Read Online Beloved Stranger by PATRICIA POTTER - Free Book Online Page B

answer. It was a sweet thought, and it was rather comforting to know someone would be sad if he died. But it also brought back the loneliness of a mind empty of memories.
    “You need food. Do you think you can eat?”
    He was ravenous. “Aye.”
    Almost immediately she was back with a bowl of soup. He took as many sips of soup as he could, then he shook his head.
    “I will keep it on the fire. Mayhap in an hour or two you can eat more.”
    “You have not slept.”
    “Aye, a little.” She looked at him. “Do you remember anything now? Your name?”
    “Howard?” It was the only name he recalled.
    “You do not remember anything before that? Where you lived?”
    She looked so hopeful he hated to say the truth. But he had nothing to offer her. “Nay.”
    She hesitated, then asked, “Do you read?”
    Read? Did he? Then suddenly he knew he did. “I think so.”
    “Do you think you can show me?”
    “I do not know,” he said.
    “I will find a book.” She knew it would not be easy. Books were rare, and were kept as precious objects. But the priest might well help. He had tracts. Perhaps if the Scot read something familiar . . .
    Words were on the crest, and that might bring back a memory. But what if he claimed the jeweled crest when he regained his senses?
    No. She needed to protect the crest. She would try to help him remember in other ways.
    Or would he ever remember?
     
 
THE brought him a rough crutch she’d fashioned for him. Because of the wounded right hand, he tried to use his left arm but discovered a weakness there, probably from an older wound. He wondered how he had received that one, then put away the thought. It was only one of many questions he had, and probably among the least important. He tried his right hand. Pain shot through it, but he managed to get to his feet.
    Each movement was agonizing. If he was upright, his chest did not hurt so badly, but his leg was pure agony. If he favored the leg, his chest felt as if it was crashing inward on him. But he managed a few halting steps with the aid of the crutch.
    Those few steps required every bit of strength he had. But movement was one thing he had control over. He had none over any other part of his life.
    He kept thinking his memory would return. It didn’t, though he strained every moment to find something familiar. A name. A place. Even a language.
    He knew English and probably several more languages, according to Kimbra Charlton. She said he spoke words during the fever, but she had not understood them. She thought several of them were Gaelic, which she’d heard on the border. But others were strange to her.
    After his faltering steps, he collapsed back on the bed while she coached him on the speech of the borderers. She’d already told him much about the clans on the border, the English and the Scot, and their tradition of raiding across the border. He must understand them, she said, if he was to survive. He must be able to pass for an Englishman until she discovered his identity.
    The speech came easily to him. He seemed to have an ability to ape words and the way they were spoken. Lessons stretched from one hour to several.
    Later, Audra would enter the room and shyly ask him questions.
    “Can you sing?” she asked after gifting him with a song.
    He did not know. He started to hum the song she’d just sung, then the words came. But his were different from hers. A word here and a word there. A song he’d known? One he might have sung to his own child?
    He looked up, and Kimbra was in the doorway, surprise on her face. “Do you know any other songs?” she asked.
    “I did not know I knew that one,” he said.
    “Can you play anything?” she asked.
    He shrugged.
    “We have a lute. Will . . . found it on a raid and kept it, but he never learned to play. Still, he could never bring himself to give it up. He always thought Audra would play it someday.”
    “He sounds like a good man.”
    “He was. Some would say he was a thief, but