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Fiery Agony

His face haggard, William’s captain explained the port where they were about to dock was called Ouistreham. She had no notion of how to proceed from there to Montbryce, and the captain reluctantly told her he had to return the earl’s galley to England with all possible haste.

Roland drifted in and out of consciousness.

Adelina silently cursed Adrien. He would have known what to do.

Seemingly sensing what was in her mind, Roland opened his eyes and told her his crew would take care of her.

In the event, he was right. Thyst quickly took over. Roland was carried into a longboat. She took her place beside him, beyond grateful to see the bleeding had stopped. The plaid was bloodied but she kept it in place and draped her cloak over him. So far, he’d exhibited no signs of fever—another blessing. He grasped her hand and tried to speak.

She leaned closer and learned they were rowing down the river Orne. It was as if he wanted to reassure her things were proceeding normally.

At length, they came to a dock where horses waited. The Montbryces clearly had a well organized transportation system in place.

She fretted about Roland staying atop a horse, but Thyst again solved that problem. Once the burly fellow was mounted, two crewmen lifted Roland into his arms. He cradled his lord like a babe and they set off. She felt useless riding alone. At least in the longboat she’d been able to whisper words of love and encouragement.

Roland had often described his home, but she wasn’t prepared for the grandeur of the castle. One day, she supposed she would appreciate its magnificence but, on this occasion, it represented hope that Roland would receive the care he needed to survive.

When the crowd in the busy courtyard became aware of Thyst’s burden, pandemonium broke out. She slid from her horse and tried desperately to stay by Roland’s side as he was borne into the keep, but she was pushed aside. At the end of her endurance, she sank down in the suddenly silent main entryway and wept the tears she’d kept at bay for too long. It was far removed from the long-anticipated homecoming to Montbryce she’d envisaged.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she heard someone speak her name.

She looked up, not quite believing a familiar face loomed over her. “Marguerite,” she murmured.

Her anxious friend quickly summoned servants. Adelina was scooped up and carried into the castle.

* * *

Despite the fiery agony consuming his body and the fog in his brain, Roland knew he’d made it to Montbryce. He had no memory of most of the journey—only Adelina’s tearful face—but the familiar sounds and smells of his home were reassuring. He was in his own bed. The last thing he recalled was being concerned for Adelina in the stern of the galley. He couldn’t hear her voice among the many around him, nor smell her unique scent. Please God she hadn’t also been wounded. “Adelina,” he cried.

“Don’t try to speak.”

“Maman?” he rasped, struggling to sit up. “Where’s Adelina?”

A cool hand caressed his forehead and gently forced him to lie back. “Marguerite is taking care of her.”

“Is she hurt?”

“No. Now, stop fussing and let us minister to you.”

Guilt swamped him. This wasn’t how he’d envisaged bringing Adelina home. “I must see her.”

“You will, but you don’t want her here when we cauterize your wound.”

He heard the words but their meaning escaped him—until Lucifer himself sank a red hot spear into his flesh and oblivion thankfully rescued him from the torment.

* * *

“I recognize some of the clothes you brought,” Marguerite teased as a maidservant helped Adelina disrobe.

“Your mother lent them to me,” she explained. “It’s a long story.”

“And there’ll be plenty of time to tell it,” Marguerite replied. “Roland’s parents will want to hear it too.”

Adelina was grateful to her friend for the hot bath that sat waiting behind a screen, for the clean clothes laid out on the bed and for simply taking care of her, but she wanted to be by Roland’s side. His guttural cry of agony had stolen what little remained of her courage.

“They’ve taken him to his chamber,” Marguerite explained. “I expect they’ve cauterized the wound.”


Tags: Anna Markland Historical