Believing Your Eyes
Chapter 1 - Page 3

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In a flash, Stephen felt cold metal at his throat. The woman's eyes flew open; a pair of fever-bright green eyes burned into Stephen's face. Stephen’s soldiering experience kicked in immediately. He kept his body perfectly still despite the decidedly wicked edge on the dagger pressing into his neck. He looked steadily into that desperate gleam. "I am here to help," he told her quietly. "We come from the Citadel. We can take you there; you will be safe and cared for." He didn't move a muscle, willing her to trust in him.

The woman seemed undecided, but her arm did not waver. Stephen gently placed his hand over the one at his throat. "You must know that you have been poisoned. If you kill me, it will not matter if I am telling the truth or not. You will die here, in the snow."

This seemed to penetrate the fog behind her eyes; she nodded her acquiescence and allowed him to take the dagger from her hand. He reached behind her and put the dagger in the leather saddlebag on her steed. Stephen then lifted the edge of her cloak to see the damage beneath the bloodied cloth. Her blue tunic beneath was ripped open. The scarlet rash flaring around a jagged wound on her lower ribs showed that some sort of poison - probably dwale - was already working its way into her system.

"We have got to get you back quickly," he explained as he worked. Examining the injury more closely, Stephen swore beneath his breath. The wound in her side was bad enough, but the poison was already taking hold of her. He could see how dilated her eyes were, and her body was trembling, although that could be the cold doing its own harm . Stephen looked back up the hill. "Bring the horses," he called to Ian. "She has got to get some treatment as soon as possible." Ian led the horses down the hill as Stephen lifted her in his arms. Her horse stood immediately beside them.

"Who is she, the lost daughter of a nearby Lord?" Ian asked in breathless wonder as he drew near. Suddenly he felt much braver - Prince Ian, rescuer of poor damsels in distress! Now there was something to boast to the guys in the tavern, and more importantly, to the buxom serving wenches. He peered with curiosity at her pale face.

Being careful not to jostle her, Stephen gathered her more closely in his arms. He gently lifted her onto his horse sidesaddle, then climbed up behind to steady her. Her roan moved close in, apparently prepared to follow. Ian reached for the horse's tack, but the horse only had a leather saddle and bags - no bridle or reins. He glanced around but didn't see them on the ground anywhere. Shrugging, he mounted and turned his horse to follow Stephen, who had already begun back the way they had come.

Night fell quickly, and soon the winds were swirling the light snow into their faces, stinging their eyes. They guided their horses back through the woods, moving more quickly now that they could follow their own trail back. Stephen held the woman tightly against him with one arm, trying to keep her warm in spite of the dropping temperatures. Behind them, Stephen could hear Ian following close with the riderless roan.

There was no moon out, and darkness grew so thick with the snow that Stephen sometimes had trouble seeing the path in front of him. Yet, when they drew near the clearing, the woman straightened against him, and turned her face up to his. She tried to speak, but was unable to make any sound.

Understanding her need, Stephen turned the horse to face into the clearing. She raised her head and looked evenly out over the bodies, to the now dark cairn. She pulled the left side of her cloak back, revealing a long leather scabbard at her hip. It was made with high quality leather, but was simple in design - meant to last rather than impress. Down the center were stamped the letters ‘Leslie’.

The woman took a deep breath, then drew her sword. It matched the scabbard - it was sturdy and well made without being flashy. The sword bore the hundred small marks of frequent use. She solemnly saluted the cairn with her sword, pausing for a wordless prayer, then kissed the hilt before resheathing it. Stephen watched the tears slide down her cheeks as she looked up at him and nodded. She was done. "Thank you," she rasped softly, pulling the cloak back around her body. Then she closed her eyes and slumped back against him.

Stephen held her more tightly, and moved off again at a quicker pace. They were still a half hour at least from the town, and the temperature was dropping quickly. He could feel shivers begin to rack the woman's body. 'Leslie,' he thought as he rode. 'So she was part of the fighting. What woman would be traveling in the winter, never mind in this area? And she wields a sword?’ He found himself curious about the charge in his arms. He rode the remaining miles as quickly as he dared, pushing himself to get her to safety.

It seemed too long a time before the Citadel's stone walls and main gate loomed ahead darkly, somber against the storm clouds. They rode hard across the open meadow to the sturdy doors, pulling to a stop beneath the walls. "Open the gates," cried Ian. "We have returned with someone who is hurt badly! Open up!" Torches could be seen moving around in the windows by the stout wooden gate as the soldiers recognized the two men. The logs holding the doors secure made a low grating noise as they slowly were slid free. The heavy doors were pulled open, and the three horses galloped inside.

Ian led the way expertly through the narrow dirt streets of the Citadel, weaving past the lights from windows and torches to the main building at the top of the hill. The city-dwellers poked their heads out of stone-lined windows to see who was racing through so late at night. In spite of the closeness, the streets were clean and the buildings well-kept; garden areas scattered in various open areas were tended and neat.

Soon they had arrived at the main keep’s gates, which stood open. Stable boys hurried with torches in hand to take the horses and guide the two companions inside. Stephen put his injured charge over his shoulder and hurried up the steps, taking a right in the Great Hall, down a narrow, twisting flight of steps to the healing room. "It makes no sense to me why they heal down here in the dark," muttered Stephen, fumbling awkwardly with the lamp in his hand. The wick caught, and suddenly the room flickered with light and shadow.

Ian came in behind him and began lighting the other candles while Stephen placed Leslie on the low wood table, draping his own cloak over her for warmth. She lay curled up and motionless while Stephen moved to a cluttered bench beneath a tall set of shelves. Stephen reached for a pottery container with a scant amount of yellow powder, a glass vial of water, and a marble mortar and pestle. All four stone walls were lined with shelves full of odd-smelling potions, drying herbs and musty parchments.

Ian finished with the candles and stood by the wood table, unsure of what to do next. He had avoided this place as he grew up; the strange smells now reminded him of the times he had been wounded in mock fights in the courtyard. He felt helpless as Stephen expertly mixed the ingredients together, watching as the man added in a pale yellow liquid from another glass vial.

"I am coming, I am coming," called a raspy voice from the top of the stairs. An elderly man in a rusty-brown robe hobbled down the stairs, rubbing his eyes. "I heard from the stable boys...she has been poisoned, huh?" Stephen nodded, brow furrowed as he examined his results. He showed it, frowning, to the tonsured monk.

"I know," sighed the monk. "It is the long winter, and the Grays have been very active. Our supplies are running out. If only we could find some more, and not have to ration out our remaining medicines. I guess this will have to do for her, though." Leslie lay on the table, motionless now except for the slight trembling of her hands and feet. Her eyes were closed. Stephen gently lay the cloak back. In the light of the many candles, he now saw that she wore a long, blue tunic over a pair of black pants. He heard Ian’s snort of surprise, and smiled to himself. Did Ian think she’d been fighting in a dress?

Stephen loosened the brown leather belt and gingerly slid the tunic up above her stomach, revealing her waist. There was a lot of blood here, and a long slice could be traced from her hip up to her lower ribs. He could also see that a rash was spreading across her skin. He took a folded square of cloth from a shelf and poured some of the mixture into its center.

The monk motioned to Stephen to begin, and instructed Ian to hold the woman tightly by her wrists. "She might try to fight, because of the pain," he warned Ian, taking hold of her ankles. "We have got to try and keep her from hurting herself. Good luck," he added to Stephen.

"Thanks, Matthew. Let us hope we have gotten to it quickly enough this time." He began cleaning the wound with a damp cloth, trying to take care not to hurt her. She moaned softly while he worked, twisting beneath his hands, her feet and hands still trembling. As he cleaned the wound, he found to his surprise that it was not deep after all, rather a glancing slide along her ribs that had bled a great deal. Others he had worked on had been poisoned by deep wounds. With such a shallow wound, he didn’t believe that enough poison could have gotten into her system to cause the rash and trembling. Maybe the Grays were using something new? The thoughts raced through his mind as he worked.

He finished cleaning the wound in a short while, then put a clean cloth against it to hold back the bleeding. He used another cloth to wrap around her waist and hold the first one in place. A leather thong was tied to hold the bandage in place.

Satisfied that the wound was not mortal, he did a quick survey of the rest of her outfit while Ian looked away in embarrassment. In addition to the tunic and pants she wore high black, well worn leather boots, which he removed, and simple stockings. He did not find any other indications of a wound beneath any of this, and his gentle examination of her arms and legs found strong muscle, but no obviously broken bones. This arrow wound seemed to be the only serious injury. Still, it should not have caused the rash that he could see on her stomach, nor the trembling that had seized her. The reactions concerned him. What had happened?

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Believing Your Eyes - a medieval romance Leslie's homeland has been overrun by bandits. Desperation drives her to plead for assistance from a neighboring noble and his son, Ian. Ian's wenching ways and arrogance stand in sharp contrast with the quiet nobility and honor of Stephen, their best swordsman. Leslie's heart is broken when she discovers that duty has bound him in an engagement to another woman. Once Ian decides that Leslie must be his, Leslie is swept into a conflict of honor. One where death seems to be the only possible outcome ... Believing Your Eyes - a medieval romance on Amazon.com

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