A Royal Marriage. Rachelle McCallaЧитать онлайн книгу.
was just such a fever that had killed his own mother when he was a boy of twelve years. Tragically, she’d fallen sick during winter when there was no hare’s tongue to cure her. Nonetheless, John had set out with a search party in hopes of finding some tucked away under the snow.
He’d returned in the night half frozen from his search, with nothing to show for his efforts.
His mother had died the next morning.
The memory spurred him forward. It had been his last failure for many years. Some had said that with his mother’s passing he’d inherited her healing gift full force. For a while he’d almost believed them.
Then his own wife had taken ill during childbirth three years ago, after years of battling recurring illness and a miscarrying womb. In spite of all his efforts, he’d lost her and the child she carried. From then on, failure haunted his every effort at healing. Even simple maladies had spiraled out of his control, as though the touch of his hands carried death instead of healing.
His conscience tugged at him. What if his efforts at helping Princess Gisela only led her more quickly down the road to death? The Emperor Charlemagne would blame him and rightly so. Illyria, too. He’d bring war upon his people. Gisela’s death would bring more death until Lydia itself was conquered by foreign empires, dying to rise no more.
The thought of losing the princess prodded at a tender spot in his heart, and he pulled her closer against him, almost as though he could hold her back from death by the strength of his arms. Over the distressing smell of her infection he caught the delicate scent of rose perfume. He fought the temptation to bury his nose in her silk veil and breathe in deeply.
What would Charlemagne say? And yet, John found the impulse surprisingly difficult to resist. The woman’s obvious charms fascinated him. He would do well to find the herbs quickly so she could be on her way.
They passed vineyards and orchards and olive groves. Moses slowed as they came to a stream. John supposed the animal would have liked a drink, but he knew the water here was salty. The sea had cut a ravine through the slender bend in the finger of the peninsula. Every tide washed it wider.
John led the horse upstream to where the locals had improvised a bridge of beams. The site, John realized, could use some attention. Someday the sea might divide the peninsula into its own island. Even now, the beams barely stretched the width of the ravine, and John eyed the waters ten feet below with a wary eye as Moses’s hooves clattered across the sturdy planks. The princess shifted restlessly.
John peeled back the veil that covered her face from the sun and felt her forehead.
She was burning up.
He held his relatively cool hand against her skin as though it could absorb her heat and relieve her discomfort. But the touch imbued more than mere heat. Emotions that had lain dormant deep in his heart roused as though warmed by the sun after a long winter. But John had no intention of letting his feelings blossom to full flower.
“On, Moses,” he encouraged his horse. They still had a ways to go before they reached the point where the peninsula joined with the mainland. From there, they would turn northeast, toward the mountains. The ride lay long ahead of them.
The sea breeze faded behind them as they entered a more heavily wooded stretch of road. Here on the peninsula, travel was quite safe. Seaside villages clung to the rocky coastlines on either side of them. The road connected them to the mainland with its agricultural produce and access to the lands beyond.
But once they entered the dense woods at the foot of the mountains, John knew he’d have to be alert for trouble. Though Lydia’s borders had once followed the ridge of the mountains, the Illyrians had been encroaching on their land for generations. John’s father had died defending a village there. He’d lost his life and the village.
John’s younger brothers, Mark and Luke, sometimes talked about trying to take back those lands, but they hadn’t been with their father that day. They hadn’t seen him die or felt the sharp tang of fear as death dogged their heels. Had it been up to John, he would have died there next to his father. But he’d been injured as well, and Urias, his father’s one-time right-hand man, had pulled him away and fled toward home. They’d lost two dozen men that day in a skirmish that should never have happened. They could have let the Illyrians take the village without a fight.
He couldn’t change what had transpired that day, but John wasn’t about to invite death and trouble into his kingdom by trying to get those lands back. His brothers feared that the Illyrians would one day take over the entire kingdom. Luke had thoroughly scouted throughout the area and had even asked to be dispatched with a team to recover the closest villages.
John wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. He wouldn’t risk his brother’s life if it wasn’t necessary.
As the woman who shared the horse with him moaned and twitched, John’s thoughts turned to her father, Charlemagne, who’d famously united the various tribes on his continent into one Holy Roman Empire. The man didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by a fight.
How would Charlemagne handle the situation with the Illyrians?
Charlemagne wanted to marry Gisela off to an Illyrian prince. From what John understood of the emperor, Charlemagne preferred to keep his family close. What had prompted him to seek a marriage agreement with Illyria? What did he hope to gain? John wished he could discuss the issue with the emperor. Perhaps, if he saved Gisela’s life, he could meet Charlemagne and learn about his political strategies.
But he’d have to save her life first. Could he do it? Uncertainties raged inside him. He’d failed so many times before. He prayed that God would be merciful and grant him success, not for his sake, but for the lovely princess who suffered so.
The road bent northward as they cleared the end of the peninsula. Moses shook his mane as John pointed him toward the mountains instead of riding into the city of Sardis. Of course, the animal wasn’t used to traveling away from the city. He hadn’t been born yet when John had last traveled there seeking herbs. Moses hadn’t known John during his years as a healer. He wouldn’t understand.
“Yes, Moses, we’re going toward the mountains.” John bent his head past the woman to speak to the horse, encouraging him on the right path, prompting him to gallop faster. They needed to move quickly. Gisela’s suffering was a constant reminder that every minute was precious.
* * *
Gisela fought against the pain that threatened to keep her from sleep. She’d been told to rest. Why? By whom? She had to rest to get better. But what was wrong with her?
Pounding sounds and flashing lights filled her mind. She couldn’t see. She could hardly think. She was too warm, and yet, she shivered. Words pattered against her ears like gently falling rain, making no sense. She wasn’t near any mountains. She’d been at sea. Yes, her ship had been at sea when the Saracens had attacked them. They’d told her to stay below—Hilda had nearly strangled her trying to keep her below deck—and yet, Gisela had heard enough of the battle to know they needed her.
They had needed her.
Perhaps, if she’d gone to help sooner, their captain would not have died.
And if she’d been a bit quicker with her blade, perhaps she wouldn’t have been injured herself.
Injured. That’s right. That was the source of the throbbing pain in her head. The pirate had sliced her just above her right eye, catching her off guard while she battled with another man. She’d forced them both overboard before she’d had a chance to staunch the flow of blood. First she’d thought she’d bleed to death. Then she’d thought Hilda might smother her with her sobbing.
But they’d brought her to a healer. Some king who was supposed to be a healer. And...what was it he’d said?
She’d be dead by morning.
How soon was that? And where were they going?
The man’s voice spoke again. “Faster, Moses. We’ve got to help