Healing the Beast Read online

  Healing

  the Beast

  by Sable Grey

  Breathless Press

  Calgary, Alberta

  www.breathlesspress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or

  persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Healing the Beast

  Copyright© 2009 Sable Grey

  ISBN: 978-1-926771-05-2

  Cover Artist: Justyn Perry

  Editor: Justyn Perry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations

  embodied in reviews.

  Breathless Press

  www.breathlesspress.com

  Chapter One

  Towton, Yorkshire England

  Palm Sunday, 29 March 1461

  Conen opened his eyes to the crunch of soft steps and squinted, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword; but he couldn’t see anything through the snow. The pain in his side was dulled in comparison to the throb at his temple, even though he was certain the wound on his head was not the most serious.

  He was no stranger to pain or the wounds of battle. His large body was covered with evidence that marked the truth of his loyalty. Though it stung the gash at his temple and brow would heal within days. The wound at his side would take longer. The muscles were slashed open but thankfully the blade had missed the more important areas of his insides. It was the blood that seeped from the wound, despite the pressure he was trying to place on it that caused him worry. He would have to stop the bleeding so the wolf inside could heal the injury.

  Grunting and using his sword to lean on, he pulled himself to his knees, and then to his feet. He peered through the white blanket that rippled around him. It had been a victory despite the men he’d lost. He’d been left for dead after the enemy fled. Around him, piles of bodies remained.

  And then he saw her. She stepped through the veil of snow like an angel wrapped in a woolen cloak. Pink cheeks, kissed by the cold and fair lashes that veiled her gaze as it swept over those left behind. She wore a plain gray dress beneath and he breathed out with relief. She was from the convent, no doubt, come here to help those, like him, who were left behind and injured.

  Leaning on the strength of the sword, he took a breath and called out but the force of his own voice brought him back to his knees. Still the woman lifted her face, her blue eyes finding him quickly. She hurried forward, moving as smoothly through the battlefield of death as the flakes that fell around him.

  “What are your injuries?” Her voice was strong, full-bodied, and sweeter than any he could remember. He turned his head, hoping she hadn’t seen his face yet, enjoying the feel of her fingers on his arm when she touched him. It had been so long since he had felt a woman’s tenderness that his wounds, and the life they drained him of, seemed suddenly unimportant.

  “My side,” he answered in a deep voice, slightly hoarse from bellowing commands over the noise of battle.

  “Your head as well,” she argued, reaching for his face but he ducked, still trying to hide the scar that he knew would have her stepping back away from him. He knew the reaction well. He’d witnessed it almost the entirety of his adult life.

  He’d only been fourteen, his wolf still young and inexperienced in the healing process, his first time battling with his father’s army, and the hand ax had cracked his jaw seconds before he’d sliced his aggressor’s arm, cutting off the strength that would have split his head open. He’d always been a large size, larger than most men and the physician said that the strength of his thick bones was what saved him from death. Conen knew though, even inexperienced, it had been the wolf that had saved him from death.

  ‘You are blessed,’ the physician told him, ‘that your speech will not be affected.’ Conen saw no blessing in the years of having his jaw bound with a leather strap or in people’s reactions since.

  “It is nothing,” Conen told the woman as he pulled from the memory, but she did not move and finally reached forward, cupping each side of his face to turn him towards her. Her gaze dropped to his deep scar but only for a moment, and Conen blinked when she did not jerk her hand away from him. Instead, she leaned forward to examine the wound at this temple. Perhaps the snow had blurred her vision and it did not look as deep as it was, he reasoned.

  “You are correct. It needs but a stitch. Raise your arm; let me look at your side.” She spoke directly, as if she herself were accustomed to telling others what to do. He tried to lift his arm as she instructed but grunted when pain speared through him. He shook his head.

  “I cannot,” he murmured and she dropped her hand from his face to his shoulder as she knelt beside him and leaned down to look for herself. Her long fingers pushed aside his breastplate and clothes and warmed his skin. Gently, she touched his wound and peered closer.

  “There is no fatal damage but you will need it tended to. Come with me and let me help you.” She straightened, her hand falling away from his shoulder.

  “Have you a horse?” He guessed her to be closer to thirty than twenty, and thinner than he’d first thought. The cloak had made her seem more rounded, but her fingers were long and slender.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Where are the others?” He dragged a breath, fighting to remain conscious.

  “There are none but me. Let me wrap the wound so that the blood flow will stop,” she suggested and he sank to his knees with a sigh of relief. Carefully, she lifted the breastplate over his head and set it aside. Before he could protest, she ripped the hem of her dress and tore a thick, long strip. She wrapped the piece around him tightly and tied it at the other side.

  “My armor,” he reminded when she’d finished but she shook her head.

  “Leave it. It is too heavy and will make you slow. My home isn’t far.” She dipped her shoulder beneath his arm, her body warm against his.

  Conen grunted. “I will break you in two.”

  “I am stronger than I appear.”

  He heaved himself back to his feet by allowing her to take some of his weight, surprised when she did not buckle beneath the little that he allowed her to burden. “You are not from the convent?” He gripped the hilt of his sword and used it to keep himself balanced.

  “I most certainly am not. My home is just up the road, closer than the convent. You will have to walk the distance.”

  She was tall, he thought absently as he attempted to take a step but winced, and groaned against pain that ripped through him. He managed another step and she nodded with approval.

  Moving closer to him, she wrapped her arms around his broad torso the best she could, in an attempt to help relieve him of some of the pain. He stared down at the top of her hood and then took another step, dragging the sword forward as if it were a cane.

  “This shall take us the entire night,” he said with a frustrated growl and her arms tightened around him. For a moment he didn’t try to move, then laid his arm across her back, steeled himself against the pain, and began to walk, one little step at a time.

  Nightfall had come and gone by the time they reached the cottage. Conen had to give the woman credit. She had done her best to help, but he could tell now that he would not remain conscious for much longer. The pain had consumed his entire body almost to the point that he could not even feel the cold of the night anymore. He stumbled as they reached the door and his shoulder struck the wall of stone with a solid thump.

  “Call for your husband…” Conen managed to murmur.

  “I have no husband,” she said flatly and pushed open the door. “Just a few more steps and you can rest.” She prompted and gripping her shoulder, he pushed himself inside. The cottage was small, just two rooms and the bed waited for him against the east wall of the front room. He staggered forward and then collapsed atop the wool blanket.

  The blankets felt good beneath him and the room was warm, breaking through the chill that had settled in his bones. He groaned and turned his head when someone moved at his side, finding the woman bending over him. From beneath his heavy lids, he watched her lips part slightly with her breath and vaguely felt her hands on his body.

  “Do not look at my face, angel. Close your…eyes. Kiss me.” He murmured seconds before the darkness of unconsciousness swept around him.

  ***

  Hours later, Marial examined the stitches she’d made in the soldier’s side. They looked good, close together and pulled tight. The wound needed to be wrapped but it was late and she could not lift him alone so she would have to wait.

  Her gaze drifted over his torso. She had cut away his tunic revealing many scars. Old pain ached within her. Her husband’s body had bore the marks of bravery and honor as well. It had been nearly two years since Geoffrey’s death but she still longed to feel the soft skin of his scars beneath her fingers again.

  She shook the memories of her husband from her mind, focusing on the man who lay in her bed now. She’d tended many soldiers at the convent but none had ever been as large as this one. Thick muscle and solid bone, not an inch of softness, she marveled, like a great human mountain.

  Her gaze rose to his face. He’d tried to hide it from her. Her husband had spoken of this man before, of the deep scar and of his fearlessness. He was Lord Conen Mars Sheridan of Glashire.

/>   Leaning closer, she examined the scar closely; searching for the story it could tell. An inch and a half in width, deep, and it stretched from earlobe to chin. It had been wrapped, she could tell, but not tight enough and had healed so that his strong chin set slightly off center.

  Probably an ax, she surmised as she reached out and gently ran her finger down its length. He was fortunate the strike had not blinded him or affected his speech. Still, she imagined, from the way he’d tried to shield her from it, that men’s ignorance had done more damage than the ax.

  Her gaze drifted to the rest of his face. Broad features, heavy brow, and deep-set eyes. They were blue, she remembered. A tiny scar on his left cheekbone, another at the top of his high forehead, and he would be left with a tiny new mark that divided his left brow. It had only required two little stitches and she smiled at the job she’d done.

  She wondered if he had a wife awaiting his return. She would ask the nuns to write a letter and deliver it to Glashire, she decided firmly, so his family would not think he had perished.

  She leaned away from him, stretched and yawned. She had tended him long past dawn and into the morning. But she had taken her time cleaning the wound, to be certain there would be no infection. Now, she rose to her feet and set to throwing out the bloodied water and sewing the tunic together.

  He was a large man, she thought as she moved about, larger than most. She guessed him taller than six feet tall. It was not his height that was as intimidating as it was the width and solidity of him. Nothing but muscle, she remembered how he’d felt when she’d tried to help him. It was like trying to carry a bull.

  When she sat down to sew his tunic, her gaze drifted back to him as she recalled the last words he’d spoken to her. Do not look at my face, angel. Close your…eyes. Kiss me. It had been so long since she’d felt a man’s lips on hers. She’d been tempted on occasion to allow some of the men who’d called on her that privilege. But her common sense had always stopped her. She had more important things to keep in mind than her loneliness for a man’s kiss.

  Her eyes lifted to the door across the room, thankful that Geoff remained asleep when she arrived with the man. Only thirteen, her son worked from dawn and into the late afternoon each day for his uncle so that they could continue to live in what had been his father’s cottage.

  Marial had wanted more children but her husband had received a wound in battle that prevented them from having any more than Geoff. Her husband’s brother did not understand why she had not remarried. She was only twenty-nine, still young enough to remarry and conceive. But she had more to think of than her own needs. Geoff needed a man who would take him in and show him the ways of men and most of those who had shown an interest in her had shown none in her son.

  She started from her thoughts as someone rapped soundly. Carefully, she set her sewing aside and opened the door, smiling when she found Sister Iris and Sister Lorna on her step. They both wore expressions of relief when she opened the door.

  “When you did not come to help us this morning, we were worried. We feared something happened to you in the snow on your way home.” Iris exclaimed.

  “Something did happen. Come in and I shall show you, but keep quiet for Geoff is still asleep. His uncle took pity on him and allowed him three days rest after he worked so hard with the sheep this past week.” Marial stepped aside so her two friends could enter.

  “Do tell us!” Iris said and then gasped when her gaze rested on the large man in Marial’s bed.

  “I went to the battlefield. I wanted to be certain none of the living was left behind. He was the only one who still had breath left in him.” Marial closed the door and then stepped around the two women to the soldier’s side.

  Iris pressed herself back against the wall but Lorna had overcome her shock and took a bold step forward. “How on earth did you manage to get him here?” she asked, peering down at the man. “He’s a face that only the good Lord can love.”

  “Lorna!” Iris whispered, scolding though she did not venture closer herself.

  “He walked. It took little more than two hours for he could barely move. But he was very strong and did not give up,” Marial told them, feeling a bit of pride for the man and how well he’d done under the circumstances. “I would not have brought him here except my husband had spoken of him to me as being honorable once. I recognized him from the scar Geoffrey described. And he would have died on the road if we had tried to walk back to the convent.”

  “The stitches look good. But then you have always been very good at sewing men up.” Lorna observed as she leaned closer to the man and squinted down at the wound.

  “I need to wrap him but cannot move him on my own. Will you help me?” She looked from one nun to the next. Lorna immediately stepped to the other side of the bed and after a moment Iris nodded.

  They hefted him to sitting position and Marial quickly wrapped the linens she had cut into long strips around him, bracing herself against the bed as she pulled tightly and tied the bandage.

  “He is as heavy as an ox.” Lorna grunted. “Where is that horrible brother in law of yours when he is needed?”

  “Let’s lay him down again, gently now,” Marial instructed and then beamed when he did not stir. “I thank both of you. I could not have done it on my own.”

  “Indeed not,” Lorna agreed. “Always mending the broken.”

  Iris nodded, “A new baby bird to care for.” Marial crossed her arms. She’d first met the two nuns when she was trying to mend a fallen falcon’s broken wings. They walked upon her on the road and offered their assistance. She’d become fast friends with them both but, two years later, they still teased her about it.

  “One extremely large bird,” Lorna amended and Marial chuckled.

  “Have you ever seen a man as big as he?” Iris whispered.

  “A few.” Lorna shrugged, “but not many.” She stepped away from the bed and settled in the chair at the small table in the middle of the room.

  “I haven’t. If I had I would be too afraid to tend to him,” Iris admitted.

  “He’s had no fever?” Lorna asked and Marial shook her head.

  “Not yet. Pray that he does not develop one,” she answered and both sisters nodded moments before the door across the room opened. Marial smiled when Geoff appeared, his fair hair disheveled, and rubbing his knuckles sleepily over his eyes.

  “Good morning,” Lorna greeted as the boy yawned loudly.

  “I thought I heard clucking out here.” He grinned as Lorna took a swipe at his legs but his expression dimmed and then sobered completely when his gaze fell to the man in his mother’s bed. “Is he one of those that fought last night in Towton?”

  “Yes.” Marial reached out to smooth down his hair when he stepped near. “Poor thing nearly collapsed in the floor. I am thankful he did not.”

  “He’d still be there if he had,” Lorna added and Marial nodded. “I don’t think the four of us together could lift him.”

  “His face…” Geoff murmured.

  “A soldier like your father was.” Marial rested her hand on his shoulder, thinking he was nearly as tall as she. “Someone he knew, I believe.” Pain tugged at her heart when Geoff took another step forward.

  “If I were you, who I am not, I would send the ox home and then ride south to London. Find you a wealthy gentleman, make your cousin pay a handsome dowry, and live the rest of your life without worry of ever laying eyes on him again,” Lorna said dryly and Iris shot her a scolding glare.

  “He would not have to be wealthy gentleman. A farmer can make her just as happy as any lord,” Iris corrected, and then smiled, “but it is a good idea. You should not be here alone like this, Marial.”

  “She’s not alone,” Geoff said, turning from the stranger. “She has me.”

  “Indeed I do.” Marial nodded. “And I need nothing more.”

  Chapter Two

  Groaning against the raw pain at his side, Conen woke up to warmth and the sound of a fire crackling. He was home. He breathed out heavily, and then forced his eyes open. He instantly stiffened as he stared at the ceiling. He was not at Glashire.