Read Online The YIELDING by Tamara Leigh - Free Book Online
Authors: Tamara Leigh
Tags: Romance, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Historical Romance, Religion & Spirituality, Medieval, Christian fiction, Inspirational, Christian Books & Bibles, Religious & Inspirational Fiction
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grip her so, she peered closer and picked out the peculiar bend of his left leg.
“Witch! By my own hand I shall light the fire that spews you to hell!”
His threat freeing her from her misplaced concern, she pushed to her feet. “You will light no…fire,” she called down. “As you say, ‘tis done.”
His shouts pounded her back as she crossed to where she had dropped his red mantle and swept it up. This day she would begin her journey to Stern Castle, for she did not doubt D’Arci would soon follow.
Unless he dies down there.
Her feet faltered as compassion reached for her again. Surely someone would miss him. Someone in passing would hear his shouts.
And if no one does?
“I care not!” She stretched her legs farther. All that mattered was that she leave, and the sooner she was gone from here, the better her chances. In fact, given a horse—
Somewhere in the wood was D’Arci’s destrier. However, the thought of mounting the great animal made her shudder and opened wide a memory of urging her palfrey to greater speed, an arm slamming around her waist, pale eyes, and cruel laughter.
She remembered Sir Simon overtaking her and pulling her onto his mount, but surely that had not beget this fear of horses. There had to be more, but though she strained to recapture what it was, the door remained closed. Regardless, that day had been the beginning of her end. So much she had lost that might never be hers again.
Tears wet her eyes. Though the simple act of expression continued to trip her tongue, albeit not as greatly as during her imprisonment at Broehne Castle, inside she was nearly the same. Inside she knew the intricacies of numbers and letters. Yet to hear her stumbling words and searching silence, one named her witless.
“Dear God,” she whispered, “I tire of being a fool. Pray, heal my mind and deliver me home that I might find myself again.”
She pressed onward, determined to find D’Arci’s horse and leave its master behind.
CHAPTER SIX
A pox upon the witch!
Michael shook with an anger that was becoming increasingly familiar where Beatrix Wulfrith was concerned—first, when news was brought of his brother’s murder, next when she claimed Simon had ravished her, then when he regained consciousness at Broehne Castle. Now he suffered a broken leg and a dark pit into which he had allowed himself to be led. And he had named her a fool!
As scalding pain shot knee to thigh and spread hip to hip, he ground his jaws so hard he thought he heard a tooth crack. “’Tis not done!”
Anger shook him harder, though he knew it was more than that. It was shock such as he had seen during the wars between King Stephen and Duke Henry when they had battled for the throne of England. Though Michael’s days had been spent fighting for Henry’s cause, often his nights were devoted to tending the wounded and dying. Time and again he treated broken limbs and the resultant pooling of blood beneath the skin as his stepmother had taught him to do. Thus, he had seen what often followed shock, but—curse all!— he would not lose consciousness.
Knowing he must act immediately if he was to walk again without hitch or hobble, he stretched his useless leg out before him and felt his hands down his calf. The leg was broken below the knee. That it was slowly numbing likely meant the bone ends pressed on an artery.
He grasped his calf and, with a shout that echoed around the crypt, forced the bones together. Perspiration coursing his brow, perception flickering, he drew slow, deep breaths until the darkness receded.
As he would need a splint to prevent further damage from the jagged bones, he swept his gaze around the dim, but the only thing available to him was his sword and its hard leather scabbard. Though it was a disgrace that a man’s blade be reduced to a splint, he pressed the flat of it to the outside of the leg, the scabbard to the inside, and bound the two with strips torn from his mantle.
“Devil
“Witch! By my own hand I shall light the fire that spews you to hell!”
His threat freeing her from her misplaced concern, she pushed to her feet. “You will light no…fire,” she called down. “As you say, ‘tis done.”
His shouts pounded her back as she crossed to where she had dropped his red mantle and swept it up. This day she would begin her journey to Stern Castle, for she did not doubt D’Arci would soon follow.
Unless he dies down there.
Her feet faltered as compassion reached for her again. Surely someone would miss him. Someone in passing would hear his shouts.
And if no one does?
“I care not!” She stretched her legs farther. All that mattered was that she leave, and the sooner she was gone from here, the better her chances. In fact, given a horse—
Somewhere in the wood was D’Arci’s destrier. However, the thought of mounting the great animal made her shudder and opened wide a memory of urging her palfrey to greater speed, an arm slamming around her waist, pale eyes, and cruel laughter.
She remembered Sir Simon overtaking her and pulling her onto his mount, but surely that had not beget this fear of horses. There had to be more, but though she strained to recapture what it was, the door remained closed. Regardless, that day had been the beginning of her end. So much she had lost that might never be hers again.
Tears wet her eyes. Though the simple act of expression continued to trip her tongue, albeit not as greatly as during her imprisonment at Broehne Castle, inside she was nearly the same. Inside she knew the intricacies of numbers and letters. Yet to hear her stumbling words and searching silence, one named her witless.
“Dear God,” she whispered, “I tire of being a fool. Pray, heal my mind and deliver me home that I might find myself again.”
She pressed onward, determined to find D’Arci’s horse and leave its master behind.
CHAPTER SIX
A pox upon the witch!
Michael shook with an anger that was becoming increasingly familiar where Beatrix Wulfrith was concerned—first, when news was brought of his brother’s murder, next when she claimed Simon had ravished her, then when he regained consciousness at Broehne Castle. Now he suffered a broken leg and a dark pit into which he had allowed himself to be led. And he had named her a fool!
As scalding pain shot knee to thigh and spread hip to hip, he ground his jaws so hard he thought he heard a tooth crack. “’Tis not done!”
Anger shook him harder, though he knew it was more than that. It was shock such as he had seen during the wars between King Stephen and Duke Henry when they had battled for the throne of England. Though Michael’s days had been spent fighting for Henry’s cause, often his nights were devoted to tending the wounded and dying. Time and again he treated broken limbs and the resultant pooling of blood beneath the skin as his stepmother had taught him to do. Thus, he had seen what often followed shock, but—curse all!— he would not lose consciousness.
Knowing he must act immediately if he was to walk again without hitch or hobble, he stretched his useless leg out before him and felt his hands down his calf. The leg was broken below the knee. That it was slowly numbing likely meant the bone ends pressed on an artery.
He grasped his calf and, with a shout that echoed around the crypt, forced the bones together. Perspiration coursing his brow, perception flickering, he drew slow, deep breaths until the darkness receded.
As he would need a splint to prevent further damage from the jagged bones, he swept his gaze around the dim, but the only thing available to him was his sword and its hard leather scabbard. Though it was a disgrace that a man’s blade be reduced to a splint, he pressed the flat of it to the outside of the leg, the scabbard to the inside, and bound the two with strips torn from his mantle.
“Devil
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