Page 85 of The Cornish Princess
“Indeed you will,” he reassured. “Indeed you will.”
And regardless, he cleaned the wound for her, then made her a strong-smelling poultice of mashed juniper leaves, smearing this smelly concoction on her wound, before re-wrapping the bandage. Thereafter, he disappeared for a while, and meanwhile, because everything they’d arrived with was gone, Gwendolyn searched the house for supplies to travel with.
She found two cloaks, one in a heap by a sewing basket, another in a coffer, neither in good repair. Thin, and made of wool, she wondered how they could keep anyone warm. But no matter, it was better than nothing, and this, too, she intended to repay twofold. She would gift them two of hers—else steal a few from her mother.
Gwendolyn pushed both cloaks down into the saddlebags—one for each—then slid her arming sword into the saddle’s fur-lined scabbard. In these parts, even a poor farmer must be prepared to defend his farmstead.
At long last, Gwendolyn stole an old blanket from another trunk in the master’s chamber and rolled it up, then tied it to the back of her mare, intending to share this with Málik.
The master’s bed had one more coverlet to spare, but she couldn’t leave the family with nothing. It wasn’t as though they had the benefit of a good port with merchants to trade with. These blankets were handwoven, and likely they’d taken Ia’s mother long months to weave.
Gwendolyn figured they would have taken the better of their blankets with them, but it wasn’t as though they had plenty. The house itself was quite mean.
It was only a short while before Málik returned, and Gwendolyn supposed he was ready to leave, but without a word, he dragged her into the master’s chamber, then shoved her down beside the bed.
ChapterThirty-Three
“Stay,” he whispered.
Outside, Gwendolyn heard voices.
“Saddled,” said a man, his voice not at all familiar. “They can’t be far.”
Raiders?
Those same men returned?
Or could it be Ia and her family?
But nay.
It was not.
As though he’d read her mind, Málik shook his head, then lifted a finger to his lips, begging Gwendolyn to remain silent. And then, quietly, carefully, he unsheathed the sword at his back and disappeared into the common room.
Gwendolyn’s heart hammered fiercely.
“Check the house,” bellowed another man, this one coming closer. Then booted steps—coming quickly, loudly fiercely, like the beating of her heart.
Gods.
She’d left her sword on the horse she’d meant to ride. Instinctively, her hand moved down along her thigh, past the bandages, to her boot, reaching for the small blade she kept there. It wasn’t big, but it was sharp enough to put out an eye, and she would do it.
For a terrifying instant, Gwendolyn considered what she would do if they found Málik and harmed him. It spurred her into motion. She didn’t think, only acted.
She couldn’t remain here, hiding like a coward, whilst they hurt him! Moving swiftly to the bower door, she found a burly man entering the cottage, his hand still on the knob. Málik stood hidden on the other side of the door, his entire body cast in shadow behind it. Gwendolyn didn’t even have the time to worry about the glower he sent her.
She faced the scene with wide, frightened eyes, recognizing this man as the raider who had attacked her uncle’s home. Only for an instant, his head tilted, as though surprised to see her, but his surprise was his undoing.
Málik moved swiftly around the door, seizing him by his long, scraggly hair, and then dragged him into the room. In what appeared to be a swift, macabre dance, he slit the man’s throat, then pushed him aside, dragging him by the hair until he, too, vanished behind the door.
From her vantage, Gwendolyn could see that there was one more man outside. Now, he stood in plain view of the door, and he turned, drawn by the noises in the cottage.
Gwendolyn froze at the sight of him marching in her direction, his face splitting wide with a malevolent grin. She couldn’t speak or move.
Once more, Málik placed a hand to his lips and though Gwendolyn could only see him in her periphery, she daren’t turn her head in his direction. Not wanting to give him away, she tried hard not to look away from the approaching warrior, no matter that every bone in her body screamed for her to flee. The knife in her hand trembled.
Or perhaps it was only her hand?
