s alive!” Ada said, gripping the doorway for support. “ ’Tis a bloomin’ miracle!”
To Hagan’s horror, Sorcha smiled and pressed her cheek to that of the stableboy. She clutched the twigs around the boy’s neck, then whispered so softly, no one but Bjorn could hear.
Anger and awe surged through Hagan’s blood. His throat was dry, his joints didn’t want to move, but he strode through a puddle and called to his men. “Take him inside—to my chamber.”
“But, m’lord, ’e’s just a stableboy,” a soldier said in protest.
“Take him!” Hagan roared, and the soldier, along with three other men, lifted Bjorn from the mud and carried him away. “Call Nichodemas—see that the lad’s cared for. As for you—” his gaze settled on Sorcha “—I think there are things you need to explain.”
She swallowed hard as he grabbed her arm. “The child …” she began to protest as he marched her toward the keep. Looking over her shoulder, she watched as Leah gave the little girl to a slim peasant woman with lank, damp hair and eyes still gripped in fear for her child’s life.
“Baby, oh, sweet, sweet baby,” the woman whispered, kissing the muddy curls and holding her daughter close to her tattered dress. The girl clung to her mother’s neck.
With Sorcha in tow, Hagan approached the woman. “Does Marna need care?”
“Nay, she is but scared,” the mother replied, smiling at Hagan as if he had saved her himself.
“If she needs the physician …”
“I know, but she will be fine, won’t you, sweet?” With tender lips she kissed the child’s muddy crown, then bowed quickly and carried the girl into a hut near the well.
“Get back to work!” Hagan yelled at the peasants, servants, and soldiers who were still standing around, whispering among themselves. Several of the women were pointing at Sorcha and eyeing her with either awe or fear. The men, too, cast worried looks in her direction.
Darton, still holding his leg, fixed Hagan with a glare. He’d been right, curse him, Hagan realized. Whether Sorcha was blessed with special powers or not, the people of Erbyn believed her to be unlike any other. Hi
s fingers clenched more tightly over her wet arm when he heard the guard shout.
A company of horsemen and women passed through the gates.